I met a gypsy couple the other day
In the park of course
They were a lovely, beautiful mess
Trucked in right from Santa Cruz

They loved lots
Only four days
Her car stuck in some lot

I laughed a bit
I had to admit
I too
Knew the feeling
Being stranded
Deprived
Wrecked
Solititude

I gladly changed their tune
Convinced them tomorrow
Come noon
They'd notice a chance of attitude

Another chance at eternity
A moment devine
And poetic as the last

There's no such thing as time?

We're all actors in a grand tragedy

Lost gypsy couple and believers of
Tiny miracles

Completing
Relieving
Resolving

Appreciating the tiny moments
Of eternity

Retail-hunter gatherers pick
clean processed bones, digging graves
with their shiny teeth, studious in
their reveries as they drone

past worlds dumped in the thresher;
the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped
gore splayed lustily before the managers
wound tight in Machiavellian design.

A shepherd herds his flock of
wreathed iron back to its pen, its
skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by
swords flung from lambent eyes of
pre-dawn’s shunting chariots

Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats
chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes
of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting
colours to float through archipelagos of
paper towel and chocolate blocks past

the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic
wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of
perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen
ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while

Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like
nightshade—slutty and serene—coating
shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the
shelves reach their arms out for more.

The check out chick hatches
a sense of déjà vu as carrots
and biscuits drone towards her
mind berEFT of any twitching
sense of POSsibility that wised
up and flew this leering coop and

deep in her catalogue of grey folds
something stillborn and waxen is
perched on gleaming steel, reeling
out her guts like cassette tape with jerky
nightmare arms and laughing like a
banker watching ***** films, mornings
dull cerise an invocation through
auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble
with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.

