Even as the moon grows queenlier in mid-space
When the sky darkens, and her cloud-rapt car
Thrills with intenser radiance from afar,—
So lambent, lady, beams thy sovereign grace
When the drear soul desires thee. Of that face
What shall be said,—which, like a governing star,
Gathers and garners from all things that are
Their silent penetrative loveliness?

O’er water-daisies and wild waifs of Spring,
There where the iris rears its gold-crowned sheaf
With flowering rush and sceptred arrow-leaf,
So have I marked Queen Dian, in bright ring
Of cloud above and wave below, take wing
And chase night’s gloom, as thou the spirit’s grief.

I have switched to mechanics
The pen and the paper are morning my bemuse
The organic matter is dying just
Artificial forced relationships
With penetrative remarks

The tiny prism in the back of my mind
Where I can not stake out the feelings
It is forcing me to convulse on this awful thing
Those white walls are suppose to fool you
Repudiating that they are of silence


Do not placate me young sir
I know that’s were things come to a halt
You enlist them into your nihilistic theories
They can not see cyclical processes
The influxes of hysteria
that inevitably ward out the insurgency

No you claim them among the broken
Make them scared of large boxes with no windows
But does it even matter
The black matter had cast them to the seductress anyhow


The very seductress, whose embodiment of good and evil fools even me
Can she not see the rampant fires?
The cages that are cracking
As the mice turn on each other

Or is it calculated
Politically over dramatized to fool even the most sincere
You remind me of my mother
and the United States government

The will call my a conspirator
But ill know you never landed on the moon
And even if you did
You didn’t caress its very surface  

You didn’t risk your life
to just inhale the fumes of a memorial
It was nothing more then capitalist foot hold in outer space to you
No matter how much you sing about it

And what for me?
I could fix you in one splash of a recall  
But that wouldn’t change the fact that the gears are all out of whack
And the turnstiles
can’t see color anymore

I am growing blinder everyday
But I can never find my oracle under all this *******  
He has possessed me that
Flying gingerbread monkey

Before this I liked solidarity
Juggling my own fortunes
My own soggy breath fill up the window signs  

Now I am a menacing
Ravished house beast
Revering for him to make me categories and pie charts
This isn’t the competition that he enlisted for

But maybe will make it just five weeks and completely meaningless topics we will become the foremost informant
Populously used factoids over martinis
God know me and the monkey are socially *******

As this thing of forsaken design
has morphed into a manifestation of everything wrong with my punitive inception
We must talk about the alcohol.
Dwindling alone a poor and empty bottle
no worries it will have friends

Should I be concerned about my physical stability?
Not really I rather like bisecting my liver
and pouring to the brim
No its that I don’t enjoy it ,,,,,alcoholics are suppose to be a jolly breed
Why else would AA be so giggly?

I have tried to reform and it won’t be in vain
I won’t give up the dream
and succumb to a lobotomy
Just cause I Cant hold my liqueur

This is worse then the torah
A bigger degradation then the bible
If only I had cried for the proletariat
Then I would be famous

But even though the trances are fun
And the posterior eradicating
OH dark and shifty friend I have missed You!

And I do mourn in some postulated manner
for the orphans
But they would have made it out of their capsules
if you just gave them time

I.

All I can say is that it is a hum
Reverberant, droning, consistent
Quiet thrumming along the surface
Stirs me awake and then it fills me with
Ichor and I sip, sip, and sip (until I'm drunk).

All I can say is that it is a hum,
Quiet droning, a hushed whisper,
Loud screaming inside the head,
A piercing headache, sometimes a discordant wail.

II.

You sit on the porcelain lip of the tub
Hooded eyes lowered, your fingertips
Pressed together like the steeple of a church

I think: Yes, this is what Renaissance painters modeled angels after. Your skin is like a rose-tinged alabaster, your cheeks Suffused with blood. The painter took a measured time with you.

"Do you honestly think you'll be okay on your own?" You ask.

Silence, she greets you.

III.

