

## Elpsis Boo

###  Erogements

By Michael J Rowland

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 by Michael.J.Rowland

Cover design and artwork by Michael.J.Rowland

Elpsis Boo – Erogements is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN:9781301834983

I was a benevolent spider to come back like this then waste my proffer – To mix that radiant approach with such cynical gesticulations not worthy of my pre-cognitive arachnid.

I wary my wayfarer till trunksome becomes my daily load now loafing for charity of an armful of respite. I'll sell the books I gathered and bemoan the literal since I behave so disastrously in the face of your women.

Apopologies for ne'er do wells go fine with wine, but practiced over tea and cake, not so easy, not so chummy, not so happy, need your Mummy?

I flag down gurus while I'm making my mind up. They sit on the side of the road inventing excuses; reasons why they can't teach tonight. If only they could put that kind of effort into disappearing, they might not need to bother me with this question of whomso howto.

I climb the walls and I walk through the walls and I'm traversing them; coagulating and mating with room upon room. Gliding along the smooth surfaces grown soft with age.

"No roller skating please. You'll trip over the paintings."

Light, I fly across this weightless veneer. I'm a feather dandy must needs know what's on the other side of this wall now and this wall now. I can creep between the cracks and I can fall through your ceilings and land like a mime in your holiest of holies.

"Gerontion!" You scream.

"Geronimo!" I reply.

"Gerrim'!" You mumple.

"Gonner," I lame.

We'll settle this like adults. Your dreams are a means. Your sleep is a gift. You eat, you love, you drift. I amplify your heat and you explode at your very own feet. Pull up a chair and repeat after me,

"I love my 'my'. I love my 'my'. My my! I love!"

...and so I look for my dark, cosy little nooks; the fist made into a fort or a den at my face as I breathe the night into my eyes at my pillow.

A mock death. A myth-god. A moth death. A Mick god.

My eyes adjust. It is quiet. I would perform the play but for the fact that I have no players. Time to act. To fill my 'my'. I read parts of that book and the authority it lacked. "The book must read me," I thought, and scuttled back into the day.

Page one of a manifesto foragainst love...save for a bite on the neck and a trip me over if you've heard this one before – I believe wholeheartedly in the sacrosanct bemusement of a pealed loafer. Gadflies abound now and her profile like the Duc De Hey Lolly Lolly gratifies the elderly lady patronising her young lover. At the platform below me people stare up at me. At the platform below them they are hungry for hair gel. Less is more, more or less. Keep It Similar, Stupid.

Page two of a manifesto for new pants...brushing her way through the myriad of demons and succubae she waits patiently, in constant movement; anti-waits – creates her profane Ammonite of drinks and tears like a cocktail of sultry solitaries. Gather ye rosebuds while you're gay – 'No beer with that cake?!'

Sell your pants to me, skinny, and I'll slave you away to the mission of pulchritudinous Anglicans and Anglican'ts who befuddle your rise to delicious hypocrisy – one pink hand-dryer cannon.

Page ninety two of Mum and Dad's...she clip clunks to her hubbly ghastly retard buffer like a beard refuses to pay entry to a Dorothy Parker tribute felch. Grand slams piffle about the floor unnoticed, except by the infant child bleeding from his armpits and glancing out the corner of his beady little brother's eyes. Don't criticize me. I've seen the Devils run and you ran in to fourth all choo choo train, delighted, just like the rest of them. I saw you skip and dance and high five with the fucker.

Page piss off I'm thinking...that man is reading a book with no words. Rubbing his stubble – pausing from reading to lower the book – think on what he has just read – didn't read – and then back he thrusts his hoovered nose. If he concentrates hard enough is he getting something from it? Why not? Maybe he's only toying with Andre Breton's unsatisfied, unqualified, unrealised dream of a dream.

"You can't read this blank paged book. You will not understand it."

Page six after the blank page which is named after the conglomeration of promontory affects and reflects since Apollinaire and Pythagoras; since Betelgeuse and Smokey and the Bandit , where a bandy legged chump reaches climactic visions of Hollywood daydreams and outtakes – Gainsay says soft 'Don't wear that lousy robe in here, we are destitute and unable to afford such shambolic deference of art made on the sly, round the back, under the table.'

Page heaven...in which I dance to songs I have never heard before and will never enjoy except here on this page. Dancing like a shoelace untied, punished mid-air by a clandestine jogger the size of Big Ben and ticking like that; like a techno view over the Thames all those times we couldn't get into clubs due to damp reposts and nail-high cramps we limped about those neon-lit Dunstables/you got a light mister? What was the last verse again?

Page me I'm a doctor...the thunder is a paranoia precursor to lightning strokes of raining genius, carrot-topped bumpkins keeping secret their suitcase full of bovine hermeticulture. That was a close one! She pulls away the cloths from the beer garden tables, light-headed like a butterfly in a storm cloud. Craving generations of ash-tray philosophers and stunted show men. Play for sugar, capture that Yankee dollar and make mine a cheesy toasty please, I'm famished.

In its farthest corners one finds remnants of fortitude and the clap-roasted bagel fairy tales of fat Americans and junkies – God bless 'em all their ramifications and parted ways – you worked today – I studied.

Elpsis raped the cafe dry of its capitol. Shamed it into betraying its sumptuous laptops to the degraded masses. Welcome all who fail. You grow more tiresome every day. She leaned over – only the once – not a glance – a whole hole – she's in lovely shape. Brandishing her bill, she radiates moribund tennis shoe come local labels gagging for a second sitting – Take 300. You deserve it.

Here, hallowed ravens reel from puzzlement which it is all a part of if you count the neutral and marmelize the equation. Pin marmalade feet onto this one and you've got a gummy bear. Pin tinsel on that, and you've got yourself a show young man!

Could I ever persuade anyone to love me now that I'm a spandex hat stand? Perhaps if I lower my standards. Aim instead for the plastecine tightrope walkers of this city. Proud U-bends who fall at my ankles and hammer tiny little pixies into my bones. The menu changes – the girls smile – their shift is over – they didn't mean any of it.

The menu always changes – day to day – second to second. None of this grovelling does him any good. An obsequious, fetid soul trapped between gumption and twots. Beef flavoured ice-cream and Japanese eye-muffs. Why 'brandishing'? You can't have all the goats in the world so you might as well put your cleaver away, all the good it's doing you.

Take another hit and rerun yourself better. Stay local and divide your unconquered trip into compartments. You tried, but you didn't try hard enough. Don't wanna become a 'goof' now.

Oh well heavens is a turn up and doesn't she have a friend who's a scene stealing college chimp. I see so sound something separate sold in an old gym-bag offered. She'd been saving herself for an ear made of plastic shine bolt, and twang of American slang. Homely she points her toes this way which means she's attracted. How can I be so be so. Salivate. My young pet dog-collar roughneck quantity surveyor, leia. Atlanta Georgian peach-knee Applebaum ranging lightly from keyboard to just bored. Elemental how she flips this through thus and sums up 'gerontian' less wasteland multiplied by a heavy pinch of flack than I'll get you back; get him the sack.

Bromide on the house! In the coffee and the tea and all for free. You can't blame the radiators; it's not like they're coming over to patrons in the tongue full or anybody like that. I rectify my last chump to chimp – a flaccid gimp – ineffectual as the tide over replied under since he returned for his jacket like a like a....

Memember me roar for running president. Me heap big chief in my parts. Me sleep dig reef in your port. Bumpy heart goes pit-a-pat at the sight of your sore eyes - does your mother tuck you in? Does your chewing gum lose its elasticity the moan you more? Ah, that soft seal of yours; that smooth rummaging encasement he fondles. I'll bet you huff to have it you solidified pansy pusher. Get lost on your lectern so you look funny walking away. Whoa! Werby-shaped, hofty legged. Your mud-bug bottom sags like a loan shark, lips wrapped round a pretzel – Gollum! Gollum!

~

Handoorknocker – fistring – heavysantasuit – Russian make up for Christmas day feast.

Weightloaf child; I'll see you both soon in anon, nothing new under the sun.

So and it's really so much to take in but not that so because I was that soldier. I've been here on tricycles you mopeds could never fathom; all glad rags and show boats, no dotes. Narcissistic platitudes at counters for freebies and stench of ponce plumbing about the stone for books and boks and biks. Let them argue if they must – five more minutes won't kill them.

There's second hand for the lot of you melancholy spastics.

Graffiti says FUCK OFF – Not badly but gladly and slippy like frost melted fur engine come meatloaf entropy. You can meet people all the time – They're everywhere!

Nobody's really shy or hiding. They're looking for godot under ashtrays and Gorky. Poster lips chewed with views and semi automatic electronica. They call it jazz but it's more of a bear than that – a shaved scrotum for the ladies and toast and leather and oh oh oh and warm – no COLD nipples rising like Eiffel towers out the waitresses tomboy princess complex.

Popelník hairy with sin. Tipping mothers to watch the change piss down their donkey ears. Their mumsy fear of a queer veneer.

Solomon bunked off seven years to measure his days in coffee spoons and diet coke. Chunky fuckroar judging the tossers in a heat of tennis emblems his youth presumed – the bully consumed in him now. He tasted the closure; an Arvo Part poser on fire. Lava poured from his head onto the suede kamikaze, catapulting Wittgenstein's tractor philosophy into spoken fragments with a tinge of a North American accent.

Krakonos lopes in black hat for the chin-long black coat for a throat – new shoes since he returned from the hills and he's lost weight too. Wait – he can only be twenty nine – he moves like a toothpicker monkey!

"Give me your food, I want your food." Cigarette butts no longer good enough. He breaks down over his dear departed and dresses for the wedding – dyed black hair and black tea – sits next to me.

They all smile. They all think. Thin with blustering adaptations now spinal in their nomenclature. Heffily she sighs. Humpily she bemoans and embiggens the thighs about her. Run fingers and adverts through her Brazilian you could, but bass rounds the third base rounds the tally to today's prang-emphasis on the underhanded.

"Women can compartmentalize their infidelity."

Oh you silly! Of course you can go down on me.

Take the Tracticus for example. I could midriff the thing till it vocalised. Take out the thrum that makes up its pages and makes totters of its promises. Shod-shod-shoddy the rheumatism it arthwrite-is.

And she moves like a cat and laughs like a move and she shows off like that. She me no judge. She me no spell. Rat on her. Tell Sandinista all there is to know despite its communist Routing and Pummel. Brown two-lips. Greta than you or me. Silencer over silencer she crows into a blind sleep.

### Everything is a metaphor for everything else

Crush landed under the trampled Poles – KRAKOV! Like a semi-automatic raiding a child's play-pen. This is my play pen and all else is whimsy – a Columbine headiness that quells tears of milk from her maternity leave. I swim up your sweaty leg to your holly well stuffed full with high heels, skinny ankles and jeans. I loved her the instant she poked out her jumper like that. A rooster's crow, a cry; a cry for more. But out she takes one. At the table. In front of me. So she jugs one perfectly formed breast into the baby's gob and he really gives the hard, large nipple a lascivious lashing and suddenly it all rings true. How many of you are there? Out jugs another when the laddy is done with No.1 and he bites and he chews till she blues. And she's happy. Happy as only a mother can be and she catches my eye. Her instinct to suckle me soft in her eyes and fuzzy felt in her soul – a light burning in the window how she will always be there for me – she will never die – Yes of course I will live forever – Of course I will never leave you – Softly in her glances I sense her hope. Brunette Eve – Madame Pompadour.

One lovely afternoon - Roll out your executive lounge bean-lizard and grab me a falafel on the way – stammer monger who whispers gentility to hearsay back answers and saw doctors. Hemmingway capsizes agog to the wah wah peddle-pushers she executes so frantic like Dalai Lama and hip-Jesus hook-noses. He'll be your mentor tonight. He'll show you how to pulp your fictions into pocket-shaped hand shifters. Shelly carries rubbish around with her. She keeps everything.

Hug me baby – hug me baby – hug me baby – Gene Gargoyle Vincent chops metal Medusa into ribbons and snapshots, cool cuticles puddle about in stolid appreciation and gypo' tinkers. Stall your genuflexions Ahmed. Grail my myopic instructions on your handkerchief in knots and goats to cheese from your other lover.

Knickerbockers and party poopers make the scat man happy. Skully shovers and carpet baggers simplify the nation's curious need for a healthier tea time, more beach combers and mettle detectors.

She's cross-eyed but grins like a head patient she'd swallow and tell her father she did. He'd borrow and rate her handling on the landing judge robo mata hospital break left break right and go straight on till she shits her pants now her mother knows the neighbours shoo the begonias twelve feet mall from Tesco to Tesco eyebrows or no eyebrows.

" _Why stand when you can sit?"_

" _Would you pose for me? You look like this Mucha I saw."_

" _Do you mind if I take my shoes off. I can't sleep if I have them on. I don't think they're too smelly._

" _It's been such a long time since I've spoken to someone and actually been interested in what they had to say. Been asked questions I've not heard before. I'd just like to thank you for a lovely afternoon."_

She wasn't the best looking girl in the world but right then she was.

It just doesn't make sense if you've got space for a potter's wheel, 50 kilos of clay and hundreds of ideas. I mean that would be about the size of a small car right? Ideas take up no room at all.

We think therefore I am:

I am in want of a need.....of a toothache to trammel/punch/roll over Beethoven. Below the horses ball in the Charleston I'm fandangled at the pressureless of meeting you. I'm living. I hope it's clear. Soft like a paintball and gravy too. She's the cream and she probably choirs. Many a main road I've walked amongst second-hand hand-me-downs till this resource of resources. Oh I may sweet here in this thong full of arms and calves but none turn my eye. None rex my bark. None sail my float but get my goat and fling me flung back to you.

I am trapped by the Parisian feel to your safe lens; his Rodeo Breaker. Is there a beer garden here or are you a streaker? I could die in your armour. You had never heard of Leland Palmer. Sold by a cat, four paws and a tail; a tale with no pause. A rebel without a clause. I really do do what I want when I want with I want so I want. You may well PING but there's cricketers on the walls of this jail could curl your toes with stories of will, ways and wonder. Ah Mageddon silly over you, honey blue over chips and salsa. Regular please, I'm down on my knees.

"If only the suit wasn't so tight."

Will she take me home in this gander-flap?

Jazz and Pimento! This world's just begun – I intend to have fun. Slip your hand in mine and I'll fortune you wexwards mandaying the forforks and taming the shrew. Lap your wand in my land, I'd be delighted to host your puny. I'll sunset and boulevard you all till you bleed rabbits from your novels. Gadfly Polsky, hungry Hungarian; meet me in the lobby and whack me off. The commercial director's due at two.

I'll be a bad analyst for 18 months and then we'll see. It was you wrote to me. You. You who are one. And gone. Well done. My nipples are full of Mobil oil – Grease me! Halls and mirrors and the smile of a lover – a secret bookstore – a front for a Bogart; a lax for a cheap tart; a grind in a love heart – strummmm....

Moreover Moravia, leftover, you save her, I'm helpways you drain her, don't force her, behave her. Grim lip rats eat honey from the table legs over there; him in a cot and him in a high chair. I've got a thousand crowns says they're bordering on sweet wine. Not just now, but all the time. I can tell by the crutch in their crow's feet melon ballers. The candles and the info – the bryl cream and Natasha Gollova – the dickie bow of champions. I'd let you touch it but I don't know where you've been.

Hip model and monster queen. "DID YOU BOOK?"

Oh Jezebels and paint! I kokoshka, but I won't.

"So, first it was the food," she said. "And the type and the way he asked," she said. "But mostly his tangent," she said. "I happened upon him," she said. "When he was but a pup," she said. "And it was a friend, not I," she said. "Who named him TWIST. Oliver first," she said, but quickly, "TWIST."

"But the bike from the ceiling!" I cried.

"No, TWIST," she said and the night had just begun.

Hasterfry in the Jazz melancode – as a people backfire into speeding car bonnets. I wish I didn't have to watch but it's funny when they belch. DID YOU BOK? Oh blues, cocksmell and glassy eyes; I may never make you cry again, and that would be a nostril too far. Oh wane and dane and drunk me but try not to fit me. I'm unnameable.

She doesn't fool me, or squark, sqwark, sqwalk, skwork, sk, work, Slovakia % variance debauchery. I see right through her and the fake stone wall's flimsy altitude she thinks she's hiding but she's not is she? I can actually hear your knees as it gets more difficult to write like all my energy is focused on everything but the goal. "Everything but the Goal." And repetition becomes so lush. A lazy artist's carbuncle that.

I'll be able to see you in the reflection whether you're German or not. Of course you can pay with that. And oh, as slow as you think of the look in her eyes and the touch of her hand and the wor(l)d sidles off to its crappy little corner as we take over and give meaning to the permanently revolutionary murder of time. Your teeth blaze brighter than 27 suns, you life giver and hopeless romantic. You comic Valentine. You talky Vlinder....

00.00

We'll settle this the nicest way; in state of feel and time of day.

It's slo-mo white canvas walls like paper fright stage white motion sickness I've spun myself into this pit-stop shop they call a theatre only with different letters, imagine what they sound like....I was on a beach. I was in a city on a beach and drank deep of a fashion shoot nonchalant reader of history and perspiration. I was in a city on a beach reading till I sweat(ed). By partial coincidence but mainly group sex, I gathered my oars and drove home a striking solipsism. Nothing to do with the glare of the lead or the shaving foam fantasies that lapped at the boat like a methadrone pervert.

Love me docile rambling squirrels, loath me gambling sometimes Wirrals – My family mean more to me than an armchair cuss or a rifle butt pancake. I'll take you all on you mealy mouthed suburbs! Who forgot to trim your bib? Who ordained to steer this tram? Dada?

I am in the theatre of comedy but I was on a beach watching loopins unfurl, hearing seagulls belie their true calling and their insinuations in my ear like that, and I'm all like, "Seagull! Quit it!" and they're all like, "No, we wanna go high." And I'm all like, "Go on then you dick-beaks." And they go all quiet and web-foot like distance prevails over the sticky titted model next to the moron man fiddling with his shirt belly and wafting justonemores.

I thought she was walking funny but she's not; she's on a skateboard.

Where was I just then? I swear to god someone was teaching me something...

Left to his own devices he becomes a saint, sucking other people's pulp he becomes a tangerine dream of a bullied youth. Even the geeks picked on me. This theatre is spelt wrong. Admit it. The only thing which is similar is the Komedie.

19.01

Fuck every limb of every man. They are thoughtless lumps moving to a script written by another lump of limbs moving itself to the beat of a boiling egg.

"Did she hit on you?"

"I don't think so."

"Just so you know."

"I know."

I am the only person left in this 'theatre' bar / I don't think the waitress is wearing a bra!

Dostoevsky puzzles over The Simpsons and cheers with the common folk as they uncommonly cheer uncommonly song. Their talent's in beer and smoke-filled guitars, banjos, Piccadilly circus freaks, Piccadilly turkey beaks, syphilitic response girls smoke till they're ancient and oh so healthy yet – Applause Applause – (feign Noo Yoik accent) Get me – Oh god, I heard her laugh! – Get me painting covered white jean black smirking licks of texts and mails and a poem for her birthday – True sailing is dead.

Enter – leather – A red jacket and auburn side-heads – stroke plastic flowers I have proclaimed free of interest of airs of graces or punch lines or graces/ They are a group of troubadours ; Shakespearian homilies roaming transients settled in village fires and well-lit streets that hum outside sporadic as thank yous - A mint cigarette my sister abused.

The house is empty but at least the dogs are fed.

Slick Czech-speak back and forth banter rehearsed night after night – The diary continues and the solemn undertaking is above all – SERIOUS.

They sing for themselves. Eleven at the table – spectators two plus me plus the bar lady and the other bar lady and the illustrated waiter on the wall. It has been raining.

I have been raining and repeating these poses so striking in traffic though attire black and expression black and no you can't see his eyes on the black black road. Students of light and teeth; white mange; the devil scorns those not hit; to flip through the air on some long deserted Boston street, you keep your feet and make sutra you get home safe baby. Please don't stray from the path marked scarf car parked most minds are scarred wrong lines penned dark on thicker paper than these stultified head rushes. Embark on a journey but mind you remind you!

You are not an army. You are not an insect. You are what rattles the gods into action when they think they've got you pinned. I'd trust you to fuck them over with your devout relief.

Minimal lines dude – stop filling things in.

Or is it an intestinal freak milk truck death you desire?

And so it is – She still loves me - A sister-mother-family member? Do question marks belong in a wife's extra-terrestrial fooling feline memory?

### 33

The stem of this 't' was going to be

The back of the bar girl before me

But she moved and proved

My memory weak

I have the idea for a photo and it involves thirty maybe a little less people – 33 people say, looking as if at a cinema screen but at a long bar – I am the barman – Jitka takes the photo and betrays me when I'm 40.

LWLB – 50's Rock'n'Roll music is played in a bar

SUGAR STRUCTURES, NOT PILLARS OF SALT – GABERDINE WEINSTEINS – GALES AND PETTICOATS TORN AT THE LAPEL – PLASTIC FLOWERS MADE BY SOME HAPPY RETARD JUST BELOW THE SURFACE OF THE VLTAVA FLOWING GREEN AND MURKY LIKE A GOBLIN'S LAUGH – RIPPLES OF SEAGULLS STILL PERMEATE THE THOUGHTS OF GIRLS SITTING CROSS LEGGED ON TOO FEW BENCHES FOR COMFORT – i SLEEP THE SLEEP OF NIAGARA, ROARING AND HEAVY, MOVING YET UNMOVED – YOU'LL FIND ME UNDER THE SAME ROCK NEXT YEAR – JUVENILE RED-ARROWS DANCE ELECTRIC IN THE SKY – A TREE THAT LOOKS LIKE A CLOUD – A DUCK THAT LOOKS LIKE A CLOUD – SEE HOW MANY OBJECTS YOU CAN SPOT THAT LOOK LIKE CLOUDS – THERE'S PLENTY – YOU'LL FEEL LIKE YOU'RE FLOATING – AND ONCE THE GROUND HAS SLIPPED FROM BENEATH YOU BECAUSE THAT LOOKS LIKE A CLOUD TOO, STAND ON YOUR HEAD AND FIND SOME CLOUDS THAT LOOK LIKE THE VERY THINGS YOU JUST EVAPORATED – MAYBE A FEW NEW THINGS - THEN AND ONLY THEN WILL YOU FIND YOUR FOOTING – AND A FOOTHOLD, LIKE A CLICHE, IS WORTH A THOUSAND PICTURES – IF YOU CAN FIND SOUNDS THAT LOOK LIKE CLOUDS – WELL THEN THERE'S YOUR NOVEL!

Bluesuncomesout

This slipless void canonizes alabaster appearances and capitulates nihilistic tendencies to the thrum thrum of the lazy fuckers bass and drum. Gut feelings don't lie, they merely parade like a penniless drunk pontificating aimlessly a wisdom long thought defunct; despite Solomon's sins sounding off in an insomniac's dressing gown – It's your world he destroys not mine.

