Close your eyes,
my beauty, oh my
***** little demon,
my succubus,
my muse,
me silly reason for,
silly being.
Feel my heart.
It wont stop beating.
Faster and faster,
slothily increasing,
it wants to burst, explode,
and I say, let it be so,
I feel the blood pour out unevenly,
the circulation failing,
as I smile greedily,
The **** of death coming from
deep inside of me,
spilling from my intestines and out onto
the kitchen ceiling,
where I am stuck
where my mind breathes,
where these halucinations that we call
our reality,
these lies we tell ourselves,
to sleep just a little,
bit more comfortably,
the hate we have ourselves,
of our worldly greed,
that we deny and then,
**** hungrily,
the shame in our hearts,
as we think about society,
and what they want from us,
and how we bow to,
artifical ceilings and devices,
I look down from above,
upside down or
in fact, right side up,
die my little heart die,
burst, burst!
Feel the ecstasy and do not reverse,
I say to myself,
as no one is listening,
and why should they?
I'm just  a death kid,
versing.

Memory

     is  the birth of cool, it is rapture and ignominious spokesmanship unearthed. Packed into a slatted-wood crate, milking the obsession from cash-toting hands. Freeing itself from your bottom lip while life ticks itself away on a digital stock-exchange display. I am down and you are up, and you save pennies while I search for Chrysanthemums and vanilla-scented candles. Scent is my fifth grade spaceship,
     I hide it in my pocket and take it into the forest when the week is over. Adventure is the part of our story that's caught in between complaining about money and having clean sheets. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday my hands mend themselves back from bleach, their crevices cave under bright lights, I go to the garden strip and put dirt on my face, over my shoulders, and on my back. I make a altimeter from an alarm clock, and worry what will happen if your feet should ever touch the ground.
Relief
     is a sarcophagus, the satiny silk chrysalis I weave into invincibility. I make myself a small child with a demon-proof lair, no one comes in, not even you.  I see

     how drugs take out your heart and put you anew, fresh: orange, pink, ultramarine. A wave is a soft gesture for twilight, a slow walk among the greying statue towers, bliss extracted from person to person tedium. How you exclaim about **** music as if your temple home was unfocused by jazz or synth-electro.
     I forgot your room of quiet had no bells, no hope, and no notes of resolve. Tragedy was the desert of your six to sixteen, while I made an opus out of crystal glasses and Cran-Raspberry jars. Then it was the relief, Neptune's hands on your *******, red dots of ecstasy connecting you to a higher vibration. You felt it was time to start exercising. I didn't **** you for modifying your perception of color, degrading in a salt pool- I didn't own your ****** it was just a place I went into to write.
    
    Three years later. I was growing backward, I was sixteen, making you the muse in my doorway, a James Bond goddess unraveling my fingers on her silky skin, except your golden crown was really a turban of snakes, and instead of silk I was groveling underneath you. That was the sweat that Ryan Shultz said I garbled up into two pedestal doves, I aimed by eyes straight at the city of gold, and then inside me shucked out every piece of self-respect and vitrified my spirit, castrating my lips and my tongue for something to come to or come at, he said I lived under pointed stars and that lying isn't a good way to get over past phases of silence.

     A few days ago, it all game back to me, in a random series of songs on an iTunes playlist. One memory from an isolated beach outside a strawberry patch near Santa Cruz, a second, two hands cupped over the ears, my face closing in on her smoothed-out pink bottom lip on an over-exagerated car ride to the San Francisco airport, and the third was the mention of non-vegan banana cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, a birthday I celebrated several years earlier. All of them in the coda.
    
     Verse four unbelievable. It caught me straying from the next stressor at hand. What's next? I move my cold hands from a keyboard versing strange relapse of mind, or I tear out another page, whip across town, and peel stamps onto a postcard to send.
     They were all tails from a memory. A slowing ghost that cooed at me from far away, beating me up and down, pulling my eyes away from a scent I continually tried to remember.