Hasn't my mother violently
Ejected me from the nest
I'm only a few months old, a nestling
Wings awkward and clumsy
Beak agape for masticated food
(I'm not ******* ready yet)
Ejects me
Her beak threatens to pierce my shell

This is dejà vu.
I've conversed before
Different room, different domain,
Different speaker, a sicker listener
I'm as sick, sick as **** now

Mind, she hums, crescendo
Crescendo high like a choral piece
Orchestral, and this is resplendent
Everything is gleaming
Your face encased in a soft glow
Halo of light
Your face, cherubic,
His face, Romanesque, was sculpted like a Bronze Age statue.

"Your mother didn't give you the right set of tools. My mother at least gave me–" he falters.

IV.

I remember calling the ex 28 times in the span of 2 hours.
The policeman, he counted.
Thrashing on the floor, weeping like Persephone must've in Hades, like a fallen Mortal reborn as a minor goddess
Stripped me, he did though, of my wings
Avian feathers streaked with years-old blood

My tears, why yes, they're bleeding rivulets.
My ****-brown eyes alight on the bleach
Yes, sweet death

"Stop calling me. I'm ******* another ***** right now," the ex says.

V.

Memory is so faded,
Plays like a scratched and worn cassette tape

Mind is a-humming, humming, my mind is
Orchestral choir, church choir, Pentecostal
Now, I eat ichor, ravenous, now I am Closer to God and she is a woman,  
Draped in funeral attire
She weeps, soundless, a Seer

"I don't know," I say.

"The med isn't working," you reply
Cherubic face shifts and morphs
Melts into soft glow light,
One with the halo, is the halo

Nothing makes sense, everything else does too. My mind races, cassette tapes
Whirs, skips, images flash, I weep
Weep like Sisyphus
Eyes spilling rivers of penny-tinged
Crimson, sanguine ichor

One day he'll taste it and hate me,
Loathe me, the jade-eyed serpent
Poison-fanged
I'll clutch his scales until my fingers are Cut, welts, mottled bruises, fading scars
I will be punished, am punished
The illness, the eternal Boulder on the eternal hill, it rolls and rolls, my mouth agape

I await my cyclic fate ordained by the Higher God

VI.

How many men have I lured into the chamber?
Drunk on sweet wine or mead?
Petrified into osseous
Their gazes failing to avert from my Penetrative stare?

He was an errant General, beautiful but stupid, his mind a one way road, his temper unpredictable and flighty
Oh, how I loved the duality of him
We philosophized
Theorized on the Gods
Laughed at their follies
Wondered at the mysteries of the universe, Her deep annals

Oh, how I loved the physicality of him
Tight, corded muscle, his back like a Wound spring, Bronze hand
Grasping a silver sword

Hark! His rounded shield is lifted, my hideous reflection stares back at me
My eyes, widened, the cup of manna Clatters, soundly in the chamber
Reverberates
Bounces off my throne of skulls

How many men have I–?

VII.

"Can you honestly say that you can take care of yourself?" You ask from the place atop the lip of the porcelain tub. Your hands, a steeple, a church spire
Perhaps, you are a lesser God, perhaps we are all falling Lucifers, wingless, blinded by vengefulness and betrayal
Perhaps, he too is–?

"Am I an infant to you?" I ask.
The headache splits
The pain demands, claws at the side of my skull, dances across my nerves, liquid iron on my tongue

Because when did I?

Oh, Sisyphus you weep! You, who slaughtered so many!

Oh, Medusa, you wept, you beautiful serpentine harlot, you *****, you–
The choir is a strong crescendo, Ascending, ascending, ascending
Lowers like a thrumting and heavy bellow
Deep, rich, and full, timbre

"Everyone, all your life has said you were crazy, but I don't think you are, I–"

VIII.

The tapes skip, voices garbled, muffled, Indiscernible and distorted
Mind shrieks, lower now, quieter now, Barely audible, a fading whisper, your halo Recedes, soft glow dims

Your hands separate, the steeple, no, the Spire collapses.
Held breath hitches,
Serpentine tendrils become wisps of hair, Cloudlike

We are lesser gods, not quite mortal, not quite divine

The itch demands to be felt, protests
And I, I scream endless into a dark chasm
My voice, it does not call back to me
It does not–

"I don't know."

