I got sick of shaving
Every day
So I started growing a beard
For a while, it was technically stubble
But now it would make William T. Riker proud
Or at least smile and nod in approval
At the effort
I bought a beard trimmer at Walgreens
And I trimmed that *****
Made it nice and even
But it itches a lot
So I have to use dandruff shampoo on it when I can
I get compliments on it
From my mom and my brother
Whose beard should belong to a Canadian lumberjack
(Not my mom, my brother)



I love this beard
But I still get the urge to shave it completely
And return to baby-face

Forever neglected
Forever dismayed
Forever deafened
By the cacophony of the trade

The antiquated digger stands by
A sentient guard of the worker
It watches as the tree slowly dissipates
Its life slowly crumbling
As the voracious chipper
Devours the tree whole

The worker stands by
The digger stands by
The chipper chips away

The taciturn worker remains
Ruminating the existence of the world.
Why was he put here?
For what reason must he stay with these hallowed construction tools?
Do they feel any remorse for the change that they've enacted
On the world around them?
Are they aware that they transgress the laws of nature?

The bellicose chipper
Wages war with nature
As the people watch so distantly.
Its sound makes the neighbors quite belligerent
Yet the zealots watch attentively.
The pure ignorance
The pure neglect
The blatant apathy
Is something to be seen.

Whatever could possess you
To follow in the footsteps of the worker
To feel his pain as the trimmer
Chips away at the trees' centuries
The sound of shattered glass
Punctuates the air.
Perhaps there has been an accident.

This page contains several double limericks, a rare triple limerick, and a new version of the double dactyl that I invented, called the "dabble dactyl."



The Platypus: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not ******.
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?

The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or ******.



The Better Man: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy—
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!

Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who’s dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!):
since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager!



Hell to Pay: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

A messiah named Jesus, returning
from heaven, found his home planet burning
& with children unfed,
so he ventured: “Instead
of war, why not consider cheek-turning?”

Indignant right-wingers retorted:
“Sir, your pacifist views are distorted!
Just pull the plug quickly
on someone who’s sickly!
Our pursuit of war can’t be aborted!”



These poems form a double limerick:

No Bull
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a multi-pierced Bull,
who found playing hoops far too dull,
so he dated Madonna
but observed, “I don’t wanna
get married . . . the things she might pull!”

So this fast-thinking forward named Rodman
then said to his best man—“No problem!
When I marry Electra,
if the ring costs extra,
just yank a gold hoop off my ****, man!”



I once provided the second stanza to a famous limerick, turning it into a double limerick …

A wonderful bird is the pelican;
His beak can hold more than his belican.
He can hold in his beak
Enough food for a week,
Though I’m ****** if I know how the helican!

Enough with this pitiful pelican!
He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican!
His beak's far too big,
so he eats like a pig,
and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican!
—second stanza by Michael R. Burch


The next two poems form a double limerick with separate titles:

Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch

Hawking’s "Brief History of Time"
is such a relief! How sublime
that time, in reverse,
may un-write this verse
and un-spend my last thin dime!

Time Back In!
by Michael R. Burch

Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mother's eyes
when I head for the womb once again!



This is another double limerick with separate titles:

Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a brash billionaire
who couldn't afford decent hair.
Vexed voters agreed:
"We're a nation in need!"
But toupée the price, do we dare?

Toupée or Not Toupée, This is the Answer
by Michael R. Burch

Oh crap, we elected Trump prez!
Now he's Simon: we must do what he sez!
For if anyone thinks
And says his "plan" stinks,
He'll wig out 'neath that weird orange fez!



Not all double limericks are light affairs:

Self Reflection: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

for anyone struggling with self-image

She has a comely form
and a smile that brightens her dorm . . .
but she’s grossly unthin
when seen from within;
soon a griefstricken campus will mourn.

Yet she’d never once criticize
a friend for the size of her thighs.
Do unto others—
sisters and brothers?
Yes, but also ourselves, likewise.



Triple Limerick: Attention Span Gap
by Michael R. Burch

What if a poet, Shakespeare,
were still living to tweet to us here?
He couldn't write sonnets,
just couplets, doggonit,
and we wouldn't have Hamlet or Lear!

Yes, a sonnet may end in a couplet,
which we moderns can write in a doublet,
in a flash, like a tweet.
Does that make it complete?
Should a poem be reduced to a stublet?

Bring back that Grand Era when men
had attention spans long as their pens,
or rather the quills
of the monsieurs and fils
who gave us the Dress, not its hem!



Officious Notice: I have invented a ***** nonsense form: the "dabble dactyl." A dabble dactyl starts out like a double dactyl, but forgets the rules and changes horses midstream. Anyone who prefers order to chaos should give the dabble dactyl a wide berth and also not sow any wild oats.  Otherwise, “A little dabble’ll do ya.” — Michael R. Burch



Double Dactyls
by Michael R. Burch

Sniggledy-Wriggledy
Jesus Christ’s enterprise
leaves me in awe of
the rich men he loathed!

But why should a Sadducee
settle for trifles?
His disciples now rip off
the Lord they betrothed.



Donald Dabble Dactyl #1
by Michael R. Burch

Higgledy-Piggledy
Ronald McDonald
cursed Donald Trump, his
least favorite clown:

"Why should I try to be
funny as Donald? He
gets all the laughs,
claiming upside is down!"



Donald Dabble Dactyl #2
by Michael R. Burch

Wond’ringly, blund’ringly
Ronald McDonald
asked, “Who the hell
is this strange orange clown?”

“Why should I try to be
funny as Donald? He
gets all the laughs,
claiming upside is down!”



Donald Dabble Dactyl #3
by Michael R. Burch

Piggledy-Wiggledy
45th president,
or erstwhile manse resident,
perched on a throne

of gold-plated porcelain
matching his orange “tan,”
bombing Iran
from his twittery phone?



This famous limerick inspired my Einstein “relative” limericks:

There was a young lady named Bright
who traveled much faster than light.
She set out one day
in a relative way,
and came back the previous night.

I recently learned this poem was originally penned, in a slightly different version, by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller; his limerick appeared in Punch (Dec. 19, 1923). I find it intriguing that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick. I was inspired to pen multiple rejoinders:

The Cosmological Constant
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
said E equals MC squared.
Thus all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!


***-tronomical
by Michael R. Burch

Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
says mass increases with speed.
My (m)*** grows when I sit it.
Mr. Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!


Relative Theory I
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein’s theory, incredibly silly,
says a relative grows, *****-nilly,
at speeds close to light.
Well, his relatives might,
but mine grow their (m)***** more stilly!