The beaten path is hardest to go alone but it makes one stronger. One never wants to admit to oneself that misery is the predecessor to change, ushering it like the pilot ushers the plane down upon the runway.  This is a new destination you'd never have known. That is why we go up and then down, otherwise you wouldn't care for clouds. They'd be like stop signs posted on every street of every town you can't escape from. Don't you think whales like to take a dip in our atmosphere with the same exhilaration we dive down into their ocean? Marine life has it's trials, it all seems so buoyant and peacful, but its another jungle down there. Beautiful until you live it and predators lurk every corner and algae field. Everyone eating the next guy, if its your residence, it is no vacation. Its not so simple just cuz they've not got rent to pay and corrupt politics. Babies on the way while no financial burden make most species crazy. Try being a single mother just trying to keep your kids well enough hidden just to go off to find good eats for them. They have very emotional lives out there, full of pain and suffering. If whales could get drunk, mermaids would charge and set up breweries. But the ocean would dilute any profits, and two tons of blubber each would call demand too high and so whales throw themselves into our world just to escape. They could gulp the air so low key, surfacing like submarines, instead they splash mountains with their ferve, the same way we get down, tossing cares across dance floors. And we wonder why when  they take a breath, they reach for the sky, they just want to be free, where nothing of their world can touch them. And we wonder why when it's not enough, they just give up, just like us. Massive escapists desensitizing to the joys in the depths of their waters. We wonder why we find them so sad layed up on our beaches, you see it in their despondent eye. They just want to die in that memory of exhiliration. One. Last. Time. But they're not happy. Cuz they were always chasing a high that fleetingly springed them from all worry. They lay knowing its the last time and they wonder what's gonna become of them when its all over. They just figure what lays on the otherside, or even nothing has got to be better. Maybe they're right,  or maybe all the off kilter chemicals got the better of them. Full moons got them all emotional just like us, gravity pulling all their painful memories to the surface, pulling them up out of the ocean all hopeless. Shoot maybe some of them dont even mean it, they were just so tired of the krill or baby seal murda life, or sharks poaching their babies and needed longer and longer til oneday they got too sleepy and the tide snuck down too low. Like when I pass out in the shower when it's hot enough, I swear I was about to get out..then, ****. Maybe that's why they're so ******* sad. They didn't mean for it to be over, they just got caught up in that feeling. I bet the old ones though go on purpose, just to spite the sharks that took their babies out they'd rather rot in the sea breeze they loved. Or maybe they're so depressed at the loss of their child they just want it to be over. They carry their babies in their bellies just like us, I bet they get depressed like us or the smarter dogs. Being a whale, or any sober creature can be very hard, but at least if you're not running from it, you might see through the storm for the beauty of its strength, releasing fear to just stand in awe of it. You can learn to cope with pain in at least better measure to sprinting in laps, without intention, you're just on the track, even if its as vast as the pacific, adriatic, atlantic, doesnt matter all the waters you cross, they all just ran back into themselves. See, the whale can only cope, no emotional escape route, so no matter what comes, whale is miles wiser. Their calls sound a little sad but so hauntingly beautiful. Do not beach yourself humans, in your little ways everyday. Stop feeding this disbelief in yourself. You were given this brain to choose to overcome this pain, to communicate in new ways. If you get tired of something just cuz you're used to it, you've done fell off your rock, you slipped to drown in your own riptide, to get pummeled to death. Or as my Papa woulda said, you're not playing with a full deck. You drown in intoxicant, whatever your vice, liquor, uppers, downers, shopping, food, flirting, ******* to numb life's beating. You're running from sobriety, from reality, from those people you don't love anymore cuz they can't jive with your illusions. You'll look for every reason why your psyches not the problem. If you'd not only accept but seek the need to heal,  you wouldn't need constant change of scenery just to feel something, to feel snippets of sanity, mini vacations from your daily miseries. New people, places and substances are just so exhilarating, cuz you can't handle yourself. If you could, each listed above would be blessings of oneness, not necessity. Running is only blocking your life from mattering as much as it should. You squander potential wandering in circles inside yourself. I smoked **** habitually since I was twelve, it didn't really hurt me right, just my dump trucked loads of brain cells? Wrong! Sobriety is the hardest but most rewarding excursion so far. I delight everyday in the opportunities I can receive just cuz I can think so clearly. I have an occasional shot or glass of wine with coworkers and think God I feel good. Then go home and think and plot, how can I attain that joy without consuming a dollar, compromising my body?  How can I be so at home in my skin that I don't need that just to feel like this?  I'll let you know if I ever figure it out. It's the big ******* mystery, isn't it. I THINK my point is,  we would never know what's so good to be cherished if we always had it made. They call it a beautiful struggle, and i really think they're onto God with that one. Wherever your feet lay, next time you look down at them in dismay, remember your pain is the best teacher you never had to pay.  It makes you great, it makes you an epic ******* trilogy of the past present and future.  You'll get through this day, I promise you. Whatever it proves to be to you, I pray oneday you hold the kingdom. Oneday you'll praise yourself for holding on. Oneday you'll stop running. You'll just wake up and feel at home inside yourself how the wise whale makes peace with the ocean. Tempering the binges to the surface. As above so below. You just have to find the thrill within the hand you're dealt and make yourself better for it.

The Pedicab drivers of Gotham all say
You should ignore a "Whale Hail"
because it just doesn't pay.
The city is hilly and
to pedal gets tough
when your passengers are,
shall we say, overstuffed.

Two tubby tourists out on the town
between them they weighed about
Eight Hundred Pounds.
They had wiped out the Sushi
at an all you can eat.
Much too lazy to walk
on their overstressed feet.

They hailed for a Pedicab
of which there's a multitude
Thats the sole explanation
for accepting their pulchritude.

Their ride started slowly,
but pleasant enough.
But then came a hill
and the going got rough.

He groaned and he struggled
as he trucked up the road,
but not even juiced Armstrong
could handle this load.

With two tubby tourists
ensconced in the back.
He slowed to a crawl
then stalled in his tracks.

Something had to give
with those two in the rear
The cab then turned turtle
chucking him in the air.