The last of the angels’
Castaway nametags
Hung from the plush red edges
Of the art deco interior.
A breeze from the open door
Cast the doctor’s pamphlets to the floor
Advertising his services
For the special remediation program
Since he could not sleep
What with all the voices
From below chanting his name—
How he envied the people he killed:
For they were spoken so little of.
That is, except for on his intake sheet:
After passing over the names,
Seven in all,
Whose lives were, shameless,
Shed over ***,
The latch clicked
And out came the doctor’s hand
Beckoning through the door
A “come hither” gesture.
On the couch he sat,
Neck conforming perfectly to the couch
As he swam a cascade of Rorschachs
Apart the mirror-faced, owl-like man.
Speaking with a heavy Eastern-European accent
He knew exactly why Elliot had come:
Perhaps the intentions were dubious,
Perhaps he was looking
For quick solutions;
Regardless, Mirror-Face was there to help:
Too easily, these days, was it
To determine dysfunction in the masculine—
And this case was rare,
Awash in chatter from below.
So, there must be something deeper
Rooted in fear of perpetual
Romance fetishism
And absence of its referent.
Yes! The penetrative is missing—
The limerant object
Is without form, shapely, and feminine
And would forever escape him,
In part by suicide,
In part by isolation.
The reason you are here
Is the absent-present offspring
Of such missing ***,
A veritable porcupine-dilemma
In the flesh, a show of insufficient ****** capital—
See now in this face of mine.
Yes, now that I’ve diagnosed
What ails
Let us explore what solutions
Could have been:
The living world does offer suitable surrogates
For those lacking—
Recognizing this is the first step
To being forgotten,
To allow you to sleep.
Yes, you recognized then
The gun as the extension of the phallus
And it levels the playing field
Raised up, aroused by power
One feels when operating heavy machinery—
Yes, all flesh which is the metaphorical egg,
The bullet is the *****,
Which penetrates the flesh of the paramour
Impregnating her with life inverted
And creates, in death,
The child of ****** frustration.
While this child is one of children lost,
It is child nonetheless.
Yes, and this gun, the metal *****,
***** not one
But many—in fact, incestuously,
It ***** entire families,
Entire communities,
And leaves their lives gravid
With your legacy.
Yes, it is the only way to create
The ultimate matron, the universal feminine,
The supreme m-Other
For the Supreme Gentleman.
And you, as you see me,
Are the absent-present of this child of death
This union of bullet-***** and the whole-body womb,
With which you, sadly, impregnated yourself.
But, here’s the secret,
Because of this, you can only do damage control:
Your child will prevail.
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.
So, have the voices stopped?
Has the child matured in you?
You are on your way to being forgotten,
But the child lives on:
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.

I keep wondering if what I did was okay.
If it's okay for me to take so much of you
into my left hand, then my right hand and
squeeze, and feel two motherly dots in your centres.
I wonder if it's okay for me to grasp
at your smoothness so much, from head to toe,
**** to *******, heart to lips; and breathe
all over you: I'm scared
of it. I'm scared
                            of you,
of me,
            of us,
                       your moans,
          the dark,
my moans,
          the light,
          the day,
          the night.
It all frightens me, and I wonder if it's okay
to have suddenly grown up in the ludicrous
space of time it took to leave two obvious bruises
on your neck. I'm scared that your parents
will actually send you (back) to India but laugh
because I'm sure they won't- you applied foundation
to blot out my purple lust scars.
Love bites they call them.
                                               Love...
I'm wondering if what you did was okay.
If it's okay for you to take so much of me;
every non-penetrative, ridiculous, amateur
******, and every saliva strand. Every whisper
of afro-hair that falls out of your hand-combs,
and your tongue, which -my God- is now mine.
I said I picked you, I pick you, but here,
bodies somehow body,
you are me.
                       Innocence lost
is when a short skirt
represents a different type of freedom.
And my hands under there,
is my best worst decision yet.

