People are carefully ripping the vouchers out of newspapers
Folding them in half
The people neatly place the vouchers in to their coat pockets or purses, in their jean pockets or bags

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you will forget
the colour of my eyes
and the way i turn to the back door
instinctively, when i hear the click
and how, unlike you all, i do not yell across the cubicles
the way i crushed boxes for two hours, then
and how i cry, too easily
the six pack of strawberry milk (fresh from the fridge) that only i drank
the smell of fish and chips that wafted through the office and-

-you will forget my love,
my loyalty,
and soon enough,
you will forget me.

i don't want to forget.

"don't want to?"

no. i can't.

i cannot forget the christmas decorations that must be down by now
or the perpetually-unmanned front
or stale, recycled, air-conditioned oxygen that tasted like bliss
and lemon stained fish and chips, and salad that came out of a tub,
and scalding heat against my palm
and tears.

i cannot forget the way she laughs
like an orchestra of the wind beneath the branches
or the way you shook my hand
and made me feel like i belonged and
how you, you, my love, you are bothering to go to the trouble of sending me registered mail
so it doesn't get lost
the way i do, in her eyes

i cannot forget how you are different. special
and how you refuse to take selfies that are glamorous
because you have a sense of fun and
the first time you ever saw me, drenched
dedicated, yearning, and already in irrevocable love.

i cannot forget the strike i scored
with my eyes on a screen instead of a lane and
the cookies, the vouchers, the games
the screwdrivers, shoes, and sushi

i cannot forget the goodbyes i never said
in case i never say them, the next time i can
that once upon a time-
i belonged.

i cannot forget beauty and goodness and strength and
laughter and belonging and teasing and acceptance and
loyalty and experience and diversity and determination and
passion and teamwork and friendship and family and
love.

i cannot forget.
because you will.

you know what they say
if nobody remembers something any longer
did it really exist?

when i was young and foolish i thought that was so ridiculous
because it's happened- so it must exist
mustn't it?
and now i see why
the philosophers say what they do
and why people doubt.

i am so afraid to forget
because if i can,
then others can (and will), as well.

but as long as i remember (even if it fades from the collective remembrance)
then it will always exist
even if only
in the land of memories
and dreams upon our dreams
where we can never set foot upon again.

You know as well as I do
that internet dating can have its ups
and downs
and thus, after so many futile meetings
and tragic misadventures
in a domestic UK situation,
I decided to spread my wings
and so I logged on to an Australian website
for lonely kangaroo lovers
yes it was www.blackstump-legover.com.au
where no holes were barred.

And I soon struck up a promising friendship
with someone who sounded like
a real goer, a total slapper,
with no morals whatsover
judging from the photo she posted
taken with a mobile phone
up her skirt
which showed her muffin *****
as well as what she had eaten
for breakfast yesterday,
poking its head out.

We finally agreed to meet
behind the old dunny
in the park where the abos go
to exchange their social security vouchers
for crack *******
or a bottle of Castlemain XXXX
or a quick one up each others' bots
in spite of the pong
on a sunny arvo.

You can imagine how effing disappointed
I was when she arrived
on a trailer attached to her grandson's ute
strapped to a battered gurney
(and almost insensate)
but still ready for a bit of backdoor action
but not from me, no sirree,
thank you very much mate:
I might be desperate, but
I would have had to have
clipped my nose shut with a clothes peg
to get anywhere near her
and my gag reflex simply couldn't cope.

So I bravely dragged the gurney
over to the convenient gap
in the fence overlooking the mighty ravine
and with a gentle shove
I sent her to that sweet place
where peace can be found
and I can still hear her scream
as she bounced off the rocks
accusing me of being illegitimate
before silence reigned
and I smiled in joy.

It only goes to show, O my friends,
that there are female dogs
of the most hideous kind
on every sodding continent
on this dear planet of ours;
and I may as well stick to
a handful of Nivea cream
and a Kleenex, at least the odour
is wholesome.

