The whole
Thing started from dropping
The wrong name
At
The wrong time.

"And
How do you know
Adam?"

"Who?" She asked, stepping back. A look
Of horror was painted on her already
Heavily painted face.

"Adam...the guy's who's throwing
This party..."

I knew
I had made
An error.

"Who will pay?"
I thought.

"I'm throwing this party," she hissed, "Who
The **** is ADAM?"

I answered instantly.

"The guy manning
The grill with the Acapulco shirt
And yellow pineapple sunglasses. He
Said he organized and is
Running this whole thing..."

If an Australian wolverine mixed with
A Bay area Marina girl combined and birthed
Their rage into a single ball of high-powered,
impenetrable violence, bent only to destroy
Only who had crossed them well, that is what I witnessed
That night.

Her pupils
Became enveloped in a hot rose red.

Her cheeks, which had been
A pretty pink rouge color just a minute before,
Instantly switched into a purplish, slug-like color.

The blood within looked to be
Literally
Churning.

At one point, I swear I saw smoke coming
From her ears while her lips shook so bad I thought
She was going to ***** bile.

I didn't say another word.

I let her pass.

There was nothing I could do.

She put his face
In
The grill.

What I mean by "in the grill" is
That she whipped the metal grate off barehanded,
Proceeded to grab a very
Surprised Adam, and shoved his face
Into a searing ashy pie of red hot coals.

If it were a pie,
Everyone would have laughed, but because
It was red-hot-coals hotter than fire,
Everyone screamed.

I've never heard a man howl so loud.
It sounded like a million new born babies crying
When he hit the fresh summer grass.

A few girls screeched in fear, but everyone else
Gasped, looked at Aimee (the name of the actual
Thrower of the party), and took a few steps back.

No one was sure what she would do next.
And then,
She did.

"YOU PIECE OF MOOCHER
****!" she screamed.
Her eyes had washed over
Completely black.

I stood behind the screen door between
A shivering 1st string linemen who played for
The ducks and a pre-law major. Pre-law had
Wet himself at the sight of Adams meeting
With the coals. He didn't even make an
Effort to cover it up.

There was no shame anywhere anymore.

"YOU COME MY HOUSE, TO MY
N-E-I-G-H-B-O-R-H-O-O-D, AND YOU
HAVE THE ******* AUDACITY
TO SAY YOU'RE THROWING THIS PARTY!"

"Hey Aimee, I think
He's really hurt..." her friend
Tried to say. Aimee whipped
Her hand back and
Caught the poor ******* the lip.
It split instantly and she let out a
desperate cry. She whimpered and
Slunk back to whatever corner she
Had come from.

"IF YOU DON'T GET YOUR SLIMY LEACH
*** OUTTA' HERE NOW, I'LL POOR THESE
******* COALS OVER YOUR **** CORPSE!"

Adam tried to say something, anything, but
All that came out was a slow whimper.
It sounded like 0"help...me..."

No one dared move.

Then, she kneeled down and got
Very close to him. His face was
The texture of
Cheap, overcooked steak.

Her voice was quiet as
She spoke,

"And if you dare tell the cops
About this," she whispered, "I'll find
You. These are all my friends, you
Understand?"

Adam didn't say anything.
His eyes were locked on the ground.

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND YOU
LITTLE PIG ****! I'LL GUT YOU LIKE
A POMEGRANATE!
PIECE BY ******* PIECE!"

She exhaled. She calmed down. Her eyes fluttered
As she threw her hair back, regaining
Her composure.

Then she began again,
"Do you understand?"

"Yeshhh," Adam struggled to say.
A piece of skin
Was hanging off his scorched lip,
Interrupting his speech.

"I didn't quite get that," she said,
Almost apologizing.

She got closer,
Reached for the dangling piece
Of skin, and viciously ripped it clean
From Adam's face
Like a child would a band-aid.

"OHHHHHHHHHHH!"
We all yelled.

Adam screeched another
Furies howl and rolled over onto
His back. "I UNERSTAND! I UNERSTAND!
I UNERSTAND!" He wasn't
Able to pronounce the D, but Aimee
Looked to be letting it slide.

