butterflies and jitters
stutters and whispers

shaking and sweating
hesitating and forgetting

euphoric paranoia
               accompanies your touch
as you finger your way
               under my skin
shadows on the curve
               of your neck
jitters of reality
               involuntary fantasy
caverns in my body
               unrecognizable reflections
disintegrating away
               maybe its your love
                            maybe its ****

Take one a day and mind the gap,
the rich and the poor, the beer on tap,
stand in line, date and sign,
the Red Bull jitters, the box of wine,
give way to the left, give way to the right,
the artificial winter, the bringer of night.

Radness

The Philosopher’s Stone is not just a spiritual metaphor but an actual substance that can transmute lead or mercury into gold. The Stone is a product of Alchemy. Unlike chemistry, which only deals with physical matter and energy, Alchemy makes use of etheric and astral energies to reconfigure matter at the quantum level. Alchemy is to chemistry what a cube is to the square; it is a superset of chemistry and is capable of so much more.

How Etheric Energy Overrides Physical Laws

Alchemical achievements require successfully gathering, concentrating, and multiplying etheric energy. When this energy reaches a critical threshold, it overpowers the normal laws of physics and allows seemingly miraculous processes to take place. I believe it does this by biasing probability. By amplifying the probability of minor quantum effects, which are normally limited to the subatomic scale, they manifest on the larger atomic scale. In this way, one element spontaneously transforms into another.

The world around us is made of subatomic particles that regularly undergo unpredictable jumps, teleportation, bilocation, superposition, and other strange quantum behaviors. Why don’t everyday solid objects do likewise? Because the random quantum jittering of their subatomic particles collectively average out to zero. Think of a large crowd of people; seen from the air, the crowd as a whole is stationary, even though individuals within the crowd move in seemingly random directions. It’s because their movements are random and uncoordinated that they average to zero net movement on the whole.

The world we see around us is merely a crowd of subatomic particles whose individual quantum jumps aren’t apparent because they average to collective stillness. Physical laws that govern our everyday world, known as the deterministic laws of classical physics, are merely the laws of the crowd. These laws are what’s left of quantum physics after the unpredictability is removed through statistical averaging. They are not absolute laws; they are just the most probable manner in which matter and energy behave.

Physical laws can be bent. While the probability is incredibly low that enough coordination and coherence develops among the quantum jitters to manifest on a collective scale, that is exactly what etheric energy does. It alters probability and thereby skews the laws of thermodynamics, gravity, electromagnetism, and chemistry.

Alchemy does not violate the laws of physics, nor does it always follow them, rather it bends them as needed. It operates upon the quantum foundation from which these laws arise in the first place, via etheric energy affecting the probability of quantum events.

There in the hole of a witness tree
He sits with teeth jackhammering
Chewing his regurgitated worries
Back down to swallowable size
His mind juggling coordinates
Of hickory, walnut, and acorn
Wearing one too many hats
To blend in with the autumn circus
Bushy tail pendulum
Synchronizing his thoughts:
Twenty paces south of the mailbox
Winter
All along the curb on elm street
Winter
Catty-corner to the sandbox
I didn’t bury enough
My mother was right about me
Will there be nuts in heaven?
Am I fit to enter
Winter?
No one understands the freeze
Or the way it syphons your dreams
No one really knows for certain
If they can trust the promise of Spring
These jitters become seizures
Of collateral faith
He is pressing his bones
To hold back the winter
Shaking like a reed in October’s gust
Fretting in the hollow of a tree

We come to a complete stop.
At a red light.
We wear our arms like seat-belts-
crossed for protecting our pilot lights.˚
I can't help but wonder how many airbags might deploy
if a meteor crashed headfirst and heavyset into the planet
and pancaked us eternally into this moment-
and how our fossils would look confused;
funeral flowers on a wedding cake.

None of this matters, we're both thinking it,
God is a foster child playing with his erector set.

You grin with as much conviction as a dented automobile,
breaking the months of silence to say,
"I miss you."

We can never fold these road maps back the way they came.

Somewhere existentially above this moment, there is an asterisk
that confirms
you- are here.

There was a younger version of me that you never got to meet,
he was here once,
stupid as a slinky.
Shaken like an Etch-A-Sketch.
Crooked as the question mark that punctuated his voice.
I looked good in hydroplane,
my eyes- bigger than my belly,
so I drank my weight in promises- I knew would be hard to keep within arms reach.
I also knew an encyclopedia's worth of how it felt to lie to myself.
I did it for twenty-three years
until I finally let go of stupid and held on to reason.

At some age I wrote letters to my favorite musicians,
using the sloppiest side of my penmanship, I'd ask for answers
and my mother, like a paperclip, used to tell me - she'd say,
"Kiddo, just because they don't respond
doesn't mean they didn't get the message."

She kept her chest of hope upstairs, away from the living room.
She only opened it on the hallow end of October;
that's where she kept the blankets.

Shy, I kept my hope chest covered in a T-shirt-
at the very least.
I never opened up.
I emptied my toy box of all its fiction, filled it with voices.
Deployed an army of rubber wrestlers, martial arts amphibians
and those inanimate toy soldiers with plastic parachutes attached
in search of the confidence I knew was supposed to belly-flop inside of me.

It hid, unfound for decades.
Until you entered.

Hawaiian domino effect, circus of chain reactions, avalanche of affirmation, chest-plate yielding gravity mouth speaking brightest anything forever night light, all apex and eyelash and cheekbone.
You -from big island- broke me.
I opened like the dry side of an umbrella, kept my back turned for shielding you.
I showed up for love on time, like a subway train in echelon city
wanting these arms to feel less like turnstiles.

All my sign languages were in waves.
All my ceilings turned to skies.
All my jitters packed into my hunger stomach.
Typing hyper with caffeinated hands
a swarm of nervous words bee-hiving in my butterfly chest.
Something like a hummingbird
when I finally drop your name like an alarm clock whisper
my lungs empty like cathedrals on the day after Christmas.

I brought the sermon to your Sundays,
you brought the choir to my masses.
We built a church around these esophagus bell towers.
Held ourselves up to the stained glass and showed off our light;

I swear I don't believe in a lot of things, God knows,
but there's always a but,
so much as I believe in the eternal depth of everything,
so much as I believe that we'd have plenty of water if it weren't for salt,
so much as I believe in eight marbles rolling around a gas lamp,
I believed we'd find a way.

'Cause in all the ways my sky could never hold you- and I mean this-
I believed in you- same way some people believe in Jesus.

Because you never judged my albatross mouth when I said things like,
"Self deprecation is the new love."
You kissed me-
less like doorstop,
more like lighthouse illuminating windmill.

You were a merry-go-round pivot decorated in Kona coffee beans, Christmas lights, cough syrup, paper mache pineapples, plastic dinosaur bones, a collection of worn-out Asics, board shorts and a dubstep remix broadcast through the static of a blown-out rotary phone.

You were everything I could get my hands on-

A full-tilt action-packed kaleidoscope jungle
with blender tongue and volcano heart.
I looked good in your sad panda coat tails,
teaspoon swallowing my doubts
while you Tarzaned my ability to breathe,
gave me ocean view and weak knees.
Is that sea breeze in your aftermath or are there already tears in my happiness?

You came camouflage out of my blind spot dressed in magnet armor,
diving board and drum set.
We passionbent cymbals into cannonballs.

I found comfort between your breastplate and your shoulder blades,
where you held me like a promise
when all my wishing was for want
and all your wanting was for wishes

Granted,

I know that there were days when you couldn't help but wake up like gorilla speaking Pidgin
and I couldn't help but waking up like an abandoned highway with a chip on my shoulder-
some maps don't show this much detail, Google Earth-

Which is why I always came through for you like a well-lit citrus truck stop
pressed against the dusk in your moonlight life crisis.
We only saw stars.
From our moon base.
In bewilderment, in our hunger, we learned
that if you hold me to my vending machines you'll get what you pay for.