Thank you
For not remembering
for not sending vouchers
for me to choose
something I like
or cash
for same

Thank you
For not dropping in
and presenting
hollow sentiment
before leaving for
something
more important

Thank you for
not forgetting
For finding a bright penny
from my birth year
for good luck
and that book
I once mentioned

And thank you
For spending time
understanding its value
and gifting me
your smile
a birthday
treasure

True Faith and Allegiance

A retired admiral peddles insurance to
“My fellow veterans,” still ripping off
The enlisted with bogus bonhomie
About how they all were merry shipmates

Retired generals ooze into something new
Suits for the business of dealing in souls
Souls bought and sold internationally
Where careless talk could cost discreet kickbacks

The surviving enlisted, wounded and sick,
Are doled out vouchers for a bus ride home

Medicare and Social Security
Again are coming under attack.
Don't give Republicans
Who mess with the programs any slack.

Earned benefits are exactly
What most Americans want to preserve.
Whenever lamebrained politicians
Threaten them, they touch a nerve.

Fight, people; fight to keep
Necessary programs strong.
Don't let manipulating
Schemers con you and string you along.

When they blather on about vouchers
And privatization and drive you nuts,
Politely tell them to take their vouchers
And stuff them up their you-know-whats.

- by Bob B (11-15-16)

great bands
are the ones with
the rhythm section having
a lot of fun... esp. the bass player
(tool / red hot chilli peppers -
because i could never catch the bass line
in metallica after the original bassist died,
except in two songs: my friend of misery
and devil's dance),
makes it a befitting continuity of jazz,
not just the boorish: let the solo guitarist
invoke the soprano and have all the fun...
******* that one too?
no wonder air guitar came about.
i mean... i wrote an essay
in music class once about the caribbean
and wrote nothing about bob marley, i know;
it was so good i got the prize
of having vouchers for the bookstore w.h. smith
and got myself a book.
otherwise? learning music in a catholic school?
well just a bunch of keyboards on the desks,
you’d think kraftwerk was at work
styling a revival of the bouncy wet biscuit dance
allowing these epileptics into the club
without a warning sign: strobe lights!

We sent him to represent us
And he obediently went
To represent himself
Never forgot us though
Remembered to turn back
To bite at the fingers that fed him
To kick us in the groin
As he filled his granary
Time is up!
He hasn’t passed our message
He is cunningly back
Asking us to give him
Vouchers for his greed
Our votes
Prove to me my people
Something is between the ears
Send him away
This thief messager.

can't let go
I grasp I take hold
And I can't let go
My hands sweat and slip but I grasp harder
Wondering if it would have been smarter
to just not grasp at all
To just surpass it all
Because now the collapse of it all is on me
And things like this don't have a plan b
... so I think
Wondering about the correlation
Connecting the links
the what ifs
Pleading the fifth to all the things I can't explain
Perspiration runs now like rain down my finger tips
Under looking the bliss
Measuring the ignorance
Memories like fingerprints engraved on us two
Enslaved to the emotions and memories of you
I wish that I would not have taken hold of you
Hands stuck as if glued
With vision skewed
And thoughts just as lewd
Wishing our hearts did not have **** encounters
Wishing that thoughts transcribed were not vouchers
Feelings and emotions for you cower in my brain
Perspiration from my hand like rain makes a puddle
As your actions are rebuttaled
I notice the subtle grit in your voice
the off step in your poise
hands overly moist
overlooking the choice to let go
aching to let go
Heart in hand
hand in heart
I can start to feel the asphyxiation
how can I deal with the gratification of vacancy?
The truth in the blatancy
So I wait and see what will happen
Stuck in the latency of entrapment
A stagnant motion
The collapsing notion of lungs  
A grasp that has my neck rung
Hand in heart
Heart in hand