"Good," Aimee said simply, "Now,
GET THE **** OUTTA' HERE!"

A tiny guy in a ducks
beanie and board shorts struggled
To pick Adam up. Adams
Eyes had rolled to the back of his head
And his breathing looked to be
Getting dangerously shallow.

He had ****** himself too.

The tiny guy and what looked to be
His probably now ex-girlfriend got him out
The back gate, onto the street, and into
A car. I don't think they would
Be calling the cops on Aimee.
For their sake, I hoped they told the emergency room
He had tripped and fell into the grill.

Aimee looked around at
All the stunned faces of her party.

She grinned, revealing
A very attractive row
Of perfectly white teeth.

"WHO NEEDS A SHOT!" Aimee screamed.

There was a pause. All
Was as still as the graveyard
Up the street.
That reminded me of a story a friend
Had told me.

He had decided to do mushrooms
After a hard rain. Being high, he
Needed something to do. He went on
A walk and while walking, passed
A graveyard, the graveyard I was thinking of.

He stripped down to his tighties
And bathed in the mud of the graves.
I remembered asking him if he was scared
While he did this. "No," he laughed.
I asked him why and he answered frankly,
"Even the dead need to bath."

Behind the screen door, I instinctively wooed.
It's like a knee-**** reaction. I didn't even really
Want to take a shot. I wanted to leave, badly.

"YOU!" she screeched.
Her dagger finger was pointed
directly at me.

"YOU AND ME
ARE TAKING
A SHOT!"

I looked over my shoulder, to the left and
Right of me, but there was no one there.
The spineless **** and pissy-pants leech
Were gone.

Aimee marched toward me. Her eyes
were Enflamed with the intense need
To drown out whatever she had done in the past
With highly toxic amounts of alcohol.

She grabbed me by the arm and
Tossed me in the kitchen.

"Tequila..?" she asked, "Or whiskey?"

I bead of sweat
Slid down my
Brow.

The answer felt as if it could
Determine
The rest
Of my life.

"How bout' both?" I managed to say.

She eyed me down.
I think she thought
I was trying to make fun of her but then,
She saw
I was serious.

"I love you," she said.

"Let's drink," I told her.

And that's how

I met my

Ex-wife.

The Final Call

excuse me please John, I gotta get this call
it's from my sweet baby, I'll take it in the hall

hey there, how are you, is everything allright
I've been concerned, haven't talked since last nite

I've been waiting all day, thought maybe somethings wrong
while I was waiting, I was working on this song

what time should I pick you up for dinner tonite
going to your favorite, Aerospace in Flight

what do you mean, you cannot make our date,
but, but baby, it's okay I'll wait

have I done something wrong, to make you so upset
was I supposed to be somewhere, and did I forget

I do not unerstand you, how can you flip that switch
yesterday you loved me, now you're acting like a *****

you whispered to me sweet nothings, said I was your man
now you say I pressure you, you're gonna chunk it in the can  

this is not the first time, that you have treated me this way
I do not understand the rules, of this constant game you play

but maybe it's the last time, don't come back around my door
I do not want to let you in, no I do not anymore

I'm not a **** in your garden, that you can pull and toss aside
you broke my heart one more time, even I have some pride

I tried to be a good guy, bang my head against the wall
I hope your life will work out, this is the Final Call

Gomer LePoet...