It's London, all the time,
when at night I close my eyes,
it's when and where I get to roam and dwell,
in the city I know inside-out so well,
where all the narrow streets and cobbled stones,
teacups, pint glasses, and fresh scones,
lend themselves into the misty English air,
of London's ancient, yet so modern flair,
of Piccadilly, and Hyde Park Corner's box,
riding Black Cabs, or a big Red Double-Bus,
evening gas-lamp walks with ol' Saucy Jack,
fish and chips and shandys for a perfect snack;
then the changing of The Guard at Buckingham,
where native Cockney's and young mums with prams,
gather for a view of Lizzy's Royal Family Show;
but, my, how rich the April sun sets and does glow,
over the rolling raging river Thames of yore,
where ancient Roman armies marched to shore,
proclaimed: LONDINIUM! -the regal rest,
of civilised peoples and the Royal Crests,
where lives and deaths would go and come,
yet The City despite all odds has lost and won,
in the hearts, souls and minds of all who take,
great London as their true hearth and home to stake,
and arise and fall the poet's versing nights and days,
whilst Big Ben chimes his toll in the foggy haze;
and alas, London from my slumber dissipates,
to that of which I yearn and love, asleep or wake,
knowing where my home of soul-keep lies divine:
in London, my dear London; it's London, all the time.
__
London:
http://beautyineverything.com/3366195864

Honey meets tongue,
Leaves taste buds stung and mouth melting
violently versing vows, Spilling out
fermented
Thoughts caught aloud
Dribbling down toward where they ought not
Time stopped us In a clockmaker shop
Cooking empty pots of dead doves in forgot sauce
Some day in december's When
Plans were dismembered
For the scent of Butter bubbling curiosity
Found horse hungry, So, suddenly he broke free
Trampling Predictable  logic.
chasing her tail to town
When, I, sir pain, thought id taught again, then again
the art of invading castles,
Without being found.
Trolling, rolling through The inner out of bounds
A shoeless, shoreless yet Very sure way To get around
None catching on of course Till swordsman number four
Split with silver This world on wheels we made
With a crash
left some
Birthday suit vision
Standing
stunned
stupid
Abashed with a gun to the  mirror
Which crying, stammered:
If you let them dear,
Just let them,
They will Listen,
To your  chime, chiming Bells inside,
Rhyming you dread hearing songs from"
Said defense:
"Who wants to play each blow to the heart
With lawless abandon to The head?"
"letting harsh  light burn holes and leave marks wherever they feel"
Don't think so Solomon!"
Vision laughs,
reflection kneels,
Hands praying
And In the periphery, as a way to break scene here
we see the mailman Crying tears on a map
Who once watched little Ms steel-sturdy
put on her full act.
Wood chips flew thenmsky went black
Pupils dilate to her shell-shocked state Of Before,
before hell bent on Withholding,
before Taking hostage of clowns who are all ******* with
Lilith, the queen
The state that led our wayward siren to begin driving round  
in Some man-made beast
She calls Ed.

Since your life revolves around winning and losing
Let me help you boast
I lost, you defeated me - to thee I toast

You do not drink?  Or do you?
I'm now certain you never speak the truth
Fooling some, but shocking others
To me, you are no Ruth

Loyal to no one but the voice in your head
That constantly feeds your perfection
I'm aware of my flaws
Perhaps that you see as our connection

It saddens me that you won't let me help
You're the other side of the mirror
From a time not so long ago
When I faked a life that made me shiver

You may be older
But twice the life I've lived
I'm well-versed in the school of life
No longer contrite nor miffed

Harmony and peace you say you represent
Not from the angle I'm standing
Perhaps the nicer you presented
To the Buddha that I saw hovering

I'm closer than you think
Closer yet I'm sure I'll be
I'm here for the long haul lady
Not how you'd thought it would be

27 years you texted him
On the day that would've been your anniversary
The lights at our house nightly grow dim
Celebrating our paperversary

You accuse those around you
Of the very things you do in time
Protective of your home?
How was your tour of mine?

