I'm leaving Carly's place after an all day ****** that had me convinced that paradise lay in the legs of Nate's sister wearing a unicorn onesie, and as they put on Sgt. Peppers and lay there the ****** freudian passion play overcame my capacity for archetype observation and I proceeded to walk around the room thanking everybody in that space and time for the gift of starting the **** with Nate's sister, the beat changed and they turned on me and said I needed to give her space, they all became timeless aliens traveling through time to **** and I was one of them coming online in a loop, and as long as I stayed awake I would remember and not be *****. I sat cross legged holding my friend sams hands, looking into his eyes, saying aloud we're creating the universe constructing all as the three smartest people of all time, forever throughout we died but never died, as long as we could stay awake, they all wore red and I couldn't trust any of them, I fired off mad questions and demanded to know the secrets of the universe and why woman wasn't the answer, I called up to nate to bring her down to me, and generally became a raving lunatic
      after some time of sam being soulmate and accepting him forever as my lover self same image, and also calling him ugly as im ugly, then channeling Brittany through him and countless other regressive exercises, we started inhaling nitrous gas, and the world became one stretched out moment
       and I kept calling out before, all the way up, as it were the secret spell with a handshake to fool the devil
         I thought Nate a mad spirit habituating this plane as a long gone failed hero plagued by the madness of wanting to **** his sister and forced to watch all his friends be aware of their own lust, so that pushed him into clowning, which he is an expert, that primal lust took me up and id taken a holy mandate to **** this beautiful creature and ascend to paradise,
when they slipped her upstairs they left her rainbow onesie, i felt heaven become another step remote and my faith tested, I resolved to be the last awake and never die, I walked up to the attic, and saw the light beaming from the window


            Sam dropped me off at the press grill so I could eat some grub,
then I met up with Tyler for a drink somewhere while he told me his story of meeting a guy in a skyline chilis bathroom drunk at 3 am, he said the guy was standing at the ****** but wasn't *******. Ty asked him if he was done and the guy put Ty in a chokehold with his pants down, according to Ty the cops came in and he was putting clean shots into the guys mug, he is contemplating leaving town before they can indict him for felonious assault, I told him Canadas nice but Venezuela doesn't have an extradition treaty, come to think of it neither does Cuba, but Ty is too proud for that probably
   anyways we meet Carly being a dancing beauty in a high falootin joint with string lights called Julep, the only reason to mention it is because as we were leaving a guy was bent over the rail vomiting and looking wretched he noticed us watching him as we smoked our cigarettes off to the side and immediately decided that he wasn't some kind of side show freak to be gawked at, he became threatening in the most base and pathetic way a human can, and his bride came to tell us to ******* with her father, father of the bride shaking my hand, we eventually left that scene and walked to Oddfellows where I saw Sam Cohan and he bought me a beer, good chap, we talked until I stepped toward Carly, Tyler and a fine looking strange *****
I touched Carly and received an awkward unmemorable introduction to the strange *****. She walked away but lurked and locked eyes with me as the evening rolled on
later Carly told me that the girl demanded to meet the guy who looks like Heath Ledger, a sure fire ****, so Carly is grinding on my **** and my backs to the bar and Tyler already got me a beer, and there I was, a pirate king
I took Carly out after the lights came on, and was going to give Tyler the run of my place, he disappeared into the night and I showed Carly my favorite smelling tree, a pink mimosa still in bloom late July, we almost ****** on my car, until I went back to her place and we ****** until $430, rising at noon, I left telling her we had an hour to get ready to journey to Findlay for Jim's wedding
I showered and brushed my teeth and collected my suit and put it on without a tie
I picked up Carly and set out upon the road, but made a quick stop for a bite
two deaf guys ordered in front of me and the kid working the register said my glasses were cool, along the way I was telling Carly the story of how I wore make up for the first time to a middle school dance, and she said she had to *****, I didn't believe her at first until she tried to stick her head out the window half way rolled down, I managed to get it down all the way and wet streaks of human gut waste caught the wind and splattered my window
we pulled over and I went to get her some napkins to clean herself off as I squeeged the car, she tried to wipe the window with the napkins, sweet girl. The wedding started at 3:30 and we didn't have more than five minutes to spare, she found her vape pen 20 minute out as Heather started to send me worried messages, as I was set to read a passage, little did I know that I was leading off the whole affair, I arrived and was quickly rushed to meet the mothers and have a boutonnière pinned to my lapel , the women all looked stunning and I congratulated each in turn as they shoved a program in my hand, Tiffany took me through the drill, we walked up to the stage and took our places on the bench, looking out at the beautiful shining faces,