Try a helping of toy town and trace Míla's melancholy back to the day she announced that she was once rattled by an insufferable complex brought down upon her tender little breasts – bled skin and bone. Grandiose ego milk-fed table fuckers grill their nightmare kingdom for recommendations and group therapy. I'm as happy as a sandwich board. The ease of everything is priceless. You here for the gig?

I ran over your dog this morning. Creamed the beast and I can't get the image out of my mind. I'd twist you but you're broken. I trust you. You're a whale of a time – the curve of your nose – the rise of your high. You're always high.

Donna reminds me of John Wayne in The Searchers. Bandy legs, a real cow puncher. There's only so many excuses, one cloth, seventeen hand grenades and however but a plethora of jism one can throw at the locals. Branded and cautioned they hold on to their paltry piece of thin-sliced crust in the hope that a guitar pick halved is a guitar pick saved. The set-list is your stride – the stage your arsehole – I make paper of this but I believe you. You're a descending scale of time.

### CHAPTER THE WHOM

My baby with her Timex figure / her 3 0'clock lay over coffee shop thoughts. Her dream sequence calves poised tip-toe taut at window-thin wrist straps / peers from my attic and darker here tree tops / My baby with her playground hips and roundabout smiles / Her eyes the rings of the planets bright with her visions of floating sailing cities in the skies; posing and spinning and dancing a flame pointing up to the heavens so self effacing / My baby with her foreign fingers flower stems from a golden upbringing / Her arms her presents / Her cowboy bar western swing doors / She comes and goes / A flip of her kitten claws flex and practice while she loves / Their feather-whip / Her smooth cool marble ankles crack and snap / A holiday float gist / My baby with her happily manicured feet ? Her twinkle toes / Ten little hellos / She free falls soft intro the dawn clouds as she sleeps on ancient theories scribbled in toe-nail polish / Reflected in the stars breast-like bubbles popping above Atlantis / My baby with her lips vampire coffins carved by Gaudi and painted by the thousands of palm-leaf lovers who dream of picking up a brush and making a living out of it / The amateur's touch more delicate, more caring, more fearful / My baby with her tick tock neck god wound up with a bushel and a peck / Her belly bone china plate of invisible funstuff, cakes and treats button wars ribs like a whispers "borrowed and bettered – borrowed and bettered" / If you put your ear close enough you can hear my baby's skin speaking my baby's name / My baby with her lonely lava tongue taunting the mountains to melt, the redwoods to cinder, make way for this beauty – I am looking for my lover / My baby with her hair like the silk Elvin curtain of imaginary tree houses / The tied back song of an alley cat / The loose flowing poem of a homeless angel / The soft unborn undertaking of a princess's bed / The sound of falling rain on New York city at four o'clock in the morning

Soft fallen snow show for time and time again she say don't sweat it it's only a kindred spirit rising to the occasion all moccasins and trumpet blowing tendrils of rhizomes and mojos of homos, I'm comatose the snow flows and she scampers over like a moth in a bride's gown.

She's solidified and shaking and she doesn't know how to say sorry – Her wine and her time aren't worth a pinch of her purse.

"Sometimes I'm boring other people," he says in robotic gin and tonic murderous Teutonic, ein zwei drei fear thumbs.

You're a broke toothbrush, I'm a real cute toosh. Cum over here honey and rest your mental baggage on my strings and strings of nerves – my harp chandelier, this bandit collapse – not Teutonic – Italian. Oh boy do they like to talk, hee hee hee hooooooo boy!

"I was sitting here two minutes ago," he says after leaving with her and returning with them. They would be bored but together some art-aged gigolo and no you may not talk to me like that, you can like it or leave it or lump it together in one big carp death throw me in the bath and see which tribe I come out.

The quorn exchange closed at the craic-was-ninety last night; soft Bartlett's gone ape round neon hippy bullshit. Jesus? Could she have halved any louder? Holy! Can she have been any womber?

Hell's toast bean-boy, she manicked an elephant or two just beaming here. I held her up, you saw, I held her up and reached inside – she was soft and billowy lean and couched lengthways along the lawn-fetish. Call up mongy call up Tuesday give me head and wake me Wednesday.

Of all the mealy-mouthed naysayers, Junto is the hoftiest, trilling this and maying that, might be sandy, toxic and airy and all your fruits be babies.

It's getting late – you only read about this but lately it's dark, it's homely. It's stormy. It's elbows of the night and a whore's docket bellies into the narrow path; the forest quirks and feels the whine of the queer like a strontium bonefied video conference. On lakes and lakes in this pitch black hummer of shirts and pickers you can see her floating, ethereal, gentle across the lap lap of the water's whale. Mildly she prompts you to come inside her – now you do it – now you do it and the repetition like flecks of spittle rally till you cry your fuckroar in a stomach full. I could eat an ostrich!

Shrill - Creeps through the undergrowth of Mahatma's daily stinge – He steals his way around, mourning and flails his mother in childbirth. If he gave up the ghost when the fortune teller warned him to, there wouldn't be any cryptic crossbows – not neither, not no how,

I salivate at the prospect of another fumble in the sun – tac. Wrapped round the silk formed oval sided side-kicks. So you winded me when I stroked you there. You looked at me when I leaned back on my sweat-stained sister raided; yeah yeah yeah, it's good but it's not the mixed salad from the menu.

Rays sound on my face – soul check chakra tuned in to Jimi Hendrix on the radio. This one's too scabby, that one too old, there one too skinny, here one too wellington leads to spite fuck leads to pain, leads to boop boop be doop. Nothing a little tamarind pearl of an oriental couldn't fixate.

###  INTERLUDE

Severed little peepholes crush severe mole-necked young Filipino albinos. Chimpanzees to you and me.

They call it zeppelin but we all know it's joo joo beans.

~

Cantelope Cantelope where have you been?

I've been to the Jew in the washing machine.

And counting house counting house what did you there?

I cough cough splutter choke, shit, I had it for a minute then....

~

FootPrint.

~

Set in stone sold soft touch Mandy camp feral tigers grown sick of this quarterly - Glad rags and spin doctors soaping up their parverts for golf cads.

92 Kc is a night at the club fingered clown like Jose.

Must spend less \- endless corruption of the wallet save a mess of vision cupped in solemn contemplations of love music and whimsical silver toy trucks plugged in hippos crushed with hugs. Our cinema milk and hold-on bat attacks all indoor armrests and hands chewed backwards till you are bloodless and shivery in a quilt of goose bumps and easels. Stretched flat long flat along a canvas of teeth you grin material slideshows I prepare for the infants. If you give me just six more days I'll make a holy bloody show of it - Rush me and watch me shine - I do not deserve time - I enrage time - Time and I are granted our huff. Smiley face.

Sell me your genuphobe and I'll prize you an arse pong itch wad. MILF me a day-tune and I'll pull it till it's raw. Rattling around in these warm-cold rooms you analysts bleed from your ears and bleed from your nose; your CEO has music wherever he (or she) goes. Go on dance man! Dole up a storm you cup in a t-shirt. You eyeball in your elbow in your shed built gravely due to cast-iron tumour and paltry yearly raise up the stakes next season I'm the bat AND the ball.

I rarely helter skelter but I believe it's a mousetrap of a klutz who doesn't pride himself on spinning. Creme Caramel, saliva and ingesting spinal fluid via Nicaraguan table-tops; That's the benefit of working for a totalitarian tree hugging vegetarian, Tony Blairian, librarian. Who wouldn't put peanut butter in their undies!?

### Closed

I'll bet he sloped in; you can't fucking tell if you're not looking but given his gait and wealth his nose turned inwards, wife and gas, he's a petrol station caught frozen on a hot wound. Forgive him his lady and tread carefully around his earlobes – they cry so. Hell never saw a birthrite so slick and televisual as the pony this cretin placed his bets on.

Limping he chews through his tart's whimsical gaze. She loves me. I love her. Now it's over.

None of this matters since she wrote me Wednesday "I'll be there Thursday," and never arose from my lugubrious whelp. Greek in profile, yes I'd like to draw you but that could never replace the thrupenny waltz through her shit. Anyway, fuck her and listen to yourself – my father said to me, "Fuck her and kill yourself." Advice I shall never mispronounce. Fathers really do knew best.

Brandon smokes in, you really can't tell if you're high as a humanist – he blew, I spewed, we knew and dad knows best.

The soul wares thin on hookers and ships – Go buy yourself your own philosophy – mine's spent. Get rid of yourself as quick as humanely possible then multiply yourself by Kafka, Kasha, Katerina whatever she calls herself when she's wet.

......and she lifts herself gently like an elephant begging for a dead man's lunch – HUMP! You've got to love that about her. But the flies pass, the gnits grow and you can't trust a hostess who tells you the right time to hang up your brushes and forcefeed a gnat.

I hate her. She hates me. Now her husband ropes up the stairs into the light and leaves her to the black elements; the tried purple corpuscles of the evening's weakening bully.

I grope her. She gropes me. Rat-atat-tat-tat.

Some segregations last forever. I am not her grope.

I'm not wrong in thinking....

If this tramp can spell my name with only her bum-bag, I'll cut her toenails for her, wipe her arse cheeks for her, kvetch her wind sack for her, comb her Adam's apple into a new mown lawn.

Give me your tears friend and I'll sell you a Roman.

I bellowed in her nostrils –

"GIVE ME MORE TIME!" but she bled.

I rambled down her naval, "GRAVE ME SOME LINEMENT WARRIOR!" but she strode on umbilical.

I catatoned – She brew.

I bionic – She 'I bionic.'

~

~

Burlesque's wife, Kuntka, dry now, must excuse herself to the bathroom – vaseline! – She's suddenly spelling better as she swarms about my Venusian belts – She is a detour – Burlesque robs back down the stairs like a vampire bawling - the light never works – the light is sour – the light only perpetuates his colossal desire to rim gods from an inconceivably low self-esteem.

Give the man a stool!

I'll treat him, I think, of which there's no harm, unless you count Dada and divide it by tissues.

"A drink my friend. A drink to your wealth."

He fires a shot which spells cum for a pencil. Draw me your whore and your mother; one for woman and one for this egg. I shouldn't take umbrage but darkness takes pains to blacken the worm that bloodens the male.

Kitsch – she's called for the minute, and roots...

"You must both go – I am a day's weight and you know not where you seed. Rim me. Flee to your sisters."

No matter how hard I try, it always comes back to Jesus' bones.

### Me and Burlesque.

Burn, bum, burn, his tongue is pulled in the solipsist's gallery, box-like the perspective centralises till it's wood and below and above and I feel huge to think – I feel great and descending. Napoleon reaches over for a fag – suggests readings, but we are marble slabs for all we care. His early readings maybe.

There is a revival he tells us, but in the face of our allied groups – (sympathy and jism) we watch Napoleon take a badger in the shitter and I punch a hole through 'B' the critic and clown.

GAD! To Britain

GAD! To Rome

PREACH!

Front to back celebrates a new look....

FUCKROAR!!!

You became a lighter in flight – I forgot your money, I never wanted your wife – I held your hand, you spewed a novel.

It was he who sloped, not you. The box sound sand that drips through these lines and depth of ocean and reefs of sputum tackles contemporary issues like a dam would strike – if it could only wallow in thought one more millennium.

Buy me semtex rich boy and I'll find you your Aztec mysteries, your Haiti midriffs and thousands of homes.

I called on my mother. She only tore one more strip – you CAN buy me love and gauloises.

A bull to a bull – red with vomit – the moth still trills inside the thick of your dick, thickening and sick.

My sun still burns, you twit. My sun still burns.

And the fire in me now. And the heat in her now, as she waits patiently in her pit for a razor and a reason. I bide my time like an alligator–bridge, deliberate and feminising. A grill, a bungalow and an unforgotten dream.

Out in the traffic.

We will her to a featureless death, a strokeless warmth,

A friend's pain. She takes the bait – a kicking mute on the barroom floor –

A crowd gathers – Burlesque and I grow hard and apart – she grows thin and unloved –

She never spoke of her beauty. 'B' never hired me. Our shirts need

washing from just outside the penalty box.

It is late,

we may as well be 'in' as 'out'

we may as well be 'us' as 'they'

You may as well read 'alphabet' for GOD, you flat-footed

bottle fucker.

~

There's a storm I call calm called the love that lays waste to the plebeian hordes who wrap Corfu in tofu. Don't even try and act generous you gobshite; just trail behind like the fucking puppy you are and laugh out loud L.O.L. let smileys carry your day and day to day bag – I'm Calypso how futile these belly dancers really are – Ana, Jitka, Tereza, Mila, Mary, Simona, Zdenka, Zuzanna, and 13 charlies wroten in bad Spanglish stroke gormless wank fangs.

"Hellish to meet you – I hope it lingers."

Solomon bringer Catskill singer – comedy ukulele broke down banjo spaz. He simply doesn't recruit ugly girls and oh they seem so brash and gentle, American and foxhole – Corner them and I'm sure they'd show you a boat for your money. Slap something on it – we'll find a space for you. Man I look like a poser coming in with me canvas...

Peel me – see for yourself.

Got her phone number though didn't I? That doesn't happen every day. Arty sort – all the boxes ticked – real hippy digs music and painting – Hot too – Sell me one diary and I'll make a claim – All of the diaries are mine – ALL OF THEM. Go on, write something......MINE!

I'm going to make it because Valerie Singleton is made of a precious spam not seen since damnation – Cover me in blood and call me Nancy. Can you see Nelly Bligh's tits down the top of her black t-shirt? I can.

### Spoilt Rich Kid Flings Ferrari.

Those photos you sent and mails you fucked up. The end, you said but aren't you the same. One says stamp me, one says brand the canvas I bought was 400. I'll sell it to you for 30 grand. God in heaven and IKEA! We all have work to do – except me. We all breach promises – except me. I promise you nothing and I have less than a salt cellar full of love for anybody at a pinch.

It grates to think you'd stone me – I wouldn't raise a finger to you.

Blank me so.

In liquid sun she lays behind the bar a loquacious tramp dressed by her father. Glances left and up over her shoulder resting on her fist resting on her manicure wrestling with her boyfriend. I owe it to myself to be you.

Seldom does white strike light red on pink think so fathomly, politely. All here and all unannounced in the field of beauty due to a break-down in internal youth.

Thank you for the days. They rope you in with Cataclysmic fortitude happenstance reckon – worth but forget to omit to redund the blarney Hops pays for genially manners boy – Legs off the table!

I hup you, I hep you. I hope you do well at FAMU next year – We are all just questions. I want to cry. Since I was 14 I have wanted to cry. Nothing cuts me – I mean to cry – scream cry – blubber bandy Wexford shandy faithful randy magnanimous Sputnik come crippled beatnik rape mindless ape chick sings elfless chick flick.

She fingers herself as I snot-up on the legs of this chair – He gapes. He gapes at smokeless fire – Flaming aptitudes!

Sentimental Sentimensh.

Relinquish septuagenarian mollusc busker wrong-doer honed masculine am-co rain rat-stand made Batman gawp more lessly fat tube guess my weight in these trunks spit roast mould grey. Bland maid role onto gold moribund gypsies overseas wasps lack ridilin. I think I love you (all).

**Guns don't kill people –** _guns_ **kill people.**

Separate the wheat from the chaff before we all die of rumourism. Schlep me onto a canvas and I'll find a place for you. Get bent you angel you! Dark red and rubbish – stroke me empty lady – I need your mother. Randell mine moop and lick me shoulder. Slope of the nose watch of the night watch. We are ON tonight. So in. Brill tits snob. Serve me. Give me all your holes. Loosen my lips. I'm shy. Send it in a box. Lift your skirt. A little higher. Stop. I'm not so shy. I wrote you a love song. Then asked you for a Caesar salad then you said with chicken and I said no and you copied my mouth and said no too. Ahhh.

Did I already thank you for the photos? Besides, who doesn't understand lasses in tresses upside down god bless being tooled from the top from the backside down what a rack on my back thinking of you.

### Chapatterrr tha twooo

Harangued but not simple. I'm cloned for a nineteenth breakdown before this flow stilts I'm random beyond my content. Too much music can cripple a niggardly promise. Crane your neck back and see if you can't see.

Shown above brightly sweating, caught on camera minute to minute some plebeian recorded metronome broken in by a granny bookstore took a look bore.

Grates on me like choking limpet railroad managers asking for cash back on their failed marriages (mirages). Her mother smiles over at me while her daughter offers me a biscuit. I speak Czech to the infant and broken English-man to the woman. She's beautiful under the Vltava – the day is rippling like that – she shines through like a pointillist princess – gradual blurred to sharp – broken like me – touched with liquor and coffee – Bebes and babies.

Ježis Maria this view is summit. Vista Letna pre-half date / tidy man – left field – zoom – Woo hoo four times in the last 24 hours. Give this man some metal. I trounce the 'word' on your belt like studs around a ranch; that waist; that tie; those links and boxes – I'll give you 'Top Five' you unexpected gem! How did you find me? Who sent you?

Grant.

She lips up – prit stick - opens her doors, Lindsay, Marketa, Martina, Erin – Erin, but proudly you sit above the rest on a wave of balance of wizard of oz of dark side of your moon. Laugh? I almost sold my friend's dogs!

Gad! We lay prostrate and dumb. Elongate yourself for me and tell me of San Diego and whale's vaginas. Sing me to sleep in all those languages idiot woman of a certain intellect speak. Pull me off and kiss my Republican, I can almost taste you now. Glassy-eyed and coughing. Perhaps a well put joke will stop you in your tracksuit.

I TY POTREBUJES PANAKA – He framed – she sold. Jindra wobbles on my phone and Jitka perambulates a lackadaisical tube of zest. She's got to be. I'm a billboard man dancing next to this kid offering me chocolate and befriendship. Glib I may be but never humble – Don't ever accuse me of that and if you see anything of me which resembles humble – just watch how well I do it.

Selfish tables of night, round and round we are all Madonnas in Spanish, French, Russian, Czech, Slovak and English. OOF! And OOF! You punch me with your collapsed lung of a cock, your punctured colostomy bag of a ballsack.

Ian Fleming shocked me with his line – 'Sex with her would have the sweet tang of rape.'

You shock me with your amusement at my shock.

I am amused at your tang.

You are shocked when I rape you.

Now eavesdropping I ask for a key too. It's all domestic when you come down to it. Even war-zones need to be tidied up, during and afterwards but mainly during which is the whole point of smacking you over the head and bending you bandy.

Don't make Ray stain you, this film club should see us through at least the rest of the year dear, at least. Don't stroke him too hard, not when there's lube to be had for the price of a jam-squirrel. God bless riddling. How many cope less well given a hand-job by a cheap floozy down a back alley under an old railway bridge next to a large warehouse over an Indian burial ground in the middle of a humpty breakfast by the lakes of the little bo peep?

Manchester boy and girl have been talking all weekend. It's tough to compromise boredom – jizz twixt two, divide that fat latent hatred between sugared dead souls hungover and rapidly running out of corners to investigate or put on more lipstick or polish yer glasses. They stay about a second and three Germans take over for more keys and copulating pop. Jack Wolfskin skinnies her from behind while secret servile laments over her vulva. The man with the stick has no body but hands; the woman with the microphone has no spine but her dress. They are black. They are hung. Like painted ghosts so you'll see 'em when they come. Who rode you into town with that silly attitude? Paul Revere and his dandy pecadillos / penchant for pussy with gravy, pepper sauce from Queen Elizebeth's man-tits. Gleen what you can from her brethren, we are but munchkins from a land of fetid pricks kicking against the Guinness.

Chimp it up hon', this could be your last chance for free 'doms.

Waitress running round like a blue can't-be-arsed fly – Slippery eyes and a tube of paint for a month for a kick off. Monkey it up you mad Kelifa, you trumped up syphilis ground out ear-ring pitcher, curve ball wonder bra – sticky tights and stubby toes for a necklace. Actually, I like you. Close this joint and marry me you hairy bitch.

"Above a Jazz club you say? You cool thing you. I swear to dog you have me interested and more than that, understood."

~

In the East my pleasure lies. Hear you not the bells of cocaine?

A tremulous passage this way I rid – If ever my intentions were truly hid – now is the time most opportune to cry – I'm sure it is you – TIS I! TIS I!

A catalyst most unforeseen has brought me my Egyptian queen on a burnished throne she sits writing essays and sending texts. Make sure you are well and truly fed – to deliver your all and proclaim yourself dead.

That the next 'you' rises and proudly he stays, till Santa buys Volvos instead of new sleighs. Did she murder from pride or the fall? I can't recall. Did she turn because love had died or because her neck was sore from staring at me talking the whole bloody time? Can't tell. Fuck it all.

~

The cellist glances at his maestro's C.D. purchase – only glances mind, as the old man prances off to the loo with a prance only an old man can do. And here come the young guard of India – She married him in love – I want comfort too – He was ridiculed in school for his size – He was a wears a waist jacket to compensate – She dresses well – Western – Expensive pashmina – If they could see me now he thinks – We would break your spectacles – they haunt.

There must be a show – Don't leave your wallet on the table – I'll come with you and look at the cakes – I wouldn't trust you.

Double bass arrives; moustache as big as this aristocrat's demons – He squints, doubled over – He has never known bass – he squeaks and limps his way through every encounter – battered by the cruel orchestra of the world sitting behind desks and mocking him in Pig Egyptian.

She is slight and bigger than you. Did you fight in the war? Did you know what for? Do you hate my type, or envy; or are they mutually exclusive? They fucking shouldn't be you dick weazel drifting from war to war, running and smoking in a feeble attempt to restore, ignore. She has been fighting. Who steals in a place like this?

There's the bell.

### Oct 07

where were waxworks

Stay put pay to that way of thinking are you playing straight or necrophiling some old one you can't shake off for fear of beer. Take a pair of sparkling eyes gone bloodshot surrounded by thick Buddy Holly frames and a plane crash to boot. No, there's no way through there you stinking dice. If she's more like me or more likes me I'll pray for some tea for tumour we can share – Otherwise we're a penny serenade gone yellow with mistrust.

She dreamt I had an affair. I dreamt she was breastfeeding our baby. Call me queer but are we on to something or am I never? Golden handshakes and baby showers abound in foreign states so I'm really thinking I should call the embassy and ask for that Bassett hound they promised me. I don't want to change the world, I'm just looking for new lyrics.

You've got pink hair, you shaved down there and even though I did handstands and shot fireworks you weren't sure how you felt – Can you learn to know where I'm at? Can I follow you fruit bat? Can I stick around and stick you up and hijack your feelings like that or should I back over these puppies now and put them out of their ecstasy?

Can't lock the gates if the grid isn't clear of all the debris. Farm me a bone and I'll consider you, but riddle me out like this and I'm left with no alternative but to love you to death.

