War Memorial In November
Empty Fountain Lined With Leaves
Old Town Hall, Cherry Trees
Caught In First Winter Breeze.

Solidarity
Moment Not Soon Forgot
Not As Easily Remembered
Not As Easily Shared

City and Colour Soundtracks A Storm
Down Along The Mill
Before A Sloping Upward Hill
Wind Whipped Wild At Trees Stood Still

Soaked Wet Through Clothing
Late Autumn Truants
With No Other Reason To Be
Than To Feel And Find Expression

Making Back The Way To Work
Held Hand In Heartfelt Hand
Making The Best Of The Bland
In Such Moment's Not Meant To Disband

city in the shadow of a mountain
like denver on vacation
shady and deep
flowing down like the river
seeking centre
houses cling to the crags like barnacles
inverted ship cavity
jutting out of the rainforest

paradise of truants and travellers
eternally in transit to islands and misfit fringes, cold floors and warm couches
and displaced ***** enthusiasts
sailors without floatation
treading land and bills and PTA meetings
cast off travellers on their way to golden gates or northern lights
rivers under troubled bridges
fish suffocating underwater
living on the refuse of the nuclear generation
transmuting the lead into sustainable energy
recycling the atmosphere into breathable air
apathetic anarchists return from extremity
living on the dole
or working for the man
we are building something greater than this

rain beats dynamic rhythm
ever changing syncopations
speaking to underwater sensibilities
feeding dreams of nymphs and pots and pans,
mushroom damp truants

records and players
lent out to the Master Librarian
hermit in her books and closets
dust on her shelves
thick as thieves
sticky as raindrops

Pangs of loneliness
creep like shadows
and fleeting images
sad and solemn
of truants hiding
stealthy as the slide of tides
observed with half-closed eyes
finding freedom in perversity
and the serenity of silence.

oh god, how could i forget, the year was sometime in
the 1990s, en vogue released their debut single:
don't let go...
fell in love with it...
                as truant i say true:
before the **** impregnated
the white boy economy,
                 i made it to university on
two thousand and a spare allowance,
studying chemistry you get the hours,
**** knows the humanities...
any self-respecting humanities
student learns humanism the hard way:
psychiatry - not writing novels:
but doing social service - **** pay,
the man is happy,
happy girls of 12 month cycles
disillusioned suddenly by Papa Farmer
Heidegger - not really...
i could sneeze Hegel through my ***
and never get a **** from any
French philosopher's nostril:
born to ****, born to ostrich it...
and that's about as much as i'm avowed to hit...
it was the 1990s, the Poles were part
of the cultural shift including the world war
ii veterans, safety in west London,
then the kebabs came by,
and the kebabs fried the reputation,
they said: SO LI DA RI TY!
                  i remember being 9 at the time,
or whatever age suits the chronology,
en vogue was better than the prodigy,
the jilted revulsion to stagecraft,
Michael Jordan did more than Broccoli Adam
alias O,
                  silver back and the safety net of
philandering Clinton: let the white
boy eat ****... you let the white
boys do the annals and you the *******
to do the opposite of the Christian bypass:
let's the ***** experience it and rhetoric anti-gay
statements...
                       a  bit harsh, a bit too harsh mate...
you use the girl to manifesto anti-gay laws...
i wasn't born with **** stimulation,
but would i agree or disagree with it?
i wouldn't ask a girl to do **** with me...
me? too much pleasure from taking a ****,
who do you hang around with?
                           the Schnitzel Patriots?
but if there be  god i swear:
i decided to buy en vogue's single rather than
the album: music for the jilted generation...
then came about breathe when i
was discovering type o negative
             with the mortal kombat..
then i let gaming sorta sizzle, until i met a gamer
girl... no phobia... the status encouragement
said: read two books, play 33 video games...
1990's England... was it so different as it is today
or was it because i was a a kid born in the 1980's
seeing my first double deck bus aged 8 in 1994?
we never got the mafia Caribbean treatment
worthy of a carnival, i was never part of the Empire,
only a cause for war...
                 the truants moved to Scotland,
we got east London, or something resembling the east...
i loved the 1990s... the music esp.,
                                    well, that was then...
it ain't that anymore... back in the 1990s i'd
rather have listened to en vogue rather than
the spice girls' paedophilia chant
Savile's case bankrupted the b.b.c.,
   they're really trying, showing shows
from 2015 and earlier in 2014,
                                          they're broke!
broke little *******! and the chant is:
i thought she was administering consent with
that ***-selfie while i ****** off..
                i thought the age of consent was there
at the time, the age where you get to abuse
your own body...
      apparently that's slave talk: your body
isn't yours.
                     Huxley was a prophet in his own right,
but never mind the intricacies -
                 there weren't any...
she posts consent he posts shadow...
                    in the extremity of all possible laws:
we defend the defendants rights to an exclusion of conscience,
because, god-forgiving we only succumbed to the idea
of not thinking: i.e. we preferred the idea of god
managing us rather than the idea of thought...
    but it was nice in the 1990s, the brave few that made it...
then the serfs came when the Union expanded....
                         it really doesn't matter now...
apathy Regina, pathology Rex;
                                better fix the toilet
before the **** comes down alright...
                              as one half human potential said:
half of me would have made a quarter of the man
and woman involved in obstructing me teaching
in rhapsodies...
                                 oh well...
born a Glaswegian pauper, always a Glaswegian
pauper...
                       and sooner my fate among the karma
fate of words lost in Herr Censor,
              than me knocking on tombstones and saying:
your life?
                  i'm not that much interested, to be honest,
i care to remember what single c.d. i bought
in the 1990's rather than what could have ignited in
me a neo-socialist sense of community
coming from a communist society, undermined
by a society trying so hard to make the perfect advert;
what a load of *******!