I was the only one not wearing a tie, but thats not important, I saw Jim and embraced him with all the love I could muster, he looked at me and said that he knew I would make it, that he knew that he just had to trust the flow, and I would appear in the nick of time, the pastor threw his hands in the air and welcomed the families, the mothers lit candles, and then Tiffany looked at me and said that it was my turn, I stepped up to the Beema and gazed out over the crowd, trying to summon something clever, nothing good came to mind and so I opened my mouth and said, "a reading from Genesis" and then put every fiber of my being into reminding the room that it is Gods will that we be fruitful and multiply. I'm told I slammed my hands down for emphasis and let out a hearty amen, a man's man's amen, and turned and took one giant step off the podium with two baby stairs, I gracefully flowed into the bench having averted a complete embarrassment, and then tactfully left the stage with Tiffany after her read.   Jim looked at me after mine with a nod, and I said the word strong, that read cemented my status as a star of the party, and the mojo flowed, I was called the cash guy by the hotel, for checking in as Atlantis Grosshammer, $200 depost, we drank and danced and an old lady came to me to say that I have a beautiful soul
I thanked Jim's father for helping to create my friend, and danced around bottles
the cake was good
I told Carly I always catch the brides garter, at every wedding I've ever been. I saw Jim's men assemble for his toss, I let the men come and put myself in the mix, Jim turned his back and had a misfire,
the temptation to collect it passed all of us by thankfully, and he was set to fire again, it came to me and I snatched it out of the air, cold as ice I walked off the floor only with eyes for Carly not even saying a word to Jim, I put that thing on my head and went back to Jim threw him on my shoulders and swung him around like we were in a broadway musical
two kids playing in the street,
he said its the best moment, and so it goes

we were sisters, weren't we?
i remember when we were young -
everything was easy then, wasn't it?
before your beauty bloomed and
my plainness stayed,
before the curve of your hips and the sparks of your smile,
set my mother's heart on fire.

we were sisters, weren't we?
when we used to kneel by the hearth for fun,
digging up buried treasure,
sifting through the ashes with our clean-girl hearts,
laughing.

that was before the bitterness choked our home.

we were sisters, weren't we?
you used to crawl under the covers with me,
whisper ghost stories and laugh at me when i got scared.
i reflected your prettiness then,
it shone on me like
the sun on a mirror,
my glass face unmemorable and making yours
all the more dazzling
(not that we knew it:
we were both beautiful,
before we knew any better)

we were sisters, weren't we?
i held your hand when my mother cut you with her words,
i stood up for you when she worked you, i did.
i never once raised a word when you would come to my room,
crying and
raving about her.
i held you when your missing for your own mother rose up sharp in your heart, and i
defended you when my mother spread words like thorns in the villages.

i never once envied you your beauty.

we were sisters, weren't we?
and when that prince came for you,
laughing and
pebbling our window with stones,
i helped you shimmy out into his arms.
i would clean the mud off your shoes when you would stumble back in,
right before the sun came up,
i would put you to bed and make you tea to warm the early-morning chill out of your rose-pink cheeks,
and i waited for you that night you didn't come back.

we were sisters, weren't we?

and you left us.

I wish I could remember the way your mouth tastes
or how your touch felt on my scorching skin.
But for the life of me,
I have forgotten.
Just how for the life of you,
you have forgotten me.