Happy **** day, thinking of you
Love you still always have, always will
Why these things you find necessary to send
To someone who now is mine after you threw him away

Mistakes is how I see these inappropriate outbursts
Made by you or regretted by you
At the very least a charm to feed your enjoyment
Quite the bracelet worn to pay your dues

Heavy enough to hold down your wrist
But no not in this circumstance
Hate and discontent
Part of your ebb and flow your pageant stance

I suppose I'll continue to study you
Helps me in my course of study
Psychology and Criminal Justice
My special project, not my buddy

Making the most of what has crossed my path
As long as you keep coming at me
Another page to my thesis you'll add
Prayers for us both, survival to thee

Tomorrow's another day
The Lord versing me in forgiveness
Personal success for me come what may

December 13, 2013

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev’n as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away
Like snows in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivelled heart
Could have recovered greenness? It was gone
Quite under ground; as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they together
All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quick’ning, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
We say amiss,
This or that is:
Thy word is all, if we could spell.

O that I once past changing were,
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Off’ring at heav’n, growing and groaning thither:
Nor doth my flower
Want a spring shower,
My sins and I joining together.

But while I grow in a straight line,
Still upwards bent, as if heav’n were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? What pole is not the zone,
Where all things burn,
When thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown?

And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my only light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.

These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide;
Which when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.

Black Versing White
Pale Marble, Veined With Gold, Beauty & Light
Smoky Onyx, Pulsing Charcoal, Ash & Soot
Battling Since The Beginning Of Time
Good Verse Evil, Yin & Yang, Light & Dark

Battling, Time With Out End
Shown In A Million Ways
Woman Verse Man, Black Verse White, Heaven & Hell
Always Seeing Things Either Good Or Bad, Black Or White

Then There Is Gray, Neither Good Nor Bad, Neither Chaos Nor Order
Named By Many Names, Limbo, In-Between, Plane Of Spirits, Neutral
Not Good, Not Order, Not Heaven, Not Bad, Not Chaos, Not Hell
Gray, See The World In Many Shades Of Limbo, Black, White & Gray

Poets Like Me..

Suspended at portals of rigid
and well-defined
thought reclines most whimsy,
which poets like me
welcome and use to un-stick
rusted up vision.
Freeing the mind we care not
where reality ends.
Wonder notices even the tiny
and gasps at gross,
the newly dry gossamer wing
seen as fillagreed
diamonds with eyesight, night
versed with ghostly
metaphor, the tides as emotion.
Humanized nature
allures the inventive in scribes
bent on perception
where real meets make-believe.
Awe, understood
as a lever appeals to romantics
like me addicted
to all ethereal's seducing fancy.
Idealized love
presents realms of impassioned
expression, themes,
versing spirit personified holds
complusion, creative
vision awakens to other worlds
where, finally winning
utopia becomes no mere illusion.
What feels real merges
and mixes with linguistic flights
of beguiling imagery.
Life through the eyes of all poets
like me changes
at will from the galling mundane
to that which excites
inspiration for evocative writing.

Hey Jealous foolish woman
       I don't even know your name
        Mine is written on this page
           I'm not the one ashamed

        Poets singing dreams to you
         versing ink stained sheets
        You haven't really got a clue
         as they sit about your feet

        no need for Jealous words
          it's really all fair game
          Poetry and love that is
       I'll put your heart to shame

     You think you're such a mystery
         I know the kind you are
          You and I have history
            I left with open scars

        Jealousy I'm killing you
           by my Poison Pen
         Stupid thought to have
          my lil ' Jealous friend

         I might seem so naive
       but I am so much more
          I really can't believe
        you're antics such a bore

          Have some self respect
            act more dignified
              show a little class
           you need it simplified?

            go hide in a corner
       like the beaten dog you'll be
         taking nasty bites
       won't get the best of me

       You couldn't just fight fair
       I barely touched the blade
       didn't drop a bit of blood
        As down your pen is laid

Cherie Nolan © 2016

pain absolves me
such a sad indicator
of a wasted life
like versed is the past tense
had versed does not sound quite right
have versed even worse
will have versed
I verse away
content to strike contrary
along a course others might
not even contemplate
trying to ride a rim into
another thought or word
you verse
he/she is versing
it's all so good
I have to stop
putting nooses on it
just accept
now, that is another concept....

riding through a vibrating sleep,
cut in grooves so fine and deep,
I have found it son,
get me cake,
and have some fun.