SMS crimes.

Send me your kisses and laughter and wishes and I'll spot you a handbag in Cockney Czech spanner.

Good effort you ribald tuna – Please get out now and take your punkless tosser with you.

I can grasp that you lose yourself in chandeliers of worry and piss but when that milk dripped out of your delicate little nipple I felt like a father and a husband. The baby already in combats, the mommy already out of sorts. Please please please I beg of you, think about what you are doing to me. I am potty in your hands that do dishes are as soft as your faith.

The white whale is where you'll find me, in the silentest silence – huddled in my warmest memories of you in this melting gallery where were waxworks.

So this is where we meet and melt.

So this is who we eat and meet.

So this is meat we melt and feet.

I am not patient, I am impatient

In you walked, in you walked, in you walked....where did you go after in you walked???

Sell me your loud shirt and I'll make a paper plane of your nuts. Is there anybody who will promise me a lifetime of comfort and joy, sleigh rides and prune juice? I'll bet there's one.

Grove-faced Gollum – One up for the Jews, gimp-faced girlfriend; mate, you should have chosen better – Mate, does the angel faced girlfriend love you? – No – Mate, you should have chosen better – Mate, I'm sorry.....can I have your girlfriend? – No –

The smell of marijuana and petuli and uninvited party girls fills my coat and cuts a strap-tight scar across my right tit. Teeth don't fail me now. Gnashing foot fucks and thigh black tights, roving Converse and eye black whites – A shark's eye view of the seedy world of hex – I blight you and you blight me and we meet each other throughout history.

We fathom founders and compress messages into toasty little kitty socks – rip just one of those biographies off for me would you – I need a friend.

People keep stopping at the gate – but I cleaned the grid and everything – my fat sweaty friend jumped up and down on it to make sure it was stuck in the ground good and square for the gate to close smoothly on all you chicken-hearted microscopes. I'm blue moon and I have many questions – All of them will frighten you away. These same questions I posed to god and he fucked off too. Should I stop asking so many stupid questions?

Slumping a suck solid groan oh overweight stuff-bomb-balls captured slidesling swift back into your mouth until you quit smoking when you're good and dead buddy. Stop whining about anti-social behaviour when you haven't stayed swift by the side of one of your albatrosses yet. A grip – a grope – a bug – a toke. Stop reaping what other people sew, you just do not know and feign tight sweatered repost at what should daily be theirs in heaven and in hell till fret do you split.

Jibber jabber smiley old man, when you get to eighty there's always Viagra. Don't give up the ghost yet you are feet from eternity – one step at a time, one step at a time – that buzz you feel in your gizzards each gulp is a sign, you are yours and me is mine, time to shine.

Do what the fuck you want with your fine weather, skinny legs and fur balls you cough till your jaw disconnects – I'm a minute Santa sleigh but you are the rain dear. You scatter distance like it was a fleck of fennel and march out your silence like a comforter. Stop being so soft on yourself; you deserve someone a lot lazier.

Of red wings and unicorns, can Grandpa get back together with Grandma after all these years? There there bamboo child, sick it up. Vomit till your blues turn green and even you don't know what you mean.

You're all cracking and ill as you mailshot your quarry. Who'll zoom you? More fool you.

He danced on stage while my stomach overflapped, I like your pretty smile and the sweat down the middle of your cleavage. I'd like to be myself for a while – maybe Saturday is a bad idea.

What's wrong with grilled tits you spoon-fed irony? These Christmas lights are eating the room, chomp chomp chomp. If I stop smoking now I'll be fine.

What if, and this is just a dunstable, what if we are not supposed to stay with just one? What if, this is only an implicated barn stubble 'n' romance is really a gyp? A momentary blip. Or maybe it's the belief in romance which ruins the romance. To prolong a perfect moment is to paint the unreal, recreate a shadow of the true form, wrap a Kentucky meal in a piñata and beat it with McDonald's cartoon dick.

There's only two girls in here I could not fall in love with; the other thirty seven may have my heart and lungs forever and ever x-men. Something goes wrong. We all mutate – "Love is Toxic." The heart anorexic. It fills itself then empties fills itself then empties – I pray for you all. I mean I pray that I can have you all, tonight. Like feeding cigarettes to a child so that it will never smoke again.

~

I am the insurrection and I am the weight – whole hammers bang clatter at my temples shat batter my hemp poles may juniper never rise again. I want nothing but a sleep sandwich to Shaz me off to dreamland – An afternoon paid late and retrieved sold bold round a kleptomaniacs' toe. Gainsay hearsay and you're well on your way to amscray. She is my tutor and mentor and skelator and tease. I raise my hand and ask her a question and she comes like a train. You eye-lit me you bushy browed tinsel bovine. Cane slew Abel and Abel took it like a flan. We all look at your girlfriend you nonce; she's a flirt of the fattest kind. Talking of the ideal woman he mentions an actress – Kate Winslett – seems like the perfect combination of all things good and nasty and wholesome. An actress? I'm surprised at him – He doesn't even watch T.V. Fancy bumping into you her. I'm sick as a marzipan tardis– Spandau across a fluxus riding tusks till brandy. Please let this be quick and painful. I'll sled you once you're bone.

Those curtains shiver and I think I die. How am I going to pretend? Don't bullshit me now; your shapes and socks, your smell after sex and the price that you pay when you drive over-cautious rambunctious and playful like kittens on fire or glasses made white hot by fluffy diablos and scarf up your nose brain false icicle tests. I hate you and your farmhand - I need a real woman. KRAKATOA!

Fed up praying for chair-jazz peanuckle – you pop, you dance and you still ain't got the price of a joo joo bean bag heavy metal fuck tag. Stipulation breed categories Gory cats need mutilation. Sorry bats crave direction – brain me before my next erection. Claim me before the next ejection.

### SHARKA PARK

The man in white

Yes – No. Beelzebub throws mute attention at her socks and calves and her parents thrive on her beauty. Her grandparents dote on her hip-skirt stroke sandal throw tie-back and cockscomb. The perfunctory giggles of those sitting adjacent pulverise the teens means and what she sees past these days of sunshine and toe-scuff. She'll recall the flies, the ants and bugs and the man in white writing to her left covered in flies and ants and bugs.

Hoorah so, for the country cowgirl. What a surprise when in she blew from the wicky-wicky wild west to top us off good'n'proper. A crawling in my crotch – bugs... She grew and grew till she blew when woe betide them who reach in through the window at just the wrong time and get cut in half by a cat's whisker. Make sure there's water. Make sure there's fire. A Corrida she says like, like a fierce bullfight in the eye of a hard boiled egg – she spread – she lead – she made mince meat of the troglodyte shook shooking on her tram – OUTSPRANGSHE!

"Hello Annie. And how much will it take?"

They hyperbolize so. They wear humpty jeans and dark green smiles. I don't trust that table as far as I can throw up. Still, the ladies laugh in their rugby shorts and wipe tears of arm from their specs – wait, that one isn't wearing specs; just one big coating of cum. Shagoggles! Waddideee..

The spic and span midges drop minutely and wheel. Spill on my shirt picked special like. Looks like my shirt's got aids. Can you catch it from a shirt? 15 more years added to your life if you have H.I.V. and take this here new pill. No problems so. Another 15 would be time to buy a new shirt anyway.

We all sit alone. I read Carlos Williams and he reads Joyce and Joyce read Homer and Homer might never have existed. It's a hard road we travel.

W.C.W. is sitting on the table in front of me. In a photo on a book form mind, not 'sitting' sitting. If he was though, I'd light a cigarette – crutch – and I'd show him – needy – I'd buy him...let him buy me a drink – important - We'd talk about the birth and death and life of words. We would not record what we said but I would remember lots of it – In my imagination.

"Finnegan's wake? – the monkeys' forty ninth attempt to type out the entire works of Shakespeare."

"I want sex with a black girl."

"A pregnant girl."

"A flight attendant."

"An Asian flight attendant."

"That girl at the table over there with the dick-heads and twins."

"Me too." William Carlos Williams says and I'd laugh and he'd laugh and I'd push him off the table and kick his head in. But he's only on a lucky photo. The pregnant girl however is definitely giving me the eye. Never considered a preggers girl before. Thanks for that William.

The prettiest one at the crap table doesn't seem to have spoken a word – She's drinking Kofola – The others are drinking beer and smoking – She's not smoking – She's twirling her hair in her fingers like a lost idiot – Forcing a smile which she lets drop at the end of the loud lass's tale, "Everyone look how lost I am."

No! She drinks beer! So why the misery? The loud lass intimidates her – All the men listen to the loud lass's stories – She is a man of a woman – I want a drag of her cigarette.

"Listen to me. I miss you Carlos Williams. Sorry for kicking your head in." The flies and bugs and midges aren't sorry though. I can hardly make you out under all that insect shit. Man, they're almost down to your noisy bones. A cat'scome –

She doesn't care – She's pissed off with one of them. Oh! She looks just like the girl whose name I can't remember. The one who told me to read The Philosopher's Stone. I'm a great yak for all the walking did me. Sleep on the yard arm – trace me a yeoman. Egg on the triads – hoist up the top-sails and range round the vulva till her eyes pop out of her anus. I'll catch it on camera – Your girlfriend's a siren – Ninaa Ninnaaaaa Ninnnnnaaaaaaaa!

~

Why when the brain's too slow - When the brain's too slow you should eat - You should paint and eat. - Now....one daughter in hot pants - Parents shift seats. Her mother's temples are my words - I really should have stuck to coffee – the turgid grrrrls on my mind – the wavy notions of flat cast smoke dice – Go ahead – take your socks off too – DOST!

I'm filligrayed – Amtracked – Brayrooked – Hamstrained – Broilcooked – Mudfuddled – Glamragged and Hardset to push a solitary syllable past these well worn lips – These weather-beaten teeth – These armed taste buds and grenade prowlers on their haunches, ready for the next 2 hours of a wanting existence – Full to the brimstone with glad tidings of comfort and joy.

"How can you stand it? They mock when you have everything you need. Friends.....friends and.....your health."

She's laughing more now that she's had some crisps but it's the freckle-faced chubby-checked loud one I want to canonize now.

The heat is maudlin but that is due to the sweat between Venus' thighs – Cycling fast uphill – She creates monster particles –

"It's a setter!"

"It is beautiful."

They are a 'dog' family. Put your shoes back on!

~

Rent Troy

~

Paint Fonz

~

Drink White

~

"I don't want to be a part of anything."

"Everyone is just doing their own thing."

"What the bloody hell is that awful racket?"

"Keep yer hair on!"

"Anyone for a night cap?"

"I know you."

"And that's the half of it."

"He enjoys his work."

"You go to hell. I know who I am."

"You shot her in cold blood."

"You throttled the fucker."

"I am the bullet."

"You certainly are a sexy thing. I think I'll have that drink now."

"We murdered."

"It doesn't get much worse than that."

"They had to be put down – For the common good."

"Woman and Priestey."

"You are awful."

"And that ain't bad."

"Why'd you do it?"

"It got me hard."

"You'd get up on a cracked plate."

"We're moving."

"Why?"

"If one more person brushes past my back I swear I'll...."

"I might drown you."

"You won't do that. You love me."

Her long greasy black hair – scrunched up – knotted knees to eggy chin – unshaved legs uncovered. Her pink dressing gown bunched up at her pelvis like a white tasselled nappy. It's difficult to know who you are when you're staring into a head wound the size of a balled fist – a squishy metal punch – skull ripped apart – brains spilled on the / in the mop and bucket – respectively / respectfully – scarlet fury, heliotropic beauty – psychedelic sex. The nameless priest one red collar one white collar. My fingers dug deep till I thought his spine would break at the neck; crumble in my sweaty hands. It was him or us. But more on this later, pending moustachioed blandness.

Ad break - James Dean polishing a Pharaoh's cock to the sound of a moog synthesizer.

~

The slowest half hour ever. They move closer. The stream riddles. A dog like a dog. Warm touch of chest hair on shirt cloth – diseased shirt – Cloth – Two conflicting places to be – things to do – that is what is killing time – not killing time, but KILLING time. As I cannot decide – neither can it.

As one place means leaving early and one place means killing time. Time will not budge. It will not move out of the way to aid me in this decision. Maybe a cigarette would help. A cigarette with the fat girl – a fine title that....

Andre himself knocked his pal for just such indulgence in superfluous founderies. There are only flounderies. A pun? A chum? A crossed out word? Absurd!

~

Then become. Become whole hot heroes at eight – shave zero conduit Don Shiatsu's a dog grovel lowly for scraps and scrums of tickets to the Olympics – Must stop spitting – repeat nine gazillion times – I'm cute how phar you are – Mmmmaybe there are singles in the Globe. Who cares? They waste their skin lotion on senseless skin – They don't drink like thinkers do but they'd sure like to – at least for an hour or so while they attempt to look disinterested and well travelled.

"How can you say that? I'm sorry, this conversation is over."

"What?"

"How can you say all women want to be raped? I've known lots of people in terrible situations and....I'm sorry..."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you..." but the dummy goes back for more and the letch apologises to her eye-height waitress breasts and her long tanned American legs. She responded the way she was taught to respond – but once she had done just that, well, her job was done. She can talk with him now, about other things – no permanent brain change.

You can't breed in a place like this – you gotta read the script – you have to rid yourself of the incessant drilling that is Jazz–con–fusion of the uppity valueless mumsies who wade in here gummed up to the empty purse in flip flops and pining opinions. Get me a real woman – a woman of the west – The Wild West – Find me a skin-tight flask of pure lust. Slake this Titan's thirst with the death of many cackling teenagers – better they had never been born than gurn at each other like that. No parents....NO MERCY!

~

Dreaming of Exs in a foreign language dodging conkers in Riegrovy Sady like badminton cherubs with the clap – an annoyance on your ceiling, even worse in your Coke. One – two – triennalle – three four five star bar empty yet young whistles and mock-make. I'll loan her stares and puppy dog tales, her unsatisfying husband and broken finger nails. I don't think the little cretins realise I don't speak Czech. No, I will not get your shuttle cock, cock. Early joints in the shade of the summer's broken back – Approximately 70% of them cheat on their man. No, I don't want to meet him. No I won't get your cock. Chicks gravitate towards; Men shuttle. The sun. Ejaculating light – Spattaille! Spattaille! Tuna Battaille toasted granola in a seamstress trellis. Phone rings off the hook me up with a dirty sort got a sweet smile and a comely visage – a quaint hint of stripper smell. The chrome rings off the hooker. All it takes is one. Four out of nine. The beer garden empty of towering drunks and setting tarts. Two, no, three with their fella. I'll bet two of them are unhappy. Is it too two to drink? Do I wait till three? Uvidíme. The sun. Went in. Hippy. Strokes chin. Cough. PSSSSS. Eminem and blondes. Small breasts or big? I really can't decide – I guess I don't have to till I look for a bride. Ella lied. She called him 'P'. Sun quits. Old hip-hop hits. Clink. She lives near here now. Drink.

~

Even idiots grow old

~

Why'd the blokes leave? – Football? But the girls! I badger the day into submission and weigh these costly glances. No. I will not call her.

Her mouthlessness griddles – why'd she no speak? I live with her for chrissakes! And him – that topless half-wit. A grunt. A "Who are you?" would be nice every now and again, you football chewing finch; you greasy kneed tourist; you fallopian tube. You think he hurt when she broke him? You think he bounced back? He is wary of my presence. Can't believe I haven't cooked her at least once. That deserved a round of applause. I couldn't be doing with the he-ness of her.

Blood out those memories, Liberace style. Calamine lotion rubbed into a kerchief – dibs and dobs and do your jobs – I castigate his verisimilitude now he's a cop but a screw. I wish you all the greatest little cousin. You let me win each time – I see that now. Not me you. You me! And I've yet to thank you.

Thank you

Thank you

I've yet to thank you

Thank you, sir.

Her purblind calves and melancholips – upturned by the wood she is on and her friend talking opposite; apposite affairs, she laughaffs at the dark or fair of it – She barfs at the clothed or bare of it. I rally her monkey-bum-fuck. The foosball nonplussed 'em. They're younger and they don't do drugs.

"The lyrics man, to Masters of War. You know 'em? The second fucking verse – I can't remember it – something about people – bad guys – not doing something..."

Sings

"You that haven't done something – you nur nur nur nurrrrr...."

"I'm sorry – I DON'T DO DRUGS!"

Trafalgar Squares!

~

~

Well shifted – shuttled – in a downwards type sloop to a various bar occupied gruel-facedly by Timians, Simians and poll-bearers – Lift the standard! ATTACK!

The thunder roars out its rapport reports; confessionals to our brolly-laden cynicism – Can't touch me with your meteorological belly-aching. Loud as you say it – don't make it so.

Soon she will be here. Just like a Saturday. That shut you up didn't it?

"You're so petty."

"You really think so? Thank you very much."

The English crowd speak of 'Real beer' – There was nobody else playing...

Christ if I could have every well turned foot I saw – would I burn them and marry? Marriage? Again!? Paint them perhaps. Foot-wives. Drink-stopped. Full-stopped. Hypher-nated. Long-haired gun-dogs.

Chapter Letna

Summer's almost gone, still screwed though. So. What an early rap this is. Satisfied to close my mind's eye eye to all that's accumulating – happiness? Comfort? Your birthday come and gone, Winter's almost come. A better birthday than you expected! Which leads me to confound my path to joy and race headlong into an unmade bed of questions I don't want answering. Lately I've become one.

You have? So? Well well.

I'm pleased to perfunct your perfect. Grade, lay down beside me and punish the celibate masses on mattress mistress, en masse. I still love you. Unlike you. Unmine. White height your hair and a headache. You teen queens and tanned glances. Shame it's not a clutter fuck. I don't feel up to drawing from life. I will not be able to relate this late. I'm a frayed knot.

Lip service wayne handbats gone golf ball glass half full finger fidgets at her numpties chest and eye range full fifty fathoms grander than he paid last fall. Up and down he be she be look-longs but scan – scatters and ray matters and back she comes. Another piss in high heels yes I love you too lady lift those specs and lets get a good look at those peepers before Jack the Ripper creeps up in his sneakers. Watch out pretty lady I've seen skins like this before your time....and mine. Lets have just one for your arm-crossed hubbie out of sorts at the petank game colliding at heel hops and counting. I used to do the very same thing in Dublin when what? When I was searching or not? When I imagined peace of mind came from inactivity or else activity of a more 'in' kind. If I had one I wouldn't know what to do with her. She'd have to be a hell of a lot more charming than that Arnold on Greenacres. Need a new plan of plans to help me plan my plan – less would be last. A loss and a mess if the lace was lost, the link that the lank lady left in my loft. Killer Curves swore blind she would know me. Perhaps she does. Perhaps she does – I need more less.

Elfmarkova are you married? Is that your name or his? Would it be too Truman to expect a formal invite within my patience? A horcrux station, a momentary elation which might stick the duration stripped clear of this body and roped into my tale; I'll promise the world if you stay out of jail.

I visited Britain

But just didn't fit in

I can paint but I need money. Lots less money. One more year. Then I am aluminated – creatified – cerebralating – congratulocuted. That's the spell 2009 summer sell, sea-lion popping right Rhyker, riles ellipsoids and chip chops. Deliciously grand and funny. I love that you think \- I love that you enthuse – how can I hold back when you've got NOTHING to lose? I'd give my left tit to play like that. Are you a God or a twat? Put your soul into your work – She will not be here forever.

I do so love to chat up 'The Future' when I've had a Dutch courage or two. I don't love you anymore...any more.

Man, she's got to be on board because this Odyssey is a rickety straw-based journey through the eye of the storm – that man's dog's called Shermann – I don't know I'm born! The next one's for keeps. She's got to be unbored, because those oddballs of ridged straw bore gerbils through the sigh of a needle. He comes harder when they've got big breasts.

I'm a fat, tattooed girl in Khaki. Dog (Husky) trailing after me. A puppy. I've got a book, look; bookmarked with my finger, unreleased when I paid for my beer. I'm back over here now. Sitting down. With my dog. Luc Tuyman says Nostalgia is sort of horrific. Shermann is sort of horrific too. Not as horrific as the man and woman who own him, but still...

Landlord land heavy on this Olive; she stole my watch and heart and soap – not so much my watch, but she cleaned herself after. Hey little doggy, git your ten gallon kisser over here and pummel me into submission. I trust you to blow away the cobweb-weak lies I tell myself in the hope of retracing a devoured path; The Langoliers may move in if they will – I am done with this bitter pill. If I can just keep it down when she models for me I'll be laughin'

Sally Elfmarkova – Where would I take you? Do you talk in your sleep? Could you give me a clue? Can you drop me a line of coke stroke chocolate flake over cadminium blu? How docile people become when coupled – How docile. DoMIcile. Or is it just me? MI

Chicks gotta dig the man you are. Man's gotta dig the chick she is. That's all. Dig.

### MOSTY

Silence preys on big beat – can't hear the Rock'n'Roll less it's quiet. Vyšehrad is just a condition and seldom have so few broken so much to fix so little – Mended but past tense – Rolled out in perfect sense – Branningan clouts the bitch and tells her "Shut the fuck up! Must you disagree with everything I say? – You're supposed to be on my side – Jesus! I want you on my side." She reels and rallies but for all her legs and bent she quarries his tendons and blackens his varicose.

"You harden me whore, when I want to be holy – You range your amity and rock me to sleep. I heard you fucking last night – I'm a simple chap – Don't mistake this room for a language – Merman spoke here."

And if we could just – as a nation of swimmers – dry those loveless dogs out. Their puppy paddle doesn't fool me one bit – they might look cute and helpless but they get from A to B like a cheap tossing Audi. For Bog's sake give me a log fire, a comfy chair and a tit to read, brush stroke, gecko cover. You deep throated mother – You cripple – It came out your stomach front now you're scared for life – It's horrified blank pamphlet peeked out like a monk from its cell – "Please tuck me away from this hell and for Dig's sake give Daddy a break – He's sick don't you know?"

You are all one with your hot wine and kisses, your periods and blushes – hot flushes – Where's Christmas and muses – my model Dog promised when I pushed out your walls and with a song and dance, cried "ME JESSE JAMES – WHO THE FUCK ARE THIS LOT?" And Judas he turns to me and says – "If you could give us a minute to explain it to you, but you are in such a hurry. How can we help if you twirl your pistols like that? If you pull on your mother's conscience like that?" So I says, I says "Look Judas, you cunt, why pretend? Your totems and rituals?" and Judas goes, "Ramadan – dear fellow – Ramadammalinglong." And me Ma gets up from her stirrups and me from mine and she grabs the doctor stroke priest and I grab the nurse brush stroke tits and we end up jacking off to "Achey Breakey Heart" like country music blossomed to a cum in the sun – My young fat eye dripping tears of jubilation. If I can't join you, I'll beat you off.