So here it is, the truth, as I have always known it,
delivered to you on the outskirts of an echo,
my voice, supporting my existence like a monolith.

I'm standing in the middle of a you-shaped hole.
It's as wide as a promise crater-
we built it together.
It's not my favorite place to stand
but the exit strategies are made in the shape of a me that I haven't constructed yet.
I had a lot of things planned.
I referred to things as "ours",
when I really meant "please".

Bury me in your time lapse.
When your emotional excavators discover me in your sediment
they'll find me all pterodactyl-
wings spread wide as potential, sky-diving toward forgiveness,
forever.

Truth is, I'm wingless.

We met at a stop sign.
Our paths crossed.

There's a lot of accidents at some intersections.
Maybe it's because that's not where those two roads were supposed to meet.

We can't time machine argue with the way things landed.

We weren't an avoidable accident.
We were just two cars that really wanted to dance.

I don't know what I'm trying to say but I know when I mean it.

There's a tyrannosaurus rex cradled head-to-tail just behind my curator heart-
all fossil spine, monster teeth, jaw head and piano hands.
His presence says a lot about the past.
There's an asterisk on the surface,
above this moment,
that confirms with absolute certainty,

˚something wicked awesome happened here.

An upcoming fashion show, and I don’t mean to be unkind here, is lacking in both. It’s just the way it is. These models are beautifully ordinary people, your neighbours, and their designs are self-crafted, each suiting the model’s personal interpretation of high fashion. It’s the social event of the season. Everyone in the “know” will be there.

Eight models and an emcee will take to the Capitol Theatre stage in Oxford Thursday at 7 p.m. for the third annual Foolish Fashion Show. Foolish is the operative word here. It’s an evening of fun, with each model parading across the stage in four outfits during the show. The fashions are indescribable literally. You have to see them to appreciate them.

The show is the annual fundraiser for the Oxford/Pugwash Unit of the Canadian Cancer Society. To date the show has raised about $5,000 for the society’s Lodge That Gives in Halifax.

The show was the idea of the local unit’s Bev Clark.

“At the time there were no people to canvas door-to-door,” she said. “People were getting older or had less time. There were also other fundraising campaigns going on at the time.”

After seeing a foolish fashion show elsewhere, she decided a similar one would work for the local cancer unit. The first show was a sellout and the models of the evening agreed to take to the stage the next year.

Each designer/model is responsible for their haute couture. With the final result left to their wild, some might say perverse, imaginations the creations are a sight to behold.

Unit secretary and past president Bob Hunsley in his best 007 voice introduces himself as “Bob, SpongeBob.”

“Every good fashion show should include good costumes,” he begins. “Here, our unit president Edna McCormick is wearing her all-weather coat. In this coat she is well prepared for sunshine, rain, fog and snow and all the wind that blows (the coat is adorned with representations of each weather condition). Notice her “son” hat (which is a tribute to her son).”

Jane Smith is new to the Foolish Fashion Show runway.

“I came to the show last year and really enjoyed it. It looked like fun,” she said.

First time jitters?

“Doesn’t bother me a bit.”

This show is one in which you can’t do anything wrong. You show off your creation however you deem fit. It’s all fun.

Tom Kay, is making his modelling debut also. And what will Councillor Kay be strutting his stuff in? Not to give too much away but a muscle shirt like you’ve never seen and shorts will be worn.

Nine-year-old Emma McCormick is also a featured model.

It’s a show not to be missed.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015

when you are three you will bring home your first tracks of mud from the garden when you sneak out of the door to play. i will wash the grass stains off your socks and tell you to wait for mummy to come out next time too.

when you are four you will bring home your first macaroni necklace from nursery school and try to eat it raw. i will put it around your neck and we will make pasta together, minus the glue.

when you are five you will bring home tears and your first bleeding knee after falling off your tricycle. i will clean up the wound with antiseptic, put on a smiley face band aid and tell you it is okay to cry.

when you are six you will bring home your first finger painting from kindergarten and a white tee shirt that is streaked with a myriad of colour. i will place it on the laundry pile and we will stain canvas with paint coated fingers for the rest of the afternoon.

when you are seven you will bring home your first report card and babble excitedly about the A you got in art class. i will tell you i knew your teacher would love the tiger you drew that had too many teeth.

when you are eight you will bring home your first best friend and you will ask if you can have a sleepover. i will bake you cookies and put up a tent in the backyard so you can fall asleep under the blanket of stars.

when you are nine you will bring home your first 100 on a test and ask me if perfect is a good score. i will hug you and say that no score can be more perfect than you are.

when you are ten you will bring home your first girl guide badge and tell me you need it sewn on your uniform. i will teach you how to use a needle and thread and see your pride at accomplishing the task on your own.  

when you are eleven you will bring home your first medal from a junior fencing competition and tell me you love the foil but you are scared of the older ones who use epees and sabres (even though one day you will be one of them, too). i will hang the medal on your bedpost and show you my rusting sabre in the storeroom and tell you my stories.

when you are twelve you will bring home your first case of chickenpox from the girl who sits next to you in class. i will make you chicken soup and we will make bad puns about poultry for the next two weeks of quarantine.

when you are thirteen you will bring home your first failure on a test paper. i will sit with you in your room and go through your mistakes and we will learn together, because you are more than a number and i never want you to forget that

when you are fourteen you will bring home your first questions about why the girls in school giggle about boys when the name you doodle in your jotter book is the one of your hauntingly beautiful social studies teacher. i will tell you that love is whatever you believe it to be and who you love is less important than why you love them.

when you are fifteen you will bring home your first can of beer in an effort of rebellion and try to hide it in your room. i will get out the wine and we will share it and i will teach you all there is to know about alcohol and being careful around it, and regale you with stories about the fact that i am a happy drunk.

when you are sixteen you will bring home your first attempts at a resumé and tell me you want to find an internship. i will watch you with pride as you make your own way as part of the working crowd for the very first time and learn more than i could ever teach you on my own.

when you are seventeen you will bring home your first girlfriend and introduce her to me, blushing and stammering. i will smile and ask her if she wants any orange juice from the fridge, and watch you give me a grateful grin.

when you are eighteen you will bring home your first college application and all the relevant documents. we will sit down over the kitchen table and discuss the pros and cons of local and international schools.

when you are nineteen you will bring home a suitcase and some assignments when you come back home during break. i will watch you tuck in to local fare ravenously and listen to you dreamily talk about the girl you share your dormitory with.

when you are twenty you will bring home your first paycheck from a part-time job you’re holding while studying for your degree. i will joke with you on what blue chip stocks to invest it in and we will go out for dinner at a swanky restaurant together.

when you are twenty one you will bring home an engagement ring and ask me if it is too young to ask your dormmate turned lover forever. i will remind you that love has no age and preconceptions have no place in devotion.

when you are twenty two you will bring home everything you need to propose to the love of your life. i will watch her stare at you in shock and fall into your arms and cry, and i will smile at the way your breath leaves your lungs, and you cry along with her.

when you are twenty three you will bring home your first pre-wedding jitters and be fretting about tomorrow’s ceremony. i will reassure you that everything will be perfect- even if it isn’t.

when you are twenty four you will bring home your first spare key to your new place and entrust it to me. i will bring over the dishes you and your wife love every sunday and we will have dinner together, talking, teasing, and laughing till we cry.

when you are twenty five you will bring home your first daughter you have adopted from the orphanage.

and daughter, i hope you will tell her the things i have told you.

I think I have control by now; I know
you want me to instruct you how to love.
I lack the tools for idleness; I go
crazy when you weigh yourself above

me. I know you’re in the rink – I know you are!
It’s just my paranoia’s acting out,
and then I call you twice and go too far,
that’s just a macho, jealous, loving bout.

But still you love my fighting tender thoughts,
and look in our shared corner when you’re scared.
But then the jitters, stomach ties in knots.
No gloves came out each time an old love stared.

I do not care for who you used to love,
keep razor blades tucked in my boxing gloves.

