Intro: You know, I don’t care what you’re saying about me.
For I’m not an insecure ***** like you but I do got to thank thee.
For if it weren’t for thy vile venom spitting I wouldn’t have a reason to enact my lyrical terrorism!
So, you only have yourself to blame for this ****, so don’t say I didn’t warn ya.

Verse 1
Uh, yeah let’s talk about it!
Can’t contemplate, the vicious state that contrary to popular belief I’m not a basket case!
Can’t misuse the time I got so here I go to vanquish these fraudulent thots!
Started an unfocused freight train that charged towards the lucid dream because I couldn’t assimilate!
In that time, I was so focused on changing everyone’s snot ridden hypocrisy about reality being Camelot.
I know I’ve also ****** up a lot but that’s something I had to face!
It’s not any of your business so stop ripping off my skin then rubbing in the salt!
I still have a goal in mind to destroy discrimination that incriminates my people,
by putting em on the hot seat.
So now that every one is up in arms I got my chance to aim at the sweet spot!
Everyone is hungry to be the fittest but not everyone has time to think how to be the smartest.
To strike will the fire’s hot or wait for the embers to spark and settle is the true test for an artist.
Who cares about the lines when it was never rightfully drawn in the first place?
Who cares about what spot or space is for you when it’s all been delegated to the privilege of a certain race?
I can only undergo so much disgrace So, sorry but I’m not willing to have my people’s history erased!
Free speech is going to be a ***** for some and a tool for others, I guess it all depends on that person’s poker face.
Inequality is frequent not just in Canada or The United States but every country, province, and common place.

Verse 2
You want the real, raw, unfiltered Classy J well here you go!
Uh, Tell Trudeau to kiss my *** and stop ******* Trump’s ****!
While you’re at it can you tell your father that he’s a ******* stupid *****!
Also, totally forgot but can you tell Kim Jon un when he’s shafting you that he’s a ******* Buffoon!
But’s that’s enough about ******* politics let’s talk about ******* rap artist’s who think they’re hot but really, they so tacky and obsolete like the Zune.
To mister bi-racial we get it you’re into being superficial but’s honestly with you being so focused on being a ****** your delivery showcases the truth that you’re really a cringy ******.
Just face the fact dude that people will only see ya as a juggaloed Dolph Ziggler.
Uh, Now on to the next!
Dear mister Young moolah imma be front, you look like diseased uvula with the lyrical skill comparative to that of an elementary grade schooler.
Now to address the biggest flacky ***** in the game the not so slim shady.  
Here’s the matter Mr. Mather’s you look like a hobo who ***** guys off around the corner,
maybe that’s why you always diss homos.
Because youse a **** trapped in your mommas’ closet,
and if wasn’t for Dre’s hand up so far up your *** you wouldn’t be as popular of a puppet.
Oh ****, Shady you so focused on Doctor Dre and acclaim to fame that you forgot about Hallie.
****, and speaking of Hallie, I feel for you girl because just like you I also didn’t have a dad there for me.
I’m a man of war so every rapper got to get their **** together and better be prepared to me seriously.
For Imma slit their throats and turn em inside out rigorously, and I make sure those tardy cats will rule the day they ever had curiosity.

Verse 3
Just remember my people were here before you, and will be here after you!
And I’ll be here to destroy any of you who dare to pursue native issues!
Or if I’m just bored and feeling like killing you!
However, if I forget about dealing with you, I’m just to busy to properly give a **** about you!
It’s not just revenge, I see it as using justice by retorting with my wordplay to cleanse ya like shampoo!
But I’ve spent enough time dissing freeloaders, for it gives their ego’s too must **** exposure!
I won’t coaster to these composers, for a chauffeur can’t gain an advantage over a soldier!
I wont lower myself to these grouchy Oscar’s, who hunt for Grammy’s;
or as I refer to these events as pedantic half ***’d statements for excepting grandiose toasters.
Why bother, for it’s so annoyingly stupid that I would rather waste my time watching a movie featuring Adam *******.
So, **** this glass ceiling that defines and dictates what makes up a talented rapper.
I may not be a ******* goat but at least I’m confident enough to go out in my birthday suit and retain my composure for being dapper.
That’s the synopsis of my classy brain, and though it may be insane I’m willing to ride this hurricane!
To make sure you know my name, but yet not let myself get engulfed in the flames.