the **** am I doing here, I've stashed the milk
into the basket,
I stashed the kiwi lime soda
for grandpa... and a Czech beer...
now I'm standing in the heavy
machinery aisle..,
looking at shelves of,
about... 15 different types
of *****... behind me, coco chanel...
or as ***** drinkers like
to call the whiskey,
the bourbon... perfumes...
i'm scratching my head,
15 types of *****...
am I really making a ****** choice?
apart from the labels...
I'm standing, looking at
hundreds of identical bottles...
it's a supermarket,
it's not a indie brewery...
akin to the edradour distilkery...
serving tokai whizz...
sure... the trip would have been
great, but a Russian,
a Jewish a Belarusian
and my then Russian scoop
talking Russian and making
me feel like a Dostoyevsky novel...
n'ah ah sour grapes...
           blood was indeed shed,
on a waterfall...
mind you.., what the difference
between  western slav drinking
whiskey, and a Russian pleb /
actually a son of a lecturer
in residence at Edinburgh university?
the ******* Pole sniffs the glass
to get a bouquet of flavours...
the Muscovite pleb gets all philosophical...
peering into a glass...
it's hardly an insult
when it's a nibbling...  
                   more came looking at
amber gems of the baltic,
than looking at this, Pict ****...
    hardly the cas with *****...
5 minutes in and I still attempted
to make a choice...
thing with *****...
         you only receive critical
feedback from the a posteriori script...
now, I can be a civilised drinker
in company... i'll have one beer with you...
but that's where the trail ends...
that 500ml of kłosówka?
that's for me, in the company of
candles flickering,  and my shadow
dancing...
        5 minutes though, spent
trying to pick a ***** for a Saturday
excavation...
        god forbid the macabre love
bound to the cinema of
the notebook...
                 dogs really have
eyes more beautiful, than women...
notably viril Alsatians...
        mind you...
in the western slavic tongue
the are animal names,
and human names
     for certain correlations...
a human has oczy...
while an animal has ślepia...
a human has a buzie,
while an animal has
pysk... or... akin to a pig:
                     ryj...
no wonder... since
buziaki means kisses...
snogs...
          a dog kisses oral...
self-oral...
        slobbering the best he can...
and sisters always say
of the girlfriends of brothers:
coincidental with edradour distillery,
and her idea of Loch Lomond...
I brought the lonely swan though...
in general, men without women...
'oh tbut he wouldn't have seen
so much of this world without her...'
oh this, oh that... sigh...
and I'm cure he wishes...
to have seen Eden... peace...
than: one man's *******'s
worth of the taj mahal...
     postcards will do, just fine...
hated the equator weather
of Kenya mind you...
kept to the shace...
    watched people make proof
of holidaying,
scorching themselves for a tan
like buying Svarovky crystals...
back at the supermarket I finally
decided on the painkiller...
a shaft of wheat soaked in
the bottle...
   western perfume behind me...
scotch ****... ice tea...
and as ever,  the rule holds...
the civil beer in company...
but when it comes to 500ml
of straight Vladimir...
                     conversation is glum,
the graves open,
there is no party, no social unibhibition,
no drinking games,
no boasting...
     just a severe glued to
the marrow stare into
        a conversion of blank into
script...
      down below, two locals
talk into midnight
with a Yorkshire terrier on a leash...
5 ******* minutes
chosen a *****...
        like a gorilla, scratching its head,
looking for a straight banana
in a pile of the atypical curvatures...
5 ****** minutes...
mind you, there is compensation...
late evening, nearing half past 8,
mid-April...
continental spring,
lack of light pollution,
more stars than the outskirts of
London allow...
    and susumu yokota's grinning cat
album...
     albeit the missing Scorpio
constellation, bound to the British Isles:

                  ●
              
                           ●
      
                                    ●

                  
                    ●
                 ●



●                                  
                      ­             ●

no algorithm no search engine
no dictionary... will equal
asking a grandmother for botanical nouns...
namely, the blooming forthynsia tree,
****** yellow almost neon
against pale kiwi green of April spring wake...

and the electric pale green,
or woken from slumber
blooming baby leaves of
a wierzba...
    a willow...
     electric in that,  almost
quicksilver drooling over
platinum in th spring night
              with a missing moon...

casually, a talk with woman,
and the technical nouns
of botanical expedience...
no algorithm to boot...

always the anticipated digression,
from the most mundane posit of
unraveling pidgin...
I compensate for my father not
speaking pristine english...
but certainly doing a chore
of industrial roofing,
than most, spaghetti finger
pancake arm coming of age bistro
*******...
        the more they aspire to sing,
the more we can hope
to be cured by karaoke on
a Saturday night...
  
