bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual ***** from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,

torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs

he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)

the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
  so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….

he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.  
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)

the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about

he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene

off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously

J'ai toujours sous la main
Une ou deux molécules de ma muse effervescente,
Sa poudrière et sa houppe pour le teint.
Et quand vient le boléro de la migraine
Et que l'hallali explose dans ma tête en pleine chasse à courre
Et que c'est la curée chaude
Je rappelle la meute des mots chiens et taureaux
Et je transforme en plein couvent les kilomètres de petit-lait entier en fa dièse mineur
De ma Decatur ecclésiastique
En AOP.
AOP,
C'est Aspirine et Antimoine,
Les deux vocalises de ma muse,
Deux sœurs siamoises,
Deux divas effervescentes de Cadix
Que nul bistouri ne peut disjoindre
Quand en duo, aveugles, elles dansent leur boléro dans un bain d'encre
Allegretto con moto
Au son des cors de chasse
Au lieu des castagnettes.
Ces deux divas sont une lettre d'indulgence,
Un passeport incunable pour le paradis,
Dont je suis l'enlumineur, le rubricateur, l'imprimeur, le relieur
Et l'auteur.
J'imprime à grand tirage leur psautier poisseux sur deux colonnes
Et quarante deux lignes

Bras en sang *** comme les sainfoins
L'hyperbole retombe Les mains

Les oiseaux sont des nombres
L'algèbre est dans les arbres
C'est Rousseau qui peignit sur la portée du ciel
Cette musique à vocalises

Cent À Cent pour la vie

Qui tatoue

Je fais la roue sur les remparts.

Awakening slowly in morning shadows,
Céline senses what might now ripen and
grow within her. The earth is ringing out.

By obscure transitions, affirming visions in
the girl’s self-determining mind are revealing
new depths to her evolving character.

The nameless hour has arrived, that
mesmerizing, eternal hour, when children
cease to look vaguely at the sky.

What was previously dreaming confusedly
in her eyes now takes on a more determined
glint; her resolute grin also declares it.

While still half asleep, a single delightful
odour communicates itself, returning the
nine-year-old to an autumn lived long ago.

Unaware that the Madeleine returned Proust
to his childhood, she suspects memories will
awaken and breathe when odours are good.  

The bitter, sticky fragrance of rice cakes
cooking on the breakfast fire has returned
Céline to her to grandmother’s kitchen.

She shakes herself awake, blaming the sweet
odour on a dream, but she has bounced off
the intimate memory of grandmother’s cakes.  

Her sense of it is sleepy, but she’s aware
that this odour is beginning to introduce
her to visions of a life she has not yet lived.

Then, unaccountably, a series of echoing
sounds accompany the scented reverie and
her potential universe unravels further.

It’s no vague hint; it will sleep in her heart
forever, or until she is rocking her worn,
old body in a warm rocking chair.

Attuned to the fountain’s sweet harmony,
she imagines the multi-layered sounds are
multiplying with endless new variations.

The gathering vision washes over her in
soothing waves of strange calm, mixing
a taste of knowledge with hints of mirth.

She discovers these sounds to be edible and
having feasted on her memories, she now lifts
her head to facilitate her feeding on the future.

She can smell all there is to know
roasting in the sky. No words come
but she vocalises the amiable sounds.

Breathing rhythmically, it is no surprise to
her that life can be sensitised in this fashion;
she has played reverie like this before.

Céline knows how to curl away, go
deep within, sing in her head and
rejoice in opportunities of solitude.

She bids her sleep-filled body to stir,
re-affirm who she is and discover what
the welcoming sounds have in store.

No answer comes, but fortified and grateful
for the magical reveries she surrenders to a
forest that will be wild beyond her knowing.

Drinking in the dawn like a cup of spring
water, she prepares to enter the heart of this
forest by vowing to stay close to her heart.

By now it's well past nine,
but all I do is part the blinds,
head spinning, hair awry,
messed up sheets, covers up high.
And my day disappears. In my bedroom
my house, while powerful
people make powerful choices,
powerful problems, as I
pour another coffee, blinking back haze,
a stupid teenage phase.

It's past nine and all I do is
blur another line. Overlook the
scope of what I know we can't escape.
Where affluence is influence,
privilege; potential. Fighting a frenzy
threatening my future.
I stare at my windows foggy glass
in a quiet room, inconsequential.
As numbers feed sinners
and a sinner's scent lingers.

My afternoon morning voice vocalises
prospects - don't expect experience
except where artists lay down
to die.
Should I go out and have a walk?
Should I shock my mind awake? Awake
away from mistakes - take away the
ache for a clean slate, for my state
is stained and tainted - tongue tied.

It's past nine. My school shoes
are worn through, but they're mine. I
pull the laces too tight, constricting;
grasping control where control
contributes only to collapse. Collapsing,
as they're wading through the
landfill to find a throne to
recline on, willing to
pile up any bodies that they need to
climb on. Tears freeze on my
cheeks into pearls. They sell
them as necklaces admist the peril
of a nation with drowning youth - no
fear, no thought - the truth.

They poison air with gases they
can't name, and breathe the last
lungful and avoid all blame as
the air is ****** out of
the wind. My window. Suffocate.

It's well past nine, should I get
up in the meantime?

Y  - Yummiest, his tongue says.
A  - Amazing man, whom listners admire.
M - Magically majestic in football commentary.
L  - Listeners glisten as they listen to him.
A  - An artist that aesthetically vocalises pleasing
S. - Saintly, a spirited angel for Hausa football commentary.
H - He who has no resentments, envy, or enmity.