the summer passed me by
as quick as the spider that runs
across my bedroom floor when i
can't sleep at night.
catch me if you can it says,
reminding me of the
inevitable.
summer is like that,
it comes and you watch your friends
leave and you hug them and
you fill in the spaces of silence
inside the margins of your notebook
knowing full well that writing the same
sentence over and over does not make
the time pass any faster. but you don't care.
then they come home and sit you down and say,
"want to see the pictures i took on my trip?"
and you always say yes
when you always mean no
and you smile and you tell them
how nice of a time it looked like they had.
and when they ask you how your summer was,
you shrug and say "good"
when really you mean
uneventful, restless, fleeting,
unmemorable.
lonely.
you want to tell them about the two weeks
you spent home alone sleeping on the couch,
watching Disney movies,
you want to tell them how paralyzed you were
by lack of affection and touch and
laughter.
you want to tell them how the heat only
amplified that gaping hole, confirming
your sinking suspicions of always feeling like
you were missing something.
you want to tell them to slow down,
to listen.
you want to tell them how scared you are,
now that summer is over.
you want them to confess to you
how terrified they are, too.
you want to reach into their eyes and find
a river of undeniable resilience
that might sustain you for the next four months,
up until you leave this city.
you want them to spend the night with you
just so you can remember what it feels like
to be held, even if it's only for one night.
summer's almost gone,
despite the remaining heat and humidity.
you challenge the night with one-sided conversations
with yourself in the dark,
even though you know
that is the last place you could ever find
some clarity.
you count the backpacks on the children
and the number of minutes it takes
for a traffic jam to subside.
summer's almost gone,
and you are running out of places
to hide.

This is for the three A.M writers,
The four A.M coffee drinkers,
because sleep isn’t useful at this point.
This is for the daughter that lost her mother
at age twelve and never stopped smiling.


This is for the boy that knows that the
closet will only be kind to him
for a little while longer
but can’t bring himself to leave quite yet,


I see you.


I see the smile fade for just a second,
the small tear run down your cheek.
I see how quickly you wipe it away,
scanning the room to make sure no one saw,
but I did.

This is for the social smokers,
and the casual drinkers and
the avid vapors that think that cotton candy
flavored juices won’t give you cancer…
I see you.


I see you post drag, look at the cigarette
like it's the first time one has ever been in your hand.
I see the moment you realize you want
your lungs to give out. I see you raise it back to your lips.


I see you sip from a coffee cup at a football game,
but oh don’t you wish it was coffee,
but instead coffee brandy burns your throat
as you try to forget all the bad things he did to you.


I see you.


I see you wince at the final sip, not only because
you took too much to swallow, but because
the pain made you realize what you have
let him turn you into.


This is for the class clowns.
The boy that tries so hard to make other
people laugh because he
can’t remember the last time
he actually smiled, and if he
can make other people happy for just a second,
one day maybe he’ll be happy too.


I see you.


I see you after landing the punchline,
analyzing the classroom,
and when the roar of laughter fades
so doe’s smile that never quite reached
your eyes.


This is for the the invisible.
The “unmemorable” face in the crowd.
The people in public with their face in a book,


I see you.


I see you watch quietly in the background.
Listening to everything around you,
never brave enough to speak up.


I see you.


This is for all of the people that at one point
in their life thought no one was watching.
That no one ever cared enough to see you.


I see you.

I find I am hollow
Empty
Serene in the silence
Alone
My feet soundless, swift
My face unmemorable
My hand shook by men of passionate deceit
And I find myself filled with their purpose

Purpose of others drives me
Craving no prize, praising no God
Only me
Only violence
Soul pushed to the cages in the back of me
My body is honed
My weapon part of me

I fly but no wind follows
I break the unmendable
Harbinger of silence
Deliverer of death
Revealer of mortality
Ender
Money and treasure for blood and breath
Unrelenting, unavoidable

Hands choking pulse from veins
Slowing
Necks crack as they swing out of place
Breaking
Gun hot from parting lead bullet
Body heavy as it drops
Death will come swiftly to any, to all
Until I am emptied once more

Skin’s crawling, the edge of square roofs glowing
with a cold sweat,
eyes are sharper at the crack of a brown dawn.
Dogs own dominion
in fish markets that smell of yesterday.

Their lives and mine are perfect
by the all too human reckoning
of a life’s worth calculated by wants supplied.

A lone cyclist pedals a basket of dew-drenched vegetables
to his usual earthen haunt and tarpaulin,
swerving around the territorial pack
as they change course, trot over and throng me
muddy paws on the best clothes I own,
breath smoking in the dry chill,
I buy myself a pack as the cigarette vendor
unpacks his wares out of damp sacks,
it is a miracle that my breath does not catch fire
or that my eyes have not turned into cotton-*****.