    and always the anglophone perspective
of... bellybutton, Greenwich
syndrome... said the English,
so must say th rest of the world...

his shortcomings are my...
what he might as well have said...
tak your toys,
and take a warm dump in their sandpit...
then move into the next sandpit,
and **** in it...

personally I don't unerstand
the attack on grammar...
this antithesis of etymology,
this quasi slang... or rather slang
in a straitjacket...
of... well, at least the orthodox
communists had an economic model...
it was going to fail
because it was going to fail...
        but how lonely...
it must be... being unable to compete
with an external counter,
and merely, implode...
          must be lonely in the current
economic asylum...
imploding all the time,
having to compete with 600 years
after golgotha, and rí'bāh...
      
   5 ****** minutes picking out
a ***** for a Saturday night solo...
went for the shaft of wheat,
akin to a lodged locust corpse
in an absinthe bottle bought
in Amsterdam...

               apparently, there is a difference,
but most notably...
only when, drinking alone...
   the talk of sober people
bores me, how they can hide their
apathy behind so much gesticulation
and **** fakery...
    silent as a grave...
drunk people talking
is..
    perhaps outside the party mentality...
and th sudden spurring of
amnesia, a moral hangover,
a loose tongue comes across
darting eyes...

                   hardly a conneisour of
beer, or *****...
      more, on the lines of...
a conneisour of the knockout
falling asleep method...
      and... not allowing myself
be impregnated with dreams...
strange thus... how people
allow unknown forces to impregnate
them with dreams...
               **** them with dreams...
I deem a sleep impregnated
with dreams to be far from rest...
either sleep and the night
of today, with a morning of later on
today... or nothing...

                    perhaps the safety of the sleep
environment,
of the naturalally produced
hallucinogens that are called dreams...
surely the brain must secrete
a hallucinogen when in th state
of sleep...
              as far as I am concerned,
there is no need to interpret dreams...
coincidentally, this implies...
the counter to the stigma surrounding
lucid intoxication...
     because aren't dreams,
the byproduct, of the brain secreting
hallucinogenic compounds,
      when in a hypo-conscious
state of sleep?
   medically induced coma...
naturally invoked
psychedelic carousel...
             which might explain why...
people wanted to tap into this
chemistry dynamic via the 1960s...
of waking into a dream...
        but there must be some sort of
chemical, secreted by the brain
during sleep...
        that allows for the conjured phantasma...
symbiotic to the state of safety...
the brain, not attached to
spacio-temporal coordination...

   and some would argue that all drinkers
at noon, are dancing sloppy tango
with their shadows.

There was a place where children goes.
To have fun while learning, for their future so.
Four walls, a roof, and a person in-charge.
With the board and a chalk, a new class is starts.

Half of the day is for learning new things.
And the rest is for them to decide.
The night still part of the learning.
Doing homework and projects, and then I became tired.

Every day I need to wake up early.
Prepare myself as for school is in the morning.
Sleepy as I want, I can't help but to get going.
For I am, and I should, go to school whether I like it or not.

First grade, Second grade, each year, new class.
New topics, new classmates, how am I suppose to catch up?
A year is not enough, yet they forcing me to learn.
For they are elders, and they know what is the best for me.
Failure is disappointment.

Third grade, fourth grade, and the following grades.
Each time grade I step is another year of punishment.
I don't like it, I hate it, this is not learning.
All they do is to force me to learn things I don't want.

If there's something I don't understand.
They ignore me and go on with the class.
Test coming up, I got a failure grade.
They blame me for I can't understand.

Why? Why? I'm trying to learn all those things.
But if there's anything I don't unerstand, everyone ignores me.
How? How? How could I learn what you're teaching?
Everyone keeps ignoring me, how would I supposed to learn?

Year after year, the fun of learning disappears.
Yet they all act like it is a fun thing to do.
What am I supposed to do if I am treated like an idiot?
Everything they taught, I don't understand a thing.

Bullied, ignored, punished for unable to learn.
School isn't fun, that's what I know.
Forced to learn, forced to follow.
I see no difference than that being a prison.

