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René Mutumé Mar 2014
I smoked. There was a good hand in the sky. It looked like a peach draped over tatty buildings. Hemisphere broken open at the end of a fist, and then at the end of an arrow shattering the pieces of night surrounding it, as the moon clouds shot, devouring it.

I flicked my cigarette down on the floor of the fly over instead of flicking it into the avalanche of cars below. Who knows what something as miniscule as a flying tab **** might make a person think. It would not be a fly. It would be a tab ****. It would be something that distracted a driver on the motorway, which they traced back to my finger flicking it.

It would be rude and imprecise, a car loses control and then flips over for a second, then paints the carriageway with ten multiples of itself flying and screaming. The driver flys inside the car. And I continued to cross the fly over. Outside the bookies at 10pm there is a dog looking up at me, his head tilts like he is asking me something, as he starts to follow me, leash dragging.

"Oi! Oi! Where the **** are you going?" A mouth from the ****** says, "Oh me, just down here." I reply, "I was talkin to the ******* dog you ******* mug." The gentleman added. The small white staffy was still looking up at me. Well, one of us is going to have to answer him, his tail said. "Oh ******* then." The mouth says changing back again into the building. "I guess we're going down there then." Schrödinger says, or 'Schrö', as he allows me to call him.

I light another cigarette as more arrows are fired from the sky, more like wet arrows now. "Well you'll need to pick up my leash mate; I don't want to look like a ******." Shrö says, "Ah sorry dude," I say picking it up as we continue to walk.

"Most of the people who talk to me are a little mad." The small staffy says. But why am I called Schrödinger? The staffy asks me. Ah come on, you don't get it? Well I do apologise but I am not that sharp on my quantum theory philosophy, and I am also a dog. Oh yes, I concede to him in my flat.  "Do you mind opening the door to your balcony pilgrim?" He asks me next.

"Sorry sir?" I ask him, "Well it either goes on your floor or I do it outside." He says. I open the door as he asks, and then lean against the frame as he takes a ****, and I watch him. He scrapes his hind legs on the concrete as if forgetting that it is concrete and not soil. You remind me a lot of love, I mention to him, smoking.

“You know what pilgrim? I think I prefer the name Otto Gross.” The staffy says looking up at the mixing night and I hatch open a new can pouring some into his bowl on the balcony. Cheers love. He says. He puts his two front paws on the meter high wall where my balcony overlooks a junk yard, and begins to speak.

“There is my lover! As screamed across sense and filled with conjoined gait, of my eye and hand, I am jealous of the city she walks in, by me, as I am half departed, myself, near a fox that gathers in ball, by me and is a better *****, than me, here, so I learn, from vermin, how to hide, how to fight, and how to re-appear. How to have humour, like theirs, and there unplanned joy-“

Woah “*******”, I’m spewing, a poet dog! A pile of dosh in the equilibrium! I rush back into my flat and grab a pencil and paper, shake a bit, take a sip, keep on listening, then nearly fall **** forwards returning to the balcony scribbling. And there’s a ****** dog talking.

“I trit-trot across roads with my last owner, winning jobs only within tasks of cemetery light, inside and on, the wall; so curled so, as I sleep outside, so sojourned within, grey dusk, car rivers- I spit! Not so far as giants can, just a piece of spittle, just shadow puppets dancing, just marionettes laughing-”
Schrödinger sang on my balcony beginning to howl, making the lid of the box open.

“To ******* the rain. To share within it, its fire, its knowable drench, of skin like hymn, that is so far penetrating, and mingled past flesh, opened and quakeless to the onslaught of lightening swans! The quickening fury, of several slow days, and lives, devouring the metronome of salutes, upon heart buildings coming down like tetrahedrons drawn by many hands, of dusk filth opening to the arrays of data goods and gods, and produced from the pockets of gibbous mooned skies, and I whisper to the tsunami: mood unhung, bellowing away from the dog fights, and unpainted streets, I seem: To be praying...”

Monday may come soon I doubted, watching the staffy speak.

“Planets growing teeth, in the stars and the junk-yarded iris, succour comes, and so do the sad journeying flies, flying in the mouth of many gales, as extremities to the planet’s engine, affordable, losses, condensed in- and danced solarlessly -in, dances of mortuary, and wedding sung precipice, the edge of a gale, happy to blow my face, away, just gust gust gust! And yes. I do pray a little, and past holocaust of saccharine tune, our shame is forgotten in the simple, rhythms, of a cup- a hand, a castle flock of gulls, landing in water.”

A dog wags its tail because it has just shat, his owner gone, bag ready below ****, I feel streets clean with loving owners hostile to the madness, of the furious dozen dozen flies- lobotomised drool, ready and alive enough, to laugh, and if you are knifeless, maybe a lil knackered, from work - - we might haul up: eternity, my love, and have a lil more, humour! In our sheets and face and sky, an take a **** holiday, right where you are stood or sat, walking, or resting.