The two tubby tourist
were down on their backs
Their driver unconscious
and two tires flat.

An Ambulance came
and gave him first aide
The two tourists rolled off
and he never got paid.

If we banned too large colas
and sixty ounce beers
could we hope that these
land whales
might,one day, disappear?

Until then its risky
to pick such fares up
unless in a limo
or a truck thats Ram tough

the sea is cold,
but the sea contains the hottest blood of all.*

             killer transients.
             people and whales.

             he needed to see his son smile
             & he did.
             a blue-trucked boy, hometown hero.

             he loved to fight
             & he fought to love.

             died in afghanistan for the pentagon boys.
            
             blame them. bomb them.
             submerge your vestigial limbs in days and home
             & simple mammalian living.
             wage and pray.
             little hours.
             little sweet nothings.

             people and whales fall older.
             think. write. ferment.
             the good deep.

             the hottest blood of all.

March 19, the day you died.
The day a friend had left our side.
The call I got was short and swift.
My head spun, my heart adrift.

"Dead?!" I cried.
How could this be?
He had just left...
...I could still remember his glee.

A wife and children,
All left behind.
His story is enough,
to keep his spirit alive:

A joyful man, friends with all,
He loved his family, and trucked through every haul.
A handsome son, and three beautiful daughters,
All left behind: babes without their father.

He landed on our soil,
The land of the free.
Destined to be in his box,
His final resting memory.
"I'm sorry for your lost"
Just didn't seem right.
I had only lost a friend,
Not a mother, nor a wife.

The funeral came,
So bright and tranquil.
He loved his life,
And so many loved him.
A beautiful day, for all to hear,
Even when the bugle cried.
We listened to it's mournful lullaby.

I'm mad at you, but I'll be okay.
I could never stay mad at that goofy face.
Watch over your family, tuck them in at night,
And I'll keep from saying Good bye,
I'll simply say, See you in the sky.

Thursday morning and I board
the Preston train, a dumpy DMU,
but less of a cattle-truck today.

Over the bridge or beneath
lines to Platform 5 to wait:
Branson's Scarlet Pendolino
will glide in soon bound
for Birmingham - wonder
who I shall meet and share
travelling moments with ?

At the caverns of New Street
I must wend to Moor Street
and a Chilterns train trundling
me south for Warwick's 1,100th.
birthday weekend and 100 years
since trains of Lancashire PALS
cattle-trucked themselves to
Flanders fields never to return.

(c) C J Heyworth June 2014

So writing less
and less than before.
As is losing a cressindo
is the score
of the symphonies
rhapsody.  Musickally
non talented, has magic
left the air.  
Assuming we are
all homeless and
treated by the
dust, reason.
Just completely out
on the dolly I trucked
the word Laureate in on.
Parting furnature with
lasting thoughts of
desire, for a thesourus
or a dictionary for
holistism.  The unholy
dead have starved them
selves after dieting on my
quarrel similarly, I may
need to be an action star
to recieve the spirit of
entrepidness again.  
Laziness has met the design
of my libido, and I can not
ever imagine being single.
No face to book, unless of
course to reprove prophetering.
And No, seems to be the
one and only world,
I had to be in.  Hittin it like an
old cloud with silver linings.  
Like slang.  Not really having it.
and *******, sexism, troubled
teens, the things of this world
that bother the US Marshals.
Actually begging the President
let me have his job and Joe's car.
What person uses the word
chortle to get through a
chidleish man.  Anyways,
heres to thinking of writing
poetry and leaving the under
world to be a monster,...
Anyways!  
I so much prefer to not over
write a zeal such as a poets.
Super trusted, trusty,
like an understanding
about cowboys with guns
in hip holsters, working
cattle and brushing
there teeth twice daily.
Yea, there teeth,
some here on the bottom
and not many on the top.
But ya no, not many
people think about tooth
brushes.  Teeth brushes
thats like a scratch on
the chalk board with out
finger nails.  I'll be the
poety lauretey kind of person
that loves to die young
and get old.  Ill be the
most misunderstood
thing on the face of the
earth and have to eat
a ham sandwich or
something.  Ill be the kind
of person who just
doesnt get some relationships.
Like, peanut butter and pickle
cereal.  Or socks made with
holes in them.  ***, sir,...
what are you writing?
Ill say poems, they say you
are not a poet, and Ill say
try some pocket lint to
clone a poodle or something.
Most of the time,
Ill crack a huge smile
and simply pleasure some
one and they will say 'What."
With out a question mark.
Then for some reason
punctuation is a majorly
late subject to emoticons
and dragon lords in
movie scrips.  An now, meeting
the reason that I felt no muse was
that I have been laughing out
loud at intellegence as is the
genuis of carisma.  Who cares
if Im not smart?  Graduating
is such a bore.  Gum is not ever
a turn on, and some way watching
people chew it is rude.  Comparing
two doves to each other is Darwinism.
Living alone with my mother and
step father is not going to last long.
But serves as the most important
thing to do now.   Any of the promises
of reading dedicated poetry is
almost to much favor.  Is there a
way to stay the allostatic load
of a perfectly running deisel
engine.  Where do poems find
gas?  or fuel as sir does say.
And now, what to do with a
wonderful heart.  I am pleased to
say that I am almost the King, but
must impress the most boring
people on earth without the
giant panda bear of a
poet that has made me
love this song.