Yet another stranger has brought me home
to the sputter of a third-world petrol engine.
He gets his fare, it’s only fair,
and I’m just glad that I will sleep,
I have nowhere to be in the morning,
I have adventured and now
I am tired and there is a yawning hole
that I slip into without knowing.

It is warm at last,
I cradle my head with the soft side of one hand,
as if it were mother’s,
and this is well, for as things stand,
my dreams welcome me in
and their characters are so familiar,
that I may have just woken up
from a foggy, unmemorable dream
into childhood sweet and clear.

My fathers health will be the death of me
Because the day he goes I'll lose a part of me
No more valuable lessons to be taught
No more gritting my teeth and cursing his name for unmemorable reasons to why we fought
When he dies I will truly be alone but he will live on for I am his clone
Simple living is a ***** but we do it well
Father and son team
Bunk mates
Sharing the same cells
You lived fast and hard
If I live faster and harder than you
Maybe my time will run out the same as you

Sometimes I purposely lock stares with strangers
for a little longer than it is comfortable to do so.

I'm not sure why I do it...
Maybe it's a fear of being unmemorable
or maybe just feeling that awkwardness is a reminder
that I am still alive,
that they're still alive,
that we are still alive together.

It's true,
there is a loneliness so vast that lingers over us
that it might as well be the sky
and as heavy as an anchor weighing us down like ships in the sea
but it's the knowing that we still need each other
that makes that loneliness beautiful.

Not one man is an island,
this loneliness makes us alike
and eventually brings us together.

i've seen a u.f.o.,
yep - a weird orb - hardly a helicopter -
and hardly an aeroplane -
i disclosed it once to a "friend" -
   apparently in europe the entirety of
the oddness of the universe can be caged in
the mind of a psychiatrist - that's europe -
apparently every odd observation
requires the secular
"priesthood" of psychiatry -
everything, has, to, be: normalised;
the sort of *******-tickle-talk
that allows you to return
to talking about the weather...
or yesterday's eastenders episode
on the by pedohpilia bankrupt
b.b.c.
  so? **** it, play along:
the funny people will crack any
time soon...
         even though i have seen
an u.f.o. i'm sticking the the british
take on "sensibility" i.e. lying.
so this paddy walks up to me,
a british citizen like any other,
but has this "royal" airiness around
him...
  he thinks i'm mere peasant
and he's a ******* monarch!
          he suddenly think i can't
comprehend english...
but he can... then i ask him
to recite the alphabet... paddy can't!
sure, you see a u.f.o. when
you have to immediately curb your
enthusiasm, because you're in
europe, and europe is "sensible" -
     so you practice your sense &
sensibility: see no evil, hear no evil,
speak no evil: but **** me:
think up a tier of horror
                  above the holocaust!
if we're allowing science fiction,
if we're allowing the "dream"
but never the reality,
  if europe discarded idiot priest
for a psychiatrist,
i'd probably prefer the idiot priesthood
to the secular "priesthood" that's
psychiatry...
        i've seen an u.f.o.,
but as you might expect, i'm "european",
i'm supposed to be the sensible one,
the never: over-fluttering in
excitement -
                       ****, i saw a u.f.o.
actually means: i saw ****, nothing
really happened.
            i'm occupied, the drinking is
hardly a drag, and the music i'm listening
to isn't that bad, after all;
hell, i must have been drunk watching
this electric light orchestra "glyph"...
you start to try to convince people,
   when the people try to convince themselves
belonging to some day-to-day
everyday mundane collective "sanity" -
**** it, you do what you have to.
a bit like this "surprise" regarding the
transgender movement...
         3 year old trannies...
   ever read r. d. laing's the politics of
experience and the the bird of paradise?
i hope to hell that r. d. laing will overshadow
freud, perhaps even jung...
after all: what glasgow giveth one
does not dismiss so easily...
                not without a brawling
spectacle in the back alley...
     what glasgow offers: one does not discard
even upon a 2nd reading.
                 and this is truly a topic of
the proper regard:
          all of politics is an aspect of experience -
as ever, with respect to heidegger:
   there's there-being -
but there's also mit-sein:
     with being, i.e. what?
                           mit-sein has no actual
coordinate to ensure a contract of
analogues -
             not a flat earth my aß...
you ever navigated a car via
    antwerp, eindhoven, venlo, duisburg,
  essen, dortmund, hamm, bielefeld, hanover?      
that serpentine is a ******* killer...
you travel east from that muddle of roads
you'll be a ******* general of the boyscouts...
      no, no GPS... play god, looking down
on a paper, yes, paper map!
            navigate that ****!
       oh right, 3 year olds and trannies...
why the surprise?