School is scary, I don't want to go there anymore.
My room, my room is the place where I belong.
I don't care whatever people tell me about the school.
It's all lies, I'll better of dead than going back there.

Even if my parents gets mad at me.
Even people hates me.
Even if the whole world is againts me.
I will never, ever go back there.
Never.
For the rest of my life.
Never.
Even if they hurt me.
Never.
Even if they convice me.
Never.
Whatever the will tell to me.
Never.
I don't want to go there.
I don't want to see it either.
I wish that school doesn't exist.
It is a scary place.
I will never ever go there anymore.
Never.
Never.

god, I love the fact
that at some point,
both youth and slang
die a sudden death,
an odd death,
        and everyone
reaches a plateau
of formal conversation,
leaving given names
and other forms of
informality in the shadow...
  ******* "gender neutrality"
of pronouns...
while in the Slavic lands
old people still talk of
neutrality of forms...
           id est: you,
rather than Marcus...
                I can unerstand
a blurred "neutrality"
of formality,
   and informality...
     but this? this, "thing"?
    early 30s, can't exactly call me
outdated...
maybe schlang, grafitti and
adolescence are synonyms...
      this, toying with grammatical
categories , you sure it won't
bit them back,
when they hear that French nouns
are gender identifiable and segregational?
oh sure, even in Slavic
a moon is a he while
a sun is she...
        th3 dead communists are laughing:
had i been a spy...
i really can't do anything other than
a Pontius Pilate gesture...

in French nouns are gender inclusive,
which makes the argument
for pronoun gender neutrality
a bit idiotic,
given that, what's being incorporated
is a neutrality of one contra many...
arithmetic neutrality...
the gender "thing" is already
exhausted as base for argument...
luckily enough Western journalism
either is, an echo chamber,
or it, doesn't understand
    that: it's really cold in Siberia
    and that it really doesn't matter...

please tell me I'm looking at a Salvador
Dali painting...
   listen, I'm not that smart in terms
of the employment criterium,
a 3rd class degree from Edinburgh...
      but... ******* around with grammar
like that?
     not bothering to investigate
the inherent gender of nouns,
notably in the neighbouring french?

          I do hope it's just a youth
and slang "thing"...
                given the closure of asylums
and...
               what remains of
society, and the isolationism
governing a, if any, form of inconvenient,
"complimentary" narrative:
hence the paranoid parallel.

you can spend a good portion of your
life, dissociating
Q Lazzarus'
goodbye horses from
the silence of the lambs...
somehow infringing on
sentiments of the smiths:
albeit a more macabre pit to
rise from...
       don't ask me why
t.a.t.u.'s cover of
      how soon is now is
better than snake
                river conspiracy'...
not to mention:
   qua- qua- pladebo's
quasi-castrato with
  bigmouth...
    long story short,
   apparently we do not live
unerstand the same sky,
   consider the fact,
that one constellation of stars
is missing from the night
from where I'm writing this...
in England?  in plain sight:

                                    •
                                •             (tail)
                            •

                                •
                                 •          (torso)

                    •                            
                                                  •    (pedipals)

now... if that's not a revision
of Scorpio, I don't know what is...
mind you...
    it's so prominent looming
over England, that even an idiot
could spot it,
      as a farmer might spot
the big dipper...
      ooh... another jewish conspiracy,
a big wet hot hard star-******
I am...
        give or take:
might be a ******* take on
   ג‬ (gimmel)          or   צ‬ (tsadi)...
      ayin (‬ע‬) is still a surd...
        gi-, gim-,
          g-,
                        a-, ay-,
                                t-, ts'...
which kinda reminds me of looking
at the Mendelyev rubric...
      at best, described as the leftovers
of language,
          hyenas' feast...
               in Latin that's pretty
much the norm,
    considering the fact that,
the alphabet is sung...
                and has no noun
category for either a vowel,
or the remaining 21 consonants...
        by noun I mean:
   syllables:
   o•me•ga
                    o•mi•cron...
      and the big bad O(h)...