Theres something you gotta know,
its about what you eat, and how you grow,
don't spend it all at once was never a verse worth versing,

Im taking it all in, revolving ribbons of roads untangle infront of me
set into a space cap searching for snap back,
Oh I believe in yesterday, looks as though its here to stay

comment in the box bellow,
for a case of cheap merlot,
its about what you eat and about how you grow

Startling set of subtleties laced between the shadows of common things
The shred of darling darkness you've disgraced by denying it the light
Admire the simple songs, ignore the undertones hiding between the notes
Versing the sunrise, ignoring the dewy tears in Apollo's eyes
A masterpiece can't be complete without the sum of invisible brush strokes
Secondary shadows playing with our perceptions, slip through the seams
They are quietly quintessential, unnoticeably indispensable
Writing anonymous autographs in photographs & autobiographies in poetry

poetry and philosophy can only teach ethics with systematisation, with systemising itself as itself and nothing off itself requiring replicas of art: of acting to suit the scientific concern for cloning or computerisation of analysis with being artificial in the quotient of intelligence expressed via the infinite synthesises of care, miscarriage and history; both subjects care for ethics - both care for linear allegiance to the ancient greek flux to permit infinite multiplication of change and changes, along with the additions and the desertions... obelisk adds to the addition, the algebraic multi- adds to the hyphenating minus compounding, paradoxically. well, carelessly the testimonies gave windows the narcissus effect... and the mirrors the antidote of thinned air vampirism of h. g. wells' plot.*

1st. hello is about a blind girl
sculpting a head with a charlie chap' moustache...
2nd. hello is about a deaf girl
versing the telephone into violin vibrations;
both are fun-****-as-hell
given i'm the one in lycra-spandex and botox
friendly mode on stage, as
the exploiting artist.

Nobody likes me,
           I may as well make them
     all eat worms...

Where once there was ridicule,
           now there's  just silence.
          Everybody hates me....

But now there no longer versing,
               now its just me rehearsing
my tears for there funeral....

Once is for sorrow
                 twice is a rehearsed verse
        third times the charm..

No one will know,
          that I'm the one that
                        silenced there verse.

Once they spoke,
           twice they made me cry,
  third time I cured the disease...

I'm happy now that I can sit quietly,
        I'm smiling now that words are dead.
              ill sit here in silence,
And absorb the silence of there passing..

In every way, they are forgotten
And we under think their power, their purpose.
We seldom ponder what we would become without them,
And never stop to thank them for what they have done.


Mother,
     Thank you for taking my temperature via forehead
     For stirring my Mac and cheese
     For washing out my clothes' stains

Father,
     Thank you for changing my diapers
     For versing me in ping pong
     For writing down my painting's names when I could not spell

Lover,
     Thank you for rubbing my back
     For holding mine in yours
     For loving me tenderly

Friend,
     Thank you for braiding my hair
     For painting my nails
     For grabbing the tissues when need be


I presume mine becoming frail, old, and flimsy
What will we become in this aging process?
I doubt we will mature like fine wine or expensive cheese.
Ridden with disease and pain, we will fall to my sides. And no one will be thanking us anymore (not that anyone ever did), because we will be nothing.
Do nothing.
All the knowledge, will power, exercise will never change the **** outcome.

Someday we will stir our daughters Mac and cheese, or remove her stains from her shirts, and someday she will do the same for her daughter.
Yet this all must die someday,
There will come a time where I can no longer stir the boiling noodles on the stove,
No longer shred the brick of cheese from the fridge.