A brilliant thought titled, my old friend told me to reshuffle before I write this. Touching humans with souls, be a friend or foe, I’m drawing this prose for those who were never told. Scared of being good coz being bold means bravery, Biko told me it could be repercussions of slavery. Forgive me, where’s my manners, let this be forever…I bet you’d rather hear what this has to do with the latter. What’s new? Signing future deals with the devil and smashing each other blue, can’t blame the Djs for scratching another Rhythm & Blues. Living like forever is promised, ins and outs, drinking high as long as my steps are polished. Put my chick on my payroll, so she doesn’t turn around and play ball. Same time, same eye on the vultures, busy eyeing my plate planning to scavenger my vouchers. Going to work building careers for Fridays and better Fridays, monotonous times with guerrilla peers for highways but never like gays. An agitating pain in my back, I miss the days of shooting hoops. Now the game has changed, I guess it’s time to rally the troops. Hoping I’m praying as I’m living through Everyday Thinking, regretting the white lies protecting the future of this everyday sinning. More kids still dying in the newspapers while the rest don’t even read, bad awes still killing our peacemakers while the rest think we’re free…

Just stare

Just stare at fear straight into the pupil ripple your inner kingdom , puke the system don't be a victim of what you don't know . Start scripting the pages of your life

Just stare at foolishness ,humble conscience and respect your conscious. Don't be materialistic forget about vouchers.

Just stare at lies try to open your eyes to the truth and make room for your inner roots to grow.

Just stare at anxiety , tranquility is in your arteries.

Just stare at everything you're a wanderer.

I collect my words,
  leaving them in my wallet
         for when their meant to be spent..

And like vouchers I spend my words
                                   at the right time..
here's a voucher with a ******* for
           the times you never stood by me..

And here is a coupon  
             for a rock when you needed me
                           and you can sink silently...

Trump thinks that his phones were tapped
During the campaign season.
If that had been the case, there had to
Have been a very good reason.

If intelligence agencies
Did indeed suspect
Questionable activity
Worthy of being checked,

Maybe they did tap his phones.
But James Clapper° denies it.
Another example of Trump crying "Wolf!"?
We know how often he tries it.

Or is it just one more distraction
To steer us away from how
Trump and certain Republican friends
Are ******* us over right now

By talking of vouchers; talking of limiting
Freedom of expression;
And making a mess of health care, which
Has been their constant obsession;

And letting people discriminate
Based on religious convictions--
An insult to equal rights and they
Can see no contradictions.

Trump's team and Russians have had
Frequent conversations.
Whatever the topics, we know they weren't
Mere congratulations.

Perhaps it's just Trump's paranoia
Coming to the fore.
What started out as a joke isn't
Funny anymore.

- by Bob B (3-5-17)

°Former Director of National Intelligence

God had Eden

Satan had a pleasure park of rollercoasters

Pac-Man machines and souvenir shops 

(the quests were long 
the merchandise over priced
the hot dogs cold)

and outside Eden 
the traffic stretched for miles
– cars full of screaming children and half eaten fruit
– cars full of fuming parents with half price vouchers stuffed in pockets 

others climbed over the fence to the garden of Eden
they bought a packed lunch with them

a blanket covered in cat hair

the garden was overgrown

the fruit was rotten

dogs ran wild

they made a mental note to write a one star review when they got home

Community College for Everyone

“Tolle Lege - Take up and read”
-a child’s voice in Saint Augustine’s Confessions

You do not need permits or paperwork
A license, vouchers, sufferance, consent,
Authorization, sanction, approval,
Passport, certification, charter, chit,

Security clearance, brevet, code, key,
Party card, registration, ration book,
Rubber stamp, fingerprints, user name, badge,
Photo identification, pin number

To read a poem on a summer afternoon
You do not need permits or paperwork

Dint stand on me my life's filled with wild flowers. You know nothing about it! Iv been to Hell and back I can show you vouchers.

That's why I write poems that are filled with broken bottles. Today felt like a silent picture searching for some colour in it's world.

I hold onto the old willow tree, but it's shade is Oh so cold! I let go and the wind takes me to a place were silence grows.

A place were screaming has loads of meaning, every sound screaming and searching.

Where your heart will never love, because hate will make it starve. I try to run to find somewhere to hide!

But when I hide my eyes start to cry, my tears think but they thoughts are deep.