Ventilation shaft
aft.
Fresh air pumped out in a flash.
Upon crash dive a bell will sound, hold
tight
we're going underground.

Like moles who wish to buck the trend
I wish the constant night would end,
these tunnels that we make..
..me laugh.

Ventilation?
Call it gas.

****** in, trucked out, this is what life's all about, shifting shadows shape us into that which is the late
us.

Fluid chains of ether either here or in Ibiza,
ventilation from the shaft?
or just the same old laughing gas?

it is a cold january night.

I walk into the bar.

it is "Beach Night", and
ed maloney has trucked in
3 hundred pounds
of sand...
2 drunks are
trying to build
sand castles.

the bartender 's girl friend
is howling to
"the werewolves of London."

the bartender bob has
a mouth full
of tequila
and a lit pack of matches,
he sprays the tequila
setting a pack of napkins
on fire.

crazy george is swinging
from the wagon wheel
light fixture.

ed Maloney yells
something
but jumps
grabbing
the other side of the
wagon wheel light
and the wagon wheel light fixture
and crazy George
and ed Maloney
come crashing down
into a pile.

it is the one bar
that
ed couldn't be
thrown out of.

he owned it.

ed had stolen
thousands of dollars
from the company he work
for.

(the rumor was the company
was the
CIA)

the company
couldn't figure out how
he did it
so they paid him
100 thousand dollars
to tell them
how he did it.

"how did you do it?"
I asked.

"ghosting the darkling"
is all he said.

he always said ghosting the darkling
whether it was the company,
the bar,

life.

That's what he
called it,

GHOSTING THE DARKLING...

                         *    **
The brush stroke of a genius is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are
Absolutely True...

(that's my story,
anyway...)

You fill my fairy scrotal sack with tennis ***** from a pack that you
purchased with stolen Jesuit money that, from Jesus, you stole back

Petersen House, Washington, D.C.

I admit to own a passion
for the Civil War in general,
and the life and death of
the sixteenth president in particular
between a hard spot of whiskey
and draughts of arrack;
nonetheless (without doubt), this Yankee
would be fain to travel back
to Antebellum America
amidst the urban din and clack

where smelting earsplitting,
choking industrialization
a deaf fin hit drawback,
and where dark shadows cast an eternal
edge of night twilight zone pallor
tubby somewhat exact
from mighty robber barons,
who tolerated no flack
(nope not even Roberta)
despite the bleeding nose against grindstone
inhumanity bearing down hard
with very little giveback
viz zit head as greenback