       jesus said to them:

   when you make the two one, and
when you make the inner as the outer
and the outer as the inner and the above
as the below, and when you make the male
and female into a single one,
      so that the male will not be male
and the female not be female, when you
make eyes in the place of an eye,
          and a hand in the place of a hand,
and a foot in the place of a foot,
        and an image in the place of an image,
then shall you enter the kingdom.
    (the gospel according to doubting thomas) -

so... trannies?  
              
      a ******* elephant in the room...
it's almost like people don't want to cite
where this entire zeitgeist furore originated from,
i.e. from the "heretical" gospels of
the "lesser" followers of "christ"...
         by now the whole affair
is staring me in the face with burning
coal-eyes...
            if only the nag hammadi
library was found in modern day israel,
and not egypt, and not the story of
the flight of joseph and mary to egypt -
   and not the account of the secular historian
josephus in the reign of nero,
   and the book of revelation ref. nero
rather than augustus...
               hey, i inherited this crap...
even though the old testament is ridiculous,
at least it's only so "ridiculous"
as to be "ridiculous" given the time-frame...
the new testament is just a blatant lie...
a blatant greek lie...
        it's the nadir of what came prior,
i.e. the excellence of poetic harvesting by
the greeks -
         the new testament is a death of poetics -
a religion carved out of:
    the uninhibited testimony of
ever perpetuating the hunger for the next
groove messiah...
       odd, jesus christ perpetuated -
             moses christ sounds a tad bit sour...

never mind, perhaps, sometime in america,
as it stands, in europe, we're stressing
keeping up appearances,
  we're being sensible,
                  we're being the apparently
"well-attired" -
                  there's a "we" that has agreed
upon the secular priesthood of psychiatry,
i'll just ask,
    is it worth the spectacular,
given that so many people are gambling
with the mundane?
       so? shut up, and try to laugh internally;
it didn't help me having either 1 of
the 5 senses to craft an account of
an oddity...
     i was told to step back into line...

   and this, by ordinary civilians...
           i'm pretty sure that army personnel are
more liberal to such odd events, than
your everyday grey-day joe:
you know the guy, you pass about 100 of them
in an urban environment:
that face, so unmemorable that it's almost
like looking at a concrete slab.

- you've seen a u.f.o.?!
- nope, i must have been blind drunk hallucinating,
  sorry to disappoint, ol' chap.

Reading documents of the story when the sun that burned so bright,
    It burned out.
Reading, heeding, the warning signs of an event unmemorable,
    Disgusted.
Mistakes will not be repeated,
New actions are in order.

-July 13th 2013

Unrecognised obliterated
Beauty
Left behind unmemorable
Traceable across
A million miles of soulless
Rubber

The man without someone to talk to is, without a doubt, left out
You want to shout and your lips pout because you're the odd man out!
You want to challenge everyone to a bout; to take their spot -
to be part of the crowd but you're still cut!

So, I'll wait right here until the boredom kills and you feel the urge to talk to me
Awkward silence fills the air, liked stacked up bills you still haven't paid yet!
You know it's there but you don't care and wouldn't even dare to try and talk to me
And I'm afraid you only would on a bet.

Let your paper missiles fly across the air as you try to hit my crying eyes -
That are in disguise as white tinted windows staring emotionlessly at the sky
Let my vulnerable naïveté taste the touch of cold steel.
As long as you give me attention it's okay, it would heal.

You don't know the loneliness that being unmemorable brings!
The way it stings as they fling those sharp notes that sing in your ear 'you are not worth remembering'
You are not someone worth fighting for, worth settling a score, worth dying for
So they slam the door to your face and leave you alone in the cold lonely fjord.

The deep push of angry slurs to your head blurs your idea of humanity
And it stirs the notions of being different and loneliness hard, hard that they turn into synonyms
Which makes you cling to the idea that your very being is frowned upon by everyone
Even your own family.