Relative Theory II
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein’s peculiar theory
excludes all my relatives, clearly,
since my relatives’ *****
increase their prone masses
while approaching light speed—not nearly!


Relative Theory III
by Michael R. Burch

Relativity, we’re led to believe,
proves masses increase with great speed.
But it seems my huge family
must be an anomaly;
since their (m)***** increase, gone to seed!



The Heimlich Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

for T. M.

The sanest of poets once wrote:
"Friend, why be a sheep or a goat?
Why follow the leader
or be a blind *******?"
But almost no one took note.


These are limericks of the singular variety …


Caveat Spender
by Michael R. Burch

It's better not to speculate
"continually" on who is great.
Though relentless awe's
a Célèbre Cause,
please reserve some time for the contemplation
of the perils of EXAGGERATION.


This is another of my scientific limericks …

Parting is such sweet sorrow
by Michael R. Burch

The universe is flying apart.
Hush, Neil deGrasse Tyson’s heart!
Repeat, repeat.
Don’t skip a beat.
Perhaps some new Big Bang will spark?


Low-T Hell
by Michael R. Burch

I’m living in low-T hell ...
My get-up has gone: Oh, swell!
I need to write checks
if I want to have ***,
and my love life depends on a gel!


ANIMAL LIMERICKS
A much-needed screed against licentious insects
by Michael R. Burch

after and apologies to Robert Schechter

Army ants? ARMY ants?
Yet so undisciplined to not wear pants?
How incredibly rude
to wage war in the ****!
We moralists call them SMARMY ants!


Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot!"


Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.



The Dromedary and the Very Work-Wary Canary
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"


The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch

The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his *****, boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!


The Trouble with Elephants: a Word to the Wise
by Michael R. Burch

An elephant never forgets
and thus they don’t make the best pets:
Jumbo may well out-live you,
but he’ll never forgive you,
no matter how sincere your regrets!


The Limerick as Parody
Marvell-Less (I)
by Michael R. Burch

Mr. Marvell was ill-named? Inform us!
Alas, his crude writings deform us:
for when trying to bed
chaste virgins, he led
right off with his iron ***** ginormous!


Marvell-Less (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Andrew Marvell was far less than Marvellous;
indeed, he was cold, bold, unchivalrous:
for when trying to bed
chased/chaste virgins, he led
right off with his iron ***** ginormous!


Here's a limerick about one of the universe's greatest ironies: the lack of rhyme words for "poetry" and "limerick." I almost solved the latter, but fell a bit short:

Shelved Elves
by Michael R. Burch

I wanted to rhyme with “limerick”
and settled on “good old Saint Slimmer Nick”
about a dieting Claus,
but drawing no “ahs!”
I glumly rescinded the trimmer trick.


To show the flexibility of the limerick form, it has often been used for political purposes, and to expose, satirize and savage charlatans. Here are are two such limericks of mine:

Baked Alaskan

There is a strange yokel so flirty
she makes ****** seem icons of purity.
With all her winkin’ and blinkin’
Palin seems to be "thinkin’"—
"Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!"

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



Going Rogue in Rouge

It'll be hard to polish that apple
enough to make her seem palatable.
Though she's sweeter than Snapple
how can my mind grapple
with stupidity so nearly infallible?

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



I have even written limericks about religion, mostly heretical limericks:

Pell-Mell for Hell Mel
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a Baptist named Mel
who condemned all non-Christians to hell.
When he stood before God
he felt like a clod
to discover His Love couldn’t fail!


Why I Left the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

He's got Jesus's name on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of his shirt
and he upholds the Law,
for grace has a flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.



Ribbing Adam
by Michael R. Burch

“Dear Lord,” fretted Adam, depressed,
“did that **** really rupture my chest?”
“Yes she did,” piped his Maker,
“but of course you can’t take her,
or I’d fry you in hell, for ******!”



There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke one dark night
from a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true!
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch


There once was a poet from Nashville
which hockey fans rechristened Smashville,
but his odd limericks
pulled so many weird tricks
his pale peers now prefer Ogden Gnashville.
—Michael R. Burch


There once was a poet from Tennessee
who was known to indulge in straight Hennessey
for his heart had been broken
and cruelly ripped open
by an ice-hoarding Dame of Paree.
—Michael R. Burch


Here's one for the poets:

The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch

Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.


Here's one for the Flintstones:

Early Warning System
by Michael R. Burch

A hairy thick troglodyte, Mary,
squinched dingles excessively airy.
To her family’s deep shame,
their condo became
the first cave to employ a canary!


Donald Trump Limericks aka Slimericks

Viral Donald
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump is coronaviral:
his brain's in a downward spiral.
That pale nimbus of hair
proves there's nothing up there
but an empty skull, fluff and denial.


Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"


Humpty Trumpty
by Michael R. Burch

Humpty Trumpty called for a wall.
Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Now all the Grand Wizards
and Faux PR men
Can never put Trumpty together again.


White as a Sheet
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump had a real Twitter Scare
then rushed off to fret, vent and share:
“How dare Bernie quote
what I just said and wrote?
Like Megyn he’s mean, cruel, unfair!”


15 Seconds
by Michael R. Burch

Our president’s *** life—atrocious!
His "briefings"—bizarre hocus-pocus!
Politics—a shell game!
My brief moment of fame
flashed by before Oprah could notice!


Trump’s Golden Rule
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump is the victim of leaks!
Golden showers are NOT things he seeks!
Though he dearly loves soaking
the women he’s groping,
get real, 'cause he pees ON the meek!


Cancun Cruz
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a senator, Cruz,
whose whole life was one pus-oozing schmooze.
When Trump called his wife ugly,
Cruz brown-nosed him smugly,
then went on a sweet Cancún cruise!


Anchors Aweigh!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was an anchor babe, Cruz,
whose deployment was Castro’s bold ruse.
Now the revenge of Fidel
has worked out quite well
as Cruz missiles launch from his caboose!


Canadian Cruz
by Michael R. Burch

There was a Canadian, Cruz,
an anchor babe with a bold ruse:
he’d take Texas first
and then do his worst
to infect the whole world with his views.


Eerie Dearie
by Michael R. Burch

A trembling young auditor, white
as a sheet, like a ghost in the night,
saw his dreams, his career
in a ****!, disappear,
and then, strangely Enronic, his wife.

Fortune named Enron "America's Most Innovative Company" for six consecutive years, but the company went bankrupt and vanished after its accounting practices were determined to be fraudulent.