yes...no matter the noxious
crash course urbanization
(and attendant ghettoization)
breeding a lung wrenching tuberculosis hack,
this twenty first century middle aged
married man (an average Monterey Jack
***), whose sought after
claim to fame penchant
modestly admits to **** knack

crafting literary concoctions with no lack
of ideas, where one arose
strong as an oncoming mack
truck (this vibrant fascination
with the American Civil War
(even before Ken Burns popularized
calamitous event) in non black
and white (digitally remastered technicolor)
exemplified, enumerated, and emphasized
how a minor dispute got way off,track
whereat stately commander in chief did pack
a punch analogous sans, barreling forth
like unstoppable quarterback
despite his six foot four inch
gangly physique cull rack
tried his darnedest,
(or substitute unprintable epithet)
yet a coterie of anti war subjects
figuratively and literally up in arms

wanted nothing less to sack
the sixteenth president,
whose aged fifty seven year old countenance
one month after
Ides of March death didst dance
during the low key celebration sans,
internecine bloodbath Grants'
and Lees' armistice
one hundred and fifty seven years ago;

the peace treaty signed
(April 9th, 1865) at Appomattox,
an irrevocable agony did blow
when that fateful, mournful,
somber night at Ford's Theater
the grim reaper didst appear
(like Jim) crow king
ably linkedin with Reconstruction
after one shot rang out blasting,
where crimson tide didst flow
drowning American history
at that juncture grow

wing no less painless today, which hoo
veer ring agony didst smite
incomprehensible cleft mow
wing down unfinished ambition, which no
one other than Abraham Lincoln could sow
the racial rift, that slavery trucked in tow
generations shackled with compounded woe

that fateful April 15, 1865
at approximately 10:20 p.m
one hundred plus fifty seven years; it's been
long since deceased taking deadly
gunshot punctuated deadly din,
whence fifteen plus decades passed sans
conspirator tried to get even
at Ford’s theater – forever
eviscerating thin lipped grin
of the sixteenth president - still
his unrealized promising dreams with in

Reconstruction paradigm presses
historians to speculate what kin
ship his unrealized post-bellum blueprint
while he sat in his booth,
attended a performance of the comedy
Our American Cousin that night
when a bullet entered below
the president's left ear,
bored diagonally through his brain
and stopped behind his right …

wrought him slumped over,
now tis 7 score + 17 years witnessed
assassination of Abraham Lincoln
team of rivals mastermind, re: the
American Civil War wreck con struck shin
yet…his positive affects find him
honored with outsize depictions and a con tin
hue wing legacy sustained, whereby
hearts and minds he posthumously did win.

Said enigmatic man shrouded and idolized
with beatific, democratic essence
fantastic, honorific, pacific aura, dogma,
and persona with meager off fence
to generations of United States citizens –
enthralled ladies and gents
whose reverberations and ramifications

of humane karma lives on – hence
begotten progeny enjoying freedoms
perchance ensconced with rapt innocence
or those inured with sensibility and sense
can bequeath pride without prejudice
whether living in splendour or in tents
toward Illinois railroad log splitter,
whose humble roots forged steely covenants.

Methinks hmm, perhaps
I admittedly self plagiarize and quite aware
aforementioned amalgamated, conglomerated,
fabricated, jerry rigged, and organized
eye gripping titled
poem already aired a year plus ago,
though revisiting said theme
downplayed now as thoughts blare,

though similarly filched content
(pertaining to other literary endeavors)
invariably glommed electronically
(digitally remastered and remixed),
nevertheless gobbledygook enigmatically
jerkily, and quirkily communicated,
sans trademark Pi Seine (seen) fishtail career
as applies to uber secreted questions.

This chap challenges himself,
an immense task I dare
unleash unbounded kickstarting euphoria
within psychic calm and weal
with a healthy dose of logorrhea
scowl unintentionally anonymous reader
mine re: noun verbosity doth ensnare
though oft times obfuscation veils merely

a black hole sun (son) prominence
asthma faux eminence amber gris
long ago didst flare
aware if chance encounter
in a dark alley coal less sing
burning eyes fiercely glare
yet, an explanation
would be proffered to hear.