There is dog howl wind
behind that cold door
out there
where
all the stories
come true.

There are manic truants
running wild across
my back lawn
with
little hatchets
and bags.

There are sneaky smiley men
inside the TV box
greedy tongued
cold
begging money
and souls.

I will shut off the TV
let the dog in
lock the door
rock
creaking
dark
old
happy
safe.

Laying low and waiting
in the grass, see the sky.
Light above is grating,
caught, perfect, in your eye.
How the moon guides you by
its untroubled movements.
Pristine, untouched, how thy
hand makes no improvements.

With the spear you’re weighting,
once again you will try
in the dirt translating
(caught, perfect, in your eye)
that unbroken line. Lie
that your own amusements
could hold that light. Each sly
hand makes no improvements.

While you stand hesitating,
I place your hand on mine.
“Look,” I say, “duplicating,
caught. Perfect, in your eye,
the moon reflected, spy.
Despite the light’s influence,
to your beauty, his high
hand makes no improvements.”

In vain we satisfy
our heart with our reply.
All of us are truants--
all of nature’s students.

It's funny seeing us all turn into the same person,
The same taste in music,
The same fashion sense,
The same events attract us,
The same mediums refract us,
Our skin is inked with the same tattoo over and over and over again,
Our hair is clipped to flow in the same wave that each ocean moves,
Our voices all make the same noise because we all say the same thing,
Our camera lenses are always pointed in the same direction and we all take the same photo over and over and over again,
We all feel the same high because we all use the same drugs,
We all have the same house, the same car, and the same salary only because we all have the same jobs,
We all like the same people because we are all the same,
There are no rebellious truants because we all rebel In the same way,
Our hair is but one shade one pigment,
That compliments the same shirt, the same make-up that we all wear,
We all wear the same sizes and have the same bodies because we all eat the same thing,
We all make the same jokes because we all watch the same shows.

Deafened by a similar silence,
We reach for peace through violence,
Similarly hurting one another while similarly trying to heal our brother,
All carbon-copies of an image displayed and projected from the Great Wall of China to The Grand Canyon,
And it's probably because we are all the same species
No need for discrimination because we are all the same, pathetic animal,
Grooving to the same funky tune,
In the same sunny meadow,
We are all one herd of buffalo,
One congress of baboons,
One flamboyance of flamingos,
One army of caterpillars,
One tower of giraffes,
One school of fish,
One heart,
And one
One love....

But maybe
Just maybe
If we all are part of one love,
Then that means we unify to create only one part of a relationship,
One half of a house,
And only one side of the family....

It's as if
Uniting and grouping closer together,
It just makes us crumble apart..

