Is such a big and impossible to miss step for a scribbler
of poetry free poems to trip over.
A step that cannot be ignored, except consciously and conscientiously.
Such a person as a scribbler of poetry less poems would be a person who cannot tell the difference between truth and truthfulness.
A person whose sole raison d,etre in pretending to be a poet is their lifelong angst in being unable to escape from being under the control of  their mind and its operating system --the Conditioned Identity.
The Conditioned Identity,which is the facetious and morally dishonest "I am a poet" mask that is the consciously adopted Conditioned Identity--the operating system for the Mind.
In the great scheme of things becoming just another member of the human GroupMind--one who doesn't count--not even on the fingers of one hand-.
One,who,in the grand scheme of things,never has counted and never will count-call them countless.
Shadows that flicker and dim on the walls of the Prison of political, racial,national,familial and religious conformity
And these worthless scribblers of poetry less poems do have an all consuming conditioned habit  of consciously ignoring truthfulness and integrity and substituting pathetic sub-teen lower middle class emo whinging "truth"--about their "art" and "insight"and "vision"and their "truth"--always their worthless "truth".
Sitting and mourning the fulfilling love that always evades them and always will evade them--unless they let go of the conditioned identity and the Mind--consigning them to the dustbin of history--where they rightfully belong.
Angst ridden whingers all--in love with their image in the mirror of Minds oh so believable deception.
Scribbling about a conditional possessive love that would have been a valueless truth but never can be the essence of truthfulness.
A conditional possessive love that never was and never will be unconditional and non-possessive.
Whinging about nothing more than conditional love and a truthfulness that never can be for them--- as we see openly here and there and everywhere there are scribblers of poetry less "poetry" who use sites such as this to scribble their pretentious infantile nonsense.
Poverty of values and integrity,orphaned from the Isness of the Universe, children of worthless technological consumerism and followers of false oligarchic hopes.
With their greedy gobs open for any crumbs falling from the rich peoples tables,like baby chicks in the nest--feed me feed me they screech.
Colluding with like minded betrayers of truthfulness,groupminds of
limp wristed bombastic poseurs.
Deluding themselves by babbling media made inane celebrities
empty insights and twisted conclusions--purveyors of puerile pettiness.
Oligarchic media celebrities noted only for the illusions between their ears,and the beguiling way they collude with each other to delude themselves.
Ludare!
Oh how they love to play mind games
Lives spent colluding with these babbling worthless celebrities who know the price of everything and the value of nothing,
Pompous posturing pretentious pissants of aesthetic poverty.
Bound together into a worldwide consumers Groupmind,
persuaded by perverts of PR into believing in the Illusion of Wealth and Demockery that the Oligarchy sells.
To step over the truthfulness threshold is,indeed, to  leave behind their
security blankets of "truth and beauty and revealed knowledge"
and the concomitment meaningless verbiage about "veracity" and "existence".
Shallow and unrequited attempts to own another that the weak and unwanted call "love".
Stomping through the quagmire of conditional love
up to their necks in the **** of consumer garbage.
The Conditional love of possessing another and grasping at thin air
as they submerge slowly in the seas of righteous stupidity .
poets cling to their misconceptions religiously,
poets cling to their ignorance avidly,
poets cling to their proto-fascist politics squeamishly,
with each word and stanza that they write.
Pouring out such pleasant and elegant and flowery and "deep"
words and verses(rhyming or not) that,at their core,
have only one meaning and aim.
Which is!.
To divert and confuse their readers with the"shallow beauty"
of endless strings of meaningless associated but fine sounding words .
To create a groupmind for their poetry business products.
Admire me--buy my product--join my groupmind--eulogise me,
let me rip off your energy--I need your praise,I need your lifes energy
gimme your money honey!.
The Publishing Oligarchy will bestow rewards and honours,
medals and diplomas--critiques fit only to wipe your **** on.
Book sales and the summer Poetry festival circuit--reciting and signing scribbles of narcissism--casting lecherous eyes over dripping **** or stiff wobbling **** in the adoring crowd of sycophants.
The  Media will fawn and adulate and cast its sly net
to entangle your desires in ---infamy awaits.
Come admire me and my use of other poets stolen words,
my criminality in even daring to think the word "poet" has any value.
These are my words about my inexperience and unknowingness they scream possessively in jaundiced teeny remembrance.
Remembrance of mediocre middle class homes and attitudes
of ingrained ignorance and wilful imagined self victimisation.
Eating societies poisoned dishes--.
Serve me up a burger of roasted babies on toast
from Vietnam--live on Channel Whatever.
Or chargrilled peasants from Afghanistan
with breathless commentary from
our "reporter on the spot".
Or homeless mental wrecks from the streets
of any Amerikan or World city big or small,
trailing acerbic criticism from the immoral majority.
Or dead celebrity  consumer junkies in 5 star hotels
complete with PR handouts and **** licking "friends"
positioning themselves for increased sales.
Or the children of the Oligarchs with their "I" newspapers
and inbuilt fascist attitudes.
Who spend their shallow lives hoping for the kind
of meaningless and worthless Honours and Validation
from those that do not have honour or validity..
Or the not just lame but crippled duck presidents with their finely crafted speeches that say nothing but I am a beard wearing  failure,
looking forward to penning lies and calling it a frank memoir
while holding out my hands  for the Oligarchies pennies.
Can anyone tell me where to get a bucket of truthfulness?.
A glass of honesty?.
A tumbler full of veracity?.
A beaker of back breaking honest labour?.
Can anyone tell me where I can find
a peaceful man or woman,of any of the 5 colours.
Not those merely observing a Cease-Fire
while they rearm their weapons of the lies of beauty and truth.
Oligarchy allowed social commentary.
Is there just one decent truthful man or woman out there?.
Judging by the world Id say not.
No Id say not.
Not.
There Ive said it.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