Most instances when I initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
NASA hiss (Onassis) revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly, grow
tusk long haired woolly creature
out malm mouth drool dripping
trademark characteristic viz
pencil neck geek
madly scratching itchy hairs

dotting chinny chin chin of
garden variety generic hobo
hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby frank and ernest poet;
home body (nowhere man);
beetle browed fool on the hill;
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy common Joe,
just biden his time,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea
comes home to stir the roost.

(Hard boiled eggheads merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst
of tangential threads populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),

trucked since time immemorial
inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena, I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate

coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to ***** cells fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. ***

Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile
self determining Motorhead
(ace of spades) tour de force,
whereat fingers of the left hand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expanded Leaves (of Grass)
finds me Waltzing Whitman nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.

This penchant spurring confabulation
explaining (feebly) zest
yours truly experiences
expatiating honest to dog ness
figuratively go win west
hoard (word) ** seeking
mine own mother lode acquired,
via verse a tile material undergoing
electric kool aid acid test
incorporating rigorous (mortise
and tenon constructed) adverbial quest
which wondrous, whirled,

and webbed woven semicolon aided nest
reinforced with double entendre
tongue in cheek jest,
whereby multiple interpretations
(ala mode literary splotchy Rorschach test)
tenants in common beau geste
ma bell heavable own home spun faux
Cambridge Analytica
Jimmy Crack corn and I don't care
gimcrackery defaced facebook best
bite, with absolute zero
data snatched aye evasively attest.

Methinks hmm, perhaps
aforementioned conglomerated eye gripping titled,
poem already aired
though revisiting said theme
downplayed as thoughts blare
though similar content
invariably communicated,
sans trademark Pi Seine fishtail career
as applies to other questions.

This chap asks himself,
an immense task I dare
unleash unbounded kickstarting euphoria
within psychic calm and weal
with a healthy dose of logorrhea
scowl unintentionally reader
mine re: noun verbosity doth ensnare
though oft times obfuscation veils merely

a black hole sun (son) prominence
asthma faux eminence amber gris
long ago didst flare
aware if chance encounter
in a dark alley coal less sing
burning eyes fiercely glare
yet, an explanation
would be proffered to hear.

Most instances when I initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
NASA hiss revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly,
and madly scratching itchy hairs
dotting chinny chin chin of this hobo

hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby a generic home
er run (hitting) mill
(on the floss sing false teeth)
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy common Joe,
just biden his time,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea

(Hard boiled eggheads merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst
of tangential thread populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),
trucked since time immemorial

inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena, I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate

coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to ***** cells fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. **
Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile

self determining Motorhead tour de force,
whereat fingers of the left hand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expanded leaves (of grass)
finds me Waltzing whitman nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.

This penchant spurring confabulation
explaining (feebly) zest
yours truly experiences
expatiating honest to dog ness
figuratively go win west
hoard ** seeking
mine own mother lode acquired,
via verse a tile material undergoing
electric kool aid acid test
incorporating rigorous (mortise
and tenon constructed) adverbial quest
which wondrous, whirled,

and webbed woven semicolon aided nest
reinforced with double entendre
tongue in cheek jest,
whereby multiple interpretations
(ala mode literary splotchy Rorschach test)
tenants in common beau geste
ma own home spun faux
Cambridge Analytica
Jimmy Crack corn and I don't care
gimcrackery defaced facebook best
bite, with absolute zero
data snatched aye evasively attest.