Sadness comes along and takes hold of me, so don't stand on me take a look at the picture painted for me.

JidosReality 24.1.13

North Carolina changed me in ways jersey never could
Perfect strangers and twang accents
State plates from as far as 700 miles. Plane ticket vouchers for 1000.
Crisp air and crap coffee
A 9 hour drive gave me just enough time to love life and all it’s mini tragedies.
Like a tv show series with static that cuts right before the last lines.
A birdcage in my chest, it’s door swings back and forth waiting for a worthy inhabitant. I have found him. And Him.
My hero’s don’t wear capes and my angels don’t have wings

From the moment you stop growing you are dying so live life like there’s a heat seeking missile everywhere you go. Cells divide and replace. Slowly. Ever so slowly.
Oxygen gets replaced by carbon and you breathe deeply like you may never again.
Taking pictures of everything and nothing.
At. The.  Same.  Time.

There’s no jet lag but the corners of my eyes have become bloodshot with gratitude and faith.
30 dollar full tanks and barbecue dreams.
If I could find a place to settle I’d never leave.

I've written letters of complaint, and I've made it crystal clear
That constant life insurance adds, are an insult to the ear
A thousand pounds near minimum, I still think that's quite dear
We resent your death reminders, every day and year by year

I'd much prefer an answer, but I'm simply being ignored
Your only interest seems to be, is we all get insured!
We're offered bribes to temp us, if a policy is scored
Vouchers for our honored dead, well that is no reward

A collaboration with the reaper, do you have to get so close?
It doesn't matter if its pure, or if it is grandiose
Biologically it's necessary, but from a certain point it's gross
We cannot deny we've had our fill, and now we're comatose

Larynxes are beyond sore, our throats are stuffed and rammed
Why do the brakes in programming, have to be so crammed?
Material that destroys your soul, should be condemned and ******
Pure profit over sympathy, with the public that you've scammed

Stop praying on vulnerable, stop banking on the needy
The volume of competitors, are getting far too greedy
Cash grabing is hardly fair, it's bordering on seedy
Would we like these adverts purged, the answers "yes indeedy"

Bleak broadcasting is of the scale, it's something we detest
Everyone is sick to death, and I really must protest
Don't you know that your campaign, is making us depressed?
We won't take this lying down, so please lay it to rest

Poor undertakers don't exist, their service price is shocking
Tailored suits don't justify, the dying that their mocking
A sordid quest for your demise, as heavens door is knocking
Caskets and a hired hurse, an expense that sure needs blocking

The pretence of the smarmy gent, his mannerisms are just fake
Pretending that they feel your pain, but their just on the make
Business deals are organised, and its not for heavens sake
Why don't we concentrate on life, instead of hearts that brake

Low cost funerals that's a laugh, who are you trying to kid
You even charge us for the nails, that seals the coffin lid
Twenty companies in excess, touting for your hard earned quid
Con artist's are in your face, waiting for the poor man's bid

It takes more than a few pennies, so don't raise your expectations
Cos in the end your still relying, on family and Relations
Don't waste your time on searching, through the mass of tv stations
It's impossible to get away, from funerals and cremations

Growing up we only had fizzy pop whilst chasing busy bee's
How times have changed from bike shed kissing and climbing trees
When Pac-Man was fun and kirby was free
And dads car seatbelt was just an obscurity
Panini stickers at school were all the rage
Even Spurs were good sung on by Chas and Dave
Mum collecting the Texaco vouchers with just ten more left to save
Your big sister all dolled up and heading for a rave
But times move on and in a cinch weve changed for worse or better
We tut at the simplist of things whilst choosing brie or feta
Labelled as the primest of souls with a tendancy of 'oh just let her'
Sat in the mall with 2 screaming kids and Bernie her Red Setter
Fourteen years old and already knowing a Latte from a Cappacino
I was sat in my room, not a penny to spend, happy with my Beano
How times move on, straight past our eyes, it's just how life goes
A kid on a swing, always pondering things, on how the wind blows
It'll circle again, this life with new friends
To some other wandering kid, always starting a new trend
And off it goes again.....