You're perfection

In a way that
A toaster
Will always and without fail
Toast your bread.

In that way
You have one job,
To simply be mine
And you did it perfectly.

But you see
Sometimes toasters break
What they did so perfectly
They can not do at all

But you see
Even though you are broken
Even though you aren't mine
You still seem to be

Absolutely perfect

I walked into the cocktail party
room and found three or four queers
talking together in queertalk.
I tried to be friendly but heard
myself talking to one in hiptalk.
"I'm glad to see you," he said, and
looked away. "Hmn," I mused. The room
was small and had a double-decker
bed in it, and cooking apparatus:
icebox, cabinet, toasters, stove;
the hosts seemed to live with room
enough only for cooking and sleeping.
My remark on this score was under-
stood but not appreciated. I was
offered refreshments, which I accepted.
I ate a sandwich of pure meat; an
enormous sandwich of human flesh,
I noticed, while I was chewing on it,
it also included a ***** *******.

More company came, including a
fluffy female who looked like
a princess. She glared at me and
said immediately: "I don't like you,"
turned her head away, and refused
to be introduced. I said, "What!"
in outrage. "Why you ****-faced fool!"
This got everybody's attention.
"Why you narcissistic *****! How
can you decide when you don't even
know me," I continued in a violent
and messianic voice, inspired at
last, dominating the whole room.

Customers have torn open the Christmas
chocolates. Shoving it in mouths,
shopping bags, children’s eyes.
Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family.
Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system
hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing,
sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets.
The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg.
Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children
into them.
Turn on the light Jimmy.
The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They
have turned the clearance divans on their sides
and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement,
the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’
cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static
sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers
have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror.
A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead
for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing
down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing
upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes
into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags,
they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources
are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers
have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming,
Escalators are jamming. Children scream
I want to see Santa.
Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over  his protruding
belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired
feet. An inhuman voice garbles
The store will be closing.
Families grab onto shelves, racks, other
families. Employees pick up the registers and slam
them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating
doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.

By: David W. Clare

When it comes to shopping here's your key!
Don't bother walking Targets
aisle number three...

There is no competition anywhere!
Whether you need a loaf of bread, tools or underwear...

Walmart is around every corner just for you!

24 hours and a dozen smiles easy to see...
Prices so low; it's all almost free!

Toasters, fans, beds, loafers, bikes... Clean bathrooms open up for you all day and night...

Walmart offers parking under a big spot light!
Friendly attendants will treat you right...

The best security anywhere around!
Why bother shopping at any other place in town?

Crock Pots over on aisle 17!
...the best way to save money I've ever seen!

Walmart, Walmart!
Now you're shopping smart!

Your right at Home at Walmart !


(C) In perpetuity all rights reserved
(P) FilmNoirWorks

I.

A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****.
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.

II.

A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.

III.

Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.

give us this day our daily
emotional breakdown
and forgive us our
blackout binges
as we forgive those who
starve themselves for perfection

and lead us not into
inherited obesity
deliver us from
the mental ward

FOR THERE IS SO
MUCH ******
BREAD IN THIS
HOUSE I CAN'T
TAKE IT ANYMORE

on mlk day i shut my eyes
and see scenes of
squishy white rolls and
pats of margarine

bread
leaden
deadened
feeling in my stomach

i can't eat any
more bread

but here it is
in baskets and
coolers in
toasters and
cupboards

my daily bread
made to sustain me
but turned into
the enemy

deliver me
from risen
yeast in
third degrees

a flour coated
tyranny
mind control
through sesame

swallowing
emotions
down
down
down

quietly settles
until spring
somewhere between
my hope and skin

you can see me
smile and stand
straight and tall
but what you can't see
is this shouldn't be
my body at all

*give us this day
our daily bread
and give us the strength
to chew meat instead

In the laptop of the gods.where canaries sing.