From the first wet gasp of
My first hello, I have spoken
As they do. On similar slipping
Legs I have wandered as they have.
I cringed and leaped, and was afraid
And was not. (A time for both, a time
For all. For every question, an answering call.)
There was no surprise;
Everything was a shock.

They, too, drowned in ennui and
Buzzed with electricity. But the lines
Crossed somewhere between:
As they were I have not been,
As they move I have not moved
The record skips out of the groove.
And they press manicured nails
To feathery hair, irked - annoyed -
Blotting out the noise.

Who are they to float above,
To glide in mascara and gold?
What trails and wakes they leave -
All the time whispering dry and dustily.
It's strange, I've always heard
(From the hidden smiling lips of
Those ahead, and those above)
That dust is dull and bland and plain.
How strange that to me it tastes of
Pepper and echoing gilded names.

From some empty table, I have peered
Into open halls with chandeliers -
Plated in silver, glistening with crystal -
And wondered how they get so high
Without a tinkling, slicing word -
Without a glaring, threatening eye.
I know I have tried, first to be the
Waitress, tray in hand, who has her moment
With the table and her guests. Then
To earn my right, to earn their view,
To be a sparkling rarity, a delight.

No more. Adieu, goodbye, goodnight.
Whether you care for me or not,
I'll never mind. I'll find some room
You've left behind, and sleep
Until I want to rise.

I whinge for the cold
You whinge for the heat
Whether we whinge or not
The wether will be what it will be

Let's whinge about homework,
Always a fuss, that's what it's worth,
I am sure in the Year 9000 AD,
Teens shall whinge about it to me,
Or even little chicks and dudes,
Who gives them homework after school?
"Only a challenge!" old chalkies say,
I've heard their moans many a day,
Always a fuss, or non-compliance,
Maybe a non-homework alliance,
Yes, I've heard all the whinges today,
Whinging's fun, I always say,
Moan, moan, homework works both ways,
Let's all whinge about homework today!