Life

JJB

id est contra sic (502 bad gateway bypass)

dare to write something
beautiful only once...
the rest of the time you can
spend it (i.e. time)
finding the world rather
ugly...

            (caught you mother-******!,
no i can publish my original intent!)

i sit on the windowsill come the night and look out
at the clouds and the moon and everything else
the night might allow me to see,
but at the same time i'm tricking my cat into
"thinking" that i'm sitting on a windowsill drinking
and looking at "something"
for him to subsequently imitate me when
i'm not on the windowsill to do the same...
he decided it was worthwhile to imitate me...
sometimes he sits on my usual spot
(although not perched like a crow,
sitting on a folded leg, crunching the bones
where my leg ends and my foot begins)
or he sits parallel to me on the windowsill
in the bathroom...
i look out, he looks out...
what he doesn't know is that when i'm looking
at the horizon and the moon and trying
to conjure faces from the clouds i'm actually looking
in... these external objects just aid me in introspection,
i have this cauldron of memories stashed in me
that i bring to the fore in a labyrinth of
thought...
it helps to elevate and bring together
a mixture of thought-memory... i can't escape thinking
without memory: it has been drilled into me from
an early age, mind you: everyone has been drilled
this complex: thought-memory within the confines
of pedagogy... very quickly we are told that
thought-memory is prime while thought-imagination
ought to be extinguished...
i.e. you should really imagine a circle if you've already
seen a circle, but you should remember
that... A = πr²...
                                no? within the confines of modern
pedagogy we are absolved of any imagination:
we apparently have none, no imagination to put up
with a mundane job by imagination little critters of
escapism on our own behalf within ourselves...
and memory? well... personal memories can sort
of "**** themselves" when it comes to memorising
rubrics of arithmetic and spelling...
or the ingestion of historical facts that: when coupled
with the ongoing onslaught of journalistic overload
mean very little... in a time of libido and historical
insomnias...
well i do know how to escape from something
mundane presented before me...
i remember better times,
memory is a fickle creature: it takes time to control
it in order to select the most pleasurable memories:
and even then, it doesn't ****** work:
pedagogy did that: we had to remember things we
would rather wish to forget because they have
to relevance in our life, or how we apply our skills
or non-skills... but of the personal memories we
gather: they are automatically filtered by memory-itself,
a "cognitive selection" takes places:
who says it's either natural or unnatural,
is must be both... then again: you can't remember everything,
but i prefer the cinema of memory mingling
with thought (or its narrative aspect absent
of the ******) than if i were lost in imago-cogito...
the imagining-thinking...
my cat "thinks" i'm looking at something interesting...
i'm not... then again i am: i'm looking backwards:
i'm reflection on, for example, today...
Poet of the Coliseum... supervising blah blah...
what crept up today was what has crept up
at the London Stadium for the past several shifts...
the Jeffrey Dahmer (ugh... a surd of H)
show... i swear to god i'm sensing that i'm giving off
vibes of a serial killer to certain people...
in the work environment people try to cue
some personality, some personal references to fellow
coworkers... me? i'm trying to push back with as much
ahem... "professionalism" as possible...
i'm here, i work, i'm done, i'm out...
i drink alone, i don't drink to talk i drink to write...
but over several shifts this topic was raised and i'm like...
can't we talk about Ed Gein?
he was a much bigger cultural influence on America than
the whole lot of them put together...
all the serial killers were white... huh?!
what about that black guy... why isn't Samuel Little
famous, based on the body count?
we talked about America... racism blah blah... south...
i said i didn't have a thirst for seeing America...
Kamchatka, the peninsula? oh yeah... America?
no really... it's a land of the celebration of Cain...
clearly... elsewhere serial killers would be taken into
a prison cell and get shot in the back of the head
and as the urban myth goes... they wouldn't die
immediately... sure... the brain would be ******...
but the heart would still be ticking tick-tock...
a bullet in the head is not some magical immediacy of death...
ask Christine Chubbuck... she was on life support
machines in limbo because she only not only
missed her brain but merely damaged it...
like that urban myth aligned to:
a cockroach loses its head... what does the cockroach
die of? starvation...
Franz Kafka was right (stab the heart)
Kurt Cobain was wrong (shotgun to the head)...
am i seriously giving off vibes of a serial killer or something?!
well... finally! i found one Subway outlet that
accepted discount vouchers...
ate nothing beside a slice of pizza i made the day earlier
when i woke up... i was getting dizzy from low sugar...
i ordered a foot-long chicken something or other...
and a drink... £5.50... decent...
i love Subway... why? the bread is prepped,
the meat... then you get to the salad section and the girl
asks you... what would you like, onions? sweetcorn,
salad, black olives... etc.
     it gets them all the time when you reply: all of it...
i ******* hate fussy eaters... if there's one "class" of
people i hate more than vegans it's: fussy eaters...
i hate fussy eaters...
i'll eat dried fish and drink beer with Russians talking
about fussy eaters and how: no...
peanuts are not the perfect compliment to beer...
Russians gulp down dried fish while drinking beer
like the Thai add dried shrimps to their curry sauces...
idle me... i do believe animals have souls...
i just don't think they think...
how can a dog think when all he can is utter
a bark or a cat think if he can only utter a meow?
what "thinking" is there bound to man's
"deciphering" of the sound the cat utters
with the letters M-E-O-W... blind men see more
with their agility to think than cat's with their
utterance of a meow...
i know: an onomatopoeia...
                              but i guess that also conjures
up a correspondence to character...
petted animals build a character off of the person
petting them... herded animal, farmed animals
are different: if there's a "problem" of numbers
then i assure myself: cows have no personality,
they're no petted beasts... ergo?
they return to the godhead of cows...
and i close the lid and never ask Pandora for her
knitting skills... to unravel my closed box
per se explanation... as happened with Beelzebub
and Hey-Zeus of Golgotha becoming the
Lord of Mosquitos... everything ******* vampire-esque
stems from that "metaphor" of this wine is
blood and this water is also wine...
i do know how he managed to get those people
drunk on water...
he wasn't alone in the desert for those 40 days and
40 nights...
nope... if he managed to get people "drunk" on water...
he must have taken them into the desert with him...
imagine not drinking water or eating for a month...
what would happen after those 40 days and nights?
you'd drink a glass of water
and become revived: "resurrected"!
you'd be glad and happy and seemingly drunk...
why? you haven't been drinking water for 40 days!
the moment you drank a little you'd be *******
seemingly drunk! it's the ascetic veil!
everyone should know what it is!