of course i believe in an after-life,
well, let's say ~life, or
passing on tradition "life" -
however you note it down,
because that's what this out-of-every-instance
is described: a second chance -
however hellish or heavenly,
that's beside the point,
either way the idea is not a torture rack -
but nonetheless,
serious intellectuals are reduced to
smithereens by merely considering
arguing such realms -
the **** do it better with Manga cartoons,
so ******, so exotic -
by the way? Tokyo Tribes is the
most ******-up film i've seen
since Battle Royale - new-age propaganda
spinsters... Alistair Cambel looks
like a boy-scout by comparison...
oh, rolls-Royce- royal, roy-all - not the
tip end of ale from Roy Orbison,
roy-all - ******* missed the diacritical
marks and went mad with punctuation
nobody ever ******* minds:
laugh now, pay later.
but with all these people concerned
with their body image, their hologram
selves, it's no wonder that Darwinism
is apprehensive about it's archaeology
(******, please insert the presence of
the æ γραφημ) - when the fashion
industry is doing, what the hell it's doing -
why would i believe in this world,
this world alone, when people
are adamant to perform hologram spectacles,
the: let's try to make it all look pretty,
but ******-up beneath all the fake aesthetics?
it doesn't take questioning the entire world,
or abstracting this world and questioning
reality to provide the answers...
it simply takes the fashion industry
and the ******* industry -
or 17th century sensibilities of painters:
plums versus twigs -
                                        and you think this is
the only world? given that people around you
are not being who they deem they are
because they're more concerned with
projection rather than perception?
i love these alphabetical clues...
                                  they're the rhyming couplets
i live for outside the reach of a thesaurus -
if a person stages concentrating on
a hologram ambition, and empties himself
so that he's constantly c.c.t.v. prone to
sit up, never pick his nose, wipe his *** with velvet...
well... how can you experience this world
for its worth, when a person also involved in
this world, monetises the world into
a hologram flip of the otherwise dormant stone?
only a fake world would ever provide fakers
to reside in it and reside in it as the highest authority...
there's the television / Plato's cave to mind also...
i just don't see it fulfilling in what Heidegger
deems being - comfort in concerns -
or simply there - so what compliments
this world is illusory, a hologram that isn't neither
being nor non-being -
                                 i'd call this world
and all the powers involved in keeping it
an assortment process - allocation in extreme -
at least a way to see the full potential of
humanity's free will... or the least desired
verse alter of the collective: making your mind up.
all in all: thespians and make-up artists!
  and the need to keep animals for company
to shy away from social-mobility (lying)
                       of the everyday and tell the truth -
to animals, who bark and meow,
the true onomatopoeia poets of our truant morals
and they too: truants of speech, knock on wood,
lick the testicles, play ping pong.

my pocket   has     one nickel    &      Mason's has     a dime;
    a   transient,   red rubber ball ping-ponging  deep  faith with    & for  
        carnival             trash   is what    falls from the
raccoon's mouth    past three;      the      midnight   tour, troupe, &
    egret     have plucked    my eyes out     before    petit dejeuner    
         &    have all booked     residence    with   lush   vagabonds from
   some oasis    on the     curb of Suburbia,   the ottoman wet       where
        lore      slumps the backs of the        fairest;   where,  
  beyond     equanimity   there  boons & beckons  
            tightropes,   slacked tension;     and where     folklore  swells
     arteries       like   King Cake;    the  swamplands  have my    pocket
            picked;   pock-marked    truants    (BOY)    fiddling in fours
  during    school hours,   cakey     margarine  spread all
       over      their    legs         as they      eat grilled cheese and
become,      ****,
           in the    ambrosian   daylight fogged out with    figgy shade
   by thick,   carpet-fondling    curtains, sagging with secondhand soot.

and the moon high above its iris -
in the bony sclera " noon" of 3 a.m.
in September -
            or as the western philistines
said: we need the Karaoke -
and we need the Judas cult -
as sung king David,
and evermore the kind of
comparisons of *** with brushing your
teeth: simply, a matter of, hygiene -
and wasn't Tailor's 1989 anthem
an ode to overcoming h.i.v.: bad blood?
wasn't that part of the narrative?
if it wasn't... shoot me...
**** me, by being a poet you can
become such a smuggler of images,
of a fake Mona Lisa (e.g.), you can turn into
a right oddball smuggler if you want...
you can smuggle so many paintings,
ad desecrate as many icons as you might
wish to speak Somali...
and sometimes the odd huh...
is enough: like Hendrix with Dylan
and all along the watchtower -
or Jeffdoing one more for the encore
against the Cohen variant -
because the Gentiles always sung better
than the Jews... truants are named
at every bar mitzvah - ben shalom -
or son of a hello...
                       and none the wise-thinker
in kinship with Solomon...
                    as the one stressed:
in solitude you will find me,
as i find no one in taking me to the wilderness;
yes, the gentiles always sang praise
to usurp the jews - hence tier above
soprano with the castrato - banned by 1903 -
sometimes you rarely write poems,
but, rather, connectivity of encyclopedias -
at times you think: when the son of Bruce
was named Jeff, and died a death akin
to Caesar - and you think: too wish
t have been spared the hospital bed,
and the inconvenience belt Hermitage of
those awaiting the butchers' slaughter -
i too, among the angelic be of kin...
but, from vaguely to a reality: sadly no.
they never really love the smart-***
that doesn't perform well in mathematics,
they just love how  pervasive the Axis
evils have become synonymous with
sanctimonious grace of those defeating them...
how eager to sing-along than
sing against... how easily the argument
against euthanasia quashed by the new humanists
of Benelux - god, the shivers,
                   the fates of ghost writers
haven spoken last...
                    in an age when those who
publish literary works are dyslexic - and who
hardly read... well... aren't we living
in an age, when the least, and most you can
even do is find space-exploration a salvation...
for a while...
                           just a while...
                as the Beatniks said in accordance with
the Sputnik missions... and later Jim Morrison
immortalised - this is the end;
                     beautiful friend... this is the end...
              my only friend, the end...
forgive me in a 100 years... should i shy from truth,
and say: i agree with you - that it was actually otherwise...
            thus: i'll simply reply: inshallah -
for i'm a foreigner to state as having any responsibility
   occupying wording handshakes,
                     and not shaking hands with agreement,
and of all political games, i chose nouns to mean
ambiguity, and conscience to be actions worded,
diverging from actual actions undertaken -
   thus so distant the word bombs
     and the action undertaken - so, inshallah -
and Pontius Pilate to boot.