She


is a beautiful
giantess

painted with
blushing
rose-colored hues like

peaches-
-and-
cream;

her
soft hair
coils and
coils
of gold
with colors of
wild wheat
and
honey
twisted
throughout it;

with eyes
the color of the fairest
skies
in the world,
like ice cubes
with little dark blue flecks
of a mysterious
azure
stone,
cool and penetrative
and frighteningly
intense.
Actually,
they’re more like a Caribbean
Sea,
like when the waters shift
from a tender cerulean
to an amazing aquamarine…
and in the sun,
to the side,
they're the slightest hint of green…

Her
cheeks
are
blooming,
rugged
peonies
and her eyebrows
full
and the color of
sand
and
straw;
her
lips
ruddy plums
in every season of the year;
her gorgeous teeth
hug each other closely,
and when
she
smiles,
it’s a little
gift
from heaven…
her laugh is
infectious,
a hiccup of
giggles…


her arms are
pure shades of
pale
pink
petals
and in the summer,
graciously tanned: the lightest,
most
beautiful
bronze, a color
all
her
own.

Her
hands are
large
and
rough
and
strong,
wrapping one's own and all else
in a manner most

complete

and

indestructibly;

her demeanor is thrilling
and irresistible
and

intense.

her
moods
are
unknown
and
ever-changing….

pry into her

feelings

long
enough
and you will
meet
an
abyss

and never return

and
never

learn

anything
at all.

Her
eyes
are

immense

innocent

expressive

,

pupils darting to

everything

happening

at

once;



when she
walks, she’s
proud
and direct
and
she’s
the

light

of the
world;
everywhere
she
goes,
she
illuminates the
paths she chooses to
grace;
she carries the
torch of strength and beauty and mischief

and

daunts, races

the

flames --

she’s as

spontaneous

as they
are.

in front of a full-length mirror in the bedroom she stands.
naked, she is completely naked.
she is not like other girls i've been with, they would never
stand stark naked in my presence in the middle of the day, the room beaming with light,
while i was sitting and watching from the other end of the room- no, they would feel shy.
to be naked is to be vulnerable.
not with her, she is standing in front of the mirror
cupping her ******* one before the other, raising them, examining them, and telling me
that one, the left one, grew first.
even now it's still a little bigger than this one, she says, if you look carefully.
it is as if she's describing and showing me something commonplace; like maybe her hands
or her feet.
mistaken for a work art,
so fine-***** and delicate,
her beauty is ethereal,
it is almost satanic.

these midday ******* are always the laziest.
she moves slow, ritualistic almost, looks up at me
then continues, her mouth moving in long, sweet, agonizing reaches.
i **** her against the door,
her fingers digging into my fro
sometimes i **** her from behind, she holds on tightly to the bathroom sink
like her life depends on it.
we are always *******. it's like we cannot get enough.
it's like we're ******* in order to get an answer.
an answer about something we're so desperate to know.
thinking about it now it almost seems sorrowful.

she likes to be naked in front of me.
she doesn't understand that i am not moved by nakedness, per se
i am taken by glimpses of femininity;
like seeing her brush her hair in front of the mirror in the morning,
her arms raised and bent at the elbows
one hand brushing the length of her hair and the other following through,
the hollows of each armpit bare;
or seeing her preparing for the gym,
tank top and tights, running shoes
tying her ponytail really tight, like an Olympic gymnast's,
her face pure, divine, free of make up
this
this child of a goddess,
i become drunk seeing such beauty.

after dinner she is reading a book, lying down on the bed
her head propped up with pillows
i get on the bed and immediately begin to unzip her denim shorts
what are you doing? she says this without removing her eyes from the book
i don't respond, i begin to pull her shorts down
seriously, what are you doing? this time she lowers the book and looks at me
she lets me do it though, she even raises her torso up slightly when i'm pulling her underwear down.
but no, no, stop it,
she really wants to read
also, she tells me it's uncomfortable to have penetrative *** on a full stomach.
i am confused. why did she let me take off her shorts and underwear then?
i give up and lie down
she's got all the pillows so i lie with my head between her legs
using her pelvis as a pillow,
we stay in this position for a while
until i turn my head and glance up at her; she is looking down at me and breathing calmly,
she closes the book and says,
baby, why do you torture me like this?
beneath my ear it is wet.