look at me... talking curtains and veils and mirrors...
but it is what it is!
i would be drunk from drinking water
after spending 40 days in the desert without a drip drip
droplet's worth of ease...
******* "mysteries" my ***... i must have been there...
in my sleep... so much so that now that i have a body
and a capacity to dream: i don't dream...
i must have seen what truly happened:
i bypassed the Byzantine grandeur of the choir singing
and said: when a Byzantine forgets that he
was a Greek primo, is the day that...
well... it's a day like any other...

i really don't know what "they" are trying...
even with all their ******* wigs i will not find black
women attractive... all the white girls can have
all the black boys: i too find something attractive about them,
but i can't compensate with the reverse...
i'll settle for... Gypsy... Romanian... Indian...
the odd black girl might spice my thinking up
once in a while... but that's like finding an emerald
in a heap of sand...

hmm! ha ha! me living in Africa... i was actually
thinking about ******* off to Kenya to try
and become a model for an advert... advertising soap...
or custard... since Western Europe is collapsing
like a gecko pretending to me a sloth...
but fair enough, circa London: the whole world is here...
as long as i can keep the mystique of people
thinking i'm this evil person, i'm all for it...
i like the idea of being thought as evil:
thinking you're evil: when you're not...
makes life so much more easier...
you don't have to worry about moral grand-standing!
you have no superiority "complex" over anyone...
you just "nod"... yes, yes yes...
i'm evil... well... better a presupposition of evil
(however much deluded)
than a supposition of good (however much well-intended)...