i rather like the taste of men

on the brink of something.

mere seconds away.

i like the brininess of their belly.

the dead drop to their pelvis

and i so like it when

my gaze is in grease dollops

sly and

cut, by morning, onto their thighs.

this is no accident, because god creates

for worship and i am meant to be.

god creates me right now and tomorrow

and if you ask him, he will tell you that

i am no light touch, no wind-chime

brush in the mississippi november.

i am a rollicking thing.

i lean on you like truants on brick walls

chew up all the toothpicks

of all the diners from here to oakland.

i drum the earth with a flex as

tense as a cymbal and recline

in the suddenness of peeping eyes.

hourly,

i will cut my teeth on you,

romp to the city of men,

and feed.

Uber morons of marshmallow county
the year eight reject and Comprehensive truants
think they have a snowflake like them to confuse
and in their playpen they pen nonsensical porridge for tea
some red uber pumpkin instructed them, faze him with doubts

here below is what doubt means
" a feeling of uncertainty or lack of conviction."
off course semi-illiterates don't know butter from Jam
what the feral rent-a-mob are trying to do is called

Red-baiting,
also referred to as reductio ad Stalinum, is an informal logical fallacy that intends to discredit the validity of an opponent's logical argument by accusing, denouncing, attacking, or persecuting an individual

That is what the Protection Money Racketeers
who tried extorting money to keep Royal secret
and then broke in and stole from us
and when we stood up to them decided to ruin us
slandering and defaming launching ***** racist campaign
so trolls of thieves and Mobsters go do your job

*  Negative campaigning or mudslinging is the process of deliberate spreading negative information about someone or something to worsen the public image of the described.
The expression discrediting tactics refers to personal attacks, for example in politics and court cases.
we all know this is what Thieves do, and feral mob you are
just dunces being used by the Thieves and East London Mobsters

**Whispering Campaign
A whispering campaign or whisper campaign is a method of persuasion in which damaging rumors or innuendo are spread about the target, while the source of the rumors seeks to avoid being detected while spreading them.

Ferals, racists and Numpties come do your worst
you,re nothing but ignoramuses in the pockets of thieves
you don't scare me one bit and you can't soften me up
I will not be gagged, bullied or intimidated
a family of racist crooks demanded Protection money to keep
secret my African Royal connection, I refused to pay
they broke into our flat and stole our property
I had the nerve to stand up to them, they did not expect this
because we are kind, decent gentle law-abiding
I said I was going to report them to the Council and get them evicted
The Thieving Racists Mobsters said I was the one that will leave their Country

They called on their underground connection
Told me and my wife, we are now Toast
Well I'm still here, come **** me
You all, your Gangs and all the uber-morons in your pockets..

Doubts where? you're not eliciting doubts
Your under-developed minds are being made toxic
You are involved in a Poison campaign, get your facts rights
and now poison is in your system and you can never be the same again
Because whether you like it or not you now know all about seeing poisons and negativity in innocent things

And that is to your detriment, they have corrupted your minds
and it will stay with you
If your partner say I love you, you can now think of ten reasons
why this may not be true or real, erstwhile clean minds has now
been stained,
You have ingested poison, it doesn't wash out, you've been contaminated, and that's sadly true.....
Go on....continue!!!

let us want linear narratives -
by the current standard of: narratives -
let us all want parallel linearalities
and then: on some odd
occasion: forced to mesh-into
focus point -
                       when we were somehow
young and england
was a place at a time
when the handover of hong kong
happened -
what subsequently happened:
custard and fudge brain
crayon squiggly: attached to a fridge:
with a magnet...

here's to: i'm out to lunch...
toying with poker and... altruism...
solipsism, "atheism" and
albinos for autism...
rather: nothing will elevate
this circus -
          
   oculus per oculus -
     eye for an eye...
      skin for stretch... belts and leather...
and i hope: non-kosher shoes...
whitey brightey almost the: "almighty"...
but god! chugging along
with all these bachelor lepers -

i want to earn honour as a yack
herder in mongolia -
chequers: not chess -
because i need to go back
to m'ah rootz... my caucasian -
caspian sea - mongrel mongol
and of turkic or hOOn!