Lonely now, I sold her to 'em and run a gallery off Jewbies Street – I'm comatose most of the time, but you can see me from now to then sat in me Sherlock chair – pipe in arse and clothes pegs for nipples – humming to the memory of mum squirting her jism six foot across the operating room floor into the surgeons pterodactyl mask.

Tralee

Tralee

Tralee

Two Germans walk into a cafe.

The girl says "Do you have postcards?" and smiles in her best English at the baggage propping up the shop.

"Can I have this 'Ice'?" The boy says to the wagon stitching up the walls.

"Prosím - " pleads the dragon stinking up the bores – "Where does all your anger stem from?"

Perplexed, the German girl re-iterates – "But woman, I only want a postcard and my boyfriend here (we shall note here that Sven likes pussies shaved and couldn't care less about the stuffed shirt bricking up the doors) just wants an ice-cream – We are not angry and we bare you no animosity – If you feel it from us we are sorry – We mean you no harm."

"Obviously," the chintz twit nagging up the twixes screams "There is absolutely no reasoning with you – take my husband and children if you wish it but may you burn in hell for what you do – I am a mere coffee shop mopping up the years. All I want is a quiet life and to read my dugs till twilight – Take my husband and take my children but for stamps you must go to a Tabak."

~

The tap tap in the graveyard. Words in store in chisel in a 'dead' language – Tourists wish the noise would stop – František – in gothic font – wishes he could hear the noise – of his wife in the bathroom in the morning – or his dog at the bowl at breakfast – or the sun in his trees at mid-day – or the vibration of an aeroplane in the afternoon or the tap tap of some other poor fucker who just snuffed it so he and his wife could go and get an overpriced piece of strudel from a short-skirted waitress and drink coffee till his heart clogged. Couple come here but only single people are invited. Only single people leave.

~

She whistles – he steams , "...Call me like that...."

~

So Doberman (everyman) is sitting by his own behalf on somebody's clock-in when down sit some boozy. She's only slightly but.

"You look so peaceful here, I had to come over ." D.M. just stares at this new Lucy.

"You looked so peaceful and I wanted to be listening to what you are listening to. What is it?" He has known her and she is perfect. Not 'everywoman'.

"You're bold and attractive." D.M. bowls back at her and she laughs. A comrade's laugh – then says nothing.

"How would you like to spend the day falling in love?"

"I'm pretty close already." Ses she with a cheek so he passes her one of the earphones and she sits back on the bench – comfits the earpiece – D.M. looks at her gazing over his own choosing view of Vltava. She's smiling inside – he sees – warmly grinning at the evening in it.

It paid off.

They were married together in a previous leaf fall – They invented Autumn and stories were written about them. How propitious that they should now meet like this – They will be married like that forever – legends – two statues clinging – cement sun-cream. The most love they shall ever feel for each other in that one moment, caught like a cat-thief – death black but wide wide awake amongst your herd of somnambulists.

Hell's hounds this place holds bars up by their ankles and shakes change from the miserly bastards – My colourful walls – You bright neon capsule, hidden rightly back of the supermarket belch.

Grand designs Colm had.

Grand designs despite his whelkless fortune – Mis-fire good tune.

In the sliced poster a Czech actor ( ) looks on at a seated lady dangling her shoe from her foot – How dear he is – how well she looks – how they make love 'lasky' and rad rad!

Either the dog was having a nightmare or you fucked him again last night – one actor says to another – closely observed. And then he texts me "Shaved me bollox."

Trills broke time with their dust-cellars mistaken for old time rag-time don't children say the darndest things – Motor anklets – piano playing toes – silk & rippled arches; I'm smooth whiter thigh bought cherrily by a virgin vendor. A Krušovicking emptiness sits in the wings, waits in the rafters for BAFTAs all seeing but rarely being.

I behaved like a king and was judged like a knave – drove like a saint and crashed like a junkie – bring in the dancing girls, I'm fed up with not flying where I'm supposed to be. Tick a box, change the song, lift the needle and erase those bloodspots. Daddy, you were so wrong to let lynching overvalue your hocus pokus curly wurly trick – I value your home and my Rome I could never have conquered without your neck. You gave me my 'Give'. She bathes in the ocean; she's just that fat.

Evil plarachnid stretched its eye to a basket and collected fear fumph marbles and heavy wrenches – "My heart is hard." You said to me, but you meant 'heavy' but you meant 'hard'. Lemonade Joe robs fingers from plarachnid because plants don't scream and spiders have no friends – not since Steve Irwin died anyway. None of these famous actresses had 'red' hair, so what the fuck!?

RED HAIR

EVERYWHERE

Sensitively, because he has it in him though you may think he's a conch – occasionally he passes and lets me be. So I did. With her back to us like some skinny Venus stone rose marrow bone. Child. A Moses divided instead of the water. A miraculous tease – "We can see your power Mo' but what good is that to us?" Innards spill from her chair, so the syrupy life paints her mules scarlet. And still I look – With all the egg in Charles Bridge, all the gum in her chum, all the yank in his pal that surround all her flirt. She flips her shoe completely off to show her friends her feet – one by one, and sensitively, because it's there – he forgives me my ponder though fondles my foible unmannerly for a leader of venomous feedback. Why she showin' 'em?

For cinema we will kill the image for the image we 'still' cinema. Bog blessed hair dye.

It's your movie should you choose to sit there but don't accuse me of being all Kafka because I complained about the proportions. If you bathe in the ocean it's because Sod made you that way – If you dip in my underpants it's because brimstone bleep brimstone. You know that!

"Are you afraid of today?" She asked me in her nightie.

"I see nothing modern about the female form," I replied. "And I only have a passing interest in the rest."

"I might sustain your interest between nightmares," she told me.

"Only if you never ever change out of that dressing gown," I told her.

"I am an intellectual," she told me.

"Then you know," I told her....

.....For all the presents I ever bought

For all the carpet I ever coated

For all the puddles I carpeted

For all the music I dressed up funny

For all the early sun rises - surprises

For all the friends we paired

For all the roads we walled and talled

For all complexities

egocentricities

For all the cities

eggs

For all the draninks we cullinked

For all cried

For ways

For all your Barbra Streisand

For all my Barbra Streisand

For all the cats

For all the lambs

For all your relatives

For all your god

For all my oaf

For all your clean

For all my dirt

For all mine dirty

For sixty kisses in a mermaid's purse

Time and horserubbish on pig-knee. Gee it was great to see you guys – You made me think of her – think of thank – in bits and bursts it hurts – numbing 9-11. Road-maps of chickens crossing; everywhere zigzags like that, like dinosaur spines and burnt tongue. Maps back and forth until you don't laugh anymore and wonder was it fun even the first time.

"You can't jump over your knees." Except maybe with some voodoo yoga – nine o'clock but the house is still haunted, strike o'clock but my palms are still dry – "Get lost No.1!", "Get lost No.2!" My palms are still gray.

Shave your head lover – for these creeps in the bar – let them stare – lug-heads racist septarian sectarian librarians shush when you enter – magazine table-cloths for jackets and gossip from the market man in zigzag bursts it's worst "You dress like you're from a home."

I'll tell you your opinion if you want it. I'm good that way. Kind of like Oprah Winfrey for the godless – a tape recorder for goldfish. You know, so they can remember shit.

"The woman behind the counter is a ten pinter; bit fucking temperamental though."

"Just fuck her from behind. You never have to look at the plate."

"Jesus looks like a zombie!"

"From behind he doesn't."

"Is the guy in the kitchen her husband?"

"I smile my fucking best smile at her. The one I save for other people's parents."

"There's always Jana."

"Ahhh – There's always Jana – sweet little Jana."

"Poor Katerina."

"Ahhhh – Poor Katerina."

"Chaos preys on the small things."

"The possibilities are endless."

"Doesn't it look bigger?"

"Massive man, massive."

"He did – It's him – He fucked Zuzana – told her he had some disease – a cock thing, so maybe they shouldn't do it. And she said, "Oh well." And they did it!"

"You've got his disease then?"

"I'll tell him we're brothers."

### Chapter 333

### Kung Fu Pancake

That's your girlfriend that is.

They're all goobers busying themselves over the new properties = the expats properties bundled on outskirts, framed by the untucked shirts that was our 60's.

"The English don't have a national anthem"

Got money though. The English don't have a national random – She's got turkey wings and hemmeroids though....

"That's you girlfriend that is."

Nor your scholastic ride can't do this with music in my nostril's sense of doom and fear impending all my cash on futilities and belts – grab what you can my son, that could have been you under the rubble bump table mat I'll move – Shuffle your butt over here love and give us a smile – Come on dear, you're just not winning – hands up everybody, this is rubbery.

Eee er noo – noo nooo yiiiii nooo.

Yeeeeoooo are e e e rrrromp. Rock eee. Rackity chickita ooents are me – Rackity chikiti choo –

End and rise. Premeo!

Mmmfff Pt. MMMnnnhhh – huh – MMMhuh!

Prts Cn t Prts Cnt – N t Nt

Nt –

Bleh – Doh – Tsun erp erp Tsun erp

erp give it to me – Ev es to meeee.

"Alias what?"

Glockenspiel you fool. Glockenspiel – seraphim is ripe for your toses you stone flaming roses. Touch my lips. Stroke left, tights right – stockings empty you chompy fiendish astral baby you – I like. Who is your Ellroy – who blames your hom? I can't see straight for your meagre moffets, your eager profits. I'll work for you but I'll never bend your baywards for a tripe of skull come epileptic sea-lion – Spitel spitel Spittle.

Zeik Heil Zeik Heil – What language are you speaking?

I came here all ladidaa and I'm ruination and trepidation but bold elation, "Congratulation!"

Snot the way we do it back home. If you had one more time; one more time when you didn't have to...when you didn't have to be all confused – just one more time when you didn't have to pretend and you could just be....someone......"

I've fucking met them. They fucking exist. I've seen them. They float like – day to day – morning to night – In fact, I don't even fucking think they notice the change – The light to the night, the dark to the right – They are lost and black and man do I envy them.

"Alias anything you want."

~

Hands, knees and what a daisy – It takes five more seconds to the end of the page to write neater – It takes five more years to prove you are not a quitter. Prove it to me Uncle – Prove that you're not such a layabout bastard now – Get involved – Listen – behave – hold your own. Do you think you can do that for me? For her.

~

My name is Sven – No, my name is Michael – 1st step – I guess that's right – My name is nobody so help me god but the repetition tells and trails from beer mat to beer mat where no one can find me now since you are all sleeping rosy sleeps against pilgrims and healthy gnashers rowed slightly askew of the crippling tendency to bemoan every aspect of an analytical ineptitude calculated arseways of Christmas and peppered with prick from selophane armistices we allowed handrails and gondolas to pursue despite the rain that fell that misty November evening you told me of her who you promised would have nothing to do with the western allegories strummed in your toss-covered books of cheap alabaster and lime coloured schism. 'Gestalt' he cried in the early day. 'Gestalt' he got – "Gerrirovim – Gerrim – Get rid of him," he annunced rebutted and feeble despite the legacy traced back from whips of love triangles and tremulous bodies copulating madly at the dance of the dawn – Helm and rotten you sprecken zis common arm ripped from my daydreams and the swimming pool is free. Give us a leg up meister Kafka. I'm all yours. Send me my breakfast on a silver waiter wrote swift by Dublin's queer waters. Nod off and rid me off this terrible disease made plastic by smokers before me – homely – lovely – warm – hold me – tight – sole mate – only mate .

That lingering smell in the memory's castle of cold country and innocent ribbons left tattered by the stoned decaying dress robe of your ancestors pyjamas left hanging wanly in the cupboard of your drawers – sold separately in packages made specially for moronic moments of certitude and St Paul's parameters of clandestine exactitude – Who knows more about this than the child leaving the room now hand in hand with his girlfriend smiling at the bill. I don't know what any of you are saying and you don't know what I'm thinking. Sven knows what I'm thinking and I can't say I'm so happy about that. I grab the number. I grab the number. Grab twenty eight because it's so soft and so close. In Czech – blizko. Closed is pronounced differently – you have to hear the end of the word to know that. Now shut up and take me to bed. Novo tell. Now tell – New way of telling. No way of telling – Hell's way of pushing you vertically past the last gate and convincing you there's more to life; more to come, thank bog.

~

### ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ , ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~; ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~.

~

End run slick blown espidril.

Clam born cock run soft step.

Rap sown main road trouser clip.

Home torn fat grown stump grail.

Blarney movie Harvey soothing drink train.

Plane's proud propeller dowdy fuck witch.

~

### Excellent twats

Excellent twats,

You haven't even started yet. In your lace righteousness you wind tightly round the fulcrum of a computerific celibate. Can you really mean it, you terrific twats?

Browsing only browsing; speak and I will look for you where the drool collects, where the noise expands, where the ocean fuckroar deafens the poor bastards sitting too close to you and having to share your colleagues pain in having to keep his eyes open while you vomit buckets of lady-wet from your spammy tongue attached to that crappy brain which, dry as a clap, repeats until your palms are as bruised as our ears. Give yourself a break and shove your expenses up your arse until your granny-knitted sweater gives you away for the excellent twat you have become. Room Thirty One.

Cummy twats.

~

Financial control and Avon-style riddle-fucks – Did you ever have it so good?

Did a question ever be necessary for an airtight alibi? Did an eye ever question you before you could explain yourself with a breech of promise and three drinks too much? Come on over and see me sometime. There are no women here and your English is too fat. You are a diet mole become a plug socket.

Each and every word like cancer.

Each and every tome like a poem – bloke – sentence – trap

"Bill please." For you

"Czech please." For he he he

: - )

I hate that nights end – but only because of the morning.

~

### A Bit Like Life Really....

Persephone in Hades...

Pursesphoneinhaydees....

Pursaphoninhaydees....

Cafe Whaaa?

"There's a girl, single, just down our hall, same floor. We just got talking to her. Smoking a cigarette outside."

"That girl Kora told us about."

"Would you?"

"You might."

"Anna."

"You told me. Nice name."

"You see, I told you you would make friends in your new place."

Sedop Repre clamoured ecstatically for his Behemoths, benevolence and binomials – "I cannot reproduce such filth – and concerning knowns in knowing." Half felching, half frotting, Sedop reclaimed his inner would be and wrote a fearlessly damning polemic against 'Bob Marley and Queuing' in a cloying attempt to kiss his aviary g'bye.

"Challenging," he drooled over his con flakes, "To say it all in code – a code that everyone will understand subjectively – Objective subjectivity in the scribblings of a cad-man. "Selma Hajek!" he thought/exclaimed, "This is going to be a doddle..."

Crapulous efficiency will melt this prelude to a kiss – robbed of my infancy I will tie the windows to the wall nail and avoid such clatter. "The wind winds through the apartment in a tittering frish."

"Get off your high wank-stain you trilby."

"God I love Jazz."

"The weather's very Abbott and Costello today."

"Grow a pair!"

~

I stood between myself and my future like a temple to laziness. A bone idle idol welling up at the sight of milk. Crying trees of blood for a century dinner, free coleslaw, happy hat and a 45 magnum to cut down all nay sayers.

What are you going to do when the world catches up with you and asks for their shoes back?

~

Severed, she catches on and cries at the lyrics, the distance – the nevermore. How can she be so blind as to think that trip will change her for the gooder?

Everyone else's toast is better.

There's nothing I can sensibly do to bring her round to the realization that her perfect life is here and without some crashing negative, she's going to be stuck amongst gumballs, racists, gobshites and pews. God save that rounded musician / conductress / seductress / delicious talkist, walkist. Sensational beauty, cutey and root-a-toot-tooty. God speed the negative. I'm so sorry, I wouldn't hope a hurt on anyone, but I hope you feel the same.

And unless I'm gravely mistaken, you will be there with me till the aforementioned.

"Hold tight," he says to himself, switching over to jazz all of a sudden – wrenching again. Grasping for a smooth white leg of hope – "Hold on and be patient – If all goes well (badly) she is going to need a friend, not some bloody lovesick idiot – hold on and don't be afraid. If the perfect girl has just been pilfered you could always consider men, or cattle."

In early morning rattles he yogas himself into a clarity of thinking that would make a clarinet blush.

"Patience!" he screams / thinks, "In the meanwhile, while mean, I should cherish this torture and use it to a bitter end."

I will write, not fight. I will paint, not faint. I will love, not shave – As long as she knows there is one out there who thinks of her this way. On those long, cold-brown English nights she may know it.

If I don't see her this weekend...I'll blow my brains out, patiently.

Ahhhh, pay me no lip service; she is in love. What can I do but nestle into this pelišky of mine? I want to laugh and I want to die. She could not do that for me. She rifles through her kratky past and dreams him a dimsum, a collaboration of Chinese whispers that add to some 'one'. Cradling this infant feeling, 'My first' she croons, unsure of this natty superlative.

Originally I would say nothing, but she implies a second. Oh god please let that imply, by and by.

Are you milking this rarity for its own sake or is this cake truly baking? Are you comatose with angst like some fruitful memory or are you drowning down here amongst us dead romantics?

"You must make a decision." She said, "That is the thing." And for all of heaven's little devils, she sounds like me attempting to convince myself of something so untrue. But I cannot say that to you. You must find out for yourself and, worst comes to worst...you will be 'happy'!

~

Not interested so don't hold it against me body. Your burlesque doesn't impress me but what does is your bounce not feeling too unctuous. Not your mother but yes your legs, your upturned gaze and dance and enthusiastic terrier. Get me wrapped and sent to your colony of chemo kids and we would ball it up with the newly deads sure – Even hotter now that you mention it. Didn't even remember your face – had to google it. 63 was your ticket to the stage you so proudly donned like a skirt of presenters and puffs. "Hair gone mad." Proved cockney iffter all and titch brought the tails. I would say MADILF but she never uttered a word; hopped up jelly bean. With he at his armpits and I at my feet we made a happy couple amongst those glitterati.

"Who the fuck was that? I don't even know him. Some millionaire. Card says 'Munchen Holdings.'"

"That his name or his firm?"

"Fuck knows."

"Forget him; what about her?"

"I would."

"I think she's used to rich guys."

"She is, but I think she'd be fun."

"Do you think she ever comes down from that buzz of hers?"

"No, but that's the fun bit."

"She knew the PLAYBOY model."

"Good contact. Better than bloody Munchen Holdings."

I swear M has the better of me. Here I am knee deep in knees and all I can think of is her...

Soap suds, tit-buds, pointy nose. "You couldn't lift me. I'm too fat – I had a donut at production." Her waist is the size of my wrist. "I can't get too drunk. I work tomorrow at 10am – this is my second vodka!"

I'm retreating aren't I? Not interested. But I am of course – I'd forgotten how ridiculously pretty you are. Do you think you could stand another evening in my company? Say Friday?

~

Shivering lost between hammers and drills and thongs and Tongs, one more cigarette can't hurt. Analysis is dead. True analysis is dead...who said that? Jim wasn't it? Think so. You out? Not today. Today is a rainy day. Smiley face. I grew about two foot last night. Me, I grew two feet! Jesus! Four feet – I'm coming over.

"No mutual here? You no my darlink? Me no your darlink? Okay I will stay. But I will be gone by ten.".....

~

A grey farewell to agit-pop. I'm too soapy for her, too torn for she, too hapless for that and too decided for those. Trace me back to Ana and I can see the pattern in your pen. Project forwards in your dreams all the messy plans of your adult life. It's rewarding to see such a kafuffle in place of your snow-ploughed driveway, family cars and red brick detached. She will come to me but I will meet her in the middle. Text me that she's set off though or else I'm not leaving the apartment – I mean it's goddamn lashing it down out there.

The chords grow fatter below, topped off with Christmas tenor and whimsy in the shape of a mini-skirt, rises to a crescendo and the text never comes.

~

Everything is bleeding except Kora. Kora is wiping the slate clean. Kora smokes in the morning now. Kora is making a book. Kora talks about today. Kora is set.

We are not of the same flesh; none of us; the original sin...

Sold on a system of non-belief when all the time the clock moves on faster than you can even imagine. I am compleat. There is no trailer trash, only the main feature, and when she undresses for me, I feel whole. When she filmed herself – playing with herself, and I a frog prince. Inside I did not whoop, but for what people may think. A certain type of people. People I am not. The joker in the jester hat, black teeth acrobat, pulls me in – the piano trills in losing tenderness with no sense of time.

"Run."

"Stay."

"Play dead."

I eventually caught up with her, this Veronika, and she gave herself readily; all of herself.

"She said 'I love you,' after only three days."

"Bit fucked up."

"Only because I didn't feel the same. Otherwise...."

"Will you stay home today?"

"I can't."

"Will you come and watch me dance tonight?"

"I would like to but..."

"...okay."

"It's not that....."

"I said okay."

~

The Marquis does it right there on the window ledge – her long blonde hair dangling down to the lamp lit street as she laughs/gasps "It's like a fantasy." Neither of them care if anyone is watching. When the funeral procession marches by below he carries her to the bed where they tear the sheets in mourning. She holds on to the brass bed rails like she might plummet to her death if she released her grip, with the other she slaps and grabs manically at the mattress in askance. She questions him seven times that night and he answers her 'Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes.'

~

She's got rats in her hair but she combs them into a smooth paste – the tit-graves over which she floats; a superimposed negative of the candid life drawing where she's all trussed up but bucking like a coke addled stallion. Give me just one grimace, just one for the camera. That's a girl. Now spread 'em.

Beckett hums in with his hahs and rapes the word 'same' till it's split in two; silver; right off the page. Sure, she made the river, sure her pee is blue, she's ready for her close up now.

"No forget, clown. No forget."

~

Grappling the hooks, I'm really not well – the sky pink with eyeballs – the street cloying and sarcastic – the Czech Mediterranean bars – the paintings I would sell – the classical music guarding AVANTI – Orchestra Salzburg for Phoebe – The Godfather for me – Cheering as we fuck – Woohoo – Shivering and laughing the whole time like she's on a ride – First time I'd seen hair down there for 3 years.

I'm dizzy by the time the Bistro kicks off with its clitter clatter of cutlery on plates – the pathetic routine of human consumption – no roaring or tearing or screaming or bleeding , just the clink of metal on porcelain making a mockery of the animal souls who gave themselves for that culinary delight. Clink, plink, scratch, squelch.

"If I weren't so sick I would hate them.

If I were sicker I'd kill them all.

Kill them and eat them with a huge healthy roar – a tap tap tap tap and a "Here's to.....the colour red."

"Here's to....curtains."

"To.....ministers."

"To.....poverty."

"To.....the smiling face of porn."

"To....being happy."

"To....the smell of farms."

"To....inkers."

"To....hawks."

"To....cavemen."

"To................"