but in the workplace, mein gott... these horror stories...
these women...
i don't know how they managed it...
she makes her 3rd mistake with this guy:
who doesn't pay her child support...
3 kids, works 6 days a week as a nurse in
a hospital... blah blah...
how many mistakes do you have to make
before you start learning?
Pontius Pilate made it spot on:
a sport of washing your hands clean from:
no... not from being responsible for the self...
rather: meditating on not being responsible for others...
for others' mistakes you would otherwise
not make: i can understand being responsible
being responsible for others who would otherwise
make you responsible...
but not... not when the responsibility is aligned
to: people owning up to their mistakes
you would otherwise could not have made...

Christianity: the bogus focus on attempts of
ownership... own up?! no, oh no no...
so don't own up?! oh no, no no...
what then?!

              Christianity is rife in Africa...
well... a slave religion is befitting to supposed former
slaves... i need to elevate myself beyond this grip
of the emblem of suffering in the form of the crucifix...
let Hebrew be Hebrew and continually overstate
his conundrum with divine intervention
via: it wasn't enough! you didn't give us superpowers!

well... we do have c.c.t.v. in place, not enough?!
**** it... if that's not enough...
no wonder the mass sacrifice...
the breathing of ash into the air...
how much of a divine involvement do you actually
require before you decide to take life
into your own hands?!
how many hands do you have, before you realise
it requires at most, two?!

of course i'm *******!
i'm giggly-*******!
i see specimens weaker than me and i tend to them...
and they like me for that...
a ******* starts snuggling up to me
giving me a hand-job before i realise she was
a shallow **** and i can't get a plum "tattoo" on my pelvic
region from ******* her
and her face contorts in a semi-expression of pain....

but these women with obligations:
i was telling my fellow-co-workers,
before feminism... as my grandfather used to say:
there was something known as
the "bachelors' tax"... they were absolutely
dumb-founded... culturally-appropriate that,
*******...
yeah, single men had to pay extra taxes for
being single!

now?
i have as much "Darwinism" up my *** as i have
in my gob and as much as is allowed in head...
which is as much as my quasi-homosexuality
is ever to be nails harassed with acrylics...

perhaps women outperform the men in...
a load of bolloks...
but at the same time...
sparrow... sparrow: the call for freedom....
i am freed from the expected sanitising obligations
orientating men....

to be men...
                thank you, i most grand thank you...
thank you, thank you, thank you!
you don't even fathom how long
i've been waiting for an age of "irresponsibility"!
thank you!

i listen to these women,
i listen good, and proper...
if i were to pass on this agony...
i'd ask for the girl i was with
to be an iron maiden instrument of torture
before she could attain her status-hood
of being some... ******-Jezebel
of however capsized:
this ship is not going to sink!

                           and all the luck bound
to a barrel that's not floating on the whims
of the sea!

and it rings, and rings,
each shrill chirrup like a triumph;
your defeat, multiplied.

This is my own unanswerable riposte. A month,
almost, has passed. I know it’s you.
Once, accidentally, in a frantic, slapstick
dash from the bath, I made the blunder
and your voice slipped into my ear.
Your pitiable way of saying it was a mistake.
I presented you silence, gift-wrapped for free,
dripped back to the tub, each wet glyph
another step away from our despicable was.

Still, it rings.
I imagine them as punches to you,
not soft blows but great, leaden thumps,
a ricochet of knuckles on cheeks,
of these rings off from the walls
I deliberately, deliciously ignore.

Every quarter hour, a jolt,
a quick think of is this childish.
After all, at this hour and age,
must I resort to letting this black reptile
hark for my attention, coffees
gone cold, the LPs supermarket-queued
on the table we bought
with your mother's vouchers.

But yes. It rings, again,
I have lost count now the times.
I know it’s you.
The hour hand
pokes ten, the dog twitches
in its pool of sleep.
Still, darling, I provide my answer.