how do i make you understand this feeling?
how do i go about
converting it into text?

these are not just words.
they are a window
into my mind, into my world.

this is an educated
refined, cultured, poem
fit to clothe a queen’s body
radiant enough to sit on a king’s head
no doubt,
the king’d head on a silver plate

this is elegant, truthful,
and most dignified as robes
and gold threads on a priest’s mitre
and ermine round the waists

this is immaculate,
probing, penetrative and sedate
so well-constructed, traditional
so cast into meter and scanned
so organised and adept
as a gynaecologists’s fingers

and last but not least
it is reverend, respectful and silent
as full of respect as are holy poems and sonnets
and poems all fit into good form and shape
and thus it refrains from 4-letter words
though - ****! - sometimes it slips and falls
like a drunkard, into the gutters

*but it is the fault of the terrain

You go strains of mad when...
...Ambition becomes Eating Your Own Hunger Pains
With savaged pride you feel that all you need to achieve in life
Can be done faster with gold and good courtship
You croon apologies to your ideas and hope they stay.
They don't stay.

You go strains of mad when...
...Demonic intercession is hailed as miracle
You pay your division of a vast tithe into coffers you never see
and watch with shame and awe at a penetrative truth
working noisily behind curtains.
This polls well.

You go strains of mad when...
...Dust and diamonds are sold as combi-packs,
**** comes in boxes of strict six; for illustrative purposes, if you want four you've got to sell or discard two for your reputation.
There's no loyalty card or price-break on bulk.
I'm flat broke.

You go strains of mad when...
...A nobody sketches you with disarming accuracy
Their medium is a third hand snipe relayed with bitter remove
No more the taut nymphette lounged aground, on the rocks
The naked crystal uniform of your debtless regime, gone.
You're a shirt and name-tag girl now.

You go strains of mad when...
...Pockets burst outside the Church yard sale
The Ministry guilts you into buying all the furniture and music
moving it one piece at a time into your life until
suddenly you have a Church to burn
Just in time for winter.

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

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

let crystal crimsom flow
from serrated wrists

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

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

or whatever

The many ways he is legal.,Legit and lit..
With 3 A.M to finish it!
He ever so slightly gives..
Her a passions mind hickey.
F.ck..up.. savory
Like shivering kisses mind hiccups.
unspoken...................................attention given.
Make's her shiver he's a mental ******* giver..
Make's her mind moist and inquisitive.
At the sign of any confusion.
It's his  penetrative foreplay.
Its the lyrics used to seductively play.
Tools He uses..their selective differences.
Just before 3 a.m.
She floats adrift softly melting H.i.m.
Talking  everything  comprehensively through.
  Rocks her mindful  emotions.
Mind Fkin sweet potions.
non-trivial notions.
Following every word she's relaying.
All before the 3 a.m. relating.
By day he's catering appetizers of verbal compliments.
Sharing of the days events.
when they are away from one another.
They are texting each other.
By evening.........
his texting feels like gentle
                                                                ­    whispering!
Making His next text something she's craving.
Neva leaving her guessing what He is doing.
Neva askin her wyd?
                                             Mental interactions are tender touchings.
                              Mind Fkin..   A tender kind of existing.
                                                       ­    As they both be falling.
By the time its 3 a.m.
Oceans colliding.. erupting.. exploding. mental explosion.
3 a.m. dammn she's already had many ******* heightened chills.
Body follows every moment. No hesitations so receptive.
They are such Intellectual souls..
The body is prepped it always follows.
3 a.m Anything Goes.
By 7 a.m exhaustion so good sets in.
Physical resting  so sweet.. yet mentally he's ready with a grin.
Just to start a new day all over with her again.
by selinasharday 4-2018...H.I.M (he is mine)