The Vampire's Spa Day Dream
by Michael R. Burch

O, to swim in vats of blood!
I wish I could, I wish I could!
O, 'twould be
so heavenly
to swim in lovely vats of blood!

The poem above was inspired by a Josh Parkinson depiction of Elizabeth Bathory swimming up to her nostrils in the blood of her victims, with their skulls floating in the background.



***** LIMERICKS



A randy young dandy named Sadie
loves ***, but in forms reckoned shady.
(I cannot, of course,
involve her poor horse,
but it’s safe to infer she's no lady!)
—Michael R. Burch


There was a lewd ***** from Nantucket
who intended to *** in a bucket;
but being a man
she missed the **** can
and her rattled johns fled, crying: "**** it!"
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch


Here are three "linked" Nantucket limericks of mine, forming a triple limerick:

There was a coarse ***** of Nantucket
whose bush needed someone to pluck it
’cause it looked like a chimp’s
and her johns were limp gimps
who were too scared to **** it or **** it.

So that coarse, canny ***** of Nantucket,
once ****-shaved, decided to shuck it
—that thick, wiry pelt
that smelled like wet felt—
and made it a toupee for Luckett.

Now Luckett, once bald as an eagle,
like Samson, stands handsome and regal
with hair to his ***
that smells like his lass,
but still comes when she calls, like a beagle.
—a triple limerick by Michael R. Burch


Shotgun Bedding

A pedestrian pediatrician
set out on a dangerous mission;
though his child bride, ******,
was a sweet senorita,
her pa's shotgun cut off his emissions.
—Michael R. Burch



Untitled Limericks

There was a young lady from France
Who’d let cute boys poke in her pants:
They'd give her the finger
Where she'd let them linger
because that's the point of romance!
—Michael R. Burch


There once was a girl with small *****
who would only go out with young rubes,
but their ***** were too small
so she sentenced them all
to kissing her fallopian tubes.
—Michael R. Burch


A coquettish young lady of France
longed to have ***** men in her pants,
but in lieu of real joys
she settled for boys,
then berated her lack of romance.
—Michael R. Burch


A virginal lady of France
longed to have a ménage in her pants
but in lieu of real boys
she settled for toys
& painted pinkies to make her bits dance.
—Michael R. Burch


A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
Frenched me a kiss;
I admonished her, "Miss,
you’ve left me twice tongue-tied, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch


A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
gave me a kiss;
I lectured her, "Miss,
we haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch


A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
French-kissed me and left my lips lame.
I lectured her, "Miss,
That's a premature kiss!
We haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
Michael R. Burch


Four Limericks  plus one Lead-In Poem

Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors
by Michael R. Burch

At six-thirty,
feeling flirty,
I put on the hurdy-gurdy ...

But Ms. Purdy,
all alert-y,
kicked me where I’m sore and hurty.

The moral of my story?
To avoid a fate as gory,
flirt with gals a bit more *****-y!



Mating Calls
by Michael R. Burch

1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle *****),
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.

2.
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!

3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when I enquired again with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?

4.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!



Teeter Tots
by Michael R. Burch

For your spuds to become Tater Tots,
First, artfully cut out the knots,
Then dice them into tiny cubes,
Deep fry them, and serve them to rubes
(but not if they’re acting like snots).



Golden Years?
by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old.
My legs are cold.
My book’s unsold and my wife’s a scold.
Now the only gold’s
in my teeth.
I fold.



Trump Limericks aka Slimericks



The Nazis now think things’re grand.
The KKK’s hirin’ a band.
Putin’s computin’
Less Ukrainian shootin’.
They’re hootin’ ’cause Trump’s win is planned.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to ***** unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch

I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!



the best of all possible whirls, for MAGA
by Michael R. Burch

ive made a mistake or two.
okay, maybe quite more than a few:
mistakes by the millions,
the billions and zillions,
but remember: ur LORD made u!

where were u when HEE passed out brains?
or did u politely abstain?
u call GAUD “infallible”
when HEE made u so gullible
u cant come inside when Trump reigns.



Scratch-n-Sniff
by Michael R. Burch

The world’s first antinatalist limerick?

Life comes with a terrible catch:
It’s like starting a fire with a match.
Though the flames may delight
In the dark of the night,
In the end what remains from the scratch?



Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch

Time is at war with my body!
am i Time’s most diligent hobby?
for there’s never Time out
from my low-t and gout
and my once-brilliant mind has grown stodgy!



Waiting Game
by Michael R. Burch

Nothing much to live for,
yet no good reason to die:
life became
a waiting game...
Rain from a clear blue sky.



*******' Ripples
by Michael R. Burch

Men are scared of *******:
that’s why they can’t be seen.
For if they were,
we’d go to war
as in the days of Troy, I ween.



Devil’s Wheel
by Michael R. Burch

A billion men saw your pink ******.
What will the pard say to you, Sundays?
Yes, your ******* were cute,
but the shocked Devil, mute,
now worries about reckless fundies.



A ***** Goes ****
by Michael R. Burch

She wore near-invisible *******
and, my, she looked good in her scanties!
But the real nudists claimed
she was “over-framed.”
Now she’s bare-assed and shocking her aunties!



MVP!
by Michael R. Burch

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
make it cute and okay
to write KKK
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
prove the nemesis
of white supremacists
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
cause supremacists
to cease and desist
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Keywords/Tags: limerick, limericks, double limerick, triple limerick, humor, light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, humor, humorous verse, light poetry, *****, ribald, irreverent, funny, satire, satirical

“I’ve become lost in the cross hairs of love and lust.”
His line of thought became stagnant with no one to watch,
spellbound by her snare looking for someone to care,
her words would trimmer proving to much to bare—
“it’s just not the same, in the way that i love you,
something doesn’t remain.”
A sword breeched his heart that day,
vessel went off course filling with black waters of spite,
lines became blurred, compass askew,
naive conceptions of a roadmap wouldn’t do.
“Rain washed away our chalk, it’s not all lost”
this thought’s become seared,
simmering in his mind until the time would come.
I can’t talk of the grilling in our prince’s kingdom,
except that the tyrannical king, made hell his home.
Acidity was palpable, yet still he continued,
never ceasing words kept him through—
“but I do love you” until the fat lady’s tune,
sulking in the nostalgia of her swoons.
He continued to praise her more than the moon
thanks the sun, for illuminating it’s room,
in the sky, and the stars scream out cries,
for the mangled prince lays waiting only for her shine;
however the lyrics must stop, at some point,
the fat ladies pitch will drop,
until the nightingales love song stops.
Scared to be hurt once again,
a vow has been made that no more friends will be lost,
or bring pain, but this came at a cost.
Drowned by sorrow he knew only one way to manage,
cut everyone out because they can do damage.
Reclusive, seclusive, he shut out all,
friends’ unaware, the ball couldn’t have dropped further;
ashamed, self-disdained the thought feels like ******.
What of the piper that doesn’t pipe?—As grim as tales come,
stuck between a gloc and a hard bane.
“Baring may be impossible” he said to cold steel,
heavier than expected, ice-like to his lips,
sitting against the wall, with a cumbersome grip.
Last text sent “Take care of everyone for me, you’re now the guardian.”
Panic set in friends, but it was all to late to heed.
Until the end comes, he looks into the cosmos of his mind,
and lastly to her shrine; final thoughts unknown,
except to the wall and rug bellow
but here I’ve presumed— “I will love you forever”
trigger pulled, death concludes.
RIP- Clay

