In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter.  It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their ******* were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't.  What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.

I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.

Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging *******
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?

The waiting room was bright
and too hot.  It was sliding
beneath a ******* wave,
another, and another.

Then I was back in it.
The War was on.  Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.

Sumer is icumen in
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Summer is a-comin’!
Sing loud, cuckoo!
The seed grows,
The meadow blows,
The woods spring up anew.
Sing, cuckoo!

The ewe bleats for her lamb;
The cows contentedly moo;
The bullock roots,
The billy-goat poots ...
Sing merrily, cuckoo!

Cuckoo, cuckoo,
You sing so well, cuckoo!
Never stop, until you're through!

Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo!

***

Keywords/Tags: Middle English, medieval, reading, rota, round, partsong, summer, cuckoo, sing, cuckold, seed, meadow, woods, ewe, lamb, cows, bullock, goat, billy-goat, poot, ****, pass gas, never stop

These notes were taken from the poem's Wikipedia page ...

"Sumer Is Icumen In" (also called the Summer Canon and the Cuckoo Song) is a medieval English round or rota of the mid-13th century. The title translates approximately to "Summer Has Come In" or "Summer Has Arrived". The song is composed in the Wessex dialect of Middle English. Although the composer's identity is unknown today, it may have been W. de Wycombe. The manuscript in which it is preserved was copied between 1261 and 1264. This rota is the oldest known musical composition featuring six-part polyphony. It is sometimes called the Reading Rota because the earliest known copy of the composition, a manuscript written in mensural notation, was found at Reading Abbey; it was probably not drafted there, however (Millett 2004). The British Library now retains this manuscript (Millett 2003a). A rota is a type of round, which in turn is a kind of partsong. To perform the round, one singer begins the song, and a second starts singing the beginning again just as the first got to the point marked with the red cross in the first figure below. The length between the start and the cross corresponds to the modern notion of a bar, and the main verse comprises six phrases spread over twelve such bars. In addition, there are two lines marked "Pes", two bars each, that are meant to be sung together repeatedly underneath the main verse. These instructions are included (in Latin) in the manuscript itself:

"Hanc rota cantare possum quatuor socii. A paucio/ribus autem quam a tribus uel saltem duobus non debet/ dici preter eos qui dicunt pedem. Canitur autem sic. Tacen/tibus ceteris unus inchoat *** hiis qui tenent pedem. Et *** uenerit/ ad primam notam post crucem, inchoat alius, et sic de ceteris./ Singuli de uero repausent ad pausacionis scriptas et/non alibi, spacio unius longe note."

(Four companions can sing this round. But it should not be sung by fewer than three, or at the very least, two in addition to those who sing the pes. This is how it is sung. While all the others are silent, one person begins at the same time as those who sing the ground. And when he comes to the first note after the cross [which marks the end of the first two bars], another singer is to begin, and thus for the others. Each shall observe the written rests for the space of one long note [triplet], but not elsewhere.)

The lyric may have been composed by W. de Wycombe, also identified as W de Wyc, Willelmus de Winchecumbe, Willelmo de Winchecumbe or William of Winchcomb. He appears to have been a secular scribe and precentor employed for about four years at the priory of Leominster in Herefordshire during the 1270s. He is also thought to have been a sub-deacon of the cathedral priory as listed in the Worcester Annals or possibly a monk at St Andrew's in Worcester. But it is not know if he composed the song, or merely preserved it by copying it.

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But I just want to know why you’re
so old, so cold, so bone-chillingly
alone
out here.

You’re my Sky.

And I just don’t understand where
Mami is where daddy with the big hat
could be while you
shiver and shake I
can’t take
you back there with me.

You’re my Sky.

So we huddle under stars while the cars
they drive they’re faster than your
heartbeat it’s slowing let’s play
a game while we
shiver and shake I can’t take
you back there with me.

You’re my Sky.

We wait.

The sky presses down on
us, this town, this
dump, this place where down
is up. Where up is out, where
swinging at night is
the only way to doubt
you’re dying.

And it’s carried me this far-
I wear this town like an
old scar- It’s been hard.
But I’m not dying
anymore, I’m flying out this
door- I’m moving,
I’m living,
I’m out.

You’re kind of a
mess girl. All jumbled up, all
pulling at your hair, can
you remember
Sun anymore?