The constant blame and shame that they force you to claim under your name
Puts a stain in your heart which gives you fame in the game that is life!
It is a painful sport, that game of life. Yet you strive
—strive to separate yourself from the infamy that was given to you since the beginning of your time.

You often find yourself paying fine for a crime that you did not commit
There is a raging fire within your cold beating heart and you feel it.
Every morning you tell yourself you are not a monster but a knight in worn down armor from battles past
And every night you tell yourself that the last insult you heard today will be the last.

Yes, I keep telling myself that.

Save a piece of me.
A laugh, a smile, a subtle flicker of my eyes when the lights turn on.
You have to remember something, so make it small. Don't keep the battles,
the strife, the words I said and never meant, the words you never thought you knew.

If you save anything, let it be a moment. A second.
So brief, so inconsolably unmemorable:

A candle's flame. A flower's lonely petal.
A breeze, pushing us both in opposite directions.

You sit there alone in the dark,
The you before him,
The you you are now,
The contrast is visibly stark.

You sit criss cross on your bed,
Lashes damp, eyes burning, and red,
It’s just after midnight,
You feel pathetic,
You replay it all in your head.

You start with the day that you met,
It was a Tuesday,
An ordinary day,
The kind you’d forget.

But then it all changed,
Smiles, handshakes,
And names were exchanged.

On the surface,
It was incredibly customary,
It was simple, unmemorable,
Painfully ordinary.

What made this different,
You weren’t sure,
Your feelings illogical,
So child-like, so juvenile,
So immature.
“You’re better than this.”
In the moment you thought.
In fact, you kept saying this,
As the days, weeks, and months went on.

“Get it together!”
You’d scream in the mirror.
Time had done nothing,
Your thoughts were no clearer.
You pace back and forth,
All sensibility in danger,
How could so much be felt,
So deeply, for a virtual stranger?

You felt ridiculous and crazy,
Your sanity lacking,
This next part gets hazy
All you remember are your fears, your panicking .

Was it coincidence, fate, or divine intervention?
Whatever it was,
Your next meeting came with no planning, no intention.
This one was longer,
There was more than a greeting.
You were a mess, a goner,
You could hear your heart beating.

But it was okay,
You kept your composure,
Better than you thought you would,
No liquid aid, totally sober.
This meeting made a friend out of the “virtual stranger,”
It was progress, a milestone,
But a detrimental, emotional game changer.

You hated yourself, you wanted more,
Your feelings grew stronger,
Angry, always present,
They refused to be ignored.

You drove yourself nuts,
You overthought,
But there was no one to blame,
No one at fault.

You were painfully afraid of rejection,
So you never made your move.
Every touch you thought was just platonic affection.
You fought your emotion like you had something to prove.

You had plenty of chances to get what you wanted,
But what you didn’t account for?
You weren’t the only one charmed,
You weren’t the only one haunted.

Now it’s too late,
To another, your charmer has made a promise
You were too busy being a little *****,
And just couldn’t bear to be honest.

So congrats, Heartbreaker!
You’ve earned the title!
Go on, do what you do best,
Fake a smile!

Go ahead, take a seat upon your throne!
It really is a pity though.
The only heart that appears to be broken is your own.

alternative to what's expected, i.e. counter nocturnal musing.

i never noticed it, the subtelty,
   the milimetre's worth of
deviance from
a standard beer...
and there are as many
as one could wish for -
   the cheaper palette riddles,
not something akin
to *hoegaarden
or leffe, or an ale that might
give off a cheaky hint of
   grapefruit...
or the king of stout,
     boor mc guinness...
   iron tooth paddy mc guinness -
if ever a romance, then just about now.
  no, pils beer is subtle in its
deviation from your:
reg. pint eff lager...
    oi! flint-off! (remix, born slippy,
nuxx) -
       shouldn't it be dubbed
lagger... to not say it much bigger,
otherwise posh tosh and...
        sudden realisation:
    a minor point about an added -g-.
never mind...
   pils beer:
        it's as fresh as champagne,
quirky, summery,
        fresh, i'd say even more
carbonated, definitely less heavy
than your regular lager...