talent: "talent": a hot topic for
the imagery of phallus -
          a talent for a porceil girl of
toy-kyo...
           with a rabbit sized
bouquet of fleshy pwetty pwetty
pet-als!

  or... that it once happened...
the steve colberT show...
  the blind stevie minor...
        keeping up appearances...
a mrs. bucket that stressed!
it's: mrs. bou-kay... i.e. bouquet...
beau! literally! beau-*****-full!

stefan col-bear -
                stephen coal-b'err...
              it's tragic... a mrs. buckeT
sort of tragic...
         it's not as much fun when...
there might be people
who joke around "illiteracy" of those
who didn't used the proper
orthography...
that english isn't stress-laden
with orthography - but can be deviated
with and back into:
to speak is one thing: to write:
another...

  mrs. bouquet / alias bucket -
or a stephen colberT...
         alias: col-ber...
coal-bear...
                     coe-bare...
           it's like elevating a status
symbol: yeah... i too wish
i had a surname like: VIN-D'SOR...
or win-win-d'sour...
or windsor...
                
windy, sir?
            it's not like there will ever be:
something to play with in english
that might arrive at: suspense!
  it's the bare enlisted minimum -
i too have reached my cul de sac
of ingenuity -
perhaps i invented a light-bulb -
perhaps i have confronted
a river with a bridge -
        there's no second "eureka":
there's only a devolved "word salad":
or an attempt at a Prokofiev linear -
even with all the flurry of
decapitated sounds
running around like...
                    decapitated "sounds"...

i still come to the conclusion:
this was never going to be a language
that could be extracted
and used in a formal manner...
paint me a practical picture:
preferably a schematic used in
engineering: when looking at a Kandinsky...

now look at these words:
there's a rigidity of spelling -
a kept grammar?
well... to know blue is to also...
settle for the hue that might tease
either green or yell-ow...

               but is it a venture: prim formal?
i hope to find grave and bed come
11pm... and my legs come 6am
tomorrow... and at least 3 hours
of walking... till the point that
my underwear will rub so much
on my inner-thighs that
i will have to smear savlon cream
on what will become oyster flesh
tenderness from all the rubbing...

go full commando or wear a thong?
it's impossible to walk these parts
naked...

statures of man being childless -
this full-embodiment of a self-to-act-upon:
that there's nothing selfess about
the endeavour of clogging the thoughtlessness
of aether and the frictionless
eternal dynamism of heliocentrism -

sum up! there's that call for verbiage!
people often want,
instructions - the verb that does
the verb and some other bidding...
i have yet to read a philosophy book
that allowed itself:
grammatical peacocking -
that grammar is somehow only
ever pure instruction:
it can never be deviated from:

lesson no. 1: how you speak is:
the passable grammar lesson you will
ever hear...
get fudge: thrown into the deep
end and told to: tread water...
head above the floating mantel piece!
****** don't stink it up
with drowning!

       ergo: the great yawning sea...
and all the ghosts and myriads
and sentinetls and gargantuan: failed...
prodigies that come with it:
adding of course... a looting of
spanish armanda or some...
**** u-boat tricklet...

            god... when evil was fun...
when evil was tinged with:
a german plight of competition with
the french and the english and
the spanish and the russians:
this strange: by god... this very strange
inferiority complex...
you simply can't stage a formidable presence
with all that technological
advances on a whim:
when shuffling along with
some decanting'ant: k?

               of the little people that
england has somehow incubated:
where's my bombast?!
where's my: i'm here, i'm now...
i'm thoroughly fire-proof!
where is that... maybe not allowing
myself a presence nibbling at
crumbs from the tablature of London...
go back to Edinburgh?
get lost in Vales?
         yes... way over "there":
in way way over in les country...
a go-get-to-Lesley brittle...

             - which wasn't much of a sunday...
a tired body a welcoming
bed: the part of life where
every 34 year old might
finally settle for: get busy dying -
or vegetating or... basking
in the suns of former glories -

these ample three-sometimes-four
worded junctions
for all the biped beasts that:
prance or dance or run spectacular
migrations of fake:
in their marathons -
  
i have truly managed to assert that:
the world can happen by myself -
beside... on some distant reservoir
of thirsty new lives and:
vitality pomps -
    for their vitality i have a submergence
into a vitriol i dare not exercise -
that's of course:
they have been incubated by a lie...
any lie in the framework of
the already unshakeable complex
of pedagogy -
   it would have been better to have...
beside crushing me...
not given me this leisure of
education...
              to stand organic and proper...
to appeal to the thespian monotony
of customer service roles
where: the customer is always right...

it was foolish to educate a man
beyond the age of 16... all the guys who
dropped out of school come 16
are now either mortgage shackled...
definitely with wife and most certainly
with child in tow...
i'm hardly my own making...

tone death: blair -
again... is it a solipsistic statement,
that... famous mea culpa?
      it's my fault for most certainly it is...
but at what point did
other people stop existing...
at what point can i blame fortune
on myself?
this sunday was depressing because...
i made a bet...
on 8 football matches...
a bet on a win... and a bet on...
both teams scoring...
16 matches to choose from...
but this is why i abhor gambling...
it's this stupendous suspency
akin to reading a thriller...
which i have never...
but you get the idea should
such results as: 6 - 1 tottenham hostpurs
vs. man united /
   7 - 2 aston villa vs. liverpool...
ever... degrade your least
chosen of avenues of "hope"...