And there are no gods, but the ones that let you see them creasing their soft cheeks and aging beside you, together, letting time die, parapets soak in the weather, and say: ‘hey’, here are my bones, there has been a lot of twisting done, but all they need, is yours.
René Mutumé Jan 2014
There is my lover! As screamed across my sense
and filled with conjoined gait, of my eye and hand,
I am jealous of the city she walks in, by me
as I am half departed, myself, near a fox that gathers in ball, by me
and is a better *****, than me, so i learn, from vermin
hide, how to have humour
like theirs, the unplanned joy-
that trit-trots across
roads, winning jobs within
tasks of cemetery
light
I know that their light is company, inside and on, the wall;
so curled so, sojourned within
grey dusk
car rivers-
I spit! Not so far
as giants can, just a piece
of spittle,
to ******* the rain, and share with it
it’s fire;
It’s knowable drench, of skin, like hymn,
that is so far penetrating, and mingled past flesh, opened
and quakeless, to the onslaught of lightening swans, the
quickening fury, of several slow days and lives devouring
the metronome of salutes upon heart, of dusk filth opening
to the arrays of data goods, and gods, coming from pocket
in gibbous mooned sky, and the whisper of all tsunami, hangs mood, bellowing
away from the dog fights, and unpainted streets, I seem:
to be praying, beside this funny lil guy, just settled
beside me, on the wall, of course, I am not, of course, I’m not ignorant
he’s gotta feed, tonight, the same tragic logic, as me
as plants
growing teeth
able, to ignore
the rain, until succour comes, do, sad journeying flies,
flying hypnotically towards it’s mouth, as extremities
to the planets engine, affordable, losses, condensed in-
and danced solarlessly, in dances of mortuary
and wedding sung
precipice, an edge of gale,
happy to blow my face away,
all the **** time, gust, gust, gust,
and yes;
I do pray,
a little, and see past holocaust of saccharine tune,
And find that, so often, our shame is forgotten in the simple,
rhythms, of cup- a hand; a castle flock of gulls, landing in water,
a dog wagging its tail because it’s just shat, her owner,
bag ready, I feel streets clean with loving owners hostile
to the madness, of the furious dozen/dozen flies- lobotomised
drool, ready to laugh
if you’re knifeless,
maybes a lil knackered from work- – we
might be able to
haul up eternity
and have a lil more
laughter
in our sheets and face, than the sky,
an take a **** holiday
right where you’re stood or sat, or walking,
and there are no gods
but the ones that let you see them
so there, together, let time die, let the parapets soak
in the weather
and say
here’s my bone’s
there’s been a lot of twisting done
but all they need
is yours.
OPB1/ 99237 / KURT /B1099 / TRET / GLENN /0842
ALAS / 443599/ COHEED / FTRTRAVEL / NORED /
666 / LINER / OCEAN / 2117 /6209/ TWELVE /SPLIT
FORSCOM / COMMANDER / 765 / ERGOT /2112 /
BIPn / RADAR / COLT / 999 /ERLANGER / FOXTROT
PETTICOAT / 4444423y-simpson / indicator-green / opal
INFUSIAM / TWILIGHT /OCEAN /B-trellie / AMALGAM-
alpha 235-kwqr / RED -copy zulu-999876-whiskey / OMEGA
/ CENTAURI-f-zone-d- corr. -fp-NOVA / HEMIS / 0008 /
retaw / p- positive-angle-21345 l-tin-333 / NOVA-5-i-8-o/
HOTEL / ZULU / EAGLE / 2119-j-TRIT--pers. 31 ALPHA
RUBY/ OSWEILER / GRINNELL / CLARION -29-yj-4589 /
OMNI-235 / OCEAN /P-38-t-card -ING -MOYTRON-US/
000000000000002222227777722222227676727111191000ray
oooo56oooo50­3467453898-abstract-34-level-omaha --6247
283492angle-8--76765555657-oriole-cas...ghtyu-GURU / BLUE
SUNSET / arc-21234563777878-0000099990000000000000tbf
ARC--PFINT--quad-6-s­q. 34536378222208-bgtybgtybgtyoscar---
Randolph L Wilson --November 2017
Wɜrdz spɛld kəˈrɛkt ˈvɜrsəs fəˈnɛtɪkˈspɛlɪŋ

alternately titled fun with phonics
ˈɔltərnətli ˈtaɪtəld fʌn wɪð ˈfɑnɪks
analogous when like first learning how to spell American English words

Əˈnæləgəs wɛn laɪk fɜrst ˈlɜrnɪŋ haʊ tu spɛl əˈmɛrəkən ˈɪŋglɪʃ wɜrdz

I thought to feign not knowing how to spell American English words

Aɪ θɔt tu feɪn nɑt ˈnoʊɪŋ haʊ tu spɛl əˈmɛrəkən ˈɪŋglɪʃ wɜrdz

and quickly realized the daunting task,

Ænd ˈkwɪkli ˈriəˌlaɪzd ðə ˈdɔntɪŋ tæsk,

thus sought magnanimity, gratuity, courtesy...
Google search (phonetic transcription of words) to assist me

Ðʌs sɔt magnanimity, grəˈtuɪti, ˈkɜrtəsi..
ˈgugəl sɜrʧ (fəˈnɛtɪk ˌtrænˈskrɪpʃən ʌv wɜrdz) tu əˈsɪst mi

Words spelled correct versus phonetic spelling
(the latter appended after poem concludes).