Two tiny sentences on one large Chinese paper lantern. Two meek wishes scribbled in pen. Two abstract hopes, unspecific, naive. Two promises of sincerity. Two hands holding. Two crumbling dreamers. Two solid handshakes. Two men of god. Two natural dancers. Two sensations colliding, proving the aphorism wrong. 'There is no false sensation.'

~

A leather bound book provides scanty refreshment for a man on the brink of dereliction. A hand-job, a blow-job, a nose-job, the same – Get on with your parsley sentiments, move on with your crapulous dirge, get bent with your fifteen holidays. Bare right as you approach the sun's core and there's this lovely little sushi place on the corner just before you burn.

She was comforting, no not comforting

She was right, no not right

She was sexy, yes sexy

She was warm, yes warm

She was happy, yes happy.

...and again she goes down and I explore her freely, uninhibited like she's some virtual reality pleasure girl only half there. Her tight white stomach, her protruding ribs rising in goshes against her alabaster skin – The beauty marks on her back and neck – tiny islands amidst the savage ocean of her body – wet – inviting. The afternoon exhausted, with patience and hungry guile she brings me to again and again. Like nobody I know she greedily cherishes the heart of the act, as if she were some Tiberius who had experienced both male and female worlds and become wise beyond her years.

~

She talks about 'him' as if he were some trophy or safety net – a distant guardian over her mis-adventures – I swear she wants him gone – she doesn't even use his name. If he would only put her out of her misery – and mine. Maybe a hit man –

Left to my own devices I wouldn't even bother looking – I would cook up some invective, a new world perspective where David Grohl spilled a bowl of cornflakes on my granny; where somersaults are currency and guitars have a fanny.

This tripping troll of a day can go for a flying leap at a donut recital; I'm badgered if I'm going to come clean about my own mis-doings on a piece of hollow handmade spinal chord in choral time with lords-a-leaping. Shag me doctor, I'm spent.

~

"You're like a professional dirty talker, 'I want to suck your cock then fuck my ass.' Genius."

"I didn't say 'I want to suck your cock. I said I want to suck your 'dick' then fuck my ass. So now you can take me shopping right? C&A, that's not too expensive."

The cabbie had glared.

K had been right.

She had been sexy.

It had been an expensive meal.

K's girl had been bony.

Her son had been friendly.

His football game had been good.

He had gone to bed early.

He had been at her neighbours the last time.

I had been had.

She had been okay with me saying I had only wanted fun.

She had been sexier then.

The cabbie had smiled.

She had had her hand on my 'dick'.

She reclines – puts her arms above her head – tries to let them relax over the arm of the couch – but she's a little tense – too keen to please – to look well. Scrunched up, thinking of positions with the sheet covering her sex – she is naturally beautiful – uncovered and performing she begins to look... unprofessional – dowdy – a dowdy mom trying to perk up the sex-life in a dying marriage. She is still beautiful but she has to stop trying so hard. It's leg shots she wants; mainly leg shots. "And the feet are important," she tells me, excited that she really does have the legs and feet to titillate her voyeur. She's doing this for her boyfriend so she's quite specific. She knows full well what will 'get him off' and what's just going to bore him. She's looking at me but she's looking at him – the camera is a blindfold for me and for her the dark switch to an empty room – just her and her fantasies now as she comes alive under the camera, twisting and turning her smooth tanned body like a naked teenager discovering herself in her bedroom, door locked, parents downstairs, glued to their television. Finding herself as she strokes her calf muscles, draws her fingers slowly up to her thighs as she flexes her painted toes for the show – Ten points of starlight flickering – she considers touching herself and has to remind herself where she is – a few moments of indecision; mild embarrassment and then she turns over onto her knees and finds a new hiding place as she thrusts her perfectly moulded bottom up to the lens and spreads her knees wider; straightening the red IKEA throw beneath her. Her soles curling too as she arches her back and lifts her feet from the cushions and points them both at me.

"Intelligence, smell and trust."

~

~

The soft talk from the garden. Your eyes empty, unreadable. Your bony feet supple in flip flops. Your jeans worn like nettles. Your white sleeveless blouse, a Nazi emblem of purity – that dead smile. An upturned table for a reaction – a chinless waiter – our counterpoint. You light another rolled cigarette and blacken your words greying your teeth; staining my mood, greying your fingers, greying your looks – toes yellowing – dirt on your soles. Where do you go when you blink?

Your breasts shrunk with inaction – your laughter lines spreading to the back of your skull like the straps to a cheap Halloween mask. Expressionless in your repose; I gather our tip and toss it to the quiet couple sitting next to us. A no, a yes, a cheek and a lass – The Beatles cannot save you now.

The rain calls me to the window for a cigarette. The wine doesn't seem to have done me any good. I hope I last the week.

~

A return to reason. Simply because you were busy – a fairground carousel, a danger sign in smoke – a hair lip, a spinning nail paper trail – I read you loud and optical. This gives us a chance to breathe and for that I am grateful as the evening's heat steps in like breasts in boots in a Man Ray negative. You are a cinepoeme. I am a crux. My spine tingles at your endless possibilities. The atonality of a mathematical art. Your revolution in butter – Don't tell me your name! The neon lit skyline we drink from the middle and ask Kenneth for fags – this is his strip after all.

Diamond water in reverse – her fingers shone like an Persian pole dancer's quim – That inverted smile; that blind driver; that polo neck; that doosh bag. A crash amongst the sheep is inevitable; as inevitable as repetition; as glistening white thighs when you dance like a fool without a home. Scrape that makeup off – the sea does not love you.

Radiating levity I make myself another cup of coffee. Your freckles like a mini-war – Your wedding ring like a dirty cavern. I'd have to be well pissed. We only film the bits where your mouth is shut see; and even though time moves on, it looks like you haven't said a word. Every place is an important place. Fin. Ne. Gan. Again.

### Bang Zoom

She positively shines with jealousy. "She has long skinny legs – perfect for a ballet dancer."

"You have too."

"Mine are too muscley. She has skinny ankles and thin legs."

Three tequila golds only and up at seven to test your mettle and bricken those calves, taut those thighs, wiggle those toes peeking from the fronts of your pumps. I'm sorry I really don't understand what it is that you want from me. "Is it easier to read a girl from the back?" Curiouser and curiouser. Eversince. That sandcastle of possibilities crumbled in its seashore storms and sleeping bag rain. The stink of fanny, arse and unwashed feet that leapt from the unzipped bed that leery beautiful morn'

"Would you want my ring?"

"She went out with Clint Boon of the Inspiral Carpets."

"We know you stole that tenner."

"So that was the last time we will ever make love?"

"Was that a line?"

"Do you remember what you said last night?"

"You certainly do have staying power!"

"Fuck it up me..."

"He'll be round soon. My boyfriend. The milkman."

"Don't talk to me about children."

"I was told that you were very good."

"Outrageous!"

"What would you like to do? What is your fantasy? Anything..."

"Thank you."

"What are you? Thirteen years old!"

"It's there."

"Whatever you want is good."

"Fuck me forever."

"I usually don't come when I'm with someone else."

"OOOWEEEEEOOOOHAHAHAAAAA!"

"How are ya hon'?"

"Love you."

INTROPA

An Erwin Schrodinger can-can through time – leg to leg to leg to kicking creamy leg. The boffins might call it a rhapsody. I call it a pleasing cacophony, a diabetic misogyny, a convoluted chiropody – a who cares a rats ass what you think? We are on the brink of something fantastic – A breakthrough – A...

"I nearly forgot to tell you. She sent you a message!"

"What..."

"Sandy. Sandy Lane."

"THE Sandy Lane?"

"There is only one isn't there?"

"Well that's a matter of opinion."

"I'm telling you it was her."

"Now don't go getting excited now."

"How can I help it? She's gorgeous!"

"The final leg?"

"The last stretch."

"The home run."

"The land-girl."

"The spectre."

"The lecturer."

"The principle."

"The poet."

"The pauper."

"The philosopher king in a dress."

"Go on..."

Well we were out all day right, with models all around, I mean like proper models, seven foot tall beauties preening themselves for the casting and we're like flirting with the gal at the desk, you know, the one who speaks all Indian like even though she's Czech but she does the neck thing – the head side to side – it's her boyfriend – Indian – But it's going all wrong. She doesn't like the models. In fact she hates them. Stuck up she tells us and we think we can win her over by letting her know how much nicer she is than any of the girls sitting around us all prim and snobby and filling out their forms.......

Pale white skin like a welcome overcast morning in the middle of a heat wave. The comfort of a stranger and the familiarity of a friend. Trouncing my gadfly. It was not I who ripped open the chest of the corpse and set it alight. A cracked ashtray as she looks up to her colleagues and greets them. The guy at the table thinks it's because of him. Funny, I thought she liked me too. As the smoke rose from his mutilated corpse we struggle to orientate ourselves. At what point exactly did love mean never having to feel sorry. Feet caked with mud. Another quarry. Another zoo. Another lifetime. My heart now racing like a gerbil on coke in a cage affecting my vision, my hands, my arms, shaking like Chancer on retreat – a tree hugging frenzy of horseflies and a mandrake's root. She slip slides in her open toed sandals wiping the tops of her legs with dock leaves for luck. Parading through bloodstained cobwebs which leave hatchlings of varicose vein – tormented by gravel filings kicked like sand into her pussy cat eyes – A small child's holiday Mohican. A table of black men huddled in white fear.

Caught in the undergrowth we pull together – a simultaneous orgasm of frothy daylight bubbles over the dawn's ground frost and we sail out across the tree tops like the owl and his feline mate, afraid of being shipwrecked, afraid of being late.

"He's two inches too tall to be a dwarf."

"So what the fuck is he?"

"A very short man."

"Is not a dwarf a man?"

"What have you got to say for yourself?"

"I just hope you're right that's all. I just hope you're right."

~

If there were a piece at an art exhibition – a conceptual piece – A room you walk into or a door you walk through and on the other side of that door there's a park – A park with a lake – It's warm – there's a fountain – The sky is bruised slightly – Cloudy but bluish – There's birdsong – Birds and in the distance some fairground – The noise of it a dull but comforting hum permeating the humid air above the moss green and silver reflecting water – There's an unoccupied bench to sit on – To take it all in – You the viewer sit on it – If there were a piece of art like this I am sure it would be my favourite thing in the gallery – I would walk to this room – Make a beeline to it each time I visited the exhibition space so that I might escape for a while – A peaceful atmosphere – Like I was in context – Like I meant something – Like it all meant something – My faith in art replete – That's what I want – But here – Here in the park – The actual park – It is much more difficult to place myself in it – To appreciate it – In this context I am too involved and nothing else – More faith in the artist than in god – Here sitting on the bench there is no subject – No fundamental reason for it (the scenery) or myself to be here – Grasping for some feeling of comfort – Of happiness – I imagine that I am in a gallery and I think 'How cool. Everyone should see this.' – It is as soon as I delete this virtual reality this mental screensaver that I am left with nothing but the niggling awareness of the sexy girl with the dog asleep on the grass behind me – And so the door of the book beats the life – The door to the movie the adventure – The door to the brothel the bar and the door to the dream the reality – We are our own gods – We give ourselves a context – The only other way......Zen Buddhism – Unquestioning – thoughtlessness – acceptance – silence – death

~

"He smelt like a baby, or a puppy dog. A puppy who's been sleeping all day. Warm – milky. Mmmm, it was lovely."

How can I put Sandy into context. It is unfortunate that I cannot 'invent' her. It is unfortunate that she is as real as.

"Transcendental meditation? Posh T.V."

"This one smelt like strawberries, Like some toddler's scatch'n'sniff."

"Everything is a metaphor for everything else."

"Nothing is itself. In the act of definition, the thing itself is utterly lost to us."

"It's the not knowing."

"You smell like you've been drawing outside."

"God yeah, I love that smell."

~

Greet him like I greet all others, a salubrious requisition of time and time again your parents, time and time again your chains – Yes – I'll see your cock and raise it.

As for her, well she combed her way out of my life quickly enough. A shocking parody of virginal love – A tie too tight, a tiff too far – So colonial were her annals that I daren't stretch them any further – Goat-fed and spoon-laid we sequested dream lactate and spewed out dates. Gallump! Fiji. Gallump! New Zealand. Gallump! Papua New Guinea. She trailed her innocence behind her like a bloody bellied poodle – of all the bloody fucking customers and of all the John-joints and off all the Schnapps trees, why couldn't she just hold her gob for five seconds before bleating like that. Married since Bastille day – a born hypochondriac 'My knees are revolting – my toes have got it in for me!'

"Have you been in that shop?"

"Yeah, it hasn't got much."

"But it's happy."

Kill the lights babe, my friends are on their way and if they see you they're gonna shit.

"Could you please summarize that entire conversation you were having tonight?"

"You what?"

The word 'love' tip-toed through that week like Dennis the Menace gone Catholic, careening from strained haircut to strained haircut – deliver us from sentences, she may actually say something. Well you might drown your sorrows in Burroughs and halos – but banjos and homos are no match for drink.

Glad of you unsold – I perish the day. They thought so little of you but didn't see you like I did – you kept it well hid.

"Have you ever been hard?"

"Yes! Oh wait, have I ever been 'hurt'?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"oh."

Necks, nipples, nuzzles and nonsense. You were fourteen years too lazy. But the landlord's son was at least eight foot tall and now I feel laziest of all.

~

Drowsy from drink and drills I still have time to text meshy mauled greetings to Sandy. Despite my reservations, uncoddled tutor, belly aching rhymestress colloqueiuing together over vodka and sandals free from magazines – No inch of the swig for me – my presence accumulated in time like a naughty football chant – Garlands of speech for my balding head to just outreach – Perhaps she means every word she doesn't say – She really wants me to go away with her in that jalopy she owns. Still unsure of putting the pedal to the the floor. Still unwise to create something out of nothing out of giggles and white thighs.

~

Please go home, haven't you made enough noise? It may be Rock'n'Roll to you but self explanatory rentpoles range high over yardley's meister stroke me off once more it's only the beat keeps me hard. Rack up your tally up your score me a hooch then re-read what you just bled – He whistles gently – loud up the window frame louder till the ambulance pukes on a tram sidetracked Tuesday warning to an internet cafe leaking in my kitchen. Promises promises. I could send her something sarcastic but the hurt would not be richer for that while my shades rattle on glass covered gum, send out shades for me Dad and contact lenses for me Mum. How could you say you know more about me than I know about you? Is it only your extra tight box you were keeping a secret? Because it seems the demons you thought you were protecting have long since vanished from that hungry void. I gravely ask now for two cheap concubines– Do you reckon I could knock out a third? I'm gravely stung now, my pelvis itches; do you solemnly give me your word?

"I hereby canonise you St Sowhatifyouravigin."

She spleens me then misses me.

She gurns and then grins.

She pleases then disses me.

She purifies then bins.

If she could just once, just...

I'd maybe, I'd perhaps...

But she never, like never really...

So I guess I couldn't simply, couldn't you know....

No I won't call her again because....

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

"How often do you visit your folks?"

"Well my Father is in a wheelchair so..."

~

A little of the rain, light as it dot dot dot affects my head – a whole if not a piece has drawn me partly if not completely to the wasteful conclusion (is there any other sort?) that there may be one who could. In sooth, why am I so sad?

I am gone to earth having bid farewell to my weapons of Miss destruction. I hold up my hands and prostrated such (supplicant) I beg of you to let me into your little secret, that I may endure twenty more years of unparalleled luck and never come short of that property to which I hasten.

Exeunt.

~

Seriously, isn't it time you went home?

"You spoke of the interchange of ideas. You must realise that there is also a transference of fate, and that sometimes external events stand for a far deeper theme that is written inside us."

"I remember, yeah."

### May I Be Of Assistance?

There were storms and the doors and lots lots more, qualms, charms and women they never told you about in the school yard. Off goes the music and in roll the clowns; rounding and juggling temptresses in calico dresses trying to impress a kiss – a baby – a nuptial agreement on who exactly should win the bread and darn the trousers in this weary trapezoid of a universe.

Collocations of friends abound in trippy states of play / climbing frostbitten to the tops of Prague hills into chilly beer gardens of cloying girls and boying boys. If they must trickle down this precipice I dreamed, let them leak into one and all like a circus freak bawling at the hijack they showed on the box last fall till he BLAM BLAM BLAM blew them all to bits. Call it quits? Not by a long shot you ape ridden jimmeny; I'm just getting started.

So I'm a fraud; who ain't? So they may plaster me with band aids and call me trudy; I've got plenty more fish to fry before I die.

I could rape up an amalgam of tooth inherited spangle, or else mope this way and hither on my knees for a reckoning. I would but for the fear that your/they're/his judgement may weaken the tether I pray I pulled.

Unless he/they/you can promise me a nipple clamp for Christmas and a light sabre that burns, I'm going to the gypsy in the U.S.A. and dance my last quarter under the mississipi sun. And, just for fun, I'll bend the final notion of time returned through time to tell us time is not a line but a crime of the mind and puppies go blind when thrown at Hell's Angels.

Rap, I've left out the beginning.

It all started when."Haven't you seen enough yet?"

"'nough of what?"

"The tides. These changes."

"You don't even know."

"I could tell you a thing or two."

"'bout wha?"

"'bout you, hooves, behooves, and saline solutions."

"Go on then, you fat hairy goose you, let loose!"

It was on a Saturday much like the Saturday before the last when you were sitting on the grass in her half-arms. You reached over but looked funny because your trousers had rolled up your leg to show your hairy shin sprouting over your black socks huddled under your blue shoes cowering below your white trousers. She didn't notice, or at least if she did, she tried to ignore it, until the next time she's making love and the image pops into her head just as she's trying to come to and then the feeling will fade because she will remember you like that, in the shade, on that Saturday when you moved in all cool but looked like a fool from the knees down.

"So what? That proves nothing."

There's those around you would say so.

"Yields falsehood when preceded by its quotation" yields falsehood when preceded by its quotation.

"Oh they do do they?"

Glimmering the way you do will always prove senseless without the wings to lift you or shower hubcaps and criminals into the stories you tell. Don't forget the murder and intrigues a lopsided witch can draw from a bloodless old crone like literature. There's nothing to say, that's why there will never be any end to the books that can be written. It's all in the wind. Restless. Wrestles. Said before you even said it, remember?

You can cope in notes and cliffs you dive in, only be careful of the noise as you land. Don't call for Mommy and try not to tremble as they amputate your easy living and replace it with an incorruptible limb. Signed – 'Secret Leaf'

Under his grid-hut watering the fowl / the flowers he nurtures to the right of the apartment layer cake. Top hole dancing in her living room rattling cats in her jumpsuit. Middle squeeze smoking out her pyjamas, toes wrinkled over the railings and bottom hugger strolls lonely her five feet of balcony glued manly to her mobile. You could reach over and tap them on the naked shoulders for a sugar cube of sympathy, a glance of recognition.

"I saw one of them in the street walking her dog."

Hopeless in your cummerbund, suspended in aggravation you trawl the net for quips and quotes and melancholy codes of excess. When you find the one you have been waiting for, don't forget to label them 'unwearable – do not wash'.

A gross saturnidae locked in your closet of feather bowers and unconscious bores. Even if one clothes oneself in oneness, one rarely counts as one oned. Warned.

"You lucky duck. Have a great day!"

"No, I assure you, I'm not just saying it just to flatter you."

You have a true friend in her, such as one doesn't often find.

4 years! 2006-2010

AND...

Underwear

BRA

SHOES/SANDLES

SOCKS

WCHA DUES

RENT

DRESS/PANTS

Necklace A Cross perhaps

Teeth Fixed AND TWO CROWNS.

Work out clothes

Running Shoes

Ipod...

Websites for tunes to download..

I am tired and resting at the moment, but I would BE HAPPY TO SEE you ANOTHER TIME.

My #1 complaint is that he stays up from midnight – 3am each and every night.

Spontaneously

I can see him dying a drunkards death.

~

A season of paint quenches a lifetime of pretences, senses a hate crime with want of a true time to feign silence at the prospect of a lover who can see through the chipped mask and smile at the soul of a man still worming his way from his mater's womb. Clip the morning over the head and smack its backside – naughty morning!

She pulled you in as your trousers hiked up and kissed you tenderly. Soft butterfly kisses under a canopy of leaves the park sighed. She held your gaze for some umpteenth and queried your hammock of a mind for split second upon second when the jogger-lady came round for the third time and you broke off.

"That cannot be safe in heat like this!"

~

The blast was sufficient to draw the crew back to the ship. They had everything they needed right there. The calm of the cold of the ship and the juvenile ape of the mission grumbling at their cuckold, showed signs of rehabilitation grappling for a surface. No call for running around like that. No reason to prance at each spectacle of horizon-blanche. Sadly grouping and forever holding yap-fests till the dawn cried mercy and the sick flowed freely and Socratic. Puke gather here, chat-a-tat-tat.. Send me your young and wary, I'll preach you a time when all this was mine.

Hip-lax and drowned in the ether they followed in dust and quark-motes mending battle-worn heros at the alter.

"Take a seat, sir. Rest your damaged pulse."

In together they rhymed of the old days but happenstance/recall rottened their camaraderie.

"Lacking what? A vessel to moan in?"

"Hopingly, you say."

"Inquiring."

Laid down dull from loafing, Sol sees sagely tamarind clams and arguments them split.

"That's as maybe, but we still have to eat."

Bubbling under the trefoil, Sol captures the essence of jest and rolls a whole jesuit of beans down their steeper incline of hope.

"Watch as they batter the soils below. Stick and grow."

Time to breathe now. Time to summon up all you held dear and wear the reward like a crown / high heels / baby boots bronzed in calligraphy. Did you swear on it, that you were broken in by a badman? Did you clue anyone in on the direction you would take. Face it brother; nobody knows where we are.

On pain of death defying lip service the gossips amongst them crowed for glory in the midst of the fallout. Jealousy raged and the quieter brewed.

"Pay them no attention. Pay them none. They will be gone, as earth as it is in heaven. "

See no hear no be no. Boredom is a construct. You cook us up something nice and you'll be able to hear it over that rusty rain speckled tannoy – help is at hand. Help in the form of a lover. Help in the form of a friend. Again and again you refer back to the heart you once played in parks from trucks to Pucks to microphone drunks. And they danced as they will but could you bring them with you? You can't bring anything with you. You die alone. But for now...

The white noise of the complex complex soothed the castaways. Sitting and beefing over what toy to throw away, the sound of sensibility hummed from the graves dug-out and re-laid.

"Here's one for you," they might say.

"No, you throw it away."

...and if it floats in space forever does it lose its purpose the further it gets from us? When we are disintegrated, does it gain significance, or lapse into a galaxy of its own misunderstanding, mistaking things for other things or stuff which is nothing at all?

"So keep it in a cupboard forever. I couldn't give a shit."

Belch – one eats one

Fart – one eats one

Hmmmm – takes one to know one

Gamble and prosper and guess and win and think and rejuvinate and own and decay. That's the word of the day. You are ALL right. Every stinkin' last one o' ya.