And you’re kind of a
wreck the way you
shake from side to side like
someone’s rocking your
insides, like something’s
scared behind your eyes-
I know you’re hurting,
I know the signs,
but smoke before
fire every time

Just let me save you.

he rises early, well before the premature, minutest hints of early dawn,
cradling tenderized words, from a silent marinating mind withdrawn,
some spices harvested from the soil's mortality of daily strife, others,
manna gifts of wild floral tenderness, plucked from Eve's tree of life

neither gardener nor chef, the fruits of his labor, are product of
a mothers mind's silent back labor, emerging with no notice or invitation, spilt from lips unmoving, eyes shuttered, fingers ungloved
ministering a Temple sacrifice of plain psalms authored but un-titled

some spark ignition causes a key reversal, from motionless to motion,
moving with no in-between, words simmering, from seeds unknown,
the dishe's integrity questioned, but it births itself, uncaring, eagerly, willing copied from cavern decorations of rude, wall drawings

almost fully formed, though untasted and undigested, a savant smell
provokes a leap from placid prone, to upright and seated upon the
throne of his writing desk, can one* *divine a recipe from odor alone,
thus claiming authorship of an untitled dish, one that can't be recreated?

sets it down before you uncovered, with a lustrous screen of silk damask,
plated on Royal Worcester fine bone china, yet, without any utensils,
asking you to ken this work,
*eat this poem, with bare hands,
love it as if it was your own first born,
consumed/consuming
a strange but familiar spirit

In about 1868,
William Torrey Harris,
Wanted to teach the great.
He instituted early efforts in schools,
To reach his goal, now and forever,
To educate the gifted,
And make them even more clever.

In about 1901,
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
Teachers opened the first school,
Specifically for gifted students.

In about 1954,
Ann Isaacs was really not a bore.
It was under her leadership that it was founded,
An association that propounded.
The association was therefore called,
The National Association of Gifted Children, one and all.

In about 1972,
The Marland Report was issued to schools,
T’was the first formal meaning,
Of giftedness and it’s teaching.
Teachers were strongly encouraged,
To define it broadly, with courage.
With academic, intellectual, and leadership achieving,
Visual and performing,
Arts, creative and productive thinking,
Gifted people were diagnosed,
And the teachers became engrossed,
In teaching them the most.

In about 1974,
The Office of the Gifted and Talented was given a status,
Like never before.
Finally it was,
Made to be official,
The Office of G&T;,
Was now more beneficial.

In about 1988,
Congress passed,
The Jacob Javits Gifted and Talented Students Education Act.
This was a rather large part,
Something that was just right smart,
Of the Reauthorization of the Elementary and Secondary Education Act.

In about 1990,
The National Research Center for Gifted and Talented,
Was established.
At the University of Connecticut it was located,
And it was also associated,
With the included researchers, none named Prinia,
At the Unis of Georgia, Yale, and Virginia,

Dearest creature in creation
Studying English pronunciation,
   I will teach you in my verse
   Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;
   Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;
   Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet,
Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!
   Just compare heart, hear and heard,
   Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain
(Mind the latter how it's written).
   Made has not the sound of bade,
   Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as vague and ague,
   But be careful how you speak,
   Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via
Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;
   Woven, oven, how and low,
   Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery:
Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,
   Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,
   Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing,
Same, examining, but mining,
   Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
   Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire",
Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,
   Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,
   Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.
   Gertrude, German, wind and wind,
   Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather,
Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.
   This phonetic labyrinth
   Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured
To pronounce revered and severed,
   Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,
   Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet;
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
   Blood and flood are not like food,
   Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet,
Which exactly rhymes with khaki.
   Discount, viscount, load and broad,
   Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet?
Right! Your pronunciation's OK.
   Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
   Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher?
Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.
   Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,
   Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision,
Now: position and transition;
   Would it tally with my rhyme
   If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy,
But cease, crease, grease and greasy?
   Cornice, nice, valise, revise,
   Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous,
Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,
   You'll envelop lists, I hope,
   In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it!
Affidavit, David, davit.
   To abjure, to perjure. Sheik
   Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.
   We say hallowed, but allowed,
   People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover,
Between mover, plover, Dover.
   Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
   Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
   Petal, penal, and canal,
   Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit
Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",
   But it is not hard to tell
   Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron,
Timber, climber, bullion, lion,
   Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
   Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
Has the a of drachm and hammer.
   *****, ***** and possess,
   Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants
Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.
   Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,
   Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker",
Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",
   Making, it is sad but true,
   In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
   Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,
   Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic,
Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.
   Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,
   Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle,
Make the latter rhyme with eagle.
   Mind! Meandering but mean,
   Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny,
You say mani-(fold) like many,
   Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,
   Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring
Rhyme with herring or with stirring?
   Prison, bison, treasure trove,
   Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald
Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.
   Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,
   Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it,
And distinguish buffet, buffet;
   Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,
   Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling
Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.
   Evil, devil, mezzotint,
   Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention
To such sounds as I don't mention,
   Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,
   Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included,
Though I often heard, as you did,
   Funny rhymes to unicorn,
   Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely,
I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.
   No. Yet Froude compared with proud
   Is no better than McLeod.