Now, we find needs just so we can fill them. We go insane so we can buy the meds. Soccer moms popping children’s pills. Everyone dreaming suicide and depression. No how. No why. No reason.
We want inventions so we can make infomercials. Who cares about shipping and handling? **** the national debt. I’ll give you my credit card number, and you’ll send me a pet nail trimmer, even though Max (the dog) died four years ago, you never know what you’ll need right?
We find government just to have politicians. Everyone promises a solution to the problem. No one ever expects it to pan out. Instead, we vote on name recognition, parties, and skin color. Who cares about platforms or empty promises?
We wage wars just to make video games. I’ll shoot you now, your brother will shoot me later, but don’t worry, when we’re all in the ground. Someone, somewhere, will design a kickass, strategic, lifelike game, where dying only means regenerating and less ammo.
We all want something, or nothing. We all work to live, live to die.
Try just to fail, fail to try.
We want anonymity, just to forget the tragedy of our minds.

On slick steel strings
six of them gather.
Around the electric hum box,
the muffled distortion buzzing
of suave spear-like poses

We are so green
and so mean.
The dance of divinity
in-between drum filled paradise
and a pair of hi-hat smash
the opening line to our razor's crass waving
our mantis praying

Drenched in reverb chorus shimmer
lightning dash with the blast trimmer
our boats the bass on the river melody
In reverie, Minced the mic
our barely audible voices shivering
our mantis praying

Strap stable static through magnetized
cords of magic
getting picked up on the down stroke
the shift bend pinch harmonic
capo for the overture
the reprise.

Fallen leaves in the back of the half-stack
octave raving
our mantis praying.

I stuck my hand in the pocket
Of one of your ancient wool coats.
Unworn for many years, too small for me,
It had obviously fit a much younger, trimmer you.
Inside I found a single well-handled pink tissue,
Very fragile, but still in one piece.

I held it up, in awe of its age.
It was then I saw the glimmer
Of infinitesimal crystals;
****** secretions from the distant past.
At once I imagined you outside,
Nose running freely in the cold air,
Furtively brushing your nose now and again
With the tissue, before reburying it
In the satin-lined pocket.

As I held it up in the dim light of the bedroom,
A furtive breeze, aided by the shaking
Of my hand, unlocked the tiny prisms
From the weave of pinkness,
And they dispersed into the air invisibly,
Like the popping of silent bubbles.

A delicate part of you had been returned,
Freed, into the constantly moving stream of life,
Now released from a silken *******.
I bowed my head in wonder at it;
That you were gone from me now,
And yet here was this most human statement left behind,
An outpouring from your once vibrant body.

And I had just touched you again,
And could feel you floating all around me,
Finer in the air, than ashes from a cremation,
Was this dust of ashes
From a long lost Winter day
And then, I breathed you into me
Just for a few minutes, and watched
As the boundaries of time and space were suspended.

Jacob awoke early in the morning on Sunday and stretched out his limbs beneath the flannel sheets on his bed before carelessly tossing them to the side and off of his body. Jacob sat up and half yawned before catching a whiff of his own morning breath and cracked a slight smile and smacked his lips together in disgust. He stood up and after adjusting himself walked down the stairs to his kitchen where a *** of coffee was already brewing having been programmed to do the night before. When the coffee was done percolating, he poured himself a cup in a mug that a student who had graduated years ago had given to him for his help with her English Lit thesis. Jacob drank his coffee black and could not understand why anyone would ruin the taste by mixing it with sugars and cream. But again he thought that of he were truthful he didnt understand much about people at all anymore anyway. He was out of touch with the outside world after his wife had passed away a little less than a year ago. She always kept him up to date with current events and trends, always made sure to keep him social. And without her around he had become a hermit only leaving the house to occasionally show up for work or go on hunting or fishing trips alone.

Always alone.

Today Jacob decided that he would spend the better half of the morning catching up on the world around him as he walked to his front door and opened it wide letting a bright vast amount of sunshine in nearly blinding him before his eyes adjusted. On his front porch was a stack of newspapers from everyday for the past three weeks. Jacob took the top five off of the stack and went back inside to his kitchen table and sat down after making a second cup of coffee, this time adding a splash of Kentucky bourbon. He unfolded the top section of the first newspaper and skimmed the headlines trying to catch something that would hold his attention. There was war, casualties, politics; none of which he felt like stomaching on this early morning.

He flipped to the comics and scanned the panels, laughing a silent chuckle at Garfield and a few others but folded the paper back up in disgust and tossed it towards the pile of other papers when nothing caught his attention longer than a couple of seconds.

Jacob sipped his coffee and stared into the dark black liquid until he saw his reflection staring back at him. He was disheveled, could use a shave and a haircut. His eyes, always the brightest blue, now looked dull grey, bloodshot, and sunken slightly into his forehead causing his eyebrows to become a prominent feature on his face. He wondered when the last time he had seen himself was but could not recall. He stared at the reflection and did not recognize the man staring back at him so he started to talk to him like a lost friend that he had not seen since the early stages of childhood.

Jacob caught up with the black coffee version of himself, handling both sides of the conversation in slightly different voices discussing his life story since they had last parted. How he met his future wife early in high school and how they could not stand each other initially, went to college on a football scholarship but fell in love with the English department and academia as a whole, how his girlfriend became his fiancé when he proposed to her while on vacation in upper Vermont, how they were married on a sandy beach in Hawaii hours before a hurricane came and the island was evacuated. He told his reflection about his three children - two boys and a girl - and how they had grown up, how he had finally got tenure at his alma mater, how his wife had succumbed to the cancer that had plagued her for the last few years of her life...he stopped at this part of the conversation and stared once again at the coffee and past his reflection. The coffee rippled from a tear that had been welling up in his left eye before slowly falling down his cheek into the coffee. Jacob stood up with the cup in his hand and emptied it out in the sink.