So he dives in. And the chill of H2O runs amok over his waterproof skin – none goes in, but rings every phone line for a corruptible entry. His scream is swallowed by the water, then spat out, plop! above like a gas-star boiling an egg. Deeper down he wonders "What the hell am I doing down here? What is there to see? And wait....YES! I can't breathe!" The bends pretends it doesn't know him and lures him with waving armistices to the light. Faster – faster – faster.....SHOOSH! From the waves lifted armpit brave pants filled with slush kiss on head pat on backside crane glide over the coast to an inland umpire who decrees that that bag of crap dangling at your knees is toxic and a gagging miracle. With a goo' boy and a powdered heiny your Mom casts you back to the big blu briny.

Back at the heli- pad (unused due to lack of heli) the guys wipe their eyes with their knuckles and ask what did you there? You are not at liberty to tell them. Your conscience tells you to prick them with stares and render them dumb.

"I fingered a bear."

The ship's lamps low and the crew prepare themselves for bed.

"We shall sleep under the stars tonight my friends. The air is cool and we have eaten well."

"Is that what you're wearing to bed?"

"Well, no one's looking."

"But what if you have to get up in the middle of the night and someone sees you?"

"What do you care?"

"I mean, I don't but....you know, I'm just saying."

Sol dreams of a blonde stand up; a female. She makes him laugh and he falls in love. Jay dreams of his brother who will become a famous singer. Lol dreams of a brunette girl who understands him – they lie face to face in bed like that. Cat dreams of her proud man, her ambitious man. Rain dreams subliminal messages and sits up in the middle of the night to announce that "The possibilities are endless." Gar dreams he can see through his eyelids, but all he sees is what he would see if he opened his eyes. Dan dreams of flying, and but for the monkey on his back he could fly as high as a steeple. Ren dreams of making love to a woman so perfect he cries when he wakes up. Randy dreams of a day when all he and the crew have to do is make breakfast, go for a walk, make lunch, go for a swim, make dinner and drink wine till the lamps low and it's time for bed.

"We have become addicted to getting it wrong."

"Humans love to fail..."

"Back to square one?"

"Not in this life time."

"What then?"

"Onwards to square one one one."

Clip me off a piece of that so-you-say. Not that much, but enough to get me by and by the next hurdle awaiting the comeuppance I've been deserving so she said she would.

Sally bend twixtwards and Polly come gladly. Pepper rape much of it and Ginger shone maddening. Hope to see that on my deathbed lest a switch in the time space continuum occurs and puts me bandy of Wexward.

She asks me and they all do and Randy say don't tell 'em. She asks me and I don't tell 'em and Randy do. Though asks me.

One string down lie catapult. Stocking white nurse lays sideways open mouthed. Red lips lie sideways how she hides her feelings like a camel wearing a sports bra. Stethoscope broke on the journey from heart to ear. Half the class think I'm queer. Half the class want to join me for a beer. The stethoscope slides from labia to labia; trussed like a hogtied sojournal.

Land that fish and I'll do you a deal. This ship (space shape diamond cruncher) floats only likely – whispers then repeated jeers for the child in the painted garden reach these levels in juddering spurts that do jostle the cockpit so. Mum's the word – and 'Grease' and God;

"Corners are always cut."

"Smoother that way."

"Means missing some."

"Scoop up the pieces. Make a collage."

"A college."

"A monestary."

"A Tower of babel."

Chim chim cheroo.

Since - Clouds now become dust over body Tequila. Her torso in bits since the crash. Shrapnel wounds like join the dots up and down from her sex to her nose. The soft shave of a twelve year old slavering alcoholic. Dripping wet and lemon juice convulsions.

Sense - Folded in two, like LOL become U. 'Something up with that picture,' she says. I can't see it. She serves me cigarettes and aces; plays borders with future directors. This one's thick legged this one perfection; I'll take two for the road and six for spina bifida / affection.

Slunce – I know I say you can't you do, but I will you might you have you did. Anyway, what's it to you? You are a doll I wish I claimed I could, but I won't nor say I think you can. Your bajingo spoke to me separately. Hardened and moist, it's language fluent and brave. Another you; waiting. It will grow up to growl and stray you shall, but I will hard and rut you must. Until that time you leave I die, and crave you, pickle of my eye. Vaginas do have teeth.

Sensai – Bowled over and born into death, she ran away to her satanic man and fearful visions of a future in cardigans. No more an owl than a brisket she combs the Czech Republic for moneyed peoples and inline insults. Shower her with bastards, she will welcome the attention; hold her down and make her watch; those bobby sox and mittens will be her downfall. Calm her down and take her watch. This time it's pre-seasonal.

Sosay – "My most beautiful friend. I always introduce her as that." 'Tis a pity, lady that thou dost not rate thine own visage so highly. One might wonder at the provisions you make for disappointment. Getting it where one can might seem a trice to you if you could only let down your guard and blush for your friend's puissance. Let her in. Yeah, that's it....let her IN. She playeth like a gamer but hides none of her distractions. Namely, that tired old hag of a crush she has on....you."

Some might say – Laurel and Hardy. Hardy huggable. Laurel bone skin chafing B.O. Hardy breasts hold some kind of mighty. Laurel slight whisp pussy go boldly. Hardy make time for tea and picked fruit. Laurel doesn't waste time on anything but trifles. Hardy might collapse at the feet of her lover. Laurel picks no skeletons with her fates. Hardy made lapdance and song she surrendered. Laurel waits patiently to be hung drawn and quartered. Hardy says she's coming tomorrow and wishes me luck. Laurel is bringing friends and I'm well glad on't.

~

"Swithald footed thrice the old, a nellthu night more and her nine fold."

"I know yeah."

"How did you catch it?"

"With a penfold."

"Snap."

"Grand, granstand and sanctioned so seems it. Went well. There were mermaids and half-maids and ready mades and I sang..."

"Didn't you feel faultier for it?"

"Little bit, but better now, thanks."

"Grab it and put it away. You have no right to be here."

"Look who's talking."

"Look who's talking?"

Comes to us all. Will. Take a walk in the rain and get over it. Vyšehrad way, or down by the river. I've got the hotel umbrella we picked up on the way home, love.

Romeo and Juliet in me pocket for me sit down coffee spell; can't wait to re-tell. She was only just turning fourteen. Who am I to throw a bucket of spleen over a romance so god-awful? She should have knelt it out. We all should. A Buddhist in a canoe; a princess in a hired row boat making it all appear so elementary how we fall and land and jump sideways to avoid the bullets of passion children shoot from bridges and in their bare feet trample the half-memories of how we got to breathe life into 'em all those years ago. How we do that? We ain't even got near the dark yellow markers at the weir yet.

Photos only exacerbate the problem. Not that I'm counting.

"Could you hold this a second while I rumple your stockings? Wait a minute - wait a minute...there."

Touch the water, it's ice cold. You see LOL down there? And SOL and CAT. Primavera! CAT will lead them to those reeds over there. There, under the reflection of the art gallery. You feeling it? She's going to take them both at the same time. Is that something you would feel like? CAT will kneel this one out.

"How are they holding their breath down there?"

"They've stopped thinking. No need."

"Yes I feel like it."

### SOL

Dreams of a....

That's torn it – the warm winter waitress slippers of child-riddled slappers scuffing polished toe-nails in autumn carpets of maple leaf and fucking good ham. A cast off cast away cast iron sturgeon bloated and leaden on comfort food and sarcasm – over confidence and a text too far.

Oh zippity doo daa – I mean I fought for this day....

And what do I see? I see the drag of the future pulling me back into my pyjamas – teasing like a granny shoe hand job. I claimed that tank she bade me lube and eternally I'll battle for wages on stages – but in Oxfam wraparounds she'll not go gloriously into that lovely night, but nip and tuck like her crepe swan sing song.

Though she simpers and smiles – I do not.

Everybody eats.

Some stare, some stir. I will not tear that poster.

I recognise all of you and you've all turned into women round issues you trembled to succour. How could you blame the bat-hat-spider foetus of a witch –worn party and call that your principle. Nobody rates higher than you now, you poof on a string.

Out she grinds the pull back seat in English south by way of mouth. The child dull cries and sister limps with eyes of lighter fuel and pixels. I don't miss you – not a bit, though I could talk your ear off right now about how cold I feel and how warm you seem.

A sudden fear that I haven't even met her yet. Comforting too.

Buttons and blondes, love hearts and thongs

Cake not biscuits

10 days of wigwams and home.

She sticks up a scary tree with a face – up on the cafe window. It's green and they will come off easy in November. Even the happy ones are lonely – trees that is.

There's nothing I could say or write or paint or do for real that would not make me cry – so I lie.

Why must we fool ourselves? How DARE we fool ourselves?

Pumpkin ghost rest in peace, archaic preacher, axl grease. Tartan Mum, shapeless bum. Jana's only twenty one!

Nothing to be done.

Hell's Bells!

New York City in March so should says the sleeper – I crave nothing but the best of the coke-head lack of Pepsi darlings and limpet fashions cling dearly for once this millennium I will go to the hall where the kids are racked with pain but joke their way through the pandemonium until they can finally rest on their Laurels and their Hardys.

Brave boy – holding out like you do – that dance you do – that thing you do – that young, far-flung will you won't. She'll be a mother for god's sake, she'll be a mother with another.

The soup choice soil sold rolls. Rohliks. Queen brain dead and kiss – a queer-rock-sympho- fuck.

Cash-in-hand dandies proliferate and Sandy Toxic out there just must blinds her teeth in snake oil. I'm as hungry as any man here and my heart is as true. I'll dream of me if you'll dream of you.

Paul will pull you, Cat will fool you, hope will drill you, hate will, won't you?

Go for a burton, send me your blisters; I'll bind them tightly and pummel your yankified colours on canvas unless you revise your own culinary dreams of a 20th birthday party held in the tomb of a Romanian philosopher – Roasted Anti-Cries.

Celibate beef-steak for a corrupt Nazi – I knew you were on our side; all these babies.

Janis will stroke you to a conclusion as you tuck into theirs.

Fried poetry and a full clothed dinner.

I'm ready for the break up now Mrs DeVille.

People walk differently.

~

~

### THE SCISSORS

Solo works

.....someone funny. Fun.

He smokes a Christmas cigarette. Someone secret.

She/he may find what he is looking for, though the Milky Way is large and windering. He capitulates the momentary whojimmy for what appears to be a millennium, but fumbles the prize just shy of Jupiter. He Galladriels about for a night or two expecting wishes to become horses but feels no further pride in the work he has been ordained to ordeal. Cantilevers from argyle and tretters stretch westward over Antilles and Achilles for want of a wetter badger and find star signs no soul knew of till now. The 'Badger's Hole' for one and a lighting clash of Titans for possesion of the stirrups. The wishes now saddled welcome Sol, Jay, Rain and Ren, but sadly up and out again the steam-punk ship they huddle in like contestants in a who-the-fuck-are-you quiz show ride generous portions of the Galaxy free of charge.

Handing over the spitoon, Lol, largely precocious in her swimming trunks, flaps stars from her eyes and rages against the moon.

"Nice," Sol says.

"You see that?!' Rain pours.

"She is a natural,' Sol smiles.

Lol rolls on the carpet of ethereal musk-bound Herodotus and dies with these adorable curves at the corners of her mouth. Not 'dies' like 'dies' dies but dies. No one really dies. Least of all Lol.

In sardonic nomenclature one must accept that write is wrong and wrong is to the right. Settled now and bluer than a touchless breath from a mountain yak, Gar makes it to the podium and rattles out a eulogy.

"It was not 'er who done it, it was 'im. They all went and lied about the whole fing."

A short and pointless eulogy for someone who deserved so much more.

Jay's brother knew a comedienne but said nothing; not the entire trip.

Nevermind.

Sol, sulked into his dreams and curtailed all emotions via unprincipled visitations in the world of his sick slumber. Waking to frantic moans and yips and a mad desire to return to the arms of the armies he clung to. Those bull-toothed women who straddled his conscience, kissed his forehead and held his hands while he extrapolated his theories on how everyone had got it wrong; like way before he came along. They pulse and rise and their beauty is matched only by the black of the infinite night. Floating in space, in her, inside the remnants of god's own final dream; a waking one in which god finds himself running back upstairs only to find he has gone and locked himself out.

~

There were no promises to breach, therefore it was impossible to take only one direction home. To be walking two directions was no small feat, but the gathering troop, having had their spirits raised by proxy, read into their activity a complex rivalry to relativity. Biting the dust but not biting the dust like kicking the bucket but like biting the dust, they found a marvellous way of moving without actually being seen. This made it possible for them to take two paths (sometimes three or four) without being suspected of not moving at all.

This way they could cover infinite distances in, ooh, say one week, and even further given time.

They prided themselves on their upkeep. They never went hungry and they always brushed their teeth. Their clothes may have become a little shabby but it's hard to find a good tailor in the outer arms of the universe. So, they had each shopped for and bought the hardiest things imaginable and set off looking invincible. After about 333,256,958,999,000 miles they looked shagged, but their teeth shone like white dwarfs.

So, Lol rolls up somewhere near a big black thing but no one can quite tell what the big black thing is or what it is Lol says to them or if indeed it was actually Lol. That was one of the weaker stories from their travels.

With the stars for your diamonds and the world for a dream.

AND IN THE SICK SLUMP RANDY PERKS...

"I bellow your pardon?"

" You word..."

Scandalous alternasty frequencies pummelled downwardly his every spiral till he couldst but gallump back to his heavenly cave of kumquats and sell time.

"Christmas is a time for joy; for pine cones and mellow tones and ripples of tickling lithe fancies dancing haply from jug to jug. Pour me another one ya bastard, I'm almost dry."

Randy may have been a hippy in a previous life but now he was just hippy. He sucked in his stomach when passing the ladies and worried about the tautness of his shirts and ass pants.

"Nether you worry old chap..."

"Less of the old!"

"Nether you worry my man, the world is a lip away from kissing home base and cheerleaders await. "

"At the pearly gates?"

"At your very own doorstep, my good egg. You will be surrounded by addules until you can't even see the trees for the flowers. The warmth they provide will see you through this wintrole and you'll see; next year we shall all be free."

"Just like that?"

"There is no 'justlikethat'. You have waited a long time old ma....my man."

Curtains!

"But what of rain?"

"You'll see her again."

"Is that so?"

"So you know?"

"Who do you know?"

"All of these people I know."

"You can't know all of the people."

"But I do. I've seen her before. And him, and him, and him....all of them."

"Well you're a better man than I am."

"I know that too."

"How much do you have?"

"Soixante quatre."

"That's fine. That's enough."

You flick through those photos and ladder your tights in the effort. Ahh, it's been a grand day. But now my arms are shaky with the caffeine and a little bit the heat. I'm not taking the sweater off. Shirt's dirty. Bless her though, she knew my name. They all knew my name...

Rain.

Rain came disappointed. I mean right from the off. Contact lenses askew; elementary apelines for a banana function we weren't even invited to. We can go that way without much curtail or wain since a love of you would be simplicity itself. I would love and you would love and a pox on all the above.

A caterwaul too far and I don't rate them as friends any longer. I mean they literally are crazy. They don't know themselves. I do. I know everyone.

"Yeah ya do!"

The glasses, the reading, the solitary, the in-breeding. YES, I could rake your dyed hair; dyed dyed not died.

"She'd look like a Hollywood movie actress."

"Well, you'd know."

Rain will paint over what she writes. I'll paint on Rain's body.

"My! You are gorgeous. You think you'll have that drink now."

Nice lips. Nice tits. Nice legs. Nice bum. Nice smile. Nice eyes. Nice hands. Nice tummy. Oh, and patient. Oh and talented. Oh and brave. Oh and human. Oh and shy. Oh and not shy.

I was bored by the meteor in the end. Like all meteors. You are a river. Can't get bored with them. Just can't. Am though.

"And what's your favourite thing?"

"Paying before the meal. Frees you up."

"You're afraid, just like everybody else."

"You have no idea."

He smiled and the planet slipped. He smiled and the planet split in two. So much for all that knowledge. So much for all that love.

"And on your gravestone?"

ALL THIS – AND WITH SO LITTLE EFFORT

When I saw her lying on the ground, on her side in Pakistan; hiking shoes at her back, feet bare, fully clothed, asleep, I wanted to hold her.

### Our Posthumous Future

I pulled the fat guy from the railroad tracks. He was kneeling by them, his arm wrist deep in some freezing dugout pool

He lifts his arm from the water, an icicle stung to his grip. The icicle shaped like an iron nail. Though I've saved him from lying down and killing himself, I now see that he means to place the ice on the track and derail the oncoming train.

Dragging him back to the embankment, the ice falls from his chubby fist.

The train is close. Approaching from the left. But there on the tracks, a dominoe pile of concrete wheels. Couches strewn over the train's course. Sharp spikes of broken wooden furniture wedged into the ground like an army of spearmen awaiting attack.

The train grinds against these and lifts. Fifty metres till the engine spins through the air in a roar of discombobulation; crashing into a house on the opposite embankment. The house comfortably rides the hill it is on until it reaches the street and explodes into the neighbouring homes. Sudden extinguished cries from the TV watching families within.

I scramble back through underbrush and hedgerow scratched and bloody but safe from the tumbling wreckage. I clamber into a dry empty field, unable to lift myself to run. Clawing at the mud. The thunderous metal horror rising at my back. The fat man done for.

I twist to look at the damage. Death in the air.

I am safe.

"Did that really happen?"

"Did what really happen?"

~

Dan rolls over slapstick and canoe with a paddle in one paw and a father in the other. Call it paranoia. Yes you can call it that if you will and I know you will I mean why would I have anything to say about it. Who am I to put my oar in?

It gathers like the slow crescendo of a palimpsest fugue.

A palimpsest is a manuscript page from a scroll or book that has been scraped off and used again.

A fugue

dissociative disorder in which a person forgets who they are and leaves home to create a new life; during the fugue there is no memory of the former life; after recovering there is no memory for events during the dissociative state

a dreamlike state of altered consciousness that may last for hours or days

a musical form consisting of a theme repeated a fifth above or a fourth below its first statement

fugue (fūg) a pathological state of altered consciousness in which an individual may act and wander around as though conscious but their behavior is not directed by their complete normal personality and is not remembered after the fugue ends.

dissociative fugue , psychogenic fugue a dissociative disorder characterized by an episode of sudden, unexpected travel away from home or business, with amnesia for the past and partial to total confusion about identity or assumption of a new identity.

A palimpsest is a manuscript page from a scroll or book that has been scraped off and used again.

It gathers like a predated predict set in precious stone. There's no avoiding the waves and waves of euphoria encompassing this journey.

Dan doesn't pack; I pack. Dan doesn't shout; I shout. Dan doesn't care; I care.

I'll chase myself through this brush if necessary and by god I'll catch up. Falling from a great height with only my bony self to land on. Better fatten up now winter's coming. There's no swinging tit of a girl to save me here. It's Albert for milk and Facebook for sympathy. Collegiate brogues and a penchant for hedony.

Clasp your baton, we're here for the symphony; tatty palimpsest and a fell fugue-like thingummy.

Between the train and the lake, we are better off singing...

"How much would that cost?"

"Cheaper then the train."

"Okay then lets swim and sing."

"You mad impetuous wonderful thing, you."

Braving the snow covered pebbles of the beach, they ran barefoot to the shoreline.

"Shit it's cold!"

"Are you ready to disappear?"

"Fake our own deaths you mean?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"What?"

"What you were saying."

"About what?"

"About death."

"Why did you say 'Yes'?"

"Because I'm ready, yes."

"To disappear?"

"Yes."

"Ahhh, I see."

"Ready so?"

"Shit it's cold!"

It's hard to tell why one does things when one is one. When one is two, there is always someone to lie for you.

It's the tantalising allure of the deep. Something most daren't even dream of. The cash-in-hand of a drowned man; an olden golden time when ships were ships and frigging was sacrosanct. To be below the sea in a mermaid reverie, latching on to limpets for the shits and giggles, trailing after the great whites for the streamline and bubbles. A calculating escape lacking foresight and hindsight; the mathematical part encapsulating the now and the now only...

ooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOooooooo000000000000000OOOOOOOO

oooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooOOO POP!

One.

### The Diary of a Stoneage psychopath.

Two

Gar opens his eyes and nothing has changed. Sure, there are more vampires and zombies and werewolves than when he went to bed but no more than had fought there way into his head during the sleepy hours. About 27. All mixed like.

Gar chooses to ignore them all and get on with his day.

"Best things first is wait till daybreak then steal into the arena, summon the courage to eat and drink and talk and save pictures of this to take with me to bed so I can dream of these things and wake to it again tomorrow."

The kettle boils and the day churns into existence. Groundhogs gather in the courtyard as the scaffolding collapses and the workers unite over a buried fag found fallen from the naked couple cooking breakfast/supper on the fifth floor. One of the men recieves a text and smiles at the message. The groundhogs eat the man with the message but leave the others to their tea.

One of the men picks the phone out of the dead man's pocket and checks the last text received. It's a credit message from the provider.

"He's better off now." He thinks.

Gar quickly puts on weight, opens the windows to the cold winter morning and chooses to float to work for a change. The dead man winks up at him as he disappears over the roofs.

The city's metatarsals are getting flabby; it's jowls sagging and the teeth all broken but for the green of the landed gentries planted gaily in support of less cars on the roads. Slap bang in the middle of the roads these stately trees snobbing it up over the rotting molars scuttling to their jobs.

"See this is what I don't get." Gar mutters to himself as he shines in the sun that don't touch the ground.

"All this energy; all these thoughts and grinders – put to waste. Out to pasture before they even gave of themselves. Him, look at him, he must be twenty two wrapped up in his grey suit and satchel arms spun round twice and clipped at the back. Straight jacket for life. Poor bastard can hardly keep hold of his Starbucks. What would Rain say?"

There are two kinds of love. Love and love. One has a big L and the other has a little one and they are both exactly the same. Gar feels the latter for Rain.

"If she could see me now..."

If Rain could see him now she would think,

"His stomach got bigger. He's hanging around with the wrong vampires, zombies and werewolves. He's wasting his days away worrying about other people wasting their days away. He smokes too much. He should drink more. I still would; if he'd just man up and do something. Go ahead and take me. Take me now. I couldn't be any more obvious...."

Rain has been downloading porn all morning and smokes like a kipper; drinks like a chimney sweep. She's got porn-legs she thinks. She loves to watch herself in the mirror when she masturbates. Eggs overeasy underpants over-run, she backs into the bath like the Germans are coming and writes her name in the steam on the window. Her porn name. Pickles Parkin.

God bless Armorica. Rain sings and sweats in the too too hot bath water reaches over the side and picks up her phone. A text. She must have missed it when she was coming. A credit message from her provider. Rain feels like ending it all there and then but decides instead to smoke another cigarette and go for a burrito.