Nervousness is the feeling in you're chest,
The light tap tap of the heart,
With a tingling feeling,
Like a butterfly wants to rip out of you're chest,
But stays trapted in a cage,
with a one track mind,
That won't leave you for days,
As you loose sleep and wait,
As worrie and you're face changes,
Pale,
Butterfly, Butterfly,
Please go away...

I lay here picturing how this school year will be,
Even though I know it will never be what I imagine,
There will be drama, and hurt feelings,
Tears, and laughter, love, and love loss,
Laying here I'm anxious to find out, but also scared,
I'm not a really shy person, but my insecurities always seem to drag me away from my true potential,
Maybe this year will be full of good memories,
Maybe it will be my worst year,
But it does no good to lay here,
Torturing myself with the "maybes"  Or "what ifs' "
I have to live and endure it to truly find out

England played today, what a ****-up grandiose style, glass bottle like hail flew down on Marseilles, water-canons, all kinds of crowd dispersers, true grit on the former great, now belittled, nation-state in d' hood reduced to a pitch with 20 idiots running around kicking about Charles' 1st head, and too fidgety skeletons tagged to A.S.B.O.S. tags playing puppets in a rectangle... i stopped watching the match for a cigarette break, the free-kick went in, Saturay, Tesco closing at 10pm, i took to wearing an Australian Open t-shirt, i've never seen so many funerals drinking a beer on my way home - prior it it was all gorilla chanting and Tarzan... i only learned of Tsar Putin dipping his ***** in the **** of Crimea a few minutes later.

your typical Saturday night, next door  neighbour's
trying out an alt. Y.M.C.A. with disco funk,
i guess it spreads easily this day, feel the grooves
or lined Rodin - ape-**** up my *** -
music so loud coming from my neighbour's canopy
i should be asking for canapés - after all Euro 2016
kicked off, scarf-hooligans of Moscow made
Marseilles home-turf , two Brits at the draw
in hospital, faces kicked-in, real bulldogs,
asthmatics at the end of it - conversation turned into a tour
of the Cairngorms or the western outlets...
a lot of Scottish impromptu with **** **** freckles!
gee ginger! aye fucky ***** ****!
Anglo users love interchanging the vowels for emphasis
to differentiate geographic regions -
but this one book review got me -
entitled ***** state by a feminist -
the ugly child abusing father is a punter -
listen, if it were't for prostitutes i'd be a priest
7 years in, acne on my Richie, one ****** in,
kiss on the mouth several times, hell, the guilt trip,
poor boy poor girl, skin cream lubrication,
talk of doctor's appointments, ******* a *****,
i'd get the Scandinavia model if the girls weren't fickle,
the hand is hardly a plastic surgeon of the female
genitalia ***** - bony M... you must be talking
about ******* - ***** M...
Jesus no more the son of god than the patron saint
of prostitutes... the poor guy feels the aches of touch
while the rich boys sushi off a stripper in Billions...
i don't have strong dialectical encouraging to dispute
or discuss - i too am too blame, ask my dermatologist...
so my neighbours threw a party,
on the set-list?
Cheryl Lynn - Got to Be Real; Oliver Cheatham,
Get Down Saturday Night; Edwin Starr - Contact;
and then the one off from One Direction - History -
the DJ suddenly experiences the jitters neurotically
changing songs before they finish - midwestern horror,
Ohio or Iowa hammer masscare, excerpt from
Pink Floyd's anti-fascist anti-educationalist march,
dangly on the Cenotaph -
persona qui umbra-grata (person agreeably welcome
as a shadow) - yep, me and the ex_machina routine...
i know the feminist argument smocking pipe handy
clean for more pages, but ever hear a ******* ******
or laugh with you? if i didn't use up the profession
i'd be the buying type abusive father forever,
who the **** needs **** trips when the moment can please
twos? i'd be up against a Cosmopolitan Magazine Quizzes...
the "perfect boyfriend" types, later coverage in
psychological advice columns... but wait...
all that ******* advice about something being indestructible
in us, about us, beginning with this keen appeal to
atheism already defaults a logic behind the essential
characteristic of the existence pertaining to a psyche -
by destroying god we also resolved to more easily disqualify
the in-destructibility of the soul,
constrained, a study of noumenons, with logic application,
as if with the omni- prefix to the non-essentials of god -
logic destroyed the compatible qualification of soul
ownership, reduced, it gave us the advent of prayer
and the necessity of a god, rather than our selves,
via souls - something without deductive parameters to
cursor and pre- of the experience quickened to
argument with dis- and later -qualificatio;
the кaцaпс fought with Mongols... you think there's
a fair bet for your hooliganism in Marseilles?
well... it all boils down to two identifiers of nationalism:
parade with the royal family near St. James' park
or gut a pig in the south of France...
Wales will not bow this time, given that they're
not getting paid for their national pride dribble,
they'll ******* up... make more adverts with your superstars...
strange that, well, America has idiosyncratic sports,
i never understood the cheese-ball of oval either to the throw -
yes, baseballs makes more sense than cricket,
but you have to understand rugby before you
start crowdsurfing your *** in nappies -
the high expression of nationalism is so Joker-faced
with the Windsor ******, nationalism and a king never match
up to how Mao or ****** would have it...
and the alternative is football hooliganism...
i walked for my whiskey and beer just after the 75th minute,
along the way i met so many funerals, donning my
Australian Open T-Shirt... well, you, know,
a different type of spectator sport - i heard the rabbis
of the oval where deemed cricket tourists when kicking
a penalty through the H architecture -
cricketers are tourists, oval jerker-offs are Wallabies...
Australia in the Eurovision song-contest... oh yeah,
i'm mad... mad about Abba.. Matt in Memphis,
an Eve Cassidy moment, Sia's chandelier cover-up,
the truest form of plagiarism - the cover is better
without all the computing morphings...
oh sure, i could play the dating game...
9 years in and i had two authentic ***** in my day...
one was a black single mum who took me back
to her flat in Stratford, dragged her baby girl from the bed
to the floor, and her baby son, didn't want me to
penetrate her, tucked my **** in between her thighs,
i stopped, was woken by her son in the middle of the night,
took him and laid him on my chest and we fell asleep...
so yeah, prostitution is ALL BAD... coming from a theorist
who hasn't experienced the drudgery of lives "unexpected"
via eventualities akin to Chernobyl... given that the most
paranoid nation scared and scaring others concerning
a nuclear holocaust is the only one to set two off... two!
Pearl Harbour was an army attack on an army base...
what the Americans did was just a very quick Holocaust.

Let me out
The clock is moving too slow for me
It stares at me, it's laughing

I really don’t wanna be here no more
My foots tapped a hole in the floor

Let me out ,let me out
Rip down the door

Let me out, let me out
This place is a bore

Let me out let me out
I can't be restrained

Let me out let me out
Or I'll go insane

I check the time again it ain't changed
Earth's rotation is to blame

I'm way too tense to be trapped in here
You find me rude but I don’t care

Let me out ,let me out
Rip down the door

Let me out, let me out
This place is a bore

Let me out let me out
I can't be restrained

Let me out let me out
Or I'll go insane

I got no place to go
I just can't be here
Or I'll...I'ill
Explode

This moment in time
Goes by way too slow
I'll lose my mind
If you don’t let me go

Let me out let me out
Rip down the door

Let me out, let me out
This place is a bore

Let me out, let me out
I can't be restrained

Let me out,  let me out
Or I'll go insane

Another year bygone,
faiths tested, minutes wasted,
hours lost yet the seconds survived.

unfulfilled wishes, the abandoned hope,
the souring dreams, the expectations that rose.

a broken heart, the shed tears
the lost smile, the happiness i fear.

a series of triumphs, hosts of despair
longing for laughter, an escaped prayer
not everything ends up being fair

the losses mourned, and the treasured gains,
oh those lovely walks in the rain,
the wind on my face,
the life we live as a race

my hair is falling out more--
i don't quite understand why.
could it be the food I've been eating--
or lack thereof.
am i pulling too ******* my ponytails--
or yanking too tightly while twisting my braids.
can it be the stress of my final days of school--
or all the assignments still marked in red.
possibly the ache in my heart for him--
or the rage simmering in my chest.
maybe it's simply symptoms of ***--
or just my mind pressing buttons at random.
would it be because of my anxiety flowing over--
or the jitters from my morning cup of coffee.
funny if I've been tearing at my scalp in my sleep--
or clawing the demons from my dreams.