A thought on my neuron is impinging,
If it ain't Armageddon, do stop whinging,
"A happy heart makes a cheerful face,"
A notion apt for our global race,
Smiles to each one are a grace,
Blessing to all as we set our pace,
Way too much negativity.
Largely a waste of futility,
Instead of daily positivity,
Way too much 'stinking thinking',
If it ain't Armageddon, do stop whinging,'
This thought on my neuron is impinging.

it's real easy to feel like
we've done it all
wrong

phenomenal fuckyes then
phantasmagoric fear ragers
perpetual pity *******
blood middle knuckle crush
regretful bets hedged
hunched frozen tongues
and pointy unsaids

but sometimes
with mind wide-eyed
and heart roots writhing

I've seen it
way differently

a vantage point
where pushpull face-plants
are winning lotto tickets

because maybe
we were kindling of yes
unable to keep it burning yet
and we would have fumbled it
far beyond repair

I'm fairly certain
our heartfelt invites
to instant cohabitation
would have ended
painfully
badly

traumas tripping
over hair triggers
in a 3-legged race
two smoking pistols
and four red feet

even Hello
seems too intense
to mouth

and from this
particular perspective
I can see how
every decision made in fear
led to whinging karmarang
tied with two strings

I daresay
one day we might
look back with a smile
that it went down this way

because the initial who
were not strong enough
to shoulder the immensity
nor surrendered enough
to float the fragility
of newborn carbon
gossamer whorl

in fact
I push all my chips
toward that

maybe there is
fortune in false starts
we make plans
but I bet The One
has better ones

so I'm pretty sure
we should sit down
and listen

for that breeze
to whisper

I know this sounds like a soliloquy,
But why did bulldust men find me?
God made Ratlotto sardonically,
Life's ***** prizes always find me,
Now 70  years old is  the new young,
O God of funster fun,
Is it them or me?
Yes indeed, my soliloquy,
Is it them or doormat me?
Whinging is fun for us,
No one's listening to this fuss,
Dear God of Ratlotto ***** prizes,
Any more masculine surprises?

Whinging is contagious around here,
I just never met Mr. Right, my dears,
But I have met some right players,
Like loverat Mr. Liar,
or Mr. *******, too bad,
Then there is Mr. *******,
Yes, whinging is contagious here,
Too bad I never met  Mr. Right, my dears,
Never mind, that's enough,
Being bullied toughens you up!

All these whinging intellectual poetic wankers,
scribbling Conditional Love "poems"that boringly
lament why they are such obvious  failures
at the game of life and self realisation.
Spewing out weasel words of poetic hypocracy while
wrapped in navel gazing infantile emotions.
Writing degenerate untruthful words about a love
they'll never know or never have known,
as if unconditional love can be bought
at the local Walmart.
Voluntarily assisting the machinations of mind and groupmind,
since their birth into a lifetime of Conditioned Identity,
in the servitude of the Amerikan Oligarchy .
Strings of meaningless associated words,
lines of lies about life and love that are ever popular with "poets".
Starting with every one of the so-called "holy" books
from millennia past--calling for suicide bombers
and child killers to strut the world stage
spewing  religious racism and sexism like enlightened beings..
After all words have NO SHAME
nor have poets..
Sin Verguensa.
Words have NO GUILT
nor have poets.
Words have NO EMBARASSMENT
nor have poets.
You cannot hide  behind your lies from me.
I see you--I have nous.
Your beard is transparent.
Your unceasing lies deny to others information
to which they are entitled,
"poets" are the worst LIARS of all,
so easily spottable .
Read these pages--see for yourself,
through my eyes .
See the silly ****-fed children of the Amerikan Oligarchy,
wrapped in spangles and colours --posturing like super-heroes.
Vomiting verbal diahorea in lifes gutters,
appealing for just one more chance
to play at love and humiliation.
People with low IQs and lower morals
pretending ,as always, to be mature and human,
characters moulded like products of talk show hosts .
No integrity.
No truthfulness.
No honour.
No decency.
No morals except those learned from Readers Digest.
No to these escapees from the gallows of decency,
torture instruments dangling round their necks,
their prophet validated by being nailed and denied.