The sun begins to tickle Gar's balls and it's then he realises he forgot to wear pants.

"I'm too high for them to spot me from down there," he thinks, and smokes a joint like Superman doesn't.

~

Baselitz and Jozin z Bazin dry as a bone by now by bones. Song strips bare the lackaday wastrels gathering up grass bundles of how-do-you-dos in that pre-requisite of a public garden. Damn Tarzan breaks bleeding for all, at traffic lights, tram-rails, ice-flows and island-bound drunks – I feel you – You feel me?

Camelot now couch-bound for syphillis abstracts – wherein – upon encountering – our hero – woe betide – grasps nothing less than an honorary Beatle and a day at the races. Well, yoo promised me.

Back to the point on paper – ALL WRITING IS CRAP.

Hold me you jerky and don't you rest till you do. The sole learnment seems to be, B – Can a body make a body without a body?

And the result whistle...

A body.

Cook up something good; I live here now.

Strangely though the thou art is, I am, course we all are, what it was.

So shouldn't.

Shouldn't have.

Oh ho! Ah haaa! Rumbled by a speedball popping would-be Hollywood playwrite.

Would-have-been.

"Never did I think someone so deep could be so shallow."

"It is only my many many layers of shallow that give the illusion of depth."

No, no, no, the head always gets in the way. This is why I have decided to smoke more; to break the fucker down till it's on its knees begging for a gag, a gun, a yes, a no, a straight line and a goal line, and a gag.

ALL THINKING IS CRAP.

Watch your teacher; watch animals. I mean don't listen to them – Watch them – No one has anything to say that they cannot show better.

One shared laugh at a good joke and you can keep yer books. One universal pun; the one that gives life. The funniest joke in the world. Begins with a 'P'......

This may take some time

Caught in the culicues of the manuals which invented the method.

A pall – not a pall – a cloud – not a cloud – a patch – not a patch on the evening that teaches tremor before Gladstone. A home within negotiation's forcefield. No nerves in the face of another's death; the epileptic gone global.

Dude, I trust you implicitly – that's why I talk so much.

"But can you preach what you practise?"

"I can do better than that; here...sup up."

17th Pint

The Pandemonium Manifesto

18th Pint

The Theory of Irrelativity

Everything is a metaphor for everything else so why not judge a book by its cover?

Short life. Lots of covers.

"So, we lose da sleeve; let's lose da sleeve. Come on guys, who needs it? Really, who needs it? I mean we got da juice, ya know? We got what's gonna do us some good, see? Ya wanna hide it all in a lousy ad? I'd drink it from a homeless guys boots if it's nectar."

"If it's not?"

"Then give it a cover. A shit cover!"

"Yeah, sure, that's the idea; only cover the shit."

"I'm on it."

~

Often saw original mind in M., but character mixed.

"It's going to become much more difficult for the artist, because he must really deepen the game to be any good at all."

"What?"

"That's what it says here."

"Where?"

It cost the glass the foot and the skull of a toy. A chess piece. Backgammon and eggs throws me mother in the scene of a well-read chancery. I get all me sweets from the lampshade.

Here's me stage: The honest yawn of a never was much of a do-gooder anyway. The page – all the confidence of an actor lost in translation. I can say anything; do anything on such an occasion as this and be profoundly mis-read; deeply misunderstood or else I could be 'got' like a crease digs its discomfort because it's a way of life.

"Fuck the iron," it says. "It was all someone else's design anyway."

~

You ARE the boss of me!

Even with this 'E', 'V', 'E' and 'N' and the 'with' and the 'this'. Fuck.

DOOHICKY.

She slipped by a dry oily smile snake-cursed over the road reflected and reflected in the windows of the hubs of the potters and the Griswalds. The love of my life a loaf away from a hair's breadth. Colour me human, but doesn't she exclaim in trudge; a grateful tumescence of silence and treacle. Go girl! Tight as a blue-eyed Czech, a sparkle toothed dame, see...? Too many cops, see...? Can't be seen to be too 'out' see..?

"Hands up if you have the space to exclaim now – "

"Your fist and your beefeater."

"There's a fly at my temple."

"You're a first and you sleep-eat."

"All your children are beautiful, and every single one of the fuckers is sitting at my table. You all have your father's eyes. Which is weird..."

Disable your umbrellas, the drums are beating close now. Maps and dreidels, toothache and milky confusion.

"What is this!? A parade?"

"Hey, Peter Parker, put down your camera and saddle your sister."

Less equality please; everyone's gone normal.

"I dreamt that Andy Warhol was an 'ass muncher' – literally."

"It feels like Christmas when a Praguer smiles."

"You've got one night to cover all the walls in the city with your art. What are you gonna do?"

"Call a few friends."

"You've got one night to cover all the walls in the world with your art. What are you gonna do?"

"Claim that all the bricks in the world are 'art'. Mine. Ours."

I'm not waiting anymore. I'm not waiting on anymore.

Everything you do.

Great google mooglies! Them rancid hipsters have done it again. Leapt from crab-apple to pine cone and cobbled together a masterpiece. Leg it! Before the lady twigs what you've done – she'll only explode, then gasp, gasp, gasp,

RUNNING!

The slope is slow and climb but breathe. The level's nail and leather shine. Her eyes are split so poker bright. Those spit and swallow valentine.

His jumpsuit green on bended knee. Grab your coat and marry me.

...and when the night was finally done, he lifted up his shirt tails and placed one on her. Now she can look directly at two people at the same time.

I dreamt they/she walked in on me shitting – What's that all about!?

I wake up different and spell outwards with you are not when. Soundz like beach and grammar – German breakfasters practise their holiday and English with the yoon waitress; celibate; material egg halibut. I'll grapple with that later.

Shave and paint out that German's pronounce their guffaws. Neither do they whisper even in such breeze. Called his gal by her name though – No cat's mother that one – the one with the light voice like a Christmas Hollwood fairy with a biteandkick.

Thank you Yellow Pump – feels holy. This isn't Londyska but it's a damn near sliding door.

"Do you must be drunk to enjoy the company of people?"

"Not all of them."

"Most."

"Without the small talk we would have nothing to say; because there IS nothing important to say."

"And when you are drunk?"

"We get smaller and the talk seems bigger."

"So grow up. Is there anyone you have ever really wanted to, or want to talk to?"

"Only girls. Girls and priests."

Deflecting all truth from truthsayers in an order of hateful/cringe/calm. Changing the subject all the time like a hungry monkey just learnt to speak because Charlie says 'Drink!'.

From crumbs in tights to testering on a bunk of madness – You really can't turn your back for five minnims.

"Mám strách."

"O co?"

"Being left like this."

"So it all comes down to couples and kids and cheese and wine."

"That or screaming bloody oblivion."

"Tough choice."

"Let's dance."

~

Just please don't put it into words – trying to convince yourself – 'Ahoj.' Is plenty.

The growling grew deeper and cheating read 'rat'. The thick-armed toes of a genuflexive freckleblonde. His basketball briefs stealing glances like timebombs. Can't trust words. Overeasy on the I can't help it...Grapefruit spilled on the wound of a beach-high ninny. Rest assured, and your soul, now is the dark cardigan of the evening and your phone will not douse that fire.

Because she said...

How bees the whisp of start above behind it all? Large on Sol's scanner looms little the Rain. Long before the dream. She made it like that.

Hopeless grasp at the pink-tinted Galaxy rose like on pedals of mucus and salivating teachers roaming the streets for a shooting planet to snooze on. Don't bother me, when all I need to do is cup my hands into the cuffs of my jumper and hot tail it out of here. Out of fear. Out of my mind with the beauty of it all. I smell like the future and the restaurant at the end of the universe. Don't pet your ego without a thick fucking glove and a stick with which to beat it with which.

I just travelled from that moment to this. Did it again. And again. This will be with me always. I can't wait for June and a warm low table lamp as you lean in and see where I go at night. Or early; with your words; too much thought on food; too much 'Where to go?' – too little the galaxy I carry around; like a prince with a castle he bought for a pound.

I want a Homer-coma; an easy life; a prostitute Sunday school teacher stroke wife.

And I love her

The long and windering road tapering in breast-heels and electronic trickles of tears; the glad illusion of a feast, midnight and waves; a shoreline, a lemon and a tanned eyelash I wrap round your finger like a bossanova heartbeat.

This concludes our hairline for today – When she's dyed, may this preamble serve as a prelude to a last kiss. Nostrils.

Abbadabbadabba day! Nakladany Hermelin keeps the doctor away. The long-legged bitch of a crime-laden. How-to-hold. Gotcha number. Mum and a two month wait till I'm offski. I'll be seein' you in all the young familiar places with cheese on me toast and pasta unda dat. Oh solo meo, I'm gone for good; give me your daydream and eat a dick. The scoffers may perm me but I'll still a footballer be – Help stop the influx of bleeding frogs and birdy hearts – oh thank the lamb for that holy mountain – Say me Say you send it bandit crosswires hatchet. The colour of our laptop and a mill-wheel. I'll be in touch me there one more time and I'll lose it. Thank you david černy.

Big metal fatty wheels in and burps beard on us all – who the heck does he think he is? His wife gave him that belt; brie the waistline. If only I could conjure and pots and pans were if and ands hand me down that brassiere.

"oh ho ho ho."

She laughs from a skeleton store of worn out plimsolls and flimsy friends. "I'll convince you," she think-fires.

Bars are flatulent and her tears like smelly gas-frosting. Hum it and I'll grailfrit. She cleans me and plays Jackrabbit on her tum tum, the video manages to and Harry never. I could have died under those knees for all the grass mattered. 15 minutes he says. 15 more like. My lord! My lease. A Vinohrady tailor-made for me and my baby, please. Taa muchly.

Grim.

Tim.

That firstly it's not properly – organisms and tendrils grass growing blow holes from the fat arse behind me. 'Coo coo,' ses you out your white block window gulf – Slope. Slip away to the kitchen and rage Michigan warriors fallen from epistobolic tickles – tripe tripe on the floor – what a bore – call the ambulance already – is he kidding?

Evil slopes. She wasn't combed; not 'jelly fish'-combed – I mean how many star spangled medallions can you wear?

"Why not try 5 next time?"

Wilde upon square upon lazy guys.

The bazaar is selling out.

One days, up on the broadwalks anyways – loud enough for ya? - a cattle brand named totem-pole rogered a wee philly for a ten cents bags of quiescence.

Addled! Addled!

What?

You forgot the best bit.

Oh yes. Webs-for-feet.

Yeehawww!

That snatch of a friend belies your ring tone – She works downstairs in the Jidelna – A shoe-in. I thought the beard would be something new, but they're 'hip' now.

Huff.

A resounding bicycle helmet worn askew like a temporal copper or Barney McGrew – I'm a private dick if you must know. Ever since I met her anywise.

The tits and corpuscles of a flabby pink-stripe you slop slop slop up the bandy cobble to your grape munching own-tune.

Ahaa!

SKY!

So I put the phone down like and she like texts me right away and I'm all like "Sharon, would you just fuck off!"

I'll be alright. It's all about Stairs. She's his old one, right?

Nope. Better looking.

Nope. Notnowshe'scloser.

Hope.

Thajsky that's redundant. An office block. I fucking loved all those fags.

That one not stop, but clippety clop.

All about...all about...legs and native Americans. The torn chest of a teenage dreamer. Roots.

Liver birds and teepees.

Grow Grow Grow your beard

Gently down your chin

Hairily hairily hairily hairily

Life should make you GRIN.

He's a Czech Kevin Keegan – flat-footed and smarmy. The Vltava; a wet, drunken army. Tongue-tied to a canoe you slept me on. Tears. Bride. And a leprachaun.

I curse you J.D.

I curse you Stone.

I curse you poverty.

I curse you Cold. War. Stale-mate.

"I believe me when I'm saying it. I just don't like to hear it. Grass is too fast."

"Catch up, man. The joint is your oar. Your ego, the river."

"Isn't it the other way round?"

"Whatever."

"Can't calm down. Didn't do a thing today."

"Did you see that man?"

"I'm folding up. I don't know what I'm doing. When do we camp?"

He's a punk.

She's a punk.

Boomboom.

I celebrate alone and I love this world.

Pat and Matt are taking it in turns to kill each other in the traffic. The stage was rickety, the gallows the same for two friends (or actors?) to die there infront of us. Our front row seats just as shoddy.

Eventually they took away the extra flooring and we suspected suspended we were safer. The dream a 'login' away. We were going to be covered in blood at that range but she insisted on moving forward.

Does a cloud even matter? Does matter matter? Is my thought a matter? Eyes are!

One hundred and twenty.

Bottles and books.

"I'll raise you one."

"SNAP!"

"If it were married to logic, art would be living in incest."

~

'Hotel' is a stupid word.

It has an 'H', and it has an 'L' at the end. And an 'O' and 'T' and an 'E'. Stupid.

~

Whoa light massage food.

~

Cuba cuba cuba cuba.

~

Squatting to pick up the sugar, sugar, ska beat wuffing around the heat like a grass fan warm reeds from the rivers of babies lone cowpokes gone silly over spurs and dears and how did you dos in that posh cat house they went to that time. I glance but don't pounce – some rubber cunt playing video games on his new stone in the cafe in sandles on drugs under the hippy hippy shade of a billabong tree. Top floor; metal FH. I'm sorry, I've got nothing smaller.

"How can someone be so happy so sad?"

"Genes."

"And Rogers."

Men were never meant to wear suits though these models. These ladies suit suits but never for work, never for offices of tight put words when raking in peace talks from your subordinate on helium high jinks waiting patiently for a pat on the head from the high heeled lunch matron, baton in hand and whispy haired quim. On your own knees now at her sugary bum fluff – can you dig yourself a burrow big enough for your whole scalectrix kit those Meccano bred lesbians provided for you all trammed from next door and budgets.

Hope you can pull it on over that fat head of yours. It's expensive armour and we're not 100% sure you deserve it. What will you do to earn the livery corruption of joint reach around it costs to make one more pillow fight amongst friends?

There's a raid!

He seems like something I'm supposed to remember but can't quite put my overdeveloped tendrils on.

~

I rhone and thatsasmuch sand song and rind. Elliptical rooks sparkle black in French Poetry under the moment you reach them and screech "Hold, I got the bullets!"

~

Hilltop over melted roller rink shame topless dames from their garrets in springtime to muster up a summons call to all and Sunday – Here's my midriff! Watch me bathe! A distant open space of gawping horizon – slam bells of happy holes one there here there of window molecules in butterflies collapse – I wish I were a caterpillar – something to look forward to then. I'll go over here now. Now cars in favours in sportsline and clothesline hung upside at factory levels now boss. Don't dob me in just yet. I'll get you something too. Something to look forward to.

Grim roar-racing four-doors hatchbacks and slingblacks and hand in hand they go bumpsidaisy. A fly? I thought it was my grandmother!

Leapt from the wall she said. Across the room, impossible thing – It must have been her – how else?

"Well if we're being honest – what are you thinking now?"

"I'm wondering what the sweat on you and your friends' tastes like."

"Whoa – hold on, that's a bit off – I mean that's a bit much – I think I'd like to end the conversation, I...I..."

"You asked. So we're not going to be honest then."

"Not if that's what you're thinking."

Now punch yourself in the face and drop dead.

Two. No, three couples rut their stuff to the hem of traffic seeds sifting on honk the occasional beep. I'll hold your job for 24 hours then you'd better have something good I can chew and chew and chew on these doleful August skies.

Make it a panoramic. That will be so intense!

Panoram' this! She sweats. Excuse me dude I'm a late reply and cormorant, hand me over hackisack I'll juggle you a feelix porn, go between the bestial breeze and shade me from the plummet – your goodies are coming up! Call 'em, they'll tell ya.

Oh, I got it all in perspective now – I'm bigger than all of it. Even the trains. Faster too. Two carriages there the size of my thumbnail. This should be a doddle – I can see everything I've done from up here. My world like some Francis Picabia squiggle from top to bottom.

~

~

Giggle now you're high up. Go on. Let your hair down.

Looking for some pattern in perfection in the movies in the books and the songs and the plays and the poems – some thing.

A feeling. A recurrent thought.

Striving to be better.

But easy. THEY.

'They' have done their job.

PASS IT ON – refine – Define. Cosine. Each moment a Godfather to the next.

Then...KILL 'EM ALL!

Gotcha! Gotcha! Gotcha! And I kill you all out of respect. Fuck you all – out of respect.

So, and , fuck it all respectfully. I mean it's only business – I'm just doing my job. We are the 'art mafia'. God was only the first to die. The first of many.

69. First in line.

You are none of you safe you big fat cunts.

I shed my skin – and wrap your corpses in the gets of my goat – sticks in my throat.

~

And so then – I'm covering all bets – All future books – All there ever will be or ever is. We don't own anything – We are just things wandering around the planet with legs on.

~

### SUPERMAN & BASEBALL

~

Lightning & Geriatrics

~

Art has been in conflict with Religion for too long.

Once the conflict has died.

Art also dies.

We are left with – Decoration + Joy – YIPPEEEEE!!!

### 644

Around the rugged rocks the jam-stand hamper van. A ran the mopey scupper for curtail and myopia. Celestial grain fall hot on my pallet, out radiate madness but you call it horse sense. Cane barbie dolls caned up right where you want it; a tiny vagina and a corpse for a bride.

Give over you telltales, give over you hacks, give over your tall wish of a life better lived; those choices you made were made in the playground, since then you loafers kept your infantile hid.

Should you gamble? Hell yes. It makes for better viewing on the oak-ship front handrail you skateboard Gaddafi.

Are you purblind? You betcha – hell-bent on tsunami – I'm pickled in a gesture the aliens might swallow. You can't sell money to a ketchup bottle in a tortoise race. Those and trinkets and lapses of time, those kettles and free-for-alls won't bring your father back to you. You lost him some time round the sandinista of a whole-headed be-pop crisis. John died for our SIMS.

Pretend me a family, I'll show you an antelope you can only fry in virgin giblets.

The old crazy man across the way sways to the sound of his own fountain as I bellow out the re-cookied words of a cranial shun shun bird. Dig those abs! Yon hero yells non-buts. Pure sequiters. Ham-string this it'll pass-live-Saturday night – it'll pass like 1980 and a hiccup of a seasonal xmas trout. Sweet & Sour hairdryer for a bald Muslim segway villain – cheap – slow – hat – catch. I left my home in San Antone for a radio throat warbler – Jump in the shower if you want another fix and don't think for a second I'm letting you near my smalls.

If I had my pyjamas, I'd be a rich man, a rich man indeed.

Is it outrageous to expect a bump up after 40 yrs on the merry-go-home?

Yuck drowning up, let's see what happens. Silence? One thing I won't do is tear away this 70s moustache of equality it took me a handful of smoke to imagine. Happy but crippled because I don't dance in the streets like you're used to.

I blame the parapets – soundslike a lookslike and talks like but they are really pod people from the antil-Akroid preamble. I don't want to get a loan – no need for a chief – I don't believe in Mother's milk – you are all of you all of you BLUFFING!

Sorry, did I turn that to my advantage? Pleaser forgive my forbearence – I couldn't have done it without you.

If you could just keep your moley hands off me for a cotton picking second diesel element refusal I'd betcha in a pinch these blue rinse bitches'd save ya.

KRTEK!

Smash that bin, me arms on fire! I swear, there's more stuff in that sandpit than a jesuits armistice, his gray tight wannadies still hangin' on his every word. It's the law I tells ya, keep it green!

Beauty fed the beast; gave him carbuncles, groaned when he bled and offered him a cheek.

"Slap this!" She cried.

"Hold this!" He grunt.

"Pull these!" She maled.

"Duck!" He fried.

"I feel like I'm in some Bee movie," she mlurmed.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he he.

Brilliant – I smell/feel like a gorilla/lion from the zoo/prisoner of Selma. Poor chuck got no heart for dis city.

Don't apologise if your name day lands on the same as Ramadan – There's an age you get to where none of that shit matters.

The trumpet charged with the strength of a bee blow-poop.

"What exactly does 'Hands across the water' mean?"

"Heads across the sky is what."

"I'll still wear bikinis when I'm sixty four."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

The rake on plate came bucket spade dig ran shark heart heart love metal plague.

Two ball shade fly bent the tractor over sandcastles luminescence and green brown leaf sound.

DIGGER!

Pooh!

Watering can!

Windmill can!

We all can.

Trowel out that bad sound sunk dug earth now and replace the master tape for a book-parcel you'd prefer to talcum powder.

And then the master kicks – You can't be – can be – Carbaby true is dat...

I mean, did that bus tell you anything?

The old sane lady across the other way waddles half naked in this heat like a pre-prepared angel cake stroke sugar powder frosting you can dip your wet finger in if you're a goo' boy.

Those bikini bottoms are bigger than my t-shirt.

HAYS!

~

A lazy leg wobbles like that, train sets and freedom – A grindhouse dark thirst and crave solipsism, onanist catapult rapture – broken pieces of furniture and hangovers – vandalism and fine wines – dining out on a mouthful of comment he put you up to this didn't he?

Holistic dentures and a runny nose – Pounding out your ah ah tishoo – blame the tracks and soapy feet of a youtube daniel day. Pink hovering cars droop lazily over the fat dog – Parakeets and pancakes, save the whale from cheap analysts and blue regicides – Black satin fashion lady baubles in on a tracksuit high heel – a waft of her pyjama aroma and a carriage built for two.

Oh, you're putting me on, you're putting me on – you're writing slower now your brain change same lame, what's my name? černého volé – call a tram and bag me a bald eagle – that ball was clearly in – hoist me up – crank that engine – rip those jeans – paste on a banana skin and the plaster cast mask raps fast as a doleful breast plate beneath her bar code – The greenery and treacherous eyelashes of a beauty queen dropout – They are lightning numbers – she behind the PIND.

I'm rame hobe cand ses too bray may hal round rome go gobe benedictus chad chide rade man hole lope bred make.

Chain beer melt came got lube well met.

Hate ray brand got ben hep gill aps chin rote mode bin. Bellemy cup. Wand ope mike ren enen gelf brine. Eat me.

Yesterday's people rote on the Amscray – waddle ya gonna do? Hammer rex stop grape gap manner hamp. Wipe this igloo clean and crystal wash bucket-brand-X save soul heap mix idol rape cheese.

Hees a messy hip scraper – Herna with her other her and a leg on her lap. Holding with pinched singed grins the handsized portion of a globe trotting issueless whore rubber.

I forfit this monster mash to two tulip fruit. Frugal excorcist dancing can cans in a Russian wedding overbite. Guffaws.

He'll do and I ran to you off the record let's just see if we can't. Newspapers older than time – you got a rhyme , penny pinch that pizza puff-eel loves you still.

Picante?

Ooh?

KAZOO KAZOO KAZOO.