But mind trivial and vial,
Tripod, menial, denial,
   Troll and trolley, realm and ream,
   Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely
May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,
   But you're not supposed to say
   Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid
Worthless documents? How pallid,
   How uncouth he, couchant, looked,
   When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite,
Paramour, enamoured, flighty,
   Episodes, antipodes,
   Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser,
Don't peel 'taters with my razor,
   Rather say in accents pure:
   Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly,
Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,
   Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,
   Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you
More than r, ch or w.
   Say then these phonetic gems:
   Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham,
There are more but I forget 'em-
   Wait! I've got it: Anthony,
   Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit
Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;
   With and forthwith, one has voice,
   One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger;
Then say: singer, ginger, linger.
   Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,
   Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very,
Parry, tarry fury, bury,
   Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,
   Job, Job, blossom, *****, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners,
Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners
   Holm you know, but noes, canoes,
   Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little,
We say actual, but victual,
   Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,
   Put, nut, granite, and unite.

****** does not rhyme with deafer,
Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
   Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,
   Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific;
   Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,
   Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and *****,
Next omit, which differs from it
   Bona fide, alibi
   Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
   Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,
   Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion with battalion,
   Rally with ally; yea, ye,
   Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.
   Never guess-it is not safe,
   We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary,
Crevice, but device, and eyrie,
   Face, but preface, then grimace,
   Phlegm, phlegmatic, ***, glass, bass.

Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;
   Ear, but earn; and ere and tear
   Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often
Which may be pronounced as orphan,
   With the sound of saw and sauce;
   Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting?
Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.
   Respite, spite, consent, resent.
   Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,
   Monkey, donkey, clerk and ****,
   Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour,
S of news (compare newspaper),
   G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,
   I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers,
Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.
   Once, but *****, toll, doll, but roll,
   Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!-
Is a paling, stout and spiky.
   Won't it make you lose your wits
   Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel
Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,
   Islington, and Isle of Wight,
   Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather,
Saying lather, bather, father?
   Finally, which rhymes with enough,
   Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup...
My advice is: GIVE IT UP!

The Sea and its salt were in my eyes, snow fell around me and perished in the ocean as I was supposed to as a sailor in 1897 but an arm held me there above where I could breathe and see, 98 miles an hour north on interstate 95 and look ahead 10 feet a stopped car, cut right and behold the exit I was directed to take, but this exit kept me still breathing My heart beats to the pulse of anxiety which is the eternal pulse of fear and suffering, Buddhist sit under a tree find enlightenment but the rhythm of life is to fast to enlighten thee, the current of electricity is to slow to catch up. So there you were standing on an old railroad switch station high above the tracks, whiskey shaking as the train came fast, This particular afternoon meant absolutely nothing to me then, I traded dignity to profit using the word absolutely more times than I care to count, profit I did but at what cost? I spent it all on horses or tables, drove through Lowell and then Worcester, then into Connecticut but was I really important then? Or  should I count the losses and weigh them as gains? Not now little bird, you will just break my heart again, little bird you will just run off again with something new and pathetic, little bird just jump out your window and fly to the pavement below, no one will notice but me, not the ones you chose after or in between.

“To the Glory of God, and in grateful commemoration of His servants, Thomas Cranmer, Nicholas Ridley, Hugh Latimer, Prelates of the Church of England, who near this spot yielded their bodies to be burned, bearing witness to the sacred truths which they had affirmed and maintained against the errors of the Church of Rome, and rejoicing that to them it was given not only to believe in Christ, but also to suffer for His sake; this monument was erected by public subscription in the year of our Lord God, MDCCCXLI.”


“ ‘Be of good cheer, Ridley; and play the man. We shall this day, by God’s grace, light up such a candle in England, as, I trust, will never be put out.’”- Hugh Latimer.