...it's only 20 to 5 and already a party...
and to think:
i laughed more, i cried more (
tears of joy, say, the sea waves splashing
  against the coast in Kenya,
voughan william's fantasia on the theme
of thomas tallis)
   by myself...
than with anyone else...
  ah... alas, not a theory akin
to solipsism but the beckoning,
pulverising hive like reality...
         not even confused or dreary
with a movie franchise
    we know everyone is citing...
saying only one truth
is better than attempting to say
too many "wise" observations...
   a simple version of the grander
"quest"...
talk of beer,
    and the accent of snow in the air,
a crow perched on a lamp-post,
the bountiful grey sky above essex...
  and how ***
can never really have the status
of a kiss
    in Cinema Memory...
       nope, this cinema is subtle,
i go to it how often i can,
   all i need is a few static things
and it just comes on with a most
pleasing movie...
   that movie:
a boy and girl meet in a crowded place:
a tool gig in glasgow...
they're giving out water and passing
it into the crowd,
boy gives girl water,
       boy puts his arms around
the girl and pushes the zombie
chant chant brigade aside,
girl breathers, girl drinks,
girl turns around,
   the music fill the otherwise necessary
dialogue...
boy and girl kiss...
     after the gig, girl waits for the boy...
boy sees girl...
     passes her by...
                    that's the zenith...
there's no butcher, no flesh-dough kneading...
   a standard investment in
Cinema Memory...
             nothing to boast about...
the music is still there...
       and a respect for memory,
to give it a cinema status...
     however could brick walls and wintry
shrubs be so entertaining anyway?
    why isn't *** all that memorable
(unless you paid for it with
a *******)?
             it's too mechanical,
there's nothing ethereal about it,
nothing to actually boast about,
    maybe that's why so many
people resort to filming it...
      it's so, so unmemorable...
   don't get me wrong:
          who am i to prescribe any
better release?
           but this is Cinema Memory,
and what's the most frail,
most butterfly like that gives
this cinema its movies...
    well: i say moments that extend
into forever...
          
...and that subtelty of a pilzner beer,
    light, unlike a Bud (too much
rice extract in that ******)...

...not as heavy as your stndard beer,
definitely more fizzy, tickly fizz.

Brief wind stillness means
Nothing to silence
That myth forgotten
Like our stillness in
The once sacred ground
Changed now dug up burnt
Scattered broken glass
Thrown into noisy
Everyday vast air
Unmemorable

Or bear existing
Indefinitely
Held on a mantel
Strange home lingerer
Trapped in Time's domain
Last standing reproach
Nudging its shoulder
Repeating the phrase
You're here forever
Part of furniture
Just gravestone décor
Dusts sent to remind
That you aren't leaving
Coats triumph of life in
Insignificance
Insignificant

it was love, but only a love worth writing about, never actually living through: side by side, child rearing, jokes about in-laws, and all that new age acid jazz, akin to penderecki's take on classical music, with shaving blades against violin strings.*