He rested his hands along the linoleum countertops and peered out the kitchen window, watching the breeze make the small birch tree branches sway and dance gracefully. He thought to call his children and see how they were doing but remembered that it was still too early in the morning in their part of the country. The sun was now shining in the backyard and if he looked hard enough he could see birds landing in his grass to eat worms and insects before flying back off to where they came or to where they were going. Jacob wished silently that he could be a bird and just fly away.

"There's no sense in all this dwelling," he heard a voice say from out of nowhere. For a moment he stood very still and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up before he realized the voice was his own. He did not know he had spoken but knew that it had been said and tho he did not quite feel it, he knew it too be true as well. Jacob let a heavy sigh leave his body and felt a change come over him that started in his outer limbs before spreading inward. He felt a renewal of energy cling to his life.

Jacob went back upstairs to the bathroom and once again studied his face in the mirror. His beard was salt and pepper and he decided it looked rather good on him but needed a trim. He removed the beard trimmer from one of the cabinets and put on a number three guard, trimmed the hair, then replaced the guard with a number two and trimmed again. He looked at the beard and admired the length, color, and thickness and decided that it was how he wanted it.

Next he looked at his hair and tho he needed a haircut he decided to just brush it back and to the side holding the unruly pieces back with a small amount of pomade.

Jacob's grey eyes began to lighten to a sky blue.

He walked to his room and found the cleanest clothes he could find: a pair of blue jeans, fitted black tshirt, and a dark blue button down blazer. He addressed himself in the mirror hanging on the door after dressing and thought to himself that he looked quite respectable and felt very much like a gentleman.

Jacob looked at the photo of his wife on the dresser and smiled at the memories that he cherished deeply of her and his hand drifted towards it and his fingers gently traced the outline of her cheek. He smiled again when he felt the tear roll down his cheek and he knew that he was okay and that everything was okay. It was the most alive he had felt in months.

There was an old man who was very depressed
He'd failed every trouble and trial and test
He wept and he sobbed til his eyes had gone dry
He was so very sad that he wanted to

Seek emotional counsel for his dismal disorder
So he picked up the flute and the woodwind recorder
He learned to find joy through music expression
He thought he had finally beat his

Very hard level in Mario 3
But he failed at everything, even the Wii
He did with his sadness once again coincide
Til one fateful day he committed

To an exercise plan that got him in shape
He got slimmer and trimmer and boy, he felt great!
He was glad as a songbird and free as a dove
And thanks to the splendor of Tinder he even found

An overcontrolling excuse for a girl
Who caused years of therapy to slowly unfurl
As his job, his courtship, and his whole life went south
He finally put a bullet in his

Resume list of all of his talents
He saw each day as an exciting new challenge
From raise to promotion to recommendation letter
The old man's life had took a turn for the

Edge of the bridge that his body fell from
Though police say "suicide" there still are some
Who doubt the absurd and believe the absurder
That what actually killed him was coldblooded

Lizard-people who rule the government's workings
Putting on a facade while in the dark lurking
"The happiest suicide" may one day be explained
But if it is the Illuminati will wipe all our

Kiss me like your dreaming
And Let the stars clog your lucid dreaming
Foat above the clouds so high
And wish apon that bright star light
Make those legs trimmer because satisfaction makes those eyes shimmer
Rub apon your daily heart
And sing it songs of goddesses that float up in that sky so high
but in the end it shall wish it were thinking of just I

Dig

We were nearly back to the house
when the front end loader shattered
the silence and back filled the hole
drove off some vireos and cowbirds

amped up seven whitetail browsing
the pine break above Calusa Way.
American Spirit *******
a new moon **** of mouth

the operator feathered the lever
while gathered together we grazed
potato salad, deviled eggs, sliced ham, rain
from the Gulf over to Melbourne

soaking the operator’s boots
ducking into his pickup truck
for the long drive home to Pedro.
It hammered the tin roof shed  

out back where your tools
tarps, trouble lights, line trimmer
home brew insecticide in unmarked
milk jugs, old spark plugs

a lifetime of nuts, bolts and washers
huddled warm and dry on shelves
ball peened the tamped sand lozenge
on the ragged fringe of the silent ranks.

It’s hard to find even with a map
Calusa Way coiling through the bahia grass
flowing past stone faced theater goers
house lights up well past their final act.  

Vireos and cowbirds
even the whitetail browsing
the pine break pay me no
mind down on hands and knees

undoing the honest work
of the operator, sifting handfuls
of sandy backfill for something
I might have missed.

Who can be sure that the impurities of the night dreams have been erased by the coming of the day?

I wash using scented soap in the hope, somewhat forlorn, that
I am as clean as the day I was born.

There's always a niggling doubt that there are more demons hiding inside me that I cannot wash out.

Thursday, of course, it would be and not only for me,
tomorrow is the winner,
home at three
cook some dinner
feet up time
and spin out a rhyme
or two,

that's what I'll do
how about you?