LA California
Starting on the bus
Just shy of 2,600 miles to go
Florida or bust!

All alone and slightly scared
I got into my seat
There was excitement in the air
Anticipation sweet

At 19 and still a babe
I was sure grass green
No carry-on to worry about
$20 in my jeans

I was a waif of a girl
Pixie-like and fey
The men-folk all were looking
As I got on the bus that day

Naive, I didn't notice
But the black woman, she did
Though she had 5 babes with her
Next to me she slid

That lady sure had carry-on!
Ice Coolers and bags
Her kids were toting it all on
Dressed in their best rags

They had the jitters in their legs
As in their seats they jumped
She was smiling, jovial,
Substantial and plump.

"How you doin', Missy!
Where you going to?"
"Clearwater, Florida" I said to her
"Hey, ma'am, how 'bout you?"

"A town in Mississippi
You wouldn't know the name,
But it's where I've lived my life
It's home just the same.

"What's your name then, Missy?
Lands! You're goin' far!"
"Ma'am, my name is Cathy,
Yep. This trip's gonna be hard!"

She said her name was Elsie
Her smile was sweet and good
She reached into her cooler
And broke out some food!

And what food! Hot Fried Chicken!
Fresh made that same day!
Collard greens and hush puppies
That gal fed me the whole way!

Corn on the cob and ice cold pop
Sweet potato pie
Best food I've ever eaten
I tell you no lie!

We did a lot of talkin'
Durin' that long ride.
I found out she loved Jesus
When she talked of Him she cried.

I didn't understand it
It was something that I missed,
Headed for Scientology
Raised an atheist.

It left a great impression
Though didn't know it then.
I accepted Him much later
And I remembered when.

She told me His value,
She told me His cost.
She got off in a town
You could throw a rock across.

I helped her with her baggage
Scared to be alone...
There was a ******* standing there
Eyes hard and cold as stones

I was so offended
"What you lookin' at?
He rolled his chaw within his mouth
Disdainfully he spat.

"At choo, ****** lover...
You is quaaht a sight
Movin' that ol' ******'s bags
Even tho you white."

"God bless you for sneezing".
I said acidly
"This lady needed her some help.
This country is still free".

"Don' mind him", Elsie whispered
And she was plainly scared
Not for herself. But for myself!
And for the feelings that I aired.

"Get back on the bus now!"
She gave the man a look
By then some of her men-folk
Had come over to help.

I got back on that Greyhound,
Just as I was bid,
Didn't know I was in danger
But that black lady did.

The rest of that trip was painful
When I reached New Orleans
My ankles were so swollen
They almost tore my jeans.

But I arrived in Clearwater
Tired yet unscathed.
I'll never forget Elsie
Who helped me on the way.


When I accepted Jesus
I will tell you frank
I remembered Elsie's witness

I have her to thank.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/3/2016

1 cup jitters
3 cups drained confidence
6 stalks worry, finely chopped
2 tablespoons crushed hope
6 cups toxic shock
2 slices defrosted denial
1 leaf shredded Roe v. Wade
6 seared As-salāmu ʿalaykum
1 can LGBT despair
3 pints refried refugees
Marinated anger
DACA pain

Stir jitters and confidence to coat.
Sauté worry, blend shock and denial.
Combine dread and crushed hope.
Transfer all to a crockpot.
Fold in Roe v. Wade.
Cook on high for 6 hours.
Pour stew into large bowl.
Garnish with grief.
Serve with side of pain
and salad tossed with anger.
Open a bottle of What To Do Next.

walking down a backstreet
had to quench my thirst
for alcohol or devils dust
which one would be first

it was then i heard the music
i forgot why i was out
my demons were in check now
t'was the music....there's no doubt

a backstreet bar
a dim lit stage
a singer singing
full of rage
demons screaming
hers and mine
i stumbled in
I had time

anger, venom
loud and strong
bass line pounding
pulled along
demons quelled
to say the least
this music tamed
my savage beasts

i sat and listened for a little while
i got a beer, it cost a smile
the waitress knew why i was here
i guess she figured, one free beer

the singer tore the stage apart
songs from her soul, not from her heart
she took a break and that was when
my demons found the night again

shaky, jitters
couldn't sit
couldn't focus
not a bit
cold sweats, cramping
demons caged
and then again
she took the stage

anger, venom
loud and strong
bass line pounding
pulled along
demons quelled
to say the least
this music tamed
my savage beasts

i knew the battle i would lose
my hunger was too strong
brought in line for a short time
by a singer and her songs

tomorrow night another war
between the hell in me
would my demons be calmed down
or would they be set free?

Coffee makes me Happy
Makes me Smile
Makes me Jittery

Coffee is the drink of Gods
That has been brought to us
to keep us alive in our minds

Coffee is the 5 hour energy that lasts
It keeps you on your Toes
Coffee is Awesome

One time the inside of me was dead
only way to stop the jitters in my head
jitters forcing my heart to rip into shreds
Charging my pulse, forcing me to feel red  

One time the quite made me feel calm
Bruises slowly disappearing from my palm
The first time my breathing played like a song
Discovering the difference between what's right and  what's wrong

One time they said that I was too nice
they don't know my heart was once cold as ice
Experience comes with it's own special price
Your childhood would have been my paradise

One time I felt everyone else's pain
I saw how it moves through us like a chain
Fueling it's power through the dead right brain
Making ignorance a comfortable ball and chain

One time I screamed angry at the universe
Seems like being humane is a blessing and curse
Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse
we have normalized a society that should make you averse  

One time I realized it's all worth the fight
It's not so bad to be someone else's light
Despite all the hatred I'll stay polite
because losing your character means losing the fight

It’s not pre-show jitters or first day butterflies, it’s a different kind of fear.

I close my eyes, I am 11 years old again, my mother yells that we have to leave in 10 minutes. And so it begins. I start shaking, I run to the bathroom with a stomach ache that was nonexistent less than a minute ago. I walk into the living room, sit on the couch and let the flood gates open, screaming, crying anything to try to excorsize the demon taking over my body, tearing me open from the inside out.

They say everyone has their demons, mine, an anxiety disorder.

I am twelve and the panic attacks don’t let up. My anxiety like torrential rain, threatening to flood the city. I have stopped seeing my friends, and leaving my house unless forced. I contemplated suicide often, seeing it as my only escape. My mother brings me to the doctor and I am put on medication and sent to a therapist.

To the outside world I am getting better, Maybe this was just a phase.

I am 13, and off the medication. I had survived my first year of school and even started hanging out with a few people who are now my closest friends. Life was looking up, I could see the light, but that didn’t mean I was out of the tunnel.

But I’m not better. My eyes are dull and my smile is faker than barbie.

I am 14, school is harder, and so is spending time with my “friends.” One girl,  I thought we were equals. It started with a joke, harmless. She would poke me in the back, joking that I would get kidney failure. Then she hit harder, still “joking”. That is when the  rumors started. All because I wore a guy’s shirt and a rainbow bracelet one day. I started to get nervous to go to school, scared that I would have to face her again.

Have you ever tried screaming underwater? And no one can hear you and those who can pretend they don’t? That’s what it’s like, screaming and nobody can hear me.

I am fifteen, sitting on the bus, an already stressful situation. A girl sits with me, as people do. She forces me to either move in or be crushed. I slide against the cold metal of the bus, creating the most amount of space between me and her. But it’s not enough, I start getting a feeling that I knew all too well. I was having a panic attack. My sympathetic nervous system triggers my fight or flight response, my adrenaline levels raise, my body preparing for a war, a battle that will never come, at least not physically. I can’t breath, I can’t speak, I can’t even think. The voices of the people around me blur into indistinguishable mumbles, every light is too bright, every noise too loud.  