There's not a ****** thing to do but wait.

The natural home of the poet
Is not among society’s elite
But away from the riches and finery
And the fat-cat country seat.

We’re the eyes for the one who’s the underdog
The one struggling hard for his kin
The one who lost out when they took all the jobs
Who stands in the food queue again.

We’re the questioning voice of the sickly
While hospitals have wards that are closed
Who wonder why governments say ‘We all spend more!’
And ponder where it’s been disposed.

We have Portakabin classrooms that just shouldn’t be
And walls full of mould in our schools
Yet pay and pensions in the Westminster bubble
Go up yet again, as we’re treated as fools.

It’s quite true we don’t wander around with the rich
For our hearts and our minds are elsewhere
We’re keeping a watch on corruption at large
And versing your created despair.

©Joe Wilson – Were we really all in it together…2015

The world is a mirage of echoes,
versing past my vision like illusions.

I try to reach out, but shadows hold
no grasp of my disappointment.

Failures  mirror on myself as they cling
to my insides like teardrops of acidic despair.

They melt away at the picture perfect hollow
smiles that are cracking within each falsehood.

I'm tired of the scars of my past, stories that
bled, healing but still bleeding beneath myself ..

When I venture eyes slightly glazed
           at that ****** light permeating
my room like an unwanted guest
                               knocking at my door
at 8:00am in the shock treatment of my
                                    
                                               awakening.


But still versing hymens of my woeful
                                   acknowledgement.
Covering ones self like a concrete tomb.
                  covering light with plasters
of inconvenience, hiding the cuts of awakening.

I will slumber, entombed beneath shallow blankets.
                          Never arising
                           to the wants of another day.
Clinging to the beauty of darkness,
                               I awaken to the reality of another day.

and I am deaf too,
and too dumb to speak
kind, loud and slow
to your yearning ear.

and also too blind,
with distance unsighted,
this burgeoning love
too readily blighted

no language too pure for
your precious flower
no sentence to capture
our rapturous hour

dissonant rhyming
and unstructured versing
metaphoric tussle
empathetic cursing

like a sonorous bird on a wire, his lyrics delivered with/in, a gravelly impish grinning wink, with a high voltage  current currency that makes you cry, why did I not write that, godfamn it, which rhymes doncha ya know

so pickup your electronics, grumpy and
cursing, compelled to start versing, bested by
the best, reminder to self you are an also ran, you be back of the pack, and the love out there, freely given to the artists we aspire to be makes me,

an ***-piring foolish man, who kicks up
beach sand into his owned eyes, them two
regular betrayers… and that’s a rap and a
wrap of another baddie po~em

No matter how great the versing
  writing always lacks the note

That music plants inside our souls
  words by their nature rote

Its melody takes you skyward
  all reason left behind

Pure joy out front to then surround
  —what substitutes as mind

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

if King anticipated writing for a scared audience, of ****-pants... i'm more anticipatory of versing it so... the monster who took a **** was actually trying to fathom the victim being able to do so: likewise.*

i: does that imply
         affirmative action?
can it be merely ? per se?
   a noumenon -
without the pluralism
of having to exclaim
   a marking equivalent
of simultaneously
  citing a divergent
                   credo?
the non-inquisitive uhoh?
catcher in the rye
if i tell you:
    ooh-o for a smacker-worth
of interpretation?
- how else to encompass
     a concern for a revert?
a pronoun with
the riddle of possessing
            many nouns...
oh the laboursome affair
of a setting sun
in the eye of a man:
retiring with an anticipation
of sleep:
   lost in regaining consciousness
with the e.g. of dream.