Just outside Balliol, upon Magdalene street,
There’s a cross made of stone you can see at your feet.
It’s where Ridley and Latimer were burnt at the stake
For that which they held dear; beliefs they would not forsake.
They were Bishops of London and Worcester in life;
now bound by cruel chains to keep them upright.
The guards piled on *******, the fuel for the flames
while Ridley and Latimer called on the Lord’s name.
Martyrs or heretics? I’ll let others decide.
But the crowd was impressed by how bravely they died.
Latimer reached out embracing the flames
and was soon called to glory with an end to his pain.
For Ridley a death that was slow and obscene;.
On his side the wood that they used was still green.
His feet and legs roasted while he suffered in pain
held fast to the stake by the cruel iron chain.
His temporal agony raged on and on
Til the flames reached his face and poor Ridley was gone.


Queen Mary reigned briefly, yet ere she was done,
Many souls suffered death in fire and blood.
England, once Catholic, embraced a new faith.
The Romish persuasion at last was replaced.
Their candle burned brightly, a glorious flame,
and continued to shine as Elizabeth reigned.

I was officially born in the 17th century.
My homeland was England.
My parents were many.
They conceived me in coffeehouses.

I was officially born in the 17th century,
When the crowns of Scotland and England united,
When James VI, King of Scots,
Ascended to the throne of England as James I;
When civil wars between roundheads and cavaliers
Ended in Parliamentary victory,
At the Battle of Worcester.

I was officially born in the 17th century,
At the time of Interregnum,
Commonwealths, Glorious Revolution,
William and Mary
and the English Bill of Rights.
Reformation and proliferation of literacy:
People learnt to read the Bible,
Then chose to be curious and explore,
Secular literature and novels
In circulating libraries.

My parents were many.
They conceived me in coffeehouses,
Scattered around the city,
Spread throughout the country,
And finally reached abroad:
Another Revolution,
on the other side of the Channel.

My parents were many.
They met at intellectual bacchanalia,
In reading societies and clubs,
‘Cause that’s where news was communicated.
Freely criticizing politics and governments,
They engaged in conversations
in an environment of confrontation,
Social status set aside,
To listen, exchange, formulate,
Understand and comprehend.

Another William called me ‘mistress of success’,
Blaise thought I was ‘the queen of the world’.
Being well informed and debate in social networks
Was a duty, before being a right,
As my parents’ opinion would guide the rulers,
Ideally in the interest not of few, not of many,
but of all.

First heeded by governments,
They quickly learnt to manipulate me,
They muzzled me and domesticated me,
Taking away my freedom and relevance,
With the unofficial excuse by which
My parents were too ignorant
to even have a voice.

Now those coffeehouses have changed their shape,
Intangible, virtual, ethereal,
New spaces for new parents
To develop ideas, opinions,
And exchange;
Not currencies or stocks
but information and views.

I am my parents’ voice,
My name is Public Opinion.

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Like children, pages
  drift away adolescent,
  refusing what I offer

Defiant
  in their questions,
  beyond all answers in their parting

Forcing what’s left, to live trapped
  in the abandoned distance
  between us now

All movement stopped
  and estranged, from the very things
  we used to know

(Worcester Massachusetts: March, 2011)

There’s not much to who I am.
An assortment of ****** memories and ******* decisions pretty much cumulates the bulk of it.
There are few chapters left in my book, if any at all, and it’s finest kind because my ink well is running dry.
I figured it out. No bible, no koran, no holy scripture. It was pretty easy actually. It all came down to “just don’t be a ****”. Somehow there are people who have managed to become incredibly wealthy by stretching that philosophy out over hundreds of pages and thousands of years.
I made sure to secure any permanent ties. No kids, no wife, no friends or family. I think I’ve always known I was only writing a short story. So it sub consciously never made sense to establish any ties. Though it wasn’t for lack of trying. I endeavored nonetheless. Human nature I suppose.
Mine was never good story. More along the lines of The Catcher in the Rye meets an early eighties Hustler meets a refrigerator magnet that reads Worcester.
I found it frustrating. Perpetually confusing and more than once I’ve wanted it to be over.
A good writer would be able to continue along this line of thinking and perhaps mold it into something meaningful.
I’m not a good writer.

Worcester has the earliest settlements
Of anywhere in the
United Kingdom.
Crazy to think that
People were walking
These streets
And going into
McDonald's
Five thousand years ago.