All the classic adverts a lot of them are missed
Adverts that are made today the producers must be ******
They're nothing like the classic ads I'm afraid I must resist
There isn't any flare or finesse so please would you desist
The same adverts are always shown there's no surprise or twist
Adverts are not liked these days I hope you get the gist
Your all just sitting there with you ***** clutched in your fist
Messing up your nice pressed suits with a swift one of the wrist
New adverts bore you to tears but it's all that you enlist
Cos your making more backhanders it's why you still persist
Stop relying on the sponsors we know there **** is kissed
And take particular notice of the old ones on this list

A skeleton with video tapes told us how its gonna be
Re-record not fade away with Scotch's lifetime guarantee
Whiskers was the food of choice according to the stats
It was preferred by at least eight out of ten cats
Noodle Doodle twisted spaghetti into motor cars and houses
He twisted it into butterflies and eek noodle doodle mouse's
A hippo made a fruity drink way down in the Congo
He danced a dainty tango and a rhino called it Um Bongo
There was only one Tea that could make you go OO!
Sue Pollard and Frankie Howard found out with Typhoo
But those little Tetley Tea Folk know without a doubt
That 2000 perforations would let the flavour flood out
You knew what to do to put the freshness back
Every time you vacuumed and did the Shake and Vac
Don't wake up and go to town use the one all over smell
Insignia's shampoo and deodorant, aftershave and shower gel
Jeremy had a roaring toothache again he liked to many treats
he could have had a crocodile smile without eating sweets
She was the Right One she would skate to get it there
Nicollete Sheridan delivered Martini anytime anyplace anywhere
A second class ticket to Dottingham a misunderstanding caper
Tunes could make you breath more easily with its Menthol vapour
Milk in every half pound one chunk lead to another
With a glass and a half for every Dairy Milk lover
Muhammad Ali and Benny Hill knew their coming fate
They watched out with a Humphrey about, drinking Unigate

If your into protection with your Mate's or a Durex
You'd get that rubber feeling during penetrative ***
Unless your like Fred Brewster and Geronimo was there
A friend that was washable and like an inner tube to wear

A chocolate bar sang about everybody's case of the Fruit and Nut
David Rappaport could tell it was Tizer when his eyes where shut
Kia Ora's to orangey for crows, it was just for him and his dog
Spuds wanted to be Smiths Crisps and not an average Joe Blog
Bars Iron Brew from Girders the Scottish people like
A second thought at junctions think once think twice think bike
You Crossed your heart for a better figure with a Playtex Bra
The Renualt Clio had a certain flair for Nicole and Papa
Flowers delivered from Interflora making your day bright
It was a taste to make you shine ohhh ohhh Vitalite
Sainsbury's world war one solders shared and called a truce
Maynard's Wine Gums set the juice loose aboot the hoose
Why would you have cotton when Galaxy was silk?
It was cool for cats when you woke up to Milk
The man from Del Monte loved fresh fruit so he said Yes
Frosty's where Grrreat, Tony Tiger expected nothing less
But Esso was the only petrol with a tiger in the tank
A galloping black horse was the icon for Lloyds bank

Its your life with Tampax you jumped around and skated
Jack Dee had John Smiths, was his Widget overrated ?
Flowers where given on Impulse hoping the ladies dated
Mr Soft loved Trebor mints a strange world was created
Flake was the Crumbliest chocolate was that understated?
Marmite was the kind of spread you loved or even hated
Michelin Man was made of tyres he was rubber weighted
A family always had there diner, with Oxo it was plated

Castlemain Four X wouldn't give anything else, Australians would preach
Unless you where Paul Hogan and Fosters Amber Nectar he would teach
But Heineken would refresh the parts other beers could not reach
Strongbow was strong straight and true made from apple and not peach
Broad at the shoulders slim at the hips Big Bad Dom Domestos Bleach
The Jolly Green Giant loved Sweet corn with his ** ** ** speech

Please broadcast something good, instead of all your trash
There is No Cornetto's from Italy! none shown from this stash
Like Cadburys and Nestle or the robot men from Smash
You had a break with Kit Kat and convenient packet mash
No Dr Whites ***** Pads I don't mean to sound so brash
Where is Castrol GTX or Buzby there's not even a rehash
All Gambling and Insurance Ads tying to get our cash
No concern about the national debt or any loan backlash