               - somehow a "little known" nuance...
albion is a chalk-faced
grinning monstrosity of lime, scaling
up to no ends meet: and meat...
of course... the kosher furore
surrounding the omnivorous
tacticians of: one rice patty
per village: sq. a dozen heads...

i too want linear pursuits of language!
hey! over 'ere!
i want to take it upon myself
to be native and be get-given
the wings of flight!
looks like i'm nowhere going...
looks like i'm going nowhere:
but i'm still somehow: a here...
in this heliocentric ferriswheel
post-scientific darwinism this: pop cull-the-truants!
i am somehow hier...
herr sir-farce-a-****-to-borrow...
and a lot...

to have to escape the russians
and the polacks and the germans
and all these subsequently not-listed
cretins of the european pervesion...
of: self-mutilating yodle yo...
barracks up-right and standing...
congregating around
the mafia proposal of the:
       vain-ticky-tic-toc-bataclan...

dog collars of priest simply ooze:
satisfaction with:
a missing status of believbility...
but do not fret!
the hougenots are the last rats
to bail... of a sinking ship...
and there's all this night's worth
to want to exploit with
the burdens of sleep!

that we are pulverised dead-end-knottings...
insomnia provoked...
it's no matter...
the people without attache
verbiage... with strict cohesive
conducts are all ablaze...
i want these skimmies for
detailing scoop of fat over fat:
leaving little of beliebvable bone
to be a miscarriage of... ahem...
"reality";

i have been accused of
missing an ego a clog in the jargon
of the: "ex machina":
a reality without a deity
is almost like...
            a flaking of a skin...
that must be associated with
an invitation to possessing a self.

'ere i r: "thieving" around with some base ęgliş -

it must be admired: this citizen
politicized majority:

that a people can fathom fudge packaging
tier upon tier:

and serve both a democracy of voices
and the necessary vote: illiterate X
"acronym" piece o' pie for a signature's
worth...

wow and doubly: wow... on a continent when
there's this status quo class strictures:

moths, cobwebs(,) and spare change...
this grand asymptomatic clue...
i hope to pretend
to steal a language from
a people... that have no diaspora poignancy -
because: there's this squatting "elsewhere"...

litany of secrecy that has to become:
blunt dumb and grating
cheddar: stoic-esque...
the blunting of the knife and
the sharpening of the tongue...

i will still find the sort of reggae i want...
culture's harder than the rest
(full album)...

picky moi: burning spear's
marcus garvey -
the black voice
that demanded of his
choccy people a repatriation
process:
how alien it must seem
to be african-american
going to a majority black
country...
how unwelcome
one must be...
to be black and thrown back
into kenya...
speaking no word of the native
breath...
what statues of agony
an IDI AMIN could...
and did... dying a slow death
in the ***** of arab racialism...
oh sure joys of sculpture...
unforgiving in how
legs dismembered would
be reattached to sockets where
arms ought to imitate bird flight
with flapping: and vice versus...
i suffer to have not this sort
of imagination!

but that is a song...
   i'm here attempting to steal
english from the english:
it's not "about to" happen
either...
i'm getting drunk on
the cocktail: before, of course...
i come across some
bureaucratic "sensibility":
some angry ***** mad
enough with the least
authority given...

         that people given
the least authority tend to abuse it
the most...

i had to look at europe "elsewhere"...
milan kundera pointed
out this quote
'quarrel in a far away country,
between people of whom we know nothing'
by neville chamberlain
when appeasing ******
concerning the merger of
extended bohemia
into the third *****...
                
  it would seem: it would always
be easier to treat the middle east
with enforced straight lines...
e.g. iraq / jordan never look
like naturally invoked
land masses -

no mountain range no river...
it's not that i have to blame
the english pauper for
a past history of colonialism...
but... to have little knowledge
of your neighbour's lot...
was there any similar ignorance
when: outstanding brits
matched napoleon's ambitions?

i test my own patience with this...
at what point will i finally state:
well... given the air of politics
weaving its way trickle down
into the publically paid bureaucracy...
em...
is it racism or is it...
an african fetish?
     like me... i'm all for porcelain girls
of the orient: no one wants
to **** exhausted gammon... do they:
in this mismatched kama sutra... do they don't they?