So help me out a little – ya know? Throw me a bone here. All Tinita Tikaram and gospel folk links in one more hopeless case nigh on twelve victims bushwacked and scallified.

A photo does not an art make nor hanging branches and crucifix blend. I suppose. They had it more perfect your foot song.

Gone with the.

You smell like a sextet – Acapella bean bag – I seen your rump from miles away. That natural habitat of a womb hundred wendslidale – Greece simpering homilies and age old meanderers trussed up for the winter. I'll drink there everyday.

"Hey, that's that girl."

"Lucky strike."

"All women are beautiful."

"You wanton bagel bitch." Brandy snaps and stockings and rolled up pieces of paper thrown down the stairs which read 'Give us some more grub, or else!'

Creative people come here to change lives . The theatre of comedy. Clowns with dark skin – enlightened raveonettes – holing for a seat sign, bar tab. Glub – one for her too. Glub. One for her four.

Doublin' and haywain, the middle point, vanishing to a finger jabbed at a sheep – or some murder behind the curtain. I love it when you wax biblical – those religulous marksmen harpooned between know – don't know.

On the brink of elation it's nice just to be scribbling – even if I do have malalphabet a tad bandy. Yes we have a VGA to scart cable, but it won't work. Mutant UHLTZ.

You hard-bred and thinking shadow – depth rote, gone – pronounced goan.

1298 your taste of history – my oven – goodfellas.

With one's hint of pause....it's. This to paper what Věc Makropolous is to stage. His to leper what wasp nerozumíte is fax. Jo?

You'll never get there on time. I want to do it alone.

Like that guy and so, so proud to mention – unteal having said so he heh heh hos and the tragedy is spoke – Gothic pump of emil tide. He bearded the yin out of that, man.

"Bongo?"

"Yes."

A baby happy drowned in foreign weight of formaldehyde and toys – Gloop, string, handsome, band, opening night, highest heel, dizzy when you kiss – short moustache – alcoholic cousin.

"Here or takeaway?"

"Bingo!"

Spoon, uhm, union Jack, uhm, don't hug me.

Wasn't like that in my day – bakwen, muller miller and hammer sponge nose hair clipper.

Here's the old white jacket of a happy age – knees still supple – cartilage triumphs over gossip monkers. Hand, hand, hand and another hand.

The label not tellable in the ruffle of your lapel – the gas mark wrong written by a ten foot tall iablo outsider.

"What you doin' there, mister?"

BUNG!

Absolute circle-child like a pendulous route to Andromeda and lighter fuel – Oh My!

Hang that then I felt it.

"Wot happened?"

Disappointed. Chrome. So yupe beem mound heck fans – Ole my introscope – bleed – deen – hoke.

"Have you shot yourself in my foot?"

"Probal."

"Dram."

Bang

Oh well.

Come in the door. Make it better..................................................

~

Broke in with the eye perspicatory complimentarian bride-strain - Off me, you safari gonnadie. No.9 is the one handling misprinted mist on the Vltava boat boatswains – Hi captain Hi low, Hi tally , Hi Ho – Lonely Nike foot hikes up the skirting board and repels all red cross donations of succour, candour, Elmore and Daz. Don't hold against me what I don't have in me. God wouldn't want things like that neither – we're talkin tricks from a devil's hat – Rabbits'n'that – Go on, take a good luck – take a fucking photo why doncha? It'll last longer – Check your watch now – one two three...GERONIMO!

Hell's bells those sausages look good enough to put stockings on.

One of those days you stole about but never breamed – Jebus and all his cronies never fatuated such peripheral – was she hooked that pamphlet – was she reeled the monster truck inside with one cough of her vajayjay.

Everyone is either waiting or selling.

Death to the salesman. Just you wait!

Seig Heil Monica Bellucci – Gas masks on and a brunette sucker punch –

Try me, I've seen me, the slap-headed husbandry – the clam roasted Helleny broad fingered rogery. Tout le monde in a sparkling blue retina; a bizarre mobil of the times.

One trip to the candy store – A root beer and maybe more – a butterfinger – acorn slinger – not the best – look to the left. A squeaking heroin addict clenches his crack round the hand

A second hand bail bond – a lollypop for someone else's root canal – a fiver for your misery – get down and give me fifty .

"Now?"

"For the rest of your measly mouth."

Probably Asian, she's got garden wings.

Cute how he drools over his own syndicate – His girlfrienz shallow kitty – Griff Rhys Roars out the tram – "Fuck off Russians!" Proud of the pariah they cremated.

The juice and crinoline adrenalin pumped arm fold into the ten-time mache; papier frape – gang rape, baby; ain't nobody here but us chickens. Cluck.

"Do strippers wake up this early?"

"The Iranian talls and evil eye, binoculars, blondes and a roll of the die."

"I see..."

"The giraffe and cold-cut, part back hand..."

"I hope I never see you again."

There's nothing less attractive than a busy woman.

Nothing more attractive then a busy man.

Nothing more unnerving than a drink-free party.

Nothing more relieving than a bottle-filled pram.

Ever been filled with a poem that just won't come out? Ostentatious constipation – Gathered round wee penny pranx? Byoon?

Hope Alois a suspension geek. The sun ravishing the day like a toothless sewing machine – Gumflaps and Gaviali – The underwater circus of a gun-toting scally. Happy today because he doesn't have to go to work.

Just sit swigging rotted pims from his mother's armpit Gelf.

Past all recognition now – the cafes buzz with Indian summer – the shock-tide of a lit-up sky on a lightning night turn on and offable. Red Dwarf snook in by the C.I.A. as a sit-com - under our raw noses –

"I would never judge a person by the colour of their skin – I judge them by the size of their nostrils."

"Hymen."

Hodge Podge – Hershey bar – A&W superstar. Kárlovo náměsti up in the bubbles sagging limbs and sunglasses to glide behind Pheromones Feroputic, violence like like.

"Hit me!"

"No, Hit me!"

"Don't invade my body space, man; where do you think you're walking? I'M SITTING HERE! Hold up,...now you're a kettle from a different story...

Bag 18, sullenbride; tender brogue, a rough diamond, a slinky heifer, a cowish prude, Blakes seven caught up with you and wrestled you to the ground, all the foreknowledge of a Nepalese bookie, all the hindsight of a heshl feshl.

"I woden have eaten bun I was Hungary."

Fat bikers and pony tails, briefcase and a lesser spotted shot putter. These are the peaboils in my neighbourhood. I write like a cat shits; hidden in the bushes – away from 'Hi'-ing pries.

Smoke up that goldfish policeman plod – this park is for haranguing strangers only – blobble.

Swaddling clothes of a bumble bee rakes progress in my trouser thigh fake buzz from hip solve phone occasion, latterday hemel hempsteads grown filthy with size. Wash behind your fears dears. Hudsucker seers the sheer fancy from the snazzy red car you born – go on with you, that was never three dummies in one gob – that's a two man job!

The church of time chimes two times every time, the lamp shines like mine and with this sore throat, I thee bed.

Big red, milk duds and a big head – This clock smeels mainly. Rocky road in on an Italian neutrobeam.

Frost beat Nixon, sneezing vixen. Jack lost a Frost, whose the boss?

Sounds don't rhyme – rings two times

Rings two times – me moo moe.

God never wanted pictures flying through the air – You got visitors.

Soul well cheap chest weasels and a rickety arm twix shingles and a dose of suck. Your life not worth a plug nickle or your sure moves outside the box.

On the Q.T. we see there's one hit in the making – He won't twinge when it sinks and. Cover the lamb now lark weak with a rub and a there there – Go on suck! Suck up ya lady chimp.

Stir crazy on a bunk bed of fame. Dozy doe and a broken leg driving the wedding banquet – a portable beach and a baby for a Daddy – Diamond fish and mushroom lip readers – Man, didn't I look good in that suit –

"Yes you did – and ya know – one day – I'll get you out of this dump."

"Jesus, you couldn't get me out of this prison if I was pardoned."

The dope rattles red tape now – a windshield smashed afore ye.

A special for louts and toys and scouts – fell down Mum, fell down and hurt me knee.

There there gummy – hommona suckle hommona burp hommona suckle hommona sing sing. Hunger's always a hopeful sign and a book about everything that is to come. Thanks for them cards. The hearing aid came in handy too.

"Did Sol call you yet?"

"Not since LOL."

"Those things really go faster than light?"

"Tootsie Rolls?"

"No neutrino beams."

"Artists steal the world's energy."

"Not fast enough."

"Come on you morons!"

"Yeah, come on you morons."

~

"No use Tony, if business keeps up like this – "

"If you don't pay me – ya can't fire me – is good no?"

Can't lose on a hundred dollar tip claim this claim that claim up and tell me you didn't just spend that money on someone other than yourself!

Steam room shame spray clean the looming dame she socked us silly in flute regarded can can – tin tin – Dum Dum –

"I know, yeah."

Sleep a little – get well soon – ignore the sun while it's still half done open wide put peas inside the greens and a means to carouse the horse and carnival dread. This fantasy trilogy symphony infamy – I'll let that one go but I'm keeping it shut from here on in – s'between me and my donkey –

"Oh we don't have that expression."

"No but the season is perfect."

See that fairy pirhouette across my dropcloth – her shadow spread thin over the bread-white cupboard shorn deeper than longer and faster than stronger – A quick case.

Good glue! That was easy.

Don't lets be friends, I couldn't take the sense – elbow your way over the brow of that pencil and watch the lead in your heart – the hole in your stomach and the plastic in your leg – Hunker down now and beg for just a sec', I'll be with you in a jif'.

Harry.

Happy go lucky didn't get far until he tuned up and went country – I belted out a cowboy tune and the crowde wente wilde – West hep don't forget the cocoanuts for husband slippers so you know where the hell he's off to and what the hell he's up to –

You don't want to end up no ironing-cat slunk bulky beyind no frickin' wardrobe – unwhite – not yet glue – formerly a date name – plastered pack in time to remember you by – as if the bruises weren't enough –

Carpet burns drawn in toothpaste to cover up the aim of it all – "The aim of it all! Johnny – you remember the Beetles. They sure as heckfire remember you."

I can hear your son shouting.

Your son crying.

Your son slamming.

Bath time.

~

12 minutes for heaven's help – Marry's greased onto your shirt tit – Ooh how you waited for your yoga.

~

Seven severed swats and glory holes for mouths, gangling up the jehosovat to chrome cached tall hoofs – sed what? When said? Hell caps and jewry born, from cradle to Košily and tiger scorn leafing through her bifocals and primordial leggings we see past her pastor...do I know you? 35 crowns and you are a sympathetic Englisher; fifteen minutes late is nothing short of a.

"We're sitting downstairs."

"Course you are, love."

"Cardigans or The Cardigans?"

"Cardigans."

"You look like the most diligent person in the class."

"I'll tell me Mother."

First Wednesday of every month like a siren copulating with the trust of calamitous dingbats. A contradiction in sperms – Navy intelligence. Seaman stain on your reputation as a dandy cloth wrapped mine-sakes and a peppermint helmet hugged by a smurf.

Which pick the Prague one currently, let flow the dope brained eye shizzle. The gang, a breen-coated whosayme.

Blend. Blend.

Brobe yume and hake pronounced hungry but for the shit in my blood and the steel in your smile.

Tongue-settling Analogue for ceremony sisters all cake-like noses and shins. Coke-muscles wine lane, pulling up on the outshine a mermaid's hymen hidden –

Stone cold oval bloke lisps askance whyfore and sheebs all 'Naaaahhhh' can't so. Anytune we'll fillup. Bop bop cry try.

Who wears those smokes and kills time.

"We are digitally smoking ourselves to death."

"I agree with everything we've just said," grin the size of an apple chin.

We can't all look like James Dean.

Helen! Helen! What's the forecast. 80s lector pop? Gwaaan. We're all made of stars; what makes one betterthananother?

Nearness. Timing. Breasts.

The ease of everything IS priceless. These chairs change her masculine horse features dimples and rectitude in hoc proctor sense wains. I can see it. You can see it. Ya think she loans her skills illusion bounce.

"I'd've gone up a bit more there – Prolonged it."

Why should or would a pub? Crystallised acid puke, red bulbs, green bulbs-pinks and blacks accumulate and the vase has a whale of a time. She's not being unfair; it's just that everyone here IS a cunt. That cheese is wearing the socks of an Egyptian mummy.

"I dreamt you were happy."

The train there left for some other picket fence you undertake to wire mesh. The sleeping cowboy curses his satchel rodeo dinner bread winner – watchagonnadonowbluto?

### LIE DOWN AND COMPOSE YOURSELF

It reveals myself to me.

~

I will break your neck now you are finally here – hear the crack coke spleen of a coal minor's helium fix unkempt – bereft of uhuh uhuh and lip curling rock chicks – Code name cold cold murder – that film shits on the original from a great height.

Hair caught between the pages of your own high – cough it up increasingly blue over the way things carve.

Colourful criminals and red white and blue penguins cap it off with a gramaphone waistadaisy – hillbilly compartmentalisation of that hell you picture when you run out of cleenex on a rainy day – lay back and initialize; the lower is the high.

Eight at joy or some smoke-filled pit of jostick Julies and nurses to help you come off when the magazines suck.

"Will you pay me?"

"Will YOU pay ME?"

"You can't handle the truth."

"YOU can't handle the truth!"

In the smell goes the enmity of the cathedral we call wasteland.

~

Stole a kiss at the turn of a mile; curios robbin me memory-blind – Hackenbush! They're here!

"Raid! Pleb crap kong."

My party, my woos.

Help me down with this thingy wuddya, the weight is indelible. The bald cupcake inhead of me – New York hoodie and polystyrene pants – with – electricity and a cheek hair showing when I read. Short stockings and chequered daughters trudge from sensible shoes and Goulaš.

"How they make 'em so pretty? All those dumplings."

I saw you looking uncool – your eyepads and wherewithals – dungarees and fantailed toosh.

The Russians are sure no mosaic airbag – at least you can say that of 'em.

"Look at her boots and roofs."

The thisness of the things; more drool than words. I only stop acting when I'm drunk.

Bata, Geox, Go Go, Mana.

Ghostly tome – hospitality gradually – Sevenape trainspots.

" _How'd you do dat den?"_

Festival beer help says laid from the stairwell and multi-spattered refrigerator in the yard in the deep NOEL. Where are the once had great colour? Lame beggars walk on in a seasonly helmet –

" _You shot him! It's your fault."_

" _You're right – Let's sing a carol."_

Like a red belted cocomb of water half glassed – Is it THAT makes you roll across the floor like a dog biscuit? Set up the rude stone frosted Gandalf and let rip one for the lads – all that – rome that – holiday sprats cost less than much less said.

Craps shown face up! Let you in even dangling. Holding Fort Mexico from Angel to Wild Castle – the ladies strewn and happy and laying flat out in the rattle of an exploding wine bottle – Did you rally? Did you flyer? Is she ready? I hope so.

Swiggin' stole you roped me in and up and fecund da matter over mindfulness, yodel breach-tongue listed softly my incumbent dentures. Cockney light bulbs make for anoraks and provisories. See dark make up and run. Skinny with joy she rakes in my progress as a human. Pipe up doll face; you can grumble all you frickin' need to – I'll outweigh that twonk every time – Lip over lip, lab over lab. Untuck yourself Jack and seatless foam at the trap that's your gob till a greek old turn as a troll or a geezer.

" _Give us a leg up, Striker. I got this great idea for a tombola."_

## In the middle of it all, there's a director and it all goes swimmingly

Disclose child – Don't be a dome about it. Glass hat trills into tap shoes hell kissed by a neck.

Bless news.

Bless news all.

"Could we please?"

"Diddle you by Dada!?"

That one went to market left pieces behind the scene and was noisy – Oh I mean NOY – SY...

That's curly shoes for I-RONE

....shuffle – Don't break dance before you me heedle your maker – let that be a Leeson Street for you whom.

"I mean, I just like being around you, y'know?"

And by rote we heckled the very shelf we put on –

"Why be so?"

"I'm not shore." Wave at the people Michael. Wave at the people.

"You've got black on you."

Lint carp pattern goal grate lake fang scene.

"When Tim's dead that struck me strong back loud does same surprising quite walls flat glasses."

"Okay, where is the Scrooge and Marley sign when you come in fighting Fred says Marley again so come in it's a nice touch."

"More logical."

"That's more logical."

### The Marquis came back at two.

~

~

The tractor race was good but I thought it would be faster.

Gargamel and Zebediah lead the pregyptians to the swollen land of garibaldis and juice. Bee sting from a triangular plastacian right of the pools for eyes.

"Luckeee."

I don't see how the day could have ended that way up burritdid. Wandering around in a fit of delirium; a lost child on a highway teeth dangling and forensic epicentres grew on his stroke his tongue for a week or so what if it hurt his ribs when he sneezed?

Sodomise the beanpost trick – that was tremulous.

Gatspin, I been roun' this home damn wurl' an I yaint see noffin like Dammers. Pretty Special. It don't take a freedonian to know you got the wind spies. I got the wind spies and I don't even know it.

Hotspur had more toast and jam than I did and he did, oh he did, yes he did.

Grab a pistol, I'm off out for the day.

So, I'll finish me road.

I'll eat the peach.

I'll cream my load.

I'll leave the peel.

I'll send thy will.

I'll cap it off.

I'll take you out to dinner.

I'll see the show.

And you gotta hope the tooth stays put; it's be a shame-faced dyke proved this one an armistice. You wrote to her too, Huh?

Then a quiet limit like the house is too small or the ceiling too fall or the tea too hot or the kufr kumquat. She makes no noise like a.

### He's so much more than a monkey

Me. We.

Tee. He.

They do it for the tea. The bline an' addled pursuit of money. I will prep if you give me one good reason to share; other than care.

"If it's true, it can't be spoken."

"Really?"

"Mmm hmm."

~

Wake up from this dreaming state. I'm dying to begin again.

~

You suggested the razzle dazzle not me – sole purpose.

Hands that judicious are bumpsidaisy – Hold rampant.

Stale beef plimsolls pulled apart at the gums – Christian slayfold.

Elderberry noncomittal resevoir hamper – Glad you lake it.

Go go gadget.

Samo twit caged low below the Raki handjob she applied rightly so so to me bird.

Latte apple top crumbles a fiver into his red tea and plinks on his sitar from inside its/his very own cabinet – The discomfort of being one is always half the fun – She don't sit down cos' she don't have haunches – Naah, I prefer to only have lentils in my man-soup. That gaffer's too lampy.

String beam sour mash in her overlooked nose and underseen items. Hold on there missy, your cable's are gettin' tied up with your Kundera – Are you still writing?

Charlie Brown sets a short back and slides into first base.

"What's this?" They cry, "A Triumph?"

The muse belies but hemp dress falls to the flower. I'll raise you three heckles she would go down on her knees for one more bickie. Dreaming of cookies by the marrow, she beholds the cake tin of misery like a basketball the size of the world held in the mit of a bully child named Fatso-got-any-boots-today?

Barefoot being lepshi than those bulbous earphones riding you skull and burrowed – I'll learn to play a violin and then I'll perform the Casandra upstaged on a cello – look deeper young man, yumay hiccup the cobblestones out of your lungs and grate them into his bean polevka yumay.

"When we're together, every day is a snow day."

"When you snow, I fall together."

"When you fall, I spring to mind."

"Spring to mind, like roses and flowers growing?"

"No, like bed springs; but yours is better."

Ne ne neeeee.

Yo.

God bless you jerry mental men. I graze at the sight of your sore; I mean what are you, like nineteen?

I helm the one you waited for on a chrisp mass and file pound note of muso bending to the homeless whim of a crankety badger of a sailor landlocked and Friesian without no scarf or Mum to bail him out of the dry bath that he calls shame. I blame the antics and the Aquarians.

I blame the zoology of his grape-growing ministries. If they could only keep the noise down for seventeen seconds he may have time for a notion.

I want to bury my head there – my head and a few other bits of me – then dance the fucking Nutcracker till I explode.

Reach – Sale – Grab – Spring to mind.

~

Finishing the last as a leafless winter burnt brew close to the lover's lane of an evening's community centre and a hint of autumn melancholy – The dark unnerving comfort of a tightrope cold/warm; The tip toe throat clearing of a postman lost – wandering the low hung clouds like a demoted Santa

– Clubbing children to death with a half cheese-eaten smile in his bluebottle eyes, bitter, mild wolfsbane and hapless – Just crosses your path and periferals but felt like a tart stab of whisky long forgotten but the bruising still smarting like homefed leprechauns clammering for proof of your existence simply so they can disprove theirs.

Feathers for ear-rings, Vampira streak of peroxide through her shining mane, telepathy two-lips and the eyes of Cleopatra –

The fleur de lis of a concern. The Christmas music lyric of an I-Pad she scribbles on in pencil like an ankle-biting podcast. Look in the bag and see wotcha got.

wwww.hazzzard.czzzzzzzz

"What were you wearing the day you tumbled?"

"I never remember clothes and shit."

The kid says he can change worlds.

"I have won many competitions."

The professor makes notes but he is less sure of himself than the nervous interviewee.

"Ever since I was a child I wanted this."

The professor recalls the first time he heard that carol on the radio.

"I'd fuck her if I wasn't married." He thinks of the underage cutie on the other side of the room.

~

The mozek slowed – slow punch bowl of sequential resuscitation – breathe in – breathe out – breathe in – breathe out – you've only one clog away out of town on business this Tuesday and I'm afraid its evil twin is licking at your neighbours heels. Helen pulls at her tight knot of hair and pinches her nose in such a way as her colleague winces at the sight of too much nostril – A Roman gnome of flossed veins protruding like Madonna on the beach or the ankle-less form teacher my second cousin drooled over in a Steve Austin costume I coveted. They're younger than they seem most of the time – All of you rise now. Rise from the drowned car boots and scamper home to your hobs and rads – they floss you too.

It's jobs ruin relationships between humans. The distance in the waiter's demeanour – that he even has a demeanour. Demeanours ruin lives!

~

80,000 leagues of YES. Light make-up and holyday boughs to a king mouse and a burgundy thief – A blue rose for who-nose and a tricycle for what-eyes.

The dull gray of a tickle of a scratch is seen looming over the horizon's yardarm.

"What ho!"

"Ahoj!"

"Hey there!"

"Got any gum?"

### YES

Christ – I love Christmas. And couches.

Same rain fat broad with two shots of Tequila, and what size of a milky bitch was she dropopped her keys during the divorce proceedings – but hey ginger, we made a mistake.

"Put some more water in the bucket Ma, I love to hear your poo go plop!"

"Heads up!"

~

A regal possession – a formal arrangement – a child's passion – a key parole – denim boots and stereo.

A bit less gob.

A little more legwork.

They stole that bit out of her stomach with a silver bullet. Now gozzy-eyed like a child again – him dramatizes.