videos that begin: and later conclude with the flow
of: unscripted freedoms...
get on my nerves: get on my ******* and cranium
like an itch i just can't scratch...
freedom with too much impulse:
but not enough premeditation...
               so i turned off... they were a massive downer...
i returned to just... listening to music...
scribbling or rather: chicken scratching...
for all that thought allows when coupled
with writing...
   speaking will never grant...
  even if you couple it with war drums and
mantras of the millionth count of man...
sit under a make-shift canopy when it's
raining... the sound is electric for a while...
mesmerizing even...
like a little trickle of "orchestra"...
but then again: the sound of falling rain
is hardly Bach's polyphony...
but it also isn't the sound of a waterfall...
or the sound of the sea and its barrage of the shore
with its waves of stampeding horses...
nor is it... a tap trickling a rat-tat-tat on the sink
basin coupled with the humming
of the refrigerator murmur for the sake of ghostly
ambiance come the zenith of night:
when even burglars are asleep...
it's not a sound of slosh / slush of throwing a bucket's
worth of water from a height...
i too would like to imagine the sound
of a falling chandelier... not no...
perhaps throwing out... a bucket's load of crushed
ice on... glass... or a mirror... or a sheet of metal...
copper or iron? any difference?
i bet there's a difference on lead...
or aluminium...
but from under a makeshift canopy
to out in the open...
   a bewildering absence of "orchestra"...
just a teasing at silence...
                   no focus point for a collection of water...
evenly spread: like too little butter spread
over too much bread... you can still see the
Himalayan mountains inverted as holes
on a slice of ciabatta... couple that with a slice
of Swiss cheese and you're bound to see...
the lost lakes of the moon...
i suppose Mars was inhabitable once...
since... the earth wasn't...
and as the sun gradually cooled...
         the moon was a habitat once...
and once the sun cools even further...
Venus might be a welcome habitat...
           an argument to counter man's desire to explore
space... burning cow farts into a vacuum...
or dead dinosaur-burn to boot...
stand outside all space and time:
supposedly that's philosophy...
i suppose i'm not going to make scrambled eggs
with my brain while i'm at it...
i return to my heart of stone...
   i return to a fullness of being alone...
now that i managed to get both a haircut and
a beard trim in one afternoon
i see hungry girls eyeing me up while
i cycle... back lacerated by sweat...
     somehow it feels that during the summer:
people are supposed to fall in love...
**** at night in the forest or something...
a 35 year old man will spot a girl who just finished
her GCSEs or A-levels while all the other minors
are still dressed in school uniforms...
if this is what 35 year old men did when
we were the same age as these girls...
i suppose when we were their age: we weren't cruel
enough...
i'd love to see a colt get a stab at it to later
see the plunge into disappointment...
as ever: only the prostitutes seem the most beautiful
of women...
why is that? mandible... or... skin like leather:
well worn?
not some holy grail: mothering types where
you invest in "prodigy" or... "dynasty"...
assured that... your woman will not be touched...
fiddled by some better fiddler than you...
i suppose owning a pedigree dog is less hassle...
why not skip all that...
go straight for the obvious...
hassle with this... that... and the other...
- i was buying a gift for my father for father's day...
an obligation that shortened my savings
to visiting that godsend of a ******* of a *****
by £34.99... i got bored of buying him
whiskey for his birthday...
he has driving glasses... but nothing to walk in...
stop squinting!
in a magic moment of mania i tried about
a dozen pairs in the space of... 3 minutes...
not enough mirrors... if i had three mirrors two work
with would have put on those dozen pair of sunglasses
in circa a minute...
- at the unisex salon i was coerced into chatting
with my "hairdresser" Nicki...
we talked about her father... 75 now...
who owns over a dozen motorcycles...
he had this Harley phase...
he's going camping this weekend...
there are supposed to be lightning storms...
we never had a car...
on a bike with a buggy...
my mother died when she was 43...
he found a second lady... she too died...
i think that motorcycle saved him...
investments... one is over 100 years old...
probably comes to over £30,000 in worth...
       - is it me... or do... women... barely recognise
the worth of something?
or perhaps time is... beyond measure for them?
i had my eyes closed while i was sitting
before this grand mirror...
i don't want to see myself...
   it felt like "it" wasn't supposed to think...
pay attention to... what she was saying...
forget the Jezebel's ******* and fixate your
concentration on this... blonde bombshell
cutting your hair: and remember the one
car her father owned...
memory of the name of a thing...
oh sure... i have a memory of things...
my father owned a Makita drill...
my grandfather owned a KOPERNIKUS IX
set of protractors and ****
by E. O. Richter & Co.
he was also a philatelist...
           i inherited a grand collection...
   but he didn't indeed invest in macho:
obedience objects of bypassing self-generation
of momentum...
he didn't own a car... he preferred a bicycle...
a bus... i do too...
i guess i'm more of my grandfather than
i am my father... after all... my father wasn't
present when i was 4 through to 8...
the great brain-drain / labour-drain from the east
to the west after the collapse of soviet empire...
"coincidentally": the collapse of production
of goods in the west overall...
and metallurgy...
smart jobs now... or ***** jobs tending to...
children that will be... literate bound
to menial johns worth of jobs...
would have been better to keep them:
illiterate... quite frankly...
it's not quiete enough to just quit... right about: now...
quintessential... the goods coming in...
or the export of: Samsara Usury...
it's terrible that i forgot the name of
the car they drove...
kwa-yet... phonetically: still English...
oh the natives...
i could just cuddle them with pillow!

- so while Nicky finished off my hair
i began to take form...
to the Turk for the trimming of the beard...
i still think he ****** it up a little bit...
my chin and neckline isn't exactly
right angle: L inverted...
i need longer hairs at the tip of my chin
than longer hairs that protrude from my neck...
but he used a trimmer that had a whiff
of brothel i.e. jack daniels...
and he used a brush with some...
baby bottom powder...
   eh... if i don't like how the regrowth will
look... i'll... bask... in... a week's worth
of... returning to a joy of shaving...
god... i think i've had *** more times
than i've shaved my face in the past half-decade...

i have to write this in old deutsche:

writing is less intrusive than speech...
there's no premeditation in speaking...
writing is an extension of thought:
it's not an invitation to speak...

(in german, utilizing english grammar)

schreiben ist geringer aufdringlich als rede...
da ist nein vorsatz im reden...
shreiben ist ein gedanke(-)erweiterung (auf)
es ist nicht ein einladung zu spreche...

ol' Nicki is still in her 40s and single...
looking forward... no motorcycle leather clad owe i...
or pretend Zen buddhist either...
masculinity as... something eclectic...
those specimens of men that...
drag their offspring to football matches
and turn them into zealot supporters...
if i were bothered enough to be implored
to breed: i'd plough out a *******
Frankenstein: i already know i'm halfway...

what's that saying in casually dating when
you have multiple partners...
oh... right: it's...
es ist... kompliziert...
   i bicycle through central London
looking for two eye-sores... the tourists
are easy to spot... a pair of *** girls one flashing her
knickers while i pass...
the other taking a photography of an array of bricks...
but i'm also looking out for spotting thoese
gems those sugar-babies walking like
their usual selves... peacocking their sugar-daddy
assets...
married men with ****-**** on the side...
always in the centre of capital...
while also... on the side...
spotting... the very... past angry: melancholy women...
probably failed feminists...

well look at me: i stopped believing in love...
i started to be charged for intimacy...
at £2 per minute... at £120 per hour...
i dearly pretend to think that a session at
the barbers is "about the same" as...
a ******* from a nymphomaniac...

again: to reiterate english with German...
at the Ypres vicinity... the mass graves....

give me too much whiskey: i'll drink too much, whiskey
i'll blame my muse!
give me just enough: i'll go to bed early!

geben mich zu viel whisky: ich werden zu viel, whisky
ich werden tadel mein muse!
geben mich nur genug: ich werden zu gehen bett früh!

a newly arrived proverb from the Slavs:
if you come among the crows:
you better croak like them...

             wenn du kommen sie unter die krähen:
du beste krächzen wie (wei) sie (sei)...

yes... almost everyone is literate...
the priests and their monopoly of literacy have
disappeared..
but new monopolies have and new a literacy have
arrived...
come... sniff at me... if i ought to be a "beta"
sniffing glue off the heels of an alpha...
ich... bin... komplett!

         herr omega...          herr niemand-nix...
der letzte ratte...
                 pounding my heart to tease
a sponge...
   oh the air i breathe i will assure you...
my experience with prostitutes will never
be a Walt Whitman: ga-ga-gay...