..then you leave me no option,
some will get hurt.

Look in on this and make as you will,
I still need peace,
but
not at any price.

ding ding,
seconds out.
Exit your hiding place.

(Kent Walton laughs in the background)

The toasters on the blink.
I don't care, i'm leaving you.
I know you like your toast in the morning, but that's a bit extreme.
I've met someone new.
You never mentioned that last night when you were screaming more, more.
That was goodbye ***.
I think i'll get a brown toaster.
You would put a brown toaster against a red background.
Hardly your concern now.
I designed this kitchen, you are not getting a brown toaster.
Think i'll change the whole decor when you leave.
That is just typical of you. You just can't wait to forget me.
I think it's for the best cuddles. Maybe make it my man cave.
That's it, i'm dumping the other guy. I am not having you undo all my good work.
Won't he be devastated.
Who cares. Right we're going shopping today.
Oops turned out to be the fuse.
Right, i'm going.
Going where cuddles.
Back to bed, do not disturb me.
Aw, i was thinking some sympathy ***, maybe get back together ***.
Do not disturb me.
Okay cuddles, i'll pop down to the tailors, get fitted out for your sisters wedding. I'm thinking bright orange,
Oh my god, stay there, i'm going with you.

My books are piled in the Hallway,
The Girlfriend wants me out,
She can keep all the household cargo
the insecurities and doubt.

I don't care much for chrome Toasters
Just give me my Damon Runyon,
Brendan Behan, James Joyce, Ernest Hemmingway,
Jack Kerouac and Jack London.

Albert Camus, Seamus Heaney, Patrick Kavanagh
Mayakovsky and Roger McGough,
the Steamer, bread -maker, Asparagus- spearer
Are all yours, I'm ******* off.

Just give me a dozen or so boxes,
Not those ***** looks,
Your welcome to the giant fridge-freezer,
All I want, are my books

look at this kid
named khalid tryna put in little bids
ya weight too small
you aint got enough *****
punch  ya in ya jaw
naw ya gotta permenant awe
muted ya maw
*******
how could this boy yosef slam
ya with the grammer
got ya vocals locked like a slamma
cocked the hammer
say ya prayers
here comes deaths anthem
so many couldnt phantom
my rhymes
i got got more styles
than the stylistics full of mystics
when ya hear my ****
emcees  go ballastic
bullets dumpin' in yo chest
lets be realistic
ya meet ya maker real quick
maggots devour ya body like triscuits
never been checked toe to toe
down from the gitty go
got you chopped up
like u in slow mo
htowns dont ya know
love them pretty hoes
cant stand ***** *** foes
keep snow white on my nose
got ya stiff n froze
like ya in a penitentiary pose
ya know what it is
how get around like tupac
or better birdie
stay above the rims
rock 90s fashions
a machete long tshirt overalls
and black timbs
i dont need to fight back
i go youngin to sick em
this lil kid named khalid
is a ******* child with ***** ****
and no dad
i keep fresh braid stocked by du rags
fool!! i could trade in my rhymes
in return it will
amount to about
the price of four jags

already three up on you
so what ya wanna do?
i got my gs thugs and damu
ridahs with me
dangerous i be you a newbie
wipe that sticky goey
off ya face i beat any case
turn tough guys into cherry pies
blow out ya head then nods
rollin' with tha trillest hogs
swing on swag jackers
like wade boggs
take a whiff of the smog
i can still through the fog
im iz God
none surpasin ask ya mama
im probably daddy???
rock her with a tko call me teddy
****** through emcees nightmares
like freddie
***** u sweet whoopi
on Eddie toasters steady ready
hold ya heart steady
i can hear ya beats jumpin
from all of ya adrenaline rushin'
u just a nut bush a ***** n diguise
i know yous trick
i see the string between ya thighs
period get it nothings followed
behind it like a sentence
thedots ends ****
like when my guns lite
get ya whole body
and soul split
makin death biz a number one
profit
in cash goes to my pockets
then ya mama i knock quick
pull out my snake from the pits
she loves me more than raymond
u just a botti man while i gotta audi man
18 inches of wheels hoppin in mud rubs
put wings on death cherubs
hit the curb to the get the scoup
we broke out the loot
transfered the boot
murdered body thrown in the trash chutes
dug out the evil roots
whippin' yo *** with a lash
of lyrics til it sparks fire
makin' galore soots