Venom!

Carry not venom in sharpened fangs;
Which pierce peace.
Bring not scorpions madness unto the kicking tail of abnormality.
Nausea sickens impolitely,
While walking through a softened heart.

Be not bitter as I am not.
Tells me that I am not forgot.
Each time with words you crucify.
A public notice not denied.
Cannot deny in whinging and whining.
Powerful hearts are both entwining.
Smash and grab,

A stollen heart.
That was Stollen,
Well bread.
Not stolen,
Straight rye bread,
Stolen from a German fantasy.
Fruity, spicy full of fun.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Here you are again, O Dawn,
I've become Dame Washalot reborn,
Of suds, I am a champion
of expertise in washingdom,
What did we trade off for golden rings?
Is it still that biology-is- destiny thing?
Are all men such total duds?
Do you ever feel the need to suds?
Or am I queen of the rotten mongrels? Tough!
Now,  I have to vacuum, **** it up!
Vacuum now, or wash later?
Why I am a procrastinator?
This multi-tasking womanly thing,
Are wedding rings washing bling?
Whinging is fun, but no one listens,
See this washing glow and glisten!
So, here you are again, O Dawn,
Here I am, Dame Washalot reborn!!

I first met her in the  desert across the sea,
Whilst crumbling down to lifeless light.
She wore mask, white with gems like pea
Yes, it’s the Woman in White.

She took me in, fed me and sheltered me
In a home, ancient yet strong as a tree
Along with others who seemed to have lost their way,
Or some who just needed a home to stay.

Her hair gray, and her fingers withered,
Yet she provides like a mother, truly needed
Come morning, she works for the Masters
Giving service for a few coin of coppers.

Still, she never whimpered nor whine,
Instead, she wore her mask with a pride
Aiding people, assisting, supporting,
whilst attending the masters’ whinging.

Come eve, she’d be back with presents,
That she bought with the scratch of her labors
Which we’ll share with all the others,
While she’d stand and watch like a father.

Come dark, she’ll retire to her room
Stopping in front of a mirror,
To which she’d tear on her loom
As if she witnessed a horror.

Carefully, she’d caress her palm on her face,
Dousing the mask of white and sapphire
Revealing a ghastly verse of recede
And a sorrowed Blue concealed inside.

all of our politicians are a pox on society
these self important people are the lowest of the low
governing for themselves is their number one priority
telling porkies is the way their empty rhetoric flows

it's our misfortune to have so many of them in our halls of power
we're paying them a fortune for mishandling government biz
and not a one of them is worth a left of right bower
they should be thrown out of our parliaments and into a tizz

we're heartily sick of the ****** lot of them
and they do so leave us with a feeling of utter contempt
not to forget our coughs spits and heaps of phlegm
we so wish that they were from our taxes exempt

if only we could do without these mongrel lot
our countries would most assuredly be less on the ill side
they have a reputation as bad as a pesky horse fly blot
and we'll be only to happy to toss them all well aside

moaning and whinging wont relieve our constant pain
we've got to take things well and truly into our owns hands
we cannot endure anymore of their burdensome strain
government benches would be better off were they to be rid of these bands

acquiring a pesticide to finish them off is one of my notions
then we can relax knowing that they'll no longer blight us
these thoughts are just me musing on a few suggestions
I'll leave you all to ruminate on this poetic piece thus

to hide, to lie
to string dangling participles
along on metaphors

use poetry
where lips won't work
and mind can't find
The Way

let crystal crimsom flow
from serrated wrists

obscurity allows for
solshimmers of the ineffable
so don't eff it in the a
like a persie Snap channel