All I want to do I go home and drown in a sea of loud music and blankets, warm and safe in my own space. But I have to do what I do every day, and push through the next seven hours pretending to be okay.

And now my mind is not my own. My thoughts fall in to this never ending void of what ifs and could this-es. Spiraling out of control, my own personal self destruct button. I claw at the edges, desperately trying to escape. But how can you escape your own mind? Your own thoughts?

If I have the freedom of speech, why do I feel imprisoned by my words?

This is my life now, I live in constant fear that someday my anxiety will take over my life and never relinquish control. I am scared to look towards the future, because the guess and check method doesn’t work for life.

I have lived my whole life with irrational fear, but now I am truly afraid.

Legs shake
Jitters, excitement, anxiety
"I've moved heaven and earth to get this,"
Festive for Rome
"Group one," she announces
"In the beginning," I think.
Let the story commence.
Flock goes the sheep
What is foreign to some
Is native to others
Airport fun

Before the exams....
Idreline and stress!!

To you, who has seen him in person:

How did he look like? Was his skin smooth and white as milk; or was it a golden glow bestowed upon him? Did you see the humanistic details known as blemishes or beauty marks which usually get edited out in pictures? Was he the type of person to hold your gaze as he held your hands? Or did he look away after a few seconds? Did you see the mirth that sparkled in his glassy orbs? Did you see the smiles of other people being contained in them, that now he carries an eye smile wherever he goes? Did your eyes keep his gaze, afraid that it would break the staring spell? What of his hands, were they as warm as his eyes, or vice versa? Were they soft like a light feather, or coarse with experience of the harsh outside world? Did your eyes trace the veins that led up to his arms? They're beautiful, aren't they? How those threads of blue, green and red twisted playfully under his skin, giving him the blood to see you. How about his cheeks, did they lift; did he laugh? Did his laughter sound like little bells ringing, or a little stream through a dry desert; it was so refreshing, wasn't it? Did he even smile to the point where his eyes crinkled, forehead wrinkled, and you saw both rows of his teeth? Was his voice deep? Was it too deep that you fell deeper as well, in love? Or was it a smooth one, rich in emotion, or did you hear the innocence in his soul as he gently spoke? Was he relaxed; were his shoulders and breathing calm? Was his hair nearly as disheveled as yours? Was he perspiring from the heat or from the jitters and tension? I bet you couldn't keep calm, and you nearly hyperventilated just from sharing the same air with him. Maybe he made you less nervous with cheesy pickup lines, when you yourself planned to say it to him, in hopes of getting stuck in his head with your jokes or puns. Maybe his grip was too light on your fingers, and you felt him lose his grip and slip away-- you might have held your whole world in your hand but he only held a tiny part of his. Like how he easily walked past you with a quick acknowledging glance, one that's no special from the glances he gave to others. And you wonder if you'll appear in their minds right before they sleep, or even appear in their dreams.

Even i wonder if i can ever cross his mind as nostalgia when he sees, hears or touches something. Or if I'll be able to meet him even if it's just in our dreams, and we wake up at the same time because of it. Sometimes I fear it when the day arrives to see him; i fear the day when i finally see the look in his eyes, as if he's just staring at no one. I fear the day to hold his hand, knowing his grip wouldn't be as intense as mine. I fear the day to realize he didn't and would never feel the same way. But darling, i look forward to seeing him, because he needs to know at least that he is loved. And that thought alone comforts me.

So right now, just looking at you, my dear, is more than enough. Just having you look me in the eyes, is more than enough. Because i believe and feel his eyes which once stared at yours, are staring back at me too.

From me, who loves him

Softness has no measure,
you would suppose,
but your eyes whisper
intimate love secrets, that I gather,
those  gentle waves of softness
my eyes would finely record,
and my heart will resonate
tenderly with its every nuance.

Every look conceals alphabets of
softness, for the one intended,
as those eye lashes flutter, like a dove,
its exact measure, my mind captures,
This softness I receive and respond,
and you send moment by moment,
is the essence of passion we  deeply share.

Your voice quivers, my heart jitters,
a stylus fashioned from thought,
will etch each word,
in our inner caves, for ever to remain.
Softness spreads in the air
when you are near;
from the lovely thoughts you bring,
it permeates defying all science,
conventions and understanding,
I swing in to high gear with love fever.

*Your touch; isn't it condensed softness?
with that flower soft touch, a new level of awareness
in love, comes in to being, I fly in the air,without wings!
yet my heart craves for your eyes' special interest,

won't you oblige?

I've been unicyclist before,
balancing myself on a tight rope,
juggling to perform when losing hope,
oh wait, its not my new slippery *****.

Can I wear a mask?
take the clown to task,
you needn't ask,
the smile will wear on
despite a tearing cask.

I don't need a ringmaster,
I keep my own show,
magically will pull through,
'tis true there is nothing that you owe,
except maybe a friendly hello.

If you'd care to help
I'm saving up cans
With the brilliant idea
To build an aluminum can friend

One that shines bright
That never will rust
In whom I share secrets
One I can trust

He'll have Coca-Cola arms
And Dr. Pepper legs
Non-caffine Sprite
I'll use for his head

Don't want my aluminum can friend
To have jitters all day
Restless at night
Staying up late

I'll give him Pepsi hands
That are willing to please
So when I do chores
He can help me

For my friend on the go
I'll give Mountain Dew feet
A couple Red Bull
If I decide to do wings

And an idea that is good
Would be a Fanta heart
For a colorful beat
With all the flavors there are

So if you'd like to help
I'm saving up cans
With the brilliant idea
To build an aluminum can friend

Can we putter away
a hundred and more days
when all we ever wanted
is to be found at last
in this totally murky space?

Do we regret the hours
we spent together
savoring the words
that don't even matter
to anyone, anyhow
locked up hands
among the naughty crowd?

Shall we toss these letters
out our blood-stained windows
and wished for something
that hadn't caused us jitters
like a genuine touch
from a mother that really cares
but 'twas all lust
we just gave in to our fears?

How do I hate what I didn't mean to love?

Must have been wise enough to know
I could've written a better show
Just that mad to have been carried away
by your love that only crossed my way
unfortunately,
half a day.

DEAR MOM I AM HOMOPHOBIC

   Dear mother
My guardian angel and protector
Am afraid to tell you
He was staring at me
When i went to the loo
His cold gaze pierced my back
And his unblinking eyes sent jitters down my spine
A creeping feeling enwrapped my whole being
When i turned his charming stare held me prisoner and he smiled at me

Mother i could feel his look perusing me like an art book
From head to toe i was studied
I felt naked as his hungry stare undressed me
To him i was a piece of an apple pie
I could make out gurgling sounds as he swallowed dry saliva and licked his death black lips
Lust was painted all over his mane covered face
Mom i was really scared
I regretted stepping in that club

When i returned to my seat he bought me beer
My liqour thirst was hard to bear
I betrayed my masculinity
And accepted drink from a **** sapien of male fraternity
My mind was having a cold war with my soul
Wierd thoughts tormented my intoxicated body
Where did i stand???

He welcomed himself in my table
With a gecko like grin etched on his face
"You are handsome"those were the ugliest words i had ever heard from a man
My owl like eyes bore onto him with blazing anger dancing on my eyelids
I was shaking not because i was cold but murdering instincts were elecrocuting my adrenaline
He mistook my silence and commited a cardinal sin by placing his manicured hand on my thighs
He winked as his blinking broke the speed record
I cleared my throat and i knew it was time to recorn

He thought his tactics had worked
I withdrew my hand from my pocket raised beer bottle as if to toast
He hastefully followed suit
"Chee....he never finished as i bathed him with my beer
"Hey ****** am straight"i yelped as i crushed the beer bottle on his thick skull
I heard a deafening yell
The rest i remember is being frog matched into a police car
So dear mom its not my fault am in jail
Am here because i fought
Mom am not a law breaker
Am here because i am homophobic

Sitting in the cafe, you turn your head
Glancing in her direction
You've seen her before
Tonight you'll say hello

Now the nerves start
Your mouth dries up
You couldn't talk if you wanted
Knees are weak

Now's the time
You're going to do it
You turn back towards her

She's gone.