'to a common *******' -
be composed - be at ease with me - i am walt whitman,
liberal and ***** as nature,
nor till the sun excludes you do i exclude you,
not till the waters refuse to glisten for you
and the leaves to rustle for you, do my words refuse
to glisten and rustle for you...

well **** me... between listening to
KULT's - brooklyńska rada żydów...
and... john williams' - if i were a rich man?

i'd have a harem and a camel's weight worth
of hard-on pills...
while in my youth i'd... invest wisdom and humour
to see a boxing match between king Solomon
and Buddha!
oh these labyrinths of constraints of what someone
else has assured themselves with
"gravity"... just prior...

by the girth of the right of birth and all that's
required of me to come around by: merely timing...
perhaps it would have just been easier to
fudge-pack *** with all the custard lot of ****
to begin with...

Walt Whitman... that ****** on a string...
while here i am... chore bound to juice up...
one of those "fair maidens":
always those... insufferable holes in the ground...
these: the phallus is... obnoxious...
it rises into the air and stratifies shade...
the **** the floral bud...
the mantis... the black widow...
the venus fly-trap...
     no... all caressing creatures!
at least i can both ingest fine food with
my mouth... while also able to:
puke the lies people speak...
which mingle with already eaten food...

if solipsism is merely a concept...
then... what ever happened to that Greek
demigod deity?
Narcissism is a concept: there's also the demigod
deity... but... it seems like...
the old gods of the Greeks kept the existence
of this... prancing ******* rabbit-toothed pony
a ******* secret...
where are we now?
in a society of sociopaths and ghosts!

the advent of Solipssus...
              someone train some dragons or conjure
up some demons to get this
urban rent-boy off his ******* peddle-stool!
to hell with the wrath of Venus!
she has enough ****** on c.c.t.v. cameras making
enough "dough" for not loaf of bread as we speak!

i just... wanted to be assured...
the 'ebrew deity assured me...
                 look at the letters...
the sounds and forms that people are and become...
come much later... but not too late...
they'll still be your... contemporaries...
you'll see a shift...
H-H: rugby...
                     Y: the tongue of the serpent...
begins with W and begins with M...
W: cosine... M: sine...

                   i owe nothing to the Hebrews...
but truth be told... this **** show of scouting for ******
in the ruins of Dubai...
will bite back... i'll be dead then...
the current sparring contest between
the Ishraelis and the Iranians...
always favour the minority...
the ****'ites are... the minority...
    the Persians would never bow to some...
hot-rod & hearted bunch of camel jockeys
findning literacy... all of a sudden!
"all of a sudden"!

           came the great tide... alliances are being made...
the Israelis are already making bargains with
the Persians... once... this... Arabian... fairground
collapses... once the ethics of the western mind
impose... when slavery was abolished in 1833
"somewhere": in Arabia it was only until 1970...

Christianity emerged in year 0...
Islam in year 633... circa...
give 'em some time... too much sun: turban's being
fried at present from all that imported *****-work...
but... come circa 1412... paganism was still
defended in Europe by an alliance
of Polacks and Lithuanians versus
the Teutonic knights...
i guess because the crusade involving
Barbarossa failed... i hope... the great ginger
gherkin did manage to find his way to...
Yerusalem...

  just saying: hands in the air... jazz hands:
Pontius Pilate imposing!
give those h'Arabs some time...
they've been sitting on dinosaur juice all this time
it's not wonder they want to pay out
their... well-earned: investment in...
sand... camel jockey has to have his yacht pride...
his... miracle of Dubai... a city built on sand...
unlike the thick splodges of London clay...
i will die before any of this tumbleweed giggling
happens...
it will be revelled in like a crescendo like no
other...
when... those Syrians were not welcomed
by those Saudis...
because the Saudis would only accept...
in between: Romanian ******...

                  as they would still decapitate youths
for staging minor protests...
the Slavs didn't welcome what the western Lands
seemed to be missing...
i guess: inbreeding paramount?
not... those... ****-less ***-starved youths
as if it wasn't a polygamous cult of bypassing
shared ambitions of...
a plumber hooked up with a hairdresser...
and they had an irish catholic lot of children
together, while the state allowed some aid?

no?
      well... i am a glistening slab of marble
lodged in a ray of moonlight with a smile...
all is not my plan: but the harvest of what's to be
allowed to be... made: demised.

I slave over these verses
{no he don't}
I flop my fish of a soul out
for amusement
{oh yeah he do}
Do you know where
the way is
{si}
Zorro is a tree trimmer
{this is evidence}
Can you
{what is the ask}
abandon
{what is the ask}
Can you
{this is perdition}
scrunch your feelings
{rubbing my beard}
into these ****** things
{draining a glass}
a moment drives by laughing
{was that supposed to be here}
press the up switch
{too random get back ***** cat}
inner i wish
{squirrel}
tasty squirrel
{i write for you}
pointlessly
{she doesn't read}
she shops
{thank you universe}
you are laughing out loud
welcome

Tango Tommy

Birdsong running at thirty three and a third,
refrigerator on overdrive
heat slows down the thoughts of being alive
but with will we will have to survive.

She pruned the grapevines outside in the garden and soon she will prune again.

I dug a hole or two
broke some rocks
the usual sorts of things I do
when I'm on holiday.

She cooked a meal, a Spanish dish,
by She I mean my wife and She's not Spanish
the dish was Spanish

I hope that's understandable.

Now
a siesta,

I will dream of a gymnasium
because I must get my daily
exercise in

Overall
I'd say I was in good shape

but a little trimmer wouldn't go
amiss.

----------- SYTF E
War stories, secret fifty years,
then Trumps team added enough
for the names on the payroll to die.