in the event that may potentially be a thing possibly occurring perhaps I dunno and I don't know what I don't know but it sureasshit would be nice to because me and truth are like this [crossies] and on occasion it comes and knocks on my door so the Uni bringeth and I laugheth all the way to the wet sodium facepalm speaking of which I don't like the taste of that **** I like my truth rare and still mooing would you believe I'm a vegetarian tho but still **** ******* like it raw crunch munch nom noms even though I slurp soup like there's no phoking tomorrow also down af for digressing and running onward and sideways stories from where the sidewalk never ends and I really don't think ours does plus it sure is the weirdest neatest thing ever did you bring the proper shoes darling I sure hope you can keep up in all the ways and FYI my door is not blasted off the hinges it's wisened and slightly ajar and I'm standing over threshold with eyes wide and slightly red because I waved goodbye to sunsets left for mf good but never got to see our light rise so just know that these wrung hands are actually open palms crippled from reaching and being singed on handles that seemed oh-so cool from my limited optical view like a mountain of honeycombed Dixie Crystal dust knees that you had been on yours praying for but gave the **** up on long before he walked in and changed EVERYTHING and I am so grateful but I am sad and I am hurt and I am confused but I am not scared like I once was of you and All our tea leaves foretold but scared I am of never really knowing you and the accompanying truths so please give it to me dagger deep I meant what I said and I said what I meant I like my men sharp and penetrative 100% and if you can't handle being earnestly struck by your own syntactic constructs direct in the ******* whinging outta my sometimes salty sacrosanct then me and you just won't do since that happens to be my forte as it were and maybe you're not up for the uphill to heaven with this mystical inferno but if you think perhaps maybe your life will never be the same without me in it someway somehow then let's fill the grey unnamed with a foundation of friendship where all is safe and found and all that means to me is everything so if you trust me to know the things about love a.k.a. the holy mystery which you ahem did as I recall with glowing warm curled around my formerly shaking cold then don't worry about getting back to it there's no such way to a thing it's there - always was, is, will be - it's just we're having this hooded entourage over for dinner first and honey I don't know if we have enough chairs but I'll sit on the floor with you and we can laugh and cry and eat sixteen courses of humble pie until the holy ghost enters the room which she undoubtedly will do and leave periodically only to return when we get all cozy and still or maybe upon the exodus of tears when all the walls have been torn down and we finally see clear through that one room has indeed been forged from two

or whatever

MY SON

He was born early with a will to survive
It hurt like hell but then I was still alive
All wrinkled and hairy with a frown on his face
He ****** his thumb and kept up with the pace

The nights were easy and the days were fun
Til he got to his feet and learnt  how to run
We went through the grazes the cuts and stitches
The well worn holes in the knees of his britches

From a shy little boy he turned into a tyrant
Stamping his feet and demanding attention
He chucked those wobblies and copped the strap
The next thing you knew he was up on the lap

He tried every mean trick to get his own way
And always had too much to say for his age
He was up front and honest as far as that goes
But whinging and whining and full of the woes

He reached his teens with a quiet sort of rumble
Loved his football and the rough and tumble
He'd never once given me any real grief or pain
But then he turned sixteen and I near went insane

As from then he learnt how to drive a car
Taking out girls and fronting up to the bars
The sleepless nights then were never ending
The rules I set he was forever bending

He's left home now, grown into a man
Holds down a job and sings with a band
There are times I still see the little boy
When I ask him to sing and he goes all coy

If I dare to question a decision he makes
Or pry into personal steps he may take
So I take a back seat and wait till he calls
And hope he doesn't take any hard falls

i, the buddhist, respects all children


thew little kid is playing with my dads spirit

he is crossing his legs saying you and your brother ain’t like us

i said, yeah, we ain’t little cool kids like you, we are computer **** kids, man

i am an adult who lives life like it’s one big adventure

you sit there crossing your legs like the cool kid that you are

and i can drink this bottle of coke down like a real adult does

better than men with their beer

and i stay with the families, and say to me, your one of the families buddy

and i said, thanks for saying i was a family person

who loves to PARTY with coke,

and then this lady with tattoos, got in my vision

i don’t want to have crazy person visions anyway

i am an adult now, that’s what i am, i am an adult now

i don’t want these crazy person visions, of pat coming in

trying to make the word hey bad, instead of saying, what i say

hey is in the paddock where the horses are

i like to dance to 80s music, what’s wrong with that

i don’t want these silly situations, i am not mucking with the crazy people

i wanted my mates to be nice to me as a kid, but not just pretending to be nice

just tell me to ******* from your house

but dude, the people who hate me at the mall, have no control over the mall

I SAY, GO HOME LOSERS

i am reformed, from that silly nonsense of the past

i am an adult who loves to party at the mall, what’s wrong with that

i hate people presuming i hate computers or i hate technology

I LOVE TECHNOLOGY, AND COMPUTERS TOO

i don’t care what my old mates say

i am a computer **** kid, anyway

it was all because, back in those days i was a troubled kid

now i am a cool adult

i don’t like being teased, like all adults don’t

i really appreciate friends i actually do know, saying, that nobody is really teasing ,me

it makes me feel much better, i don’t give a hoot what pat said, what a LOSER

but, i am hearing his crazy person voice, ringing through me head,   F   U   C   K   L  E   A   V   E   M   E   A  L  O    N   E

i hate these situations dad is putting into people’s bodies

but i am a buddhist, and i respect everyone

i can’t boss people around, like they can’t boss me around

i don’t believe in discipline, discipline is the real killer of people in this world

i want to drink a coke at the mall, and i should be able to do that, hey

i don’t **** people off, i am a nice man

and you are a little cool kid

i am an adult, but not a nerdy adult, like the nerds who are protecting me from being a little old lady

my dad used to complain all the time in the car

to mum, about how boring the dinner party was

that is why the cool kid is in my head

because i don’t believe in winging after a party which was cool

i am a non whinging adult

who loves to party at the mall, with COKE

Did it,rue it,had it,blew it,
don't do dope.
Home alone,****** at home.home and ******,unhomed alone,
hypodermically syringed,unhinged and whinging all the time,no hope.
Don't do dope.
It's so uncool,so old school and only fools act like a fool,
you think that you're okay and you can cope,but you can't.so
don't do dope.
I did and found it very hard to stop,found you can't get fixed in a one stop shop but
I found hope,
found I didn't need that dope
I'm still a dope though.

What bores you?
Do you accept BS too?
Yawn! Can't you get anyone better, grot,
Whining is so tiring, boring, I've got
so 'over' your whinging, you see,
I'm sure you can get someone better than me!

You whine, you moan, complain and groan,
on & on, a cyclic whinging drone.
I listen patiently – what a glutton.
But how I wish you had a mute button.

Once I was a teen,
That's when Mum got mean,
Dragged us off on long drives,
Her whinging did give me hives,
Maybe she could not hack us growing,
Autonomy we wanted knowing,
We tried not to be like our mother,
Turned each into totally another,
Nag, nag, nag and moan,
Not again,  I'd  sit at home,
With music and a fur pal,
A book, a pen, a suburban gal......
So, in half a century,
Not much changed for me,
I sit and scribble, solo,
But never alone, my muse, lo!

we sit at the edge of
vespertide
listening to the chorale
of evensong
this day's opus almost done
now tapering off in
slow melodious decrescendo..
it is the gloaming
and the final flurry of light
glimmers on the horizon

now the night becomes
the diva,
the first star has been wished upon,
the first sattelite too.
and the bass note of the cicadas
builds to a *****, needful hum...

lights go on in little square
patches, and the smell
of barbeque fragrances
the summer night air

under the streetlights
the moths come to dance
a dare each other to touch
the midnight sun...

and in our garden
the rustle of the
tame gone feral
rabbit "bellamy"
has begun...

a hulking grey white
shadow now he lollops
toward the tasty green
carrot-tops...
until the sound of pounding
feet causes him to freeze
considering his position
bellamy chooses discretion
over valour and departs with haste

the wind now has a coolness to it
and the grass grows damp about us
by still we sit enamoured of the changing
slow and quiet about us
the seas whisper secrets
and the birds settle in for the night
excepting those who hunt on silent wings

the stars begin to pop
bright white on the darkening sky
and the crescent moon smile with
a sideways grin...

it is now the darker things come
owls on the wing
spiders to reknit there webs
the big bass frog to sing his song
and the small blood seeker
come with whinging wings

now we must give the night
it's privacy, as we walk inside,
from the pond a series of sounds
means the frog has found dinner
hopefuuly a mosiquito buffet

the vesper tide hath turned
the night is now come.....

All of our politicians are a blight on our society
These self important people do possess a lack luster glow
Governing for themselves is their number one priority
Telling porkies is the way that their rhetoric doth flow

It is our misfortune to have so many of them in our halls of power
We're paying them a fortune for mismanaging government biz
Not a one of these pollies are worth a left or right bower
They should be thrown out of our parliaments and into a tizz

We're heartily sick of the whole lot of them
As they do so leave us with a feeling of contempt
Not to forget our coughs indigestion or phlegm
We so wish they were from our taxes exempt

If only we could do without this undesirable lot
Our countries would most assuredly be less on the ill side
They have a reputation as bad as a staining ink spot
And we'd be only too happy to toss them all well aside

Moaning and whinging will not relieve the constant bane
We've got to take things into our own hands
We cannot endure anymore of their burdensome strain
Government benches would be better off being rid of these bands

Acquiring a repellent to spray on them is one of my notions
Then we can relax knowing that they'll no more blight us
These thoughts are just me musing on a few suggestions
I'll leave you all to ruminate on this poetic piece thus

I knew of a man named martin
he was known for his whinging and smarting
so I took him to lunch
bought him lamb to munch
now laugh at those who witness him farting

Now that you’ve been sold, what thing
will bring you back to us?
Arches of waver-lust, departuregrams
inform those on the freeway lam
and send us crashing gates and exit maps
as transit days dump rain
and what we know we’re in for gets too big.

Hurry to racing pits,
a bit of shelter huddled under heatlamps
pecked with pigeon dust & and odd late chills
that cracked the April. Plucky in
the clothing bone, we shiver, bide,
relent from marking make-up time
on coldwire sheets

We fold
and put work in our purse all wrong.
Some smarmy song New Yorks us, whinging on
where rent wars rage. Code-shifting blocks
of solace to the kept while crushing
others under debt - a glacial chill,
a respite, magnet phones left smartless,
calling on our wits
to ride those twists
through money-makers’ gauntlet.

Out of harm’s way, donning gowns
and Never’s hand-me-downs from
Stalling Leisure, Merry Ways - cinch up
and see what stays, what juice
the cosmic strain can free
when anger walls re-tighten down
to shape, or ****, without a sound.

when you and i...
are apart, for a longer
length of time
i find....

i am a lop-sided,
mis-shapen thing.
stumbling along..
a straight and
narrow road.


simple things,
take more time
and difficult things,
are well... too...difficult.

it is not that,
i can't cope.
i do....
but life has,
become more
of a chore.
and less, of a game.

and it is the seperation.

i blame,
for the colours
becoming dull,
for the words
lacking purpose,
for the heart
beating  too slowly,
for the sun
losing it shine,
and food, it's taste.

and for me,
becoming a....
whinging, whining
waste of space!

lop-sidely,
stumble-grumbling,
along....

There's more to it and more to come,
save your daylight
but
burn the sun,

I've run out of matches,
and
Lowry
painting matchstick men is unaware
of my desire
to torch and set the world on fire,

then
when this is then and now was when back then
I'll paint my life as matchstick men.

They've offered me therapy
because they want
a quiet me
but I'm not going to have it
I'm just going to rant a bit more,

I told you there was more.


Easter eggs.

Why we overindulge on these chocolate treats
beats me
and what do eggs have to do with Easter?

the juggling jester smuggles in laughter
as background to his show

and that's what it is,
a show
Easter  bunnies and upset tummies and
a long queue for the conveniences.

Killjoys are not always little whining boys
men can be them too
I can whine as well as anyone
except
the whinging 'Pom'
he's in a class of his own.

I am a scavenging animal*

An emaciated coyote with ****** flesh

And worn yellow eyes



They say, your life isn’t so sad

              Your family isn’t that bad

You aren’t their envy and blame

               They always treat you equally and sane

You are just pissy and whinging along

                You should just cheer up, listen to a song



if ignorance was currency I could feed my bloated stomach

       For every individual seems to give me a deposit

              My nails are cracked and brown with dirt and blood

And my eyes sting from the lack of hydration



My poverty my only identity

The moaning of others, overlaps my own crying

My happiness locked away somewhere in my chest

And I can’t ever open it



Seeing others glide along so easily

                    And every step I take I get weaker and weaker

My friends all but long gone

                       They didn’t want to deal with a ****** face



So I am wandering for hope

In burning cars and empty trash cans

            Wishing that the sky above

               Would swallow me whole



                                

                                     *And away into another existence

Where's my job or occupation?
On this planet of employed men working line by line
Excusing none, as long as they are criminals in dream theatres
Or nepotist rebels, you call radical artists to build in ceramic pots
Tell me what's in the name of money, a jade sword
Is it your greed, that you learn your hunger from, a bleeding cut
Or the foolish is it if I ask you such a catatonic question, reading out
Unfeeling is it if I ask for a catharsis without cheapening feelings
Chester chooses his chestnuts well with magazines
Her name's on your tongue, but, her flights a long way off
True isn't it, that sky clears for checkers and crimson skies
Gosh, I wonder where you're looking for flickering lights
On the sun or the runaway journey, that ends on the runway
You could be running, tell it isn't your hesitation
It's just a chemical romance and repentance, for having inhibited yourself
Why stop yourself, if you have all the papers necessary?
People never stop when the traversing is just the thing they need
Travel is life, so are timeless things
I wonder how long we'll be here, really

Wifey flings open bedroom door,
Not gazing kindly, a picture she draws,
Wife blows her nose, her cheeks are a'rose,
Her husband lies there, full of moans,
Her husband begs,
Wifey  takes a breath,
"Yes, dear, I know you have a man-cold,
But, dear, I,  too, have a man-cold,
But women are not allowed to groan
or nag, says men, you are alone,
I, too, have a man-cold,
But, this washing is getting old,
I'm cooking tea and minding the kids,
No, dear,  I shan't make soup like your mother did,
Yes, dear, the undertakers are near,
Here's your last will for your man cold, dear,
Yes, dear, I know you have a man-cold,
Your whinging, is, like, well, old!
I have to iron your shirts now,
Yes, dear, I know I am a fat old cow,
But, dear, I have your ***** in my purse,
I do hope our man colds don't get worse!"

if this whinging heart
is mine, yours or
ours

but it
sure-as-****
has a mind

of its (our)
own

I'm offering you the light for free
if you look at life and what it could be,
not what you see,
but what it could be.

The cake company
will shun me
for this slice of philosophy.

If in the scenery
all you see is me
and by me
I mean misery
do a three sixty
and look at it again,

I expect the company to put
a hit out on me,
icing me for good.

so
stop your whinging and whining
which by the way I used to be
fine with
and give yourself a break
take the free light
see things as they might be
and not as they are..

How do you still love me
Whinging, complaining, crying, clingy
I peed my pants and I peed in the bed
And still you kiss my lips and scratch my head
and love me
You love me even when I'm sick
Ugly, blotchy, sleepy, grumpy
You make me food and tuck me in
Cuddle me until I fell asleep again
And love me

I feel so lucky when I look at you
But I feel even luckier when you look at me
And I know
For certain
That you love me

<3 xoxo