He yells!!
1-2-3-4
Oh! Hell 
 5-6-7-8

Who do we appreciate
Hormones Ah Vey!
Pray

So pick up the
Italian horn phone*
Leave me alone!!!
Harmony and hormones
Are like song

Losing beat
whiskers
I am the Queen and your
the Dutch masters
Fit 2-B Flustered
Like rabbit hares
Jumps *****

Hey Bills
Tramping
Playbill

Ridiculous -Pompous
Jumping- Delicious

Playgirl
No sweat
Her vocals
are a threat

The trampolines
the trend he's Jaws
Did you see
her nasty
50 shades of flaws
green pupils

Meter lady and the *****
Wonka tickets
Humbug grouchy
Hands off but way
to touche-y
picking pockets

Barista coffee jitters
*****
The birds and the
Bees like ***
with Monkey's

All dried up
Nothing to sting
Madhatter of honey
lover ding ****
((Hong Kong))

******* hormones
fishy mermaid tails
sardines
ladies eating pork
and beans
At the mezzanine

Fish eggs "Zar" of caviar
By far is the best love
I ever had
Tangerine your
the one for me
If you ever have
half a brain

I will find you
It will take a whole
*****-like City
My speed of Sin city
Someone out there to
feed me
Those up and downs

Hormones crown me
Town $$
country
Central Park jogging
and stomach wiggling

Highs and lows of work
hustling
Even when I am
desperately
Housewife NJ
enthusiastic

I rather knock on wood
You better be home
Smiling guilty good
This world changed
to plastic
Divine from killer drastic
Those hormones
Disney ****** dunes
Wed me I dare you ((June))
Insane asylum ward
When my hormones
are working

My moods sweet candy
hard demanding
I am the one holding the
Award trophy *God
Having
hormones
are tricky
Jumping jelly beans
handy
Trampolines and
Hormones
Mrs. Jones
She has a thing
going on

New monopoly_
Holy Molly
Oversexed Jolly
Mr and Mrs
Robinson
She's older
and wiser
Took her Lover's ransom

Her ****** I phones ring
hormones
Something has to give
Chinese Din sum
He's jumping off the wall
trampolines whats up
with his *****?
Scratchy felines
Egyptian Nile nine lives
Cats  Meow smile

Love affair Prudence
come
out to play
The Beatles
Love the Abby lane
And she
walked
out insane__

a farewell to quills / qwerty: alternative title to -new year's resolution and breaking thresholds of my mental stamina

rereading some works of Frank O'Hara thinking:
i wish a naive 20 year old once more,
just for as little as an hour - curse this aging and
getting predictable in one's assurance
    and disappointments -

i'm crushed today, absolutely crushed...
last night i managed to "****" the madam of the brothel...
that's the thing... i was coming back from
work, i drank one bottle of cider and a little
bit of whiskey, but i must have walked
around the brothel roughly 3 miles
in endless bouts of despair and excitement...

vomiting what little i ate that day...
thinking i'm constipated with an unfinished
little nugget of **** lodged up my *******...
queasy, excited, lost.... child-like...

like i said: "****"... she's a big woman...
i'm guessing in her 50s... definitely late 40s...
it's rather intimidating... and i'm like 5 months
shy from being 37 myself!
plump... but given her age that looks great on a woman
and... my god... the greatest pair of *******
i have ever seen... absolutely...
    a *****-**** where your actual **** disappears
completely?
                    it was just too intimidating...

whenever she let into the brothel for a £10
sat me down and inquired whether i'd like something
refreshing to drink... or she would let be choose
what music i'd like to listen to if all the girls were
busy...

******* no. 1 - lasted me for about 5 minutes...
flop... i finally broke my mental threshold when it comes
to casual ***... casually authentically transactional ***...
no games... not dating games...
no "relationships" / hook-ups...
me, going to the butchers - laying down £10 on
the table the butcher giving me a lump of beef...
that's it... no not me being older and dating 20 year
old women and beating them at the game
just by being older...

                                     the complete ******* opposite...
i don't know what her prostitutes told her
and why she suddenly made herself available!
(oh ****... i'm going to be sick... right this minute...)

.....................................................­.....................
...........................................­.................................
...............................­...........................................
.....................­......................................................
..........­................................................. (10 minutes
spent in the toilet puking, later).......................

unlike with Isabella - from Grenoble -
who i lost my virginity to -
i was a fresh 18 year old who already had
some experience with kissing and hand-jobs
while she was 21 and already with experience...
she just implored me to put on a ******
while speaking half-drunk half-passionately
(strange combination, i know)...
                  
older women... the gap gets even worse when
you get to the age of 36 and the woman is
in her late 40s or in her early 50s...
                                the allure is staggering...
a Grand Canyon of experiences -
                                      i am not ashamed that
i tried to get a ******* twice and twice failed...
as we were talking she didn't cut any corners:
it's not strong enough...
   oh **** me... for the 5 minutes it was hard
the way she just slapped in on her tongue...
but as the limo kicked in i just brushed it aside...
like dirt under a rug... not really taking myself
seriously - the situation was serious enough...
                          of course i didn't blame her...
                           and of course she knew that i couldn't
for the first time in my life i mentioned ******...
my head was aching with this notion...
but not too much: back in high school i already knew
guys in their tender age of 17 and 18 who had
early success with girls who were already
popping ******...
                                             but i know my bouts
of impotence... there's a word in Polish that perfectly
describes it: TREMA...
             which doesn't mean trauma...
                                the jitters... stage-fright...

oddly enough with her prostitutes hardly any problems...
but most of them are younger...
    with her prostitutes it's usually the opposite...
there's the hard-on but a mental constraint of being
unable to finish, to ******...
this was a completely opposite problem...

i dreamt of **** that size ever since i learned to *******
aged 8... and now having finally arrived at
my Mecca of fantasies and "expectations"...
******... the jitters...
                          which i could understand if i was
20 and she was 28... but not with my experiences...
not nearing 37... well...
                                   but she's nearing 50... ergo?
the canyon of expectations grows exponentially...
why? because... technically... i bought into
some Oedipal... she could technically be my mother...
not quiet... and on top of that:
                            she's the madam of the brothel!
she's the one who employs prostitutes and gives
them protection by employing a bouncer
who says a friendly: hello mate, how are you?
upon opening the brothel's fourth door...
oh yeah... you have to walk through 4 doors before
entering...
i have seen guys get rejected on the 1st door...
and the 2nd...

all these factors played a part...
ergo? my new year's resolutions are here...
my drinking has finally caught up with me...
i'm actually getting bored of drinking...
i know i said that once...
and never stuck to my guns of giving up
the habit... i'm also getting bored of smoking
cigarettes...
                     i can't smoke on the job
because i get nervous when sometimes having
to attend to large crowds... large crowds of
drunk football fans... i can't smoke in the morning
either... i get this morning tobacco sickness...
plus being a serious cycling enthusiast:
what's the point?
plus being pestered with a genetic predisposition
for high blood pressure...
the drinking is not helping... the smoking is not
helping... maybe that's another factor when it comes
to this one bout of erectile dysfunction...
high blood pressure...

and... writing... well... if i won't be drinking alcohol
my truth serum will be gone...
              and if i won't be smoking... what sort of writer
would i be if i didn't smoke?
the one eating carrots as a way of distraction and bad
habit?
                     i might as well admit that...
i think that i've written all that i have wanted / not wanted
to write -
     there's just no more incentive to continue this
dream - give up like Scott Fitzgerald... but instead
of turning to more alcohol... actually giving it up...
   all the vices... get in even better shape and...
                      go back to the madam and **** her like
300 Spartans...
                  