i'm sensing a fetish for... it's gone beside
a racism: i'm looking to the east
of what's still europe -
a zilant semblance written
in "old orthography" of the tatars...
   qazan - someone's knowing on my door...
the germanic peoples pushed...
then the slavic peoples pushed...
then the mongols and the turkmen pushed
this great funnel and sieve
of a: pseudo-continent that's probably
only an extended experiment
of great mother asia and uncle siberia...

after all: isn't australia an island?
who ever has to hear the same
soft-narrative: out-of africa...
except those pesky eskimos -
      frisky... but we left africa
with no thinking equipment -
no phonetic encoding...
    if we left with some arabic...
but we didn't...
if we left with some sanskrit...
but we didn't... some chinese ideograms...
but we didn't...
no wonder we left...
i don't endear myself to pursue
hieroglyphics as sensible enough:
to counter the modern emojis...

which they are...
pits and falls in the latin alpha-beta-coy...
then..
to "work" by loiter -
no wonder: grievances
when work is drudgery -
when one cannot perfect
a deed - but has to churn out
appeasement after appeasement:
slurp an oyster from
an ****...

i still must be thieving english
from... the english...
leftovers of the forever debased
schizoid - or the new lineage
bound to bilingualism:
a return to thematic crude-,

no... i can't digest this:
there's some sort of drama:
but there's no staging for it...
an open round-up of applause...
devoid of choice is a higher
tier condescending-
           for lacking will -

to write this very little...
but then to harness the prospect
of a sunrise: an 8am welcome!
welcome to no night
of finitudes... of conclusions...
my foot will never stand
in thailand: because
of the thai surprise...
easily a ****-along story
for a vanguard torry:

        i will have two Plantegenant
old housewives
when there's: the food
i need to curate for my palette:
a sad sad show-story...
when i... walk out from the house
and tug a dead-weight
of consumerism from my
mother's girdle...

          i call it... playing banjo
with toothpick... 'n' esse...
      the pristine curation of sharpening
teeth: to bite into a tide...
into a swelling heave of a wave...

i want to be able to be normal
sleeping with a foreign body
in my bed...
i was once able to sleep with a dog...
i am as finicky as the cat
that attempts
to sleep with me in the same
bed....
shadows clamour and therefore
clash...

  the british isles are too grand...
i want something smaller...
i want a life among the faroe islanders...
escape escape forever
this unforgiving narrative...

can you look at a people you're acquiring
to "ally"...
never marking your own horrors...
with your own black hitlers...
i can attest to the bleach...
but you can't somehow blank slate:
state a genesis without a dichotomy...

let's go! black history month!
now is the time! now i want to remember
IDI AMIN!
  black history month!
i want to remember IDI AMIN!
no... not marcus garvey:
proponent of repatriation...
i want to remember: IDI AMIN!
after all... the mongols have
their "abraham" their genghis khan...
and they have their pocket
of leftover in crimea with
that mongol-europeans: the tatars...

i have no love for history come
the tide of relating the Iberian peninsula...
south h'america... "mine"?
the north coast of africa...
fizzling out of in-breeding...
when the goth came across
the instigators of conquest of the "muzzies"...
cocktails on us! boyos!

i want to... ******* boil with teasing!
i want to fathom a spectacle of trolling!
i want to smear faces into ****!
i want the wholesome crescendo!
i want to itch with
******* out buckwheat digestion!
i want chocolate!
i want a swiss fountain of chocolate!
i want to see IDI AMIN
a proud addition to:
no blacks ever do or did:
any b'aah... b'aah ad ad...
            
i wish "my" people came to "origin"
with a post-colonial narrative...
poor shmucks the scots are...
but they were: "missing"...
you can't retrace a colonial past
to the present citizen of spain:
how well the post-"racialists" peoples
of the southern continent managed to:
you can hear talk
of an argentinian... but he's not spanish...
a brazilian: but he's not... portuguese!

this anglo-saxon "pond" livestock
of memory... do away with us...
i know it's terrible to have a genesis
story so short-lived that europe
is a *******-riddling reminder:
when there's an already political class
harvesting the least worth of fathom...
don't pretend to be historical tourists:
my dutch ancestry...
my german ancestry... my "ancestry":

you deserve the quiff and joking slander:
superior the world's a-hole all over...
who are your little people looking
for in our little funnel of
a constipated asia looking for?
currently?!
the greek aren't admired...
they aren't admired because
they gave a birth to the antagonist
in cyrillic...
and that's that!

or... the greeks aren't admired
because: the metaphor: byzantine -
a complexity of bureaucracy -
but the singing... deaf tone reading of plato...
forget aeschylus -
they were prone to heave
a turkman invasion of
the balkans... given...
the venetians sacking:
the supposed holy place of...
aan eucharist convo. with a pagan "pope"...