The Future to me is Walking Toasters and Cars that glide and go faster than roller coaster

No more big screens nothing but virtual TVs & invisible gun holsters Art Displays still magnificence in portable posters.

Images and pictures are no longer created by hand
they are simply imagined then transferred to an electrical canvas through the movement of sand.

Homes are bought with credits in the digital lands all types of music played together with the mystical hands Medley's majestically moving the fans  

No more war or hate just peace by command it’s amazing to see the future in conceptual hands, emotional bangs and physical hangs dominated by the extraterrestrial man.

The future is no place for a regular man a scholar must know mathematics and formulas to simply understand love as a feeling and how it stands.

Vagabond walkers on the side of the technological wastelands
everything that's trash is thrown in biological waste cans then mutated among each other to create bands.

.Hand me your hand, my child;please don't be wary.You will feel right at homein our suicidal sanctuary.Here bleeds ****** Bobbywho chose the northern bridge.Over there is Moldy Maggie, locked herself inside a fridge.The birds and bonessing for those drowning in the sea,this sector is preservedfor the carotid artery.Bathtubs and toasters,oh, what a joke!Can't stand the singed hair,can't handle the smoke.Yes, we have a pool.I won't swear that it's true.We keep it filled upwith  idiots...like you..

He cannot hear
I just now realized
He's deaf to it, it's all disguised
Everything, all of it, is crystal unclear
What's up is down and what's far is near

The radio boils
The microwave sings
The telephone listens, while his ear rings
But he hasn't noticed, his ignorance is loyal
To his strange world of backwards turmoil

His eyes tear up
At the toasters dull ding
Oblivious though, to orchestral strings
Crescendoing, divinus, in joyous buildup
An Ode only heard as a course hiccup

Puts books to his ear
But hears no voice
Thumbs through jibberish, but his hands hold Joyce
The steak tastes like spam and the wine of beer
He's deaf to it, all of it, everything I fear

He runs in squares
And lounges in circles
Tears down hopes, and builds up hurdles
Will flail in shallow water and fall up stairs
Then write love letters to hate-affairs

Has two left feet
And no right moves
His rhythm and soul have lost their groove
It's tragic, greek, a heart that offbeat
Might mistake victory and chance for fate and defeat.

He's wrong. What's more?
He's oxymoronic
His light-hearted prose are mostly sardonic
Wouldn't know an apple from an adonic core
Or discordant beats from euphonic score.

He's deaf to it,
Yes ears and all.
Despite what words I might here scrawl.
It will never get through to that dumb misfit
He's deaf and blind and full of ****.

but she'll crack a joke and it'll fry in the pan
yoke running suntans like we're not burnt
plan like we weren't drowning in tick marks
learnt that those sparks don't set us alight
snarks sizzle and kite our cheap cameras up
fight or flight, ****-ups stroll us over to both
makeup's made of oaths and expired lippies

and

growth was just memories we'd left behind
cities were left unsigned and roosters hum
spellbinds bit off crumbs of our holidays
sums done sideways with scrambled minds
haze of upturned blinds flip us sunny-side
rinds of orange chide us but our hats are gone
stride down, we egg on, sandals beg mercy

but

crayons colour sprees in glasses-off views
degrees weren't those corkscrew rollercoasters
drive-thru karaoke, poster bed fairy lights dim
toasters retorted, skim reading as shoes kick dust
limbs stiff, favour a cuss but don't do big talk
buses see less than walks, distance is a job
toolbox couldn't fix this throb.

so

maybe if we hadn't lit the fuse twice
it might not have fireworked so quick
but i'm glad we rolled that dice
getting summered was a cement
to those heat-blown bricks.