Here we go again,
let's visit 1892 Nietzsche,
let's recollect the opera of it all,

We had characters, and complexes,
all from these sprachen mit Zararthustra,
unglaublichkeit
kein weg, wir wissen, es tut mir leid.
- we are barred from war study.
Dulles Brothers,
Wick trimmer John,
***** war to fix the judges.
So, intention to twist a human hair.
- in my judgement, its allowed
Frizzy splitting, dry broken ends,
caught there in the web,
seen fly's eyes close,
that proves you,
your code,
at attention, present in the scene,
we know the drill,

or so we have been led to believe.
Taught, trained, gently fed a fear,
of being selectable by the art intuit init

running on sense if
ever was a muse
used to tell time
to seem sequential,
after the hallelujah, in the ritual mass,
- peace on earth- heard under stars

message to the many from the few,
though the many be accused of shame
from ignorance evinced in use of tools,

IT as a calling is new, AI invented it,
MyTechPeople used it, the idea that
other people sell their know how, using

code, to identify the attention deficit
disorder undermined by primordial
old time rights of record rising on yes,

as the one word answer./
Used at instants, invisible at freeway speeds.

für poesie
seinen widerlichen
lebenszweck:
seine autobiographie /

    for poetry
      his disgusting
      purpose in life:
      his autobiography

    (to borrow from
ernst jandl)

lazily: a thought
experiment -
    the front drive:
more like a patio...

deweeding
trimming the shrubs
and most certainly
armed with a hook
working at
the miniature canyons
in between the
brick-o-slabs...

chaos at first...
before i actually managed
to relieve myself
of a self-conscious body
and the prospect
of the other making
inquiry: which did happen
at the beginning of
the task...

   an old man with a grandson
passed me...
inquiring with delight:
you'd get this chore done
with a iron bristle brush:
what joy emanated
from his face as if i had
a promethean rather than
a mediocre attempt
at: boulder upon a hill...

in all honesty i was chaotic...
i could have attempted
at a systematic:
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓

i did get there in the end,
but at first it was more
like

↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔ ↔ ↘ ↔ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓       ↓ ↓ ↓ ↙ ↓ ↓ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓      ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↙ ↓ ↙
↓ ↓ ↓       ↓ ↓ ↗ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↗ ↓ ↘ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔    ↓ ↓ ↓ ↘ ↕

i wish it was a thought
experiment -
                 but...
before reaching a ******
of automation and a variation
of pristine methodology concerning
such a base posit of: use...
no... not talent...
              if i were a bricklayer...
hell! if i were a surgeon!
not today: not this life...

    but once the hedge trimmer was
out and hanzel und gretyl
was blasting in my earphones...
well... a running theme as
if borrowed from: texas chainsaw
massacre:
        just the odd chore outside
the house in full view of
a public in transit turned
into a would be horror flick...
but not really:
i tamed the self-conscious
body with a borrowed mind
and some sponges and
some electric fishy-things
of the oceans -
    
               by god: so much easier
to borrow snippets of life
for life from these
"mediocre" underachievers...
i agree: one might appreciate
focusing on a pillar or two
from the yawning aeons
of literature:
   but oh god: the crushing
ambition to go against
more than a status quo...
      
                       just a life where
i can live with myself:
that's enough...
   just a life where thinking can
relapse into the old truth
of narration for the limbs
to move with... synchronise
themselves with:
   i hardly think about literary
ambition: once a hard-on
now a burn-out...
   thinking of those days:
a litre of whiskey a night...

now a strict diet of circa 500kcal
of whiskey...
and what is a litre in kcal?
    2000 kcal... one can almost be
envious for ******* models
and champagne socialists...

    anything to let me
live with myself:
                   perhaps a way
to imitate some 20th century
dictator and how they
managed that incredulous feat...
because in my little
world of mediocre and
only being above average
with my 6ft2 posture...
    which is still pretty average...
no lungs to be a olympic swimmer...
no springboard
ambitions for a basketball player...

at best: self-deprecating
humour to sanitize me with
a blameless insanity...
                
   because i can tow long
a funny tickle of a day when
i reach a ******:
cut down on the whiskey
to only compensate cutting
down with three cigarettes -
and... some talking heads on
the headphones...
           is it safe? is it copping out?
burning with a fade...
well: simmering then...
the chemistry of metaphors
when fame is in play...
    it's such a terrible rouse...
unlike a fame of a plumber:
practical fame...
                    implying:
by reputation by the intricacies
of perfecting a trade...
by recommendation:
by excellence...

          nothing's ever excellent
about starting at poetry
afresh...
           it's not like:
         don quixote was a lightbulb
in that if don quixote was:
not-expected -
                         some would
argue... the lightbulb was
intrinsically seeking status of:
awaited-ness...

one "thing" led to another...
and that... the argument follows...
if it wasn't Edison...
then someone else would have
conjured up a lightbulb...
like that first and last eureka!
i guess:
no one went looking for
don quixote...
                or leopold bloom...
or mr. pickwick for that matter...

   poetry and gems...
of note of late?
       well... if it wasn't that i chored
over finnegans wake:
then...
      i would spare myself
with something
like fliegen eintag polyglott
              (oskar pastior)...
which pretty much reminds me
of having cross the european
continent only a month prior...
passing france, belgium,
holland, germany and ending
up somewhere
that teases Ukraine...
       wow! english is spoken
by the english!
not everyone speaks english!
it was obvious that
the french speak french...
less so concerning
the belgians and the dutch...
but that... germans are not
bilingual?! imagine my shock...

well... it's not really a shock...
it was a fake superstition
of tourism: which i never really
held... i just wanted to stand-on-pretend...
notably in germany...
i would think this lie and find
myself awe-struck: not all germans
speak english...
like the 20th century never happened...
i hardly think it was naive:
it was an evil joke for
the entertainment of one -
notably when we were stopped
at the Germany-Poland border
by the guards...
and asked in german and broken
polish (but not english)
whether we were smuggling
guns or drugs...
   or foreign currency...

     aghast... the german border
guards thinking it was necessary
to even search my wallet
to see how much spare change i had...
true story...
   it just so happens after enough
time has passed and someone
might ask: formally or informally...
'so, what have you been up to?'
my atypical reply is always
the same: 'nothing' / 'nothing much'...

perhaps i am writing a book...
but i hardly think i am...
    i am riddling a concept of bed...
i'm getting ready to lick
a stamp with this worded
doodle before i send a postcard
from the life of the believably living
to the filing cabinet of either
the Land of Nod or Nox:
wherever grand-grand-grand-grand-etc.-
father Cain has become
the reformed archetype of -
   returning to keeping buggies and
other parrots... something:
that sort of -esque.