but on top of that she gave me more depressing news...
Mona and Kdarda ****** off... it would seem for good...
Mona became pregnant... what?!
oh yeah... she's in her 2nd or 3rd month...
she's back in Romania...
                                               who did she become
pregnant with?                                   ...
    ...                                          silence... not that i actually
asked the question...
                                    i sometimes wonder what
happens to those used condoms...
                                        it's almost like in the urban
myth i once overheard in Poland about...
either a man or a woman who sold condoms
having pierced them with a needle...

              well i have an urban myth of my own...
even though it's not a myth but a sad reality of being
with a woman, in a relationship,
who tells you she doesn't like you wearing a ******
because if there's going to be any latex involved it
won't  go inside of her but will be outside of her
so she tells you she will get on the pill...
                       only years later you realise....
it was impossible that she was on a contraceptive pill
because... you just performed oral *** on
a ******* who let you have unprotected *** with
her because she actually was on the pill
i.e. you can't perform oral *** on a woman who
is on the pill because there are no sweet juices flowing
there's only a ******* pharmacy down there...
it's bitter... so ergo... if that girlfriend of yours calls you
up a few weeks after she broke up with you
and tells you that she's pregnant...
                       on top of you suspecting her ex boyfriend
beta orbiter hanging around her flat in St. Petersburg
when you went over to visit one glorious summer...

why have only prostitutes  been the most
                                                 sane women in my life?
oh this night i'm going to drink my last
and write something rather epic...
                     because after tonight...
                                 a hiatus... complete darkness...
sure... any internet communication already established:
kept... but i'm not sticking my head out anymore...
i've done it for 8 years and i'm finally feeling the strain
that writing creates in the psyche...

i also realised yesterday that the ego can be sometimes
right... my ego planned that i wouldn't go to the brothel
until the next year, a day prior to ******* off to Poland
to celebrate my grandmother's 80th birthday
(and obviously stocking up on duty free Camel cigarettes) -
as i was circling the vicinity of the brothel
trying to find the darkest parts - alleys, the park,
my ego was already telling: but you said so yourself
that not until next year, look at yourself: you're a nervous
wreck! you're not in the mood for ***... not tonight...
you just finished a shift and you're tired... just go home...
but i didn't listen to my ego: it's a painfully useful realisation
that this otherwise usually fickle entity inside of
my head with its pseudo-schizoid advantages / disadvantages
of rummaging in two tongues is somehow still
trying to help me, persuade me, comfort me and tell
me the whole truth rather than some delusional spin-off
some variation of a Satanic-whisper...
yesterday i was illuminated... but of course i didn't listen:
since it wasn't my conscience talking...
     i've already done the supposedly "evil" / "taboo"...

it's for the best... for the past 8... hell! more!
how many years has it been where there wasn't a single
day where i wouldn't spew some sort-poetic but mostly
rambling every, single, ******, night!
non-stop! sometimes, in my peak, that would involve
me sitting from 10pm through to 8am in
the morning - going to bed with the sunrise and
getting up with the sunset...
                             becoming this nocturnal monster -
living a life associated with the comings and goings
of an ivory tower, ******* Merlin the whacky etymological
historian of sorts...

well... today was eventful: just by waking up i was transported
into a warping of thought...
i needed to have a conversation with myself...
woke around 2pm... exhausted... lay in bed for
3 hours, hungry, hung-over...
       not moving, like a reptilian predator...
what did i have to eat today?
   my father used to call my drinking antics by using
the metaphor: rat...
   i always thought myself more of a fox...
although ask the Chinese...
                rats are not something to be cringed at...
they spread the wrath of the gods...
                       i couldn't **** a fly i couldn't **** a rat...
i remember this one instance in Edinburgh...
i was with Ilona and a mouse managed to enter my
wardrobe... i could see it: eyes glistening...
what did i do?
    i built a maze in my bedroom...
     with a trap at the end... "ushering" the mouse out
it ran through my elaborate maze and into my trap...
i caught it... pincer index thumb held up upside down,
she took a picture, giggle... purr me...
what did i do with it?
       i went outside of the flat (Montague St. can't
remember the flat number, tenements)
and left it on the communal staircase... thinking...
well... it might just scuttle away...
what did the mouse do? a ******* KAMIKAZE jump
two storeys down...
              which sent... shockwaves of trauma back
into my at-then-present-consciousness...
   when i was younger this bully of a kid...
thick glasses... curly brown hair... encouraged me...
to drop my hamster from a height telling me...
he'll survive... so... i dropped the hamster...
watching it fall... watching it hit the ground...
watching its tiny snout paint a ******* of crimson,
hue pink, hue... all the Hugh Grants and Heffners
in red...
    as i ran back to my mother and grandmother
crying... talk of parachutes... opening...
some magical force this bully persuaded me of...
the parachute didn't open! the parachute didn't open!
it was a joke for a while...
                           but i was the killer of my own pet...
and this kid... i still don't remember how
he came into my life... he wasn't the kid of any of the neighbours...
he just appeared in my life for this particular instance...
and there i was thinking i was morally superior
when i took a walk alone down a little stream
watching two boys **** a frog by smearing it with
lipstick and setting it alight...

things changed when hamsters became dogs...
Axl... i loved that dobberman... ferocious beast...
me and the upstairs kid: BIOŁY... Mark? Martin?
he was so blonde he could pass off as albino...
we were playing my Nintendo console...
because... i was the "rich" kid in the neighbourhood...
well... rich... living in those old communist satellite
state sort of tenements...
i was the kid with all the presents but no father
in my life and a drunk grandfather who was still great:
better than nothing given i only had one grandfather
and you're sort of supposed to have two...
so we were playing... got into an argument...
i don't know what happened in-between
i just know that Axl bit the boy's nose and the same
glorious gush of red-energy emerged...
                            
"i"...well... my grandmother had to get rid of Axl
after he almost tried to take my eye out
after... perfectly reasonable come to think of it...
he started biting my Alsatian ***** Bella
                 and i stood over him and in cold-blood
treated with "paint-brushings" of a PEJCZ...
             whip... honestly? some things sound so much
better in different language...
blitzkrieg sounds so much better than lightning-strike...

i still can't believe i managed to "****" the madam
of the brothel... she even tied her hair in pigtails
to give an impression of being younger...
my god... given her age... what an attractive specimen...
oh... and a plump girl can pull it off...
seriously...
                       but only when she gets older...
younger, plump girls... eh... nope... but when she gets older...
i just regret disappointing her...
but... a learning curve is a learning curve...
i'll have enough time to improve...
it's not like into video games... i never passed beyond
a PS1 games console... ergo...
there's plenty of night and nothing and brick-walls
to meditate / be ****** into... the odd sudoku...
a Chinese ideogram or my favourite:
a return to the syllables of Katakana...

all throughout i'm listening to just one song...
Salmonella Dub's Problems...
a New Zealand band...
                              back when i was a ***-smoker
i invested enough time to branch out
into a ***-smoker's type of music genres...
New Zealand...
   i worked two shifts at Twickenham...
first shift? England vs. New Zealand...
second shift? England vs. South Africa...
my god... the difference in spectators...
the South Africans felt... so proud... sort of ageless...
imagine a tribe of African living in Finland...
this is what it felt like... the New Zealanders seemed
like farmer-boys, sheep-shaggers, the Welsh...
they mingled and bred with the local population
of the Maori... the South Africans didn't...
South Africa once colonised by the English
fell into the hands of the Dutch...
    but these Dutch of South Africa weren't at all progressive...
of the modern day Netherlands...
they resembled escapee Nazis living Argentina...

we received the best compliments from the managing
team... our gate worked smoothly...
i don't know why i was given the megaphone
reciting robotic messages i.e.
a. 'ladies and gentlemen, please use all the available
turnstiles'...
b. 'ladies and gentlemen, pleasure ensure to use
the minimal traffic of all entry points via gate DELTA...'