He cannot hear
I just now realized
He's deaf to it, it's all disguised
Everything, all of it, is crystal unclear
What's up is down and what's far is near

The radio boils
The microwave sings
The telephone listens, while his ear rings
But he hasn't noticed, his ignorance is loyal
To his strange world of backwards turmoil

His eyes tear up
At the toasters dull ding
Oblivious though, to orchestral strings
Crescendoing, divinus, in joyous buildup
An ode only heard as a course hiccup

Puts books to his ear
But hears no voice
Thumbs through jibberish, but his hands hold Joyce
The steak tastes like spam and the wine of beer
He's deaf to it, all of it, everything I fear

He runs in circles
And sits in squares
Drowns in shallow waters and falls upstairs
Nothings left of romance when passion dulls
But crippled hopes and shattered hulls

He cannot hear
He just now realized
He's deaf to it, it's all disguised
Everything, all of it, is crystal clear
What's up is down and what's far is near

Sometimes, Words are Just Words
April 28, 2011

Have you ever had that feeling
when words become boring?
You get that idea
that you really want to express yourself today.
Too bad that everything seems so plain.
You post a provocative status on Facebook,
but you already do that all the time...
You get that idea
that maybe you should try something different.
You could scream at the top of your lungs,
jammin' out to your favorite song.
But those words aren't fun either,
they're not yours after all.
Even writing a poem seems dull today.
You get that idea
that you can just shake it off
but the magic of your words doesn't come back.
I wonder what good words are when you lose the will to use them.
You could build castles, toasters, pudding, people, anything you imagine.
You get that idea
that your words just don't excite you today.
Thinking, speaking, writing,
have never ****** so much.
You get that idea
that if words are just words today,
then maybe today,
you are just you.

choo choo trains
and little toasters
have more strength
and determination
than my entire 19
years on this
planet
have.

Last night
I held out my palm
to catch hailstones

to store under floorboards
where all bad things are kept
like spoiled apples,

letters paralysed by tears,
junk I bought
then jammed into toasters

so at least I could say
I put them somewhere.

It feels chillier
when nobody's about,
and the roads

and alleyways
are clogged
with silence,

the inescapable
winter blackness.

I find your name
on my window
drooling away,

a skeletal row
of faded transparent roots
and when I woke

I desperately wished
you had put it there.

First I start off with one jab to my own jaw,
Then I kick myself in the nuts however that is possible,
I'll rip and tear my hair out,
Rubbing soap in my eyes to add to the fun.

I twist my ******* until they are good and purple,
Getting a running start so I can jump through a door head first.
I dropkick a wooden slab with nails pointing out of it.

I'll take an razor and rapidly shave my face with no cream,
Then pouring vinegar onto the cuts,
I'll dunk my head into the toilet and pull the handle,
In order to conduct a self swirly.

I open my tackle box for fishing,
And find countless giant hooks for bass,
Sticking one through my cheek,
Then I'll flop around on the ground covered in thumb tacks.

Hydrofluoric acid baths are so heavenly,
Kissing a piranha on the mouth,
He naws on my lips as I slam my body into a mirror,
What happens next, is what I love the most.

I'll lay three boxes of legos on the ground,
Nice and flat they hold with anticipation,
I'll jump on them so gracefully,
River dancing while I stick a stun gun up my ***.

Mixing *****,
Bleach,
And Frank's hot sauce in a bucket,
I dip my feet in them after my lego dance.
The pain is so wonderfully jolting through my body,
As I jump into a pool with toasters and microwaves plugged into a power strip.

I wanna tickle the *** of a horse with a feather,
So it kicks me straight in the throat,
Then have the New York Giants run across my body In their cleats to the field,
After the game, they wipe the dirt off their cleats on my face.

I'd like to look down the barrel of a Red Ryder,
Then pull the trigger as the BB bounces off of my pupil,
I'll wash my eye out with nail polish remover,
Following that,
I'll drive a car down a hill with no breaks.