Desiring to encounter
What one can't afford, can track yet can't have
The illusions of a day dreamer
One with hopes so high with low resonance and space for creativity

Look at the bunch
A whole lot of fish without sense to catch none
Burning amidst tantrums of impossibilities
Try to hunt what he won't **** over what will **** him

Swallowing pride of a sword yet it carries cuts down your throat
Immunized with trouble and a sense of failure
He who finds reasoning catches wisdom as mr gathers a swarm temptations over reality
Unscrews a stolen package only to boom oneself
Shading dark colors expecting rays of a rainbow

He and disaster are related
Such a brave coward over what does not matter and a hero on unnegotiable fails
Can only be traced and trucked with the past and no cause to show over the future
Hey looser, calm your horn of day dreaming
Pinch and bite Alittle easy to swallow than suffocate over the range of eyesight

My electronical wheel chair prances like 2 super ***** dumb-******
in a F.E.M.A. camp where bums, minus shopping carts, are trucked

My electronical wheel chair prances like 2 super ***** dumb-******
in a F.E.M.A. camp where bums, minus shopping carts, are trucked

.the drawing room.



slightly astonished at  him using  the word foreigners

he was surprised she was from finland ‘of all places’. spoke to her loudly

bent

near as if she was deaf.                                    she spoke another language

&

she spoke english.



a country gentleman indeed.   surprised they came packaged this way



the exterior smart

the interior needs changing.



.the coffee shop.



they were trucked to siberia before the war, were starved

then

the british government moved them to africa ; brought them to

wales as the war ended

refugees



a polish village



over coffee she mentioned that although her family were safe

she felt that

‘we’ should not allow any more

refugees in over

here



i am still

sadly surprised

.the drawing room.



slightly astonished at  him using  the word foreigners

he was surprised she was from finland ‘of all places’. spoke to her loudly

bent

near as if she was deaf.                                    she spoke another language

&

she spoke english.



a country gentleman indeed.   surprised they came packaged this way



the exterior smart

the interior needs changing.



.the coffee shop.



they were trucked to siberia before the war, were starved

then

the british government moved them to africa ; brought them to

wales as the war ended

refugees



a polish village



over coffee she mentioned that although her family were safe

she felt that

‘we’ should not allow any more

refugees in over

here



i am still

sadly surprised



the kitchen



whilst peeling the apple the radio plays

an interview with  a wind rush lady

who also regrets our friends who come



here for better ways

saying they do not integrate these days

like she did



i will forever remain surprised

Give me saint somebody a renaissance after 1 first death-dealt birth
for nothing architecturally drawn-out conforms to a planetary Earth
as proven by a Gubbi Gubbi takin' the Rottnest Island ferry to Perth
In mouths stuffed with swollen tongues & tonsils really worthwhile
tasting I feel the best times eating adenoids is worse for the wasting
speedin' speedily over the Danyang–Kunshan Grand Bridge viaduct
like it is the Gardon River's antico Romano Pont du Gard aqueduct
where, after wolfing a quokka, my intestines started to self-destruct
atop a cravenly-fabricated, sloppily-composed, malformed construct
that is reminiscent of a rotting silo of corn that hadn't been shucked
in time for agricultural bureaucrats to permit this corn to be trucked
to water-retaining ***** who hadn't been, in 5 years, ***** plucked
as big bones & slow metabolisms mean that fat ******* ain't tucked
into full Lycra-cupped Spandex brassieres: double-lined & wire-free
to hold firm pregnant Pauline from Birmingham who lived in a tree
till her National Health Service abortion that's provided without fee
unless she drops her illegitimate baby on a ****** table in a factory
she'll send letters from the country because she is a case of insanity
To protect boxers from humane decompression I will fit lively pups
into wire-free, double-lined Spandex brassieres with full Lycra cups

Animals World....

On a top of a mountain
Or under the sea
There are so many places
Where creatures May be found.

Alone in a desert
Or grouped in a farm
Or trucked in a tree trunk
Away from all harm.

Or bright sunny grasslands ,
Or dark in a cave
In jungles and forests
Where all must be brave.

On ice on the arctic,
Or holed underground.
There are so many places
Where creatures are found.