Thus now begins feeble attempt
to render rhyme for no reason
appended with phonetic translation
mainly as playful tease zen
synonymous imagining teaching
said exercise to eager children

reminding readers that young
and restless with spotty attention
hear spoken word while in utero,
post natal, subsequently when
he/she parrots parent(s) and/or

guardian, a more deliberate yen
arises to acquire greater cognition,
intuition, question (quest ja hen)
quickly devolving into faux ken
barbed riotous laughter analogous
trying wits of patient comedian/

comedienne resorting quite often
to repetition, remonstration,
reiteration... which frustration
might necessitate taking ten,
or so minutes of intermission
mindful mentor praises pen

ultimate verbal adroit ability
earning healthy treat for recitation,
perhaps recipient exceptionally
eager to advance passing golden
milestone able, ready, and will ***
to tackle writing correct spelling,

whence learning to hold pen(cil)
(without being vain) begin men
till process, which next step den
allows, enables and provides sen
sit heave hands on guidance

helping preschooler - all liven
and well with enthusiasm clutch
writing implement fingers open
before gently grasping above ren
during kudos with an amen.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

wɜrdz spɛld kəˈrɛkt ˈvɜrsəs fəˈnɛtɪk ˈspɛlɪŋ

Ðʌs naʊ bɪˈgɪnz ˈfibəl əˈtɛmpt
tu ˈrɛndər raɪm fɔr noʊ ˈrizən
əˈpɛndɪd wɪð fəˈnɛtɪk trænˈzleɪʃən
ˈmeɪnli æz ˈpleɪfəl tiz zɛn
səˈnɑnəməs ɪˈmæʤənɪŋ ˈtiʧɪŋ
sɛd ˈɛksərˌsaɪz tu ˈigər ˈʧɪldrən

riˈmaɪndɪŋ ˈridərz ðæt jʌŋ
ænd ˈrɛstləs wɪð ˈspɑti əˈtɛnʃən
hir ˈspoʊkən wɜrd waɪl ɪn ˈjutəroʊ,

poʊst ˈneɪtəl, ˈsʌbsəkwəntli wɛn
hi/ʃi ˈpɛrəts ˈpɛrənt(ɛs) ænd/ɔr
ˈgɑrdiən, ə mɔr dɪˈlɪb(ə)rət jɛn
əˈraɪzəz tu əˈkwaɪər ˈgreɪtər kɑgˈnɪʃən,
ˌɪntuˈɪʃən, ˈkwɛsʧən (kwɛst jɑ hɛn)

ˈkwɪkli dɪˈvɑlvɪŋ ˈɪntu fɔks kɛn
bɑrbd ˈraɪətəs ˈlæftər əˈnæləgəs
ˈtraɪɪŋ wɪts ʌv ˈpeɪʃənt kəˈmidiən/
kəˌmidiˈɛn rɪˈzɔrtɪŋ kwaɪt ˈɔfən
tu ˌrɛpəˈtɪʃən, remonstration,
riˌɪtəˈreɪʃən... wɪʧ frəˈstreɪʃən

maɪt nəˈsɛsəˌteɪt ˈteɪkɪŋ tɛn,
ɔr soʊ ˈmɪnəts ʌv ˌɪntərˈmɪʃən
ˈmaɪndfəl ˈmɛnˌtɔr ˈpreɪzəz pɛn
ˈʌltəmət ˈvɜrbəl əˈdrɔɪt əˈbɪləti
ˈɜrnɪŋ ˈhɛlθi trit fɔr ˌrɛsəˈteɪʃən,
pərˈhæps rəˈsɪpiənt ɪkˈsɛpʃənəli

ˈigər tu ədˈvæns ˈpæsɪŋ ˈgoʊldən
ˈmaɪlˌstoʊn ˈeɪbəl, ˈrɛdi, ænd wɪl lɛn
tu ˈtækəl ˈraɪtɪŋ kəˈrɛkt ˈspɛlɪŋ,
wɛns ˈlɜrnɪŋ tu hoʊld pɛn(cil)
(wɪˈθaʊt ˈbiɪŋ veɪn) bɪˈgɪn mɛn
tɪl ˈprɑˌsɛs, wɪʧ nɛkst stɛp dɛn
əˈlaʊz, ɛˈneɪbəlz ænd prəˈvaɪdz sɛn

sɪt *** hændz ɑn ˈgaɪdəns
ˈhɛlpɪŋ ˈpriˌskulər - ɔl ˈlaɪvən
ænd wɛl wɪð ɪnˈθuziˌæzəm klʌʧ
ˈraɪtɪŋ ˈɪmpləmənt ˈfɪŋgərz ˈoʊpən
bɪˈfɔr ˈʤɛntli ˈgræspɪŋ əˈbʌv rɛn
ˈdʊrɪŋ ˈkudoʊs wɪð ən eɪˈmɛn.

— The End —