after watching kramer vs. kramer
i had hollywood on my
morning plate,
  or as i like to call it:
post-midnight shenanigans;
(smug faced): french,
toast...
   oh god, and that molten cheese
and some honey drizzled on
those toasts, soaked in beaten
eggs...
          and that was the only
time i borrowed a recipe from hollywood.
i love being a night owl,
i walk around the house,
two cats dead, out,
two adults out cold, asleep,
and there's me playing
jigsaw with my shadow,
  or, rather, attempting to find it...
did you know that
a green bottle tickles the colour
green in shadow?
ever walked the street at night
drinking a beer?
  i can't believe it myself,
but the shadow of the bottle was
tickling green in my hand...
   and then i thought:
****'s going down,
              the black angels
entrance song for assassin's creed....
****, smoking a cigarette will never
look as cool...
wha wha... whoop!
that's next **** that is...
         all the guitar needs is
rhythm man,
   the guitar needs no solo...
  solo is *******,
    guitar needs rhythm,
  to **** the rhythm of the bass...
and hence the power 3:
rhythm guitar, bass, drums...
                            i hate bands
that hide / abandon bass guitar...
bass requires respect,
  more respect than it already
exceeds in... man:
  there's no band without a prominent
bass...
                       then again
the guitar needs to take to playing
cameo...
             i don't mind jerking off
while taking a ****, taking
the one (****), second (****) &
third (*******) on the same throne:
i'm not going light scented candles
get comfortable making a live
video with a docile ******* dummy
a woman might...
in & out, 1, 2, 3...
                   let's get it over & done with,
i'm keeping count,
point of closure: don't make
me ask if it's worth it.
          - i don't type,
i dig:
   yes, a hyphen is a paragraph
indicator in poetry, technical note,
i might add.
                - have you noticed
how the russians do not use
over sexualised language?
              they don't talk about
*** the american talk about...
they just ****,
there's no jug-boasting fist-*******
  antics in the russian's vocab...
you either ****,
or you talk about *******,
b & w from therein.
           personally i found *******
too memorable to repeat it and grind
it to a mundane experience,
so i stopped, had a decent flint
with a russian gall from st. petersburg
for a few months,
went to a few prostitutes,
and then did a st. augustine's manoeuvre...
a sinner turned into a saint...
        all i can remember when
******* her for 7 hours before i
left st. petersburg was watching myself
doing it to her in the mirror...
           and that mighty O...
**** me that O is mighty -
                   mighty O...
and the ripple of M...
****! that's ancient hindu!
right in her mouth... OM!
     O mouth open... M mouth closed trembling
catching the four remaining syllables to
attach to at least one H of the tetragrammaton...
**** once: but **** good,
   not point making it unmemorable,
chore, marriage ridiculed,
  nothing spectacular about that,
only a lesson in physical exercise...
   memorable *** is better than *** in your
dreams... esp. when she's doing ******* with
you lying down, squeezing, plump
as a pear portrait of a full gaze of chalk made
into a firm but erratic dough that
doesn't neglect a chance of s'queeeeze...
             pincer crab of a hand,
  a tender Siamese oyster twin before me...
               ah, woman, the devangari,
the O -
                    ******* with the woman
lying down rather than kneeling...
   M, the ripple of the vibrating lips...
      the eye of the auspicious one was woken,
what came was:
          the price of ******* -
   and with it *** in the white nights
of st. petersburg, the arctic insomnia nights,
  where we ******, ******, ******,
                     and by next zenith of midnoon
tried to erase the memory
      with a conjuring of a placebo headache.

Can we really escape this?
I’m on a mission to slow down time
My exertion acts like an anchor
But I’m tossed around by distraction
the waves are helping me forget the
the ocean I sit above

I still drift, the land out of reach of my hand
the innocence of youth,
sits under the tuck of
trauma, boredom, drama,
and the heaviness of a comfortable routine
that sits open, like an early grave

my route, I take specific lanes,
shortcuts, the best way, by feel, to avoid slows,
delays, bottlenecks
to get to the five locations of my Sydney life
in the most unmemorable way

lately my disappointment has forced
me to look at things more intensely
the rolling of history,
my heartbeat urgent - drifting
under water -
a strange undiscovered creature
hiding in the trench

the year jet skis past me
and gives me the finger

I am good at finding the lazy solution,
which, at work, gives me ability
to streamline process,
but lately I have become resentful
of the ruling order -

I have looked to love for so long
to shift my focus, three month stints,
to become more caught, more running,
more collapsing on the couch, in the quick night
to turn over quickly into my bed

In memory of an unmemorable 4th of August
On a once calm, but malicious day of 2020
Eyes were blinded by unforgivable eruptions
That stormed its rage alongshore Beirut
Banging down the mightiest of towers
Too overwhelming to be recognizably real
Too agonizing to be tolerably sensible
All witness bodies of wandering souls
Of victims heaped beneath breathless rubble
Of dust streams escaping through mindless erections

In memory of an aching 4th of August
From an unknown hour, as an alarming clock strikes six-o-eight
Ears were deafened by voiceless sobs
Of too many people chained in abominable wounds
Echoing thunders through audacious streets
Such a calamity we had to endure
Such a misery we are destined to co-opt
Each would rise again in delirium
In fervor for a melodrama
In search for the shielded guilty

In memory of a treacherous 4th of August
After a long-lost year in mourning distress
Six-o-eight is vividly reborn when
Hand-in-hand all stand upright
Weak but willful for a cause
Tormented yet woven in hope
To walk the walls of beloved Beirut
To carry up high its bleeding flags
To soothe spoken words of a sorrowful mother
“Death is my hope that shall take me to my son”

In memory of a promising 4th of August
The six-o-eight shall ring its bell
And scream “Hail down to the defendants!”


           NHH                                                              ­     "Plume"