Rolf Harris teaching kids to swim in the water they did love it
I bet if they where around today they'd tell old Rolf to shove it
I felt sorry for that poor Churchill dog I admired his endurance
To put up with Rolfs wobble board that isn't much insurance

Jimmy Saville talked of safety he clunked clicked every trip
But Jimmy's mind was somewhere else thinking who he'd like to strip
And British Rail where unaware when he was trying not to slip
With Jims intent with his Railcard to get you in his grip

You may think its controversial, you may think its the wrong call?
I Guarantee the companies thought they where on the ball
I bet these ads are a blot and drive them up the wall
If they'd have known about these guys they wouldn't feel so small
These companies would not have hired Jim or Rolf at all
It doesn't matter if they're the ones who are not standing tall

Why cant new adverts be like the old ones that we had?
What's happened to production why are they so bad?
They are all so boring and there really rather sad
None of them are out there that make you feel so glad
Why do you insist on showing ones that drive us mad
Your viewers are so ******* board more than just a tad
everyone is getting annoyed even our mum and dad
stop showing the new adverts stop ruining our pad

We don't want life insurance or sponsors for every show
We don't want Go Compare adverts, the Gtech can surely go
There are no Classic overtones they've lost that certain glow
Its boring seeing the same adverts shown in the same row
Phone commercials are not wanted it may be quite a blow
Loans and expensive Sky packages the people should say no
Please would you take some advice stop keeping these in tow
And bring back all the classic ads and stop going with the flow

I practice my penetrative stare,
the one that will ignite an explosion of fear from within your core
the anger inside me is preparing for battle
hot blood is rushing through my veins
adrenalin pulsing faster, harder
I open my mouth to breathe fire onto your fear filled face
And then you say sorry
Instant deflation, dissipation
The Armour retracts, and I am bordering on the conclusion
To err is human, to forgive is divine
which am I for I feel neither

Reclusive turtle soloing about its ribcage for one bestie' tendency.

After spent the night in its master's clink full of candelabra with Earthlings, the turtle doesn't want to go to thine torturous awry cotillion where everyone is fumbling for the right words.

It is happier to mate with the bestie while all the misnomers vibrating as if they would penetrate into the soul lucidly. Seeking gratification by every frottage and endless non-penetrative ***, whispering straightforward colloquial language became a morbid fascination.

Beastie frighten and enthralled the turtle with Sigillum Dei like riffs from decades of its polytheistic worship, machinations and machinations of coercive persuasions unlike crowdy psychopathies who pay no heed to propaganda and their mutual ******* provoked by **** star personality taxonomy and *** toy fabrication.

Turtle caused beastie a impairment of memory because of its anonymity and disruption of beliefs.

Falling in love with you like seeing someone else dresses in my skin. What I want to do to you is systematically indoctrinate you through torture techniques.

‘Do you listen to music when you write?’

Duke Ellington ‘In a Sentimental Mood’ is a fave. Sets tone. Brings mood. Love some John Coltrane intermittent weaving throughout. That sax is like rain on Mars.

Miles Davis ‘Flamenco Sketches’
But what about Blue in Green? I like it but Flamenco sets the table. Give me Cafe Bustelo, French Vanilla, and this one and I’ll write your will out for you where everyone cries...

Moby ‘God Moving Over the Face of Water’ Deep, penetrative thoughts conquer over this. The piano makes me fly, brings me back down and sets me like a feather.

My Morning Jacket ‘Only Memories Remain’ Wrote a whole book to this. The Wurlitzer and then the guitar solo at the end is stupefying to me.
And how do I feel when I listen to these pieces?
What I see is what I write down:
My Father’s Hands
My Mother’s *******
Footprints in the snow
Bruises upon my soul
Forests on fire
Sunsets on Mars
Her naked woman curves
Highways into the night
Lava flows
***** feet
My daughter being born
Sunrise coming up from an ocean
Moss growing over everything
Brownstones in Greenwich Village
Empty wine bottles

The music helps
Amplifies
Energizes

What music do you listen to when you write?