I want Freddy Kruger to play with my hair,
While Edward Scissorhands massages my back,
I'll kiss medusa with ******,
And have her snakes nibble on my ears.

I'll take a double headed cobra and floss my **** cheeks with it,
I'll tongue punch the **** box of Honey Booboo's mom,
I'll stick my head in a bee hive,
And run on a treadmill shaking it,
Until each bee stings my entire face.

I'll pull my own teeth out with pliers,
And have the same act done for my finger nails,
Rubbing my hands together covered in mineral ice,

Spray painting a target on the ground,
I'll set a ten foot ladder up next to it,
Climbing to the top of said ladder,
I jump off head first,
Landing straight on the bulls eye.

I'll swim right into a hurricane,
After I ate an entire steak dinner,
An earthquake causing the hurricane to become a tsunami,
I ride the tsunami straight into a building, where the building collapses onto my back.

I'll line up salt like *******,
And roll a dollar up snorting it continuously,
I'll take a razor blade and cut the lines off of my fingerprints and hands,
Then play the guitar like Eric Clapton.

I'd tie a rope to my genitals, then set up a stool to a ceiling fan,
Where the other end of the rope would be,
And kick the stool,
Leaving me hanging by my ******* and ***** from the ceiling.

I would do any of these sadistic,
horrific,
agonizing,
painful,
evil,
Atrocious things to myself,
Before I'd ever take you back again.

The new education
building was beautiful
because it was reminiscent
of friends’ houses past.
Fond, albeit naive, memories
of stone suburbs and finished basements and iPod stereo systems playing easy listenin’
trite popular rock n’ roll music to the smell of toaster muffins,
some Pillsbury brand I can’t remember the name of and didn’t bother to then
because my mom or dad (for different reasons) couldn’t be persuaded to buy boxed, branded
items (usually, and until an Aldi came to town), and don’t bother to know now because
it’s probably better and cooler to not know.  

We fear what we think we know about what we actually don’t know.
I learned that recently and it is popping up everywhere.
Popping up like processed delicious memories out of new clean toasters.
Where are all the crumbs? Where is the crumb life?
I’ll ask that if I ever return.
There once was a statue of a short Italian chef with a mustache and a tray attached to his stone hand, for letters, I assumed, and if I ever go back I’ll also ask: is that for letters?

See the truth is that there was depth.
There was depth but what bothered me I mean really made me uncomfortable
was that it was hidden and wiped off the counter and swept up so to speak
with perhaps, someone else’s hands.
The depth wasn’t measured in wood chips and smelly black beautiful old independent dogs
or falling apart antique chairs or comprehensive but dusty cd collections, k.d. lang, Stevie Wonder, Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack, or posters of hot chile peppers or piles of unsold rocks and bricks in the backyard that were also high standing posts for kids who were imaginary queens and kings and warriors, or tacky red spray painted bicycles.
Our depth was visible and pure and it seemed like everyone else’s was cleaned up and stored away.
It felt that way when I was young.
Now I value my family’s visible depth
and consciously remind myself that no matter how
fresh the paint smells or how not present a quirky old photograph is
it is somewhere, it is somewhere
****, it is somewhere
it is beautiful
to remind myself that.

Opening my eyes,
I try to shake the cobwebs from my brain
the week has almost gone and Friday rears its head again.
So,
here I am waking,shaking like some madman and its all that I can do,there's no coffee in the jar and the shop seems far to far away,I've got some tea and that's okay but I forget to get milk yesterday.
and
the toasters up the spout,I should have got that sorted out but there's always a delay,thank god the week has almost gone and tomorrow's Saturday.
but,
these things are sent to try my patience which by now is wearing thin and the only thing that I have learnt is,
this too shall pass,I shall rise,paint on a smile go outside and walk the mile to the store,buy some coffee,milk and bore the shirt off Malik's back when I attack the price I see at Malik's supermarket,I know that nothing comes for free,but jeez I'm only buying things for me and not for all of humanity,
thank god it's Friday.