and when Qais blacked out after a sporadic
moment of "malnutrition"
on a Ramadan bout of "purification":
o.k.: i get the medieval insistence
on the practice, esp given the desert environment
but now: it almost feels like
a stance: albeit i know, i know: it's not that
but in this other kind of desert
of concrete, jungle, concrete:

            anyways: apparently he was calling
me for me or he imagined
i was the face he saw... but i was: "miles" away
yet...
   so it's not even about being "re" educated
when it comes to foreign cultures, peoples,
i'm not going to write **** poetic immigrant
ballads about not fitting in:

as i told: let's call him Richard...
a West Indian: although Indian is hardly
a way to describe...
so now collaborative effort on both parties
involved...
a sensitive topic, considering the bleaching
of history
and how i love Heidegger and his obsession
with historiology:
his, is a writing: filled with allusive -
let's say metaphor-morphing:
i love how he understand his own writing
and the reader: is not supposed to:
like Nietzsche predicted:
the German ethos of idiosyncratic
endeavor:
       even in Thuringia they were spelling
out to the English hooligans
a "welcome home" party slogans

          because Brexit happened because
the Polish plumbers got the better of them:
so i was telling "Richard":
there was once a "thing" called a:
protestant work ethic...
which is not to admit to drinking too much
alcohol on the job...
or the night prior:
           even i don't do that...
but there was such a "thing"...
even...                                          now...
but Brexit happened because
the Slavs "invaded" Europe: or were merely:
neighborly: brotherly: well, apparent: **** that!

so the Empire imploded
and there was no Hippy Regeneration
no Trail of Cid and Acid
and multi-color versat: versing: shortening:
quickened: equipping...

Qais... 21... such a tenderness in man:
wants to bulk up... Hulk mode...
weighing in at 90kg...
give it time, Qais, gravity and time...
by the time you're 40 you'll put on weight
some of it will be useless
like the grudge i now have for cycling
is...

                     just ******* impossible to
deviate from...
i want to canoe, ******* paddle...
then i saw a glimpse of evolution
in the origins of the Polynesian people
a glimpse a ***** a blink
a Thai wink
in this: "brute": and it coincided with:
well thanks for the olives (and skin)
but where did you get your HASEL:
not hustle: HUSSEL? no, not Husserl...
hassle... ah: hassle not hassel:

glum eat the vowel: 'sle not fish netting
'sel
                by what date? sell by?
well...
                    DAHOMEY & ASHANTI

perfectly honest: i don't understand why
these English folk put up with
Sudanese Ahmed(s)
who s.p.e.l.l. out the stink of India
and Israeli skunk bombs
with terms like: NOT ABORIGINAL
but native and PUNK is butter is cute
is like: nothing rebellion against
the tectonic status quo of people
like water constantly: constant "being" born
and "being" dead...
like this preserved instance
in a format of a democratic fashion
exemplified with: squandering the use
of these idle tools of communication:

my grandfather Joseph would be proud
i hate being told
like no other ****** would be told
just endeared with "mr trouble"
but the moment i give Qais
a ******* 10min runner ahead
to catch the train i'm involved with
c.c.t.v. paranoia like the "almighty"
control room doesn't see how
i do my verk...
    
       because that's how shifts go
and how people get all ******* friendly
at work: then start whatsapp groups
and try doubly friendly to be
boss ***** and poor poor pooh bears
and that's just ******* disgusting
i'm not in high school but: there's the yard

one bourbon two bourbons
the kingdom of Burgundy and that was
me ******* into the cup of wine
to spike the aging fruit of garden
and Jerusalem
feeding me happy thoughts...
because new serpent arrived
without an apple but a morphed bunch
of grapes and some fudge packing
**** into bread
resurrected on the crucifix

at least i know that Islam is a religion
for men
and i can't be doing with this
hijacking of words with images
that culminated in emoticons under
the banner of Christianity:
i think i'm smarter than to have to adhere
to Christianity
this religion that's zenith came without
but with the Exodus into Dust of Auschwitz...
and clearly: no one panicked
or picked up on the slaughter
since so much was "achieved" given
the numbers...
now i will clearly spot a few Watermelons
gleeful in my scribble and:
no matter...