Greek... hmm!
     fork in the road... so that's diFFer to... say...
hello sunshine:

      P            H
           Φ Θ    
      H            T             just add Poseidon's trident

of Psi into the mix... Ψ: alternatively see diFFer...
just so... the **** of iota of the omicron...
with psi emerging from the O that's an Omega
turned upside-down Ʊ + I = Ψ

    mind you... with these seeing, living eyes...
an F and an "F" mind sound the same...
but... the disparaging associations of meaning
create a... literacy barrier...
still persistent in the advent of graffiti...

the last time i beat an animal without eating it
was my second arrival of Maine **** cats
into the household...
i didn't know who the culprit was... so i smacked him
and i smacked her...
she was the honest one...
but the second time the incident happened...
well... by then i knew who was ******* in my bed...

i know that by quitting drinking i'll be the inverted
version of a bear... i know that i have sleeping
issues, which will become more exemplified
by a reached: hope for sustaining my sanity...
but this high-blood pressure ******* has left too much
turmoil in my head...

oh right, my father's rat to "non-existent" analogy
of my buying alcohol antics, smuggling bottles
of whiskey... alone, drinking... and then during
the day playing the party partisan of society...
like a fox... or rat... whichever...
what did i do today... i had a bed sobering up
session... and a in the cold sobering session...
i lay on the jacuzzi cover in the jacuzzi shed...
fidgeting... trying to conserve energy: i was fasting...
i folded my hands into an akimbo
putting one hand into the sleeve of another arm...
folding my trousers into my socks...
lying flat... then lifting my legs up
touching the beams of the shed...
      
             like, a wild, *******, animal...
i imagined: but i did... steal a slice of bread
from the kitchen... smearing it with butter...
again "stealing" a tub of a ****** speciality,
i.e. a vegetable salad consisting of raw celeriac,
raw Bramley apples... petit pois (canned),
cooked parsley roots, cooked carrots, cooked
potatoes. hard-boiled eggs... raw leaks...
all smeared with a dollop of mayonnaise...
pepper? yes please...
                           and a can of spicy tomato tinned
mackerels... eating it while standing up
in the 2nd shed... the 3rd shed has my father's work
tools and my Tour de France 2nd bicycle...
the Kolarzówka... which is a spring / summer bicycle...
it's not the autumn / winter mountain bicycle...

i hate cars... i adore buses...
if i hear some alpha bru'h trying to sell me a sports
car... i start to think of Dalmatians and...
can, you, ride, a, horse?!
owning a car makes absolutely no sense when living
in London or its vicinity...

oh **** me, even the thought of tomorrow shift is giving
me the Gremlins...
supervisor, again, why?! can't i be the break-guy?
i'm not even qualified... yet... i'm being given this
******* leeway like i earned it... oh, right,
i have earned it...
            i just don't want to experience
the fudge-packing headache of a delay in
constipation... which is not exactly a headache...
just a pulverising anti-music... a vibrating headache
that doesn't ache...
a vigilant reminder of: would i come out of
the Manchester Arena suicide bombing with PTSD?

i smile, i pause... i smile again... i clock faces...
it originates in my childhood...
this... sensation of numbing at the fingertips...
when... people... who don't own what
you own... are given a frightful... free... access...
and... you're sort of o.k with it...
you're not o.k. with it...
but you give up a stating ownership of objects for
the people using said objects for their own
pleasure... you feel pleasured by peoplg
being pleasured... but you just don't understand
why ownership of things is somehow important
a tier above the presence of the people
bypassing you owning and them: not owning
said, used, things, for that shared...
interaction... numbing of the fingertips...

i'm sad. Khadra is gone... Mona is gone too...
i'm left strapping myself to excitement and paranoia
and erectile dysfunction ******* the madam of
the brothel... watermelons, watermelons... watermelons...
ich spreschen Deutsche...
a bit like my surname... ******... Stalin...
made easier for English-speakers...
because... what the **** could they do with the addition
via E(sch)lert?!
                          oh sure as **** they couldn't find
the Slavic acute S in the Germanic SCH... could they?!

the only reason i have so much casual *** is...
i have yet to court a match of intellect in
the bedroom!
like i told the madam, excusing my limp-*******-****
situation... i shook her hand...
and this is what we do, formally...
but seeing you naked... touching your thighs...
your *******... my hands could talk for a seemingly
forever... and it would not tire me...
it would: embolden me!
things change... when... simply ******* prostitutes...
you get a stab... at... ******* the madam
of the establishment... you become nervous,
you become small... you become castrated...
you... hit rock bottom...
and then... Lucifer... Icarus.. what's up is down...
what's down is up!

you light a scented candle in your bedroom...
light your last cigarette...
does it matter that Muscovites are issuing concerns
over the Kiev-monstrum? no, not since the Orange
"Re-vo-lu-tion"...

i had... two... in all earnest... i had two... ****** revelations...
without all the chit-chat... two... both... prostitutes...
Mona and Khadra... a Romanian and a Turkish beau
respectively... there was only one woman in my life
that spoke... "respectably" similar level English to mine...
the rest... w either gave way to imagining Braille or...
whatever... but... insert crocodile...
why cry... when it, apparent ******* rains?!

i will miss them... tenderly, fully heartedly...
even as the Madam stroked my beard while i excused my
dysfunctional "third-party"...
                 why would a limp **** somehow diminish
my manhood... i.e. if a man is sized... surely...
a woman is sized too! a man's length and girth is also
reciprocated by a woman's depth and girth...
no?                              ergo?

plus all the mood swings that both the sexes share...
and have to... "en-ter-tain"...
but **** me... a madam of a brothel... me her and the pigtails...
well obviously i didn't deliver...
but... i'm thinking... if i quit drinking...
if i quit smoking...
that fat *** slurping lip brigade of an altogether
complete ****-buddy is waiting for me...
and i'm waiting for it... and the night and the foxes
and the crows are in my company...

well then! all the tales of vampires and werewolves...
can... become... true!
i can become a monster that understands
why... he feeds off being...
"casually" neglected...
why... it's not him who broke up with
a woman but the woman breaking up with him!
perfect!
which is why Mona and Khadra ****** up to
either Romania or Turkey, pregnant...
and i was left trying to **** the brothel's Madam..

melons melons! i'm telling you: **** like melons!
heartbreak and the heartless...
mind you... what's the other "thing" women notice
when courting...
apparently... ha ha... apparently... TEETH!
women like with no concern for dental insurance...
women like teeth... and hair...
i like... ****... what is it that i like?

                             i like snow... i like forests...
there's a difference between those more associated with oak
than those more associated with pine...
pines... entertain the existence of the scouts...
who are the scouts?! BIRCH... oak forests are the elders...
usually creating isolating environment
of island-dwellers...
               oaks don't appreciate birches...
and in terms of pines... well... in terms of pines and pins...
who's the one searching for the camel....
already in possession of the needle?!

my goblet of fine **** and saucy riches...
           i.e. my mouth...
                     i'll get ready...
as stated... once you **** your way up to having
the madam of the establishment that's
a brothel interested in you...
first time: disappointing her...
second time? you're going to quit drinking...
you're going to quit smoking...
you're going to sober up... simply because...
those ****... the fact that she's older than you by at least
one decade... and i like listening to horror movie
soundtracks... which makes perfect sense...
ugh... pristine nugget of fat and ageing...
it's like...
                  oh... ******* and jerking off...
that's off the table too...
        
             she's an ***-prized sort of a beached whale...
she's a Renaissance spectacle of the desirable woman...
plump... peachy...
now that i've had a taste... once the holidays
are over... when she asks for an entrance fee...
i'll need to seek out my hard-on in some other brothel...
paying her: sure... but only with you...
pigtails my ***...
                           freckle on her face...

then i'll start serving the concept of money...
Oslo? Brussels? Berlin... Berlin?!
ah... Bucharest...
                 no no... not south enough... Athens
i've already done... Istanbul...
        oh... wait... stop drinking... stop smoking...
regain friction with a hard-on...
**** the madam of the brothel...
   while her under-workers subscribe to texting each
other madly trying to figure out:
sq. not trg.!

now i'm becoming the baron of my own belly!