like... the 4th crusade was not
a hard-on... for anyone to not fathom...
the inheritance of a history
i must truly deserve...
otherwise: the history overtly given...
to subsequently filter...
how the capetian king philip
augustus is known to me
is: it's not a beyond noticeable
comparisons...
it's just stalemate...

i am furroging in asp and waspishness:
i need a language of antagonism...
i find my most pristine "saint"...
i could cling to a fetish for
interracial *** exploits...
but then i'm a bland white man
and i might require a dodgo lemon
squeeze of eyes...
when a ***** is not in use
and it's hardly a reserved reading
for: expansion... broadening one's mind
with: *******... that "sort" of phallus
size just wouldn't do...
it's no joke but then i prefer
jerking off to... something akin
to... bronzino's venus, cupid,
folly and time...

even then! then!
a woman directly descended from
the titans... aphrodite was...
beside the lineage... from hyperion...
astounded... passed into
the ***** of the olympians...
cherry picking my vavous ego-foetus
of mind into a progress and
future investment...
how the **** spoke...
and became apparently a parody
of parrot chokes...
given the farts would have
to commence at some, point, or "other"...

to demand "pushing boundaries"...
i have them here: ever present always
apparent...
i would sacrifice my whole for these...
as to never have to:
speak a language of appeasement...
as to never speak a language of
a gradual inclination...
or / of never rocking the boat...
i want to drown drunk!
i want to drown a drunkard!
i want to savour a relfish for...
autumn perfumes towing
accents of a variation of timbers...

now i want to stand naked!
i want to be awash with moonshine...
i want more of the night
i want more of the creases in
attaching bone to the formidable
tendon pressures...
i want the technicality of nouns
being lost... i want misnomers...
i want all this supposed word / techno-salad
to be all! furore!
i want to eat the native
with an imagination worth
of a tartar -
  
           i want my tongue to sliver into
the cheddar spronge of their borrowed
brains every time they test themselves
on eating a tartare: notably raw beffrey (b'ee'f)...

yes... this is my former european
status: having to cleave... from it...
because the liberal authorities of
vest-inwested western georgian:
gregorian: kiev is my own project
of last interests...
how isn't it...
ukraine might somehow
rely on article usage: notably:
the ukraine...
there's that "a" associated
with the polish-lithuanian commonwealth?

from sea to sea:
from the baltic sea
to the black sea...
oh look! i too can inherit something...
like a hebrew might inherit
the aesop the king solomon...
like aesop might inherit Tironian
notations...

i am drinking but my cat isn't agitated
by it: troll troll lullaby!
let's celebrate!
dancing monkeys dancing
truants!
it wouldn't: it couldn't possibly
be a black history month
without mentioning
IDI AMIN... dying peacefully
in the arms of sleep
among the saudi camel-jockey "racists"...

how they have been fleeing
the ****** status of harems...
how they were escaping polygamy...
how i wasn't racist how i was
merely ill-conceived over
a work-around of fetish...
i was already a walking abortion...
manic street preachers' debate:
i wasn't enough gay or
feng shui enough...
or brilliant neon purple enough...

hello brilliance! hello party! hello
gay...
ancient europe:
ai viast lo lop....
               creases in my forlorn...
i want: besst attired summation:
this  ****** bulgarian...
this european that's only aa figment
of imagination:

indignations of scythe:
that nothing is borrowed:
that all is: at limbo gested...
                      to heave a scythe
and stone...
i pretend to swallow a breath...
i am aching at the knee
and ankle...
             i am formidably
   nuanced amsterdam...

                  i have to tell
that yawn and "story" for some
variation of catholicism to trickle down...
this forever impossible
and: my-overtly-inflated
char of wording...

                harvest the pea and
dollop of hypersensitivity toward
hue best ascribed to "foliage";
or a burgundy that's neither
purple or red
or wine... or the papacy
of Avignon.

how quick our dreams
become nightmares-
a petty betrayal

leads to tragedy
eternal..
woe unto us-

our hearts easily
duped
( a surreptitious noose)

a short rest
a tchick from jess
a loss of innocence

the pied piper
once more
places his pipe

the people abide
to melody
that calls to

the child in them
chilled-through
some-how-still

when the schools
from the bathing pool
(truants-too!)

come the little children
and they´re
dancing and laughing

(the pied piper
smiles the saddest smile
ever)

the people wake
from the dream
(or nightmare)

to see the line
snaking behind
as it shines

as it shimmies
and disappears
in the morning sun..

around the corner
and as one
on they ran

their cries!-
pray fine sir?!
take not

our children?!
stay our life
our reason

we implore
o lord
we beg fortune?!!

but when they
gathered
at the crossroads

there is nothing
gone!
only an unremarkable

mountain
without snow
or cloud

all-gone!
they wait..
for the birds-sing..