              i stopped admiring the American
intellectual English this is just my
Lingua of the commerce of ideas some will
go no further than the sputnik of ****
i flush down the toilet
while jerking off over a could-be Madonna
such a pretty face
but such ugly **** and stomach cramps
when reaching ****** with multiple dudes
and ******

*** some amphetamine vitamin numbing...

i'm still so bummed out about
getting a Green Day t-shirt
from the shift...

do you know your enemy...
do you know your enemy...

sad story about Qais: 21... already
traumatized by women
had a girlfriend and a *******
but still a ******:
was accused of ****
the girl wasn't a ****** but probably
wanted a notch on her girth:
hardly a belt... smacker: push a plum
into a piece of bread:
but him: unwilling became a HASHTAG
memorandum of: dangerous loop...

origins of ****** dynamic failure:
too many drugs now i'm
waiting for the death of the last Holocaust
survivor like i'm waiting
for the last instigator of the 1960s revolution...
when Paul "the pauper don" McCartney
and McCarthy are but recycled newspaper
click-baits: i'll go swimming with the alias:
skinny: for naked...

       i think i might just feel fine: then...
until then:
Qais... i don't suppose i can recommend
you an objective-affection for loss of sentiment
for emotions when having ***:
with prostitutes?

     but why the **** do people speak to me
so openly
then i remember those little ****** and little *****
bothered about social hierarchies and
climbing ranks
and i'm reminded by the demeaning language
they use concerning the roles
they once filled and it's so ****
sad
makes me want to think about being
a garbage man or a poet:
apparently a Swiss entrepreneur would know
how to understand what poet is these
days: a LOSER or NOT a fifty shades
of grey scribbler:            but that's just fine
i'm sort of happy not having
to laugh out loud into his face...

it's a slow burn sort of erosion type of
happiness...

          but i will never "feel" English among
Englishmen and i will never "think"
to be Polish among the Polacks - the John
Lackland luster of history:
sold a land for paupers and Gypsies...
and then bold: behold: bowed and blew
into split grass shafts for lack of proper flutes...

so demeaning that i didn't learn
how to whistle by putting *******
into my mouth:
but sure as **** i managed to teach myself
how to regurgitate doing the same
and whenever overeating
i will resort to a now perfected reflex
of the oesophagus: BLURP BURP BLAH...

but i still feel suffocated by:
well who knows who's right side of a WHIM
i will wake up on and what
sort of SPASTIC MR FANTASTIC
SUPERDYSLEXICMENSCH
will find my writing and achieve a realization
dynamo of: OFFENCE OFFENCE!

i believe that: if the Chinese government
and the Moscow Mongols
are not after my skin:
any attack from the Western Echo Ethos
is more likely to give this feeble dream
of democracy and freedom:
otherwise pandering to the loud-mouth cripples:
even i have to queue even
i have to commute but SPEZIAL TREATS
for SPAZ is like: glory to god the sun is shining
on four wheels and aubergines
contortions in cubism... alive...

because: just because: someone had no
******* clue about the dangers of ***
so they had *** anyway...
sitting in a brothel contemplating STDs...
perplexed: so how come i haven't had any?
personal hygiene?
that's a good start...
            maybe i'm more of a cat or a dog
and i'm sort of able to lick my *******...
although i can't:
but maybe i'm just surrounded by these horrors
and find myself imbecilic
not having to deal with such instances
of being accused of ****...

              so there was Walt Whitman
and i'm dry on pride:
just don't have the stomach of being forcefed
a sexuality
my own is distraught by the distance
from London to Kauai
and i'm not about to go "hunting" for some
fertile 20 year old
just bored of the conversation
just not: having one...

                 the ****** revolution (supposed,
"revolution") brought nothing but
a deepening of: anti-resolve to the revolving
glitter of moon and earth around
a star of many
                       and i'm... not about to start:
but happy to know that other people
will breed indefinitely in grey
to the matter of fact of: like everyone
might need a plumber or a bus driver some
day: like tomorrow...

as long as "we" persuade all those nurses
to stop dancing and making TikTok videos
miming sirens...
                          even writing this: *****.