or how some h'american don't ever
say: Worcester sauce... or Lea... or Perrins...
or: who's?! woo-ster
sau-sausage... ******* whittle-****...
worse off than... worst-shire-in-the-pronunciation...
rubric... Worcestershire... which is: woo! woo!
woo-steer left! ah ha ha!
sort of a bit like a sot of a bit like:
Gloss... ter... tier? no... TER ******* TER...
gloss-over and a tear...
Gloucestershire! gloss-T: gloss-tear...
no: not tear: tier: no! not tier!
akin to per say: gloss-ter...
shire... **** tongue fiddly... almost French...
write one way... speak it another...
it's also woo: woo... ah woo! like a wolf: pseudo-bark...
ah-woo! woo... mister...
   prime minister...
      this language is a ******* jumble...
phonetically a Slav like me always finds it sort of
funny...
painfully...
             Woo! Woo-ster-sos: sauce... who the **** needs
these extra vowels? sos... no, not s.o.s.:
sos... why the ****... sauce?!
     where's the u the c and e?
the same retards that say: too many consonants
in the ****** writing...
same ones, i.e. same retards who can't spell
jack-**** in InG_LEASH...
                    sowwy... but your zunge has...
too many vowels jumbled up together...
you don't ******* write as you speak...
no... you don't...
       you write one way... speak another...
it's confusing this little ******* silly me...
   then again: there's no point...
most Anglophone speakers are retards to
begin with... teach them...
the complications of writing:
THOUGHT...
o.k. sure... F-O-U-T...
fout... or... FOWT... that's better... FOWT...
that's thought...
so... from FOWT...
T and H *******... U too...
  G is nowhere to be found... nor is the H...
wow! what a fascinating language...
i can... truly come in... and post-modernise it!
truly... i can come in and... rumble...
shake it a little... because...
like i've already noted...
anyone left-wing in the Anglophone world...
no... you're good...
i don't want to understand you...
i will not understand you...
     if i were to choose between **** Germany
and the Communism of the Russians...
6 years versus 45 years of a brain-drain?
guess... go on... give it a guess!
             Hugo Boss... GRAU WERHMACHT
Anzüge!
            oder... SCHWARTZ!
                 but it's so pleasingly
fiddly... this tongue... no diacritical markers...
hell... i can come in and take a ****
and also cite... those Pakistanis of Rotherham
having a stranglehold on...
whatever an English woman is, these days...
not much...
      because my impulses within the confines
of Darwinism have, been, insulted!
trans-gender *******...
but my frame i can't lie about...
but if i have to... that's an insult to merely seeing...
calling me ******* blind!
i don't like being insulted...
ridiculed...
   i don't like being challenged by retards...
you give me a capable opponent...
akin to a Kasparov... o.k.: you... reduce me...
to... being levelled to... orientating myself
around... a ******* euthanasia march of...
******* disease?
now i'm grinding my teeth...
i'm scheming...
   i don't like my intelligence to be insulted...
****** didn't like his creative talent
to be insulted, either...
i don't like being made to be:
accommodating... conscientious...
      bulls don't charge at seeing red...
they charge at seeing FUSCHIA...
bulls have UV vision... i'm seeing ******* FUSCHIA...
i'm grinding my teeth...
knives are testimony... but... they're...
sloppy...
   not enough space or numbers...
me? i'm tired...
   the mediocre idiots can smile, giggle... bless
their gentle... non-soul... body-tombs...
whatever... i've started building up
a... blutdurst! a blood thirst!
     it's: unbefriedigend unverzeihlich...
unforgivably unsatisfying!
   so much yuck... ugh... grunts and schemes of
averting pressuring an onomatopoeia...
such is the tongue...
no diacritical markers...
what's to be expexted?
the apostrophes... come: who's?!
with ' i.e. hide the i?
            *******... Velsh steward... sort... of... "guide"...
yeah... nice nice... corn needs to be clapped about;
while poetry needs to be written
by people at the end of their mortal tumult...
that's when you, ******* start!
that's when! safely guarded by...
not having to *******... drop dead
and ******* fail! that's when...
you start writing... "poetry"...
that's best! no no... that's the best time...
to... find relief in... scribbling *******'s worth
of rhymes... that's what you do... by then!
people have become...
so... *******... irrelevant...
spasmodic... queer... oddly...
almost... ******* on themselves...
   like... i'd like a conversation with a zombie...
or... a robot... but i'm getting... example X...
pseudo-humanoid itch... i'd rather speak with
a robot... or a zombie... but... you're giving me...
what?! this is, this is a... human?!
i'm joking, or are you, joking?!
        
    no, no! don't allow me to speak to a human
being... whatever the hell that means...
please! please! let me speak to a zombie!
or an oyster! or a robot! a.i. synthetic language
simulation: generator... "thing"...
people are too ******* ugly when...
no no... they just: "pretend" to be stupid...
they do... until...
they sense they can overpower the interaction...
oh... then they're ******* smart...
******* savvy..
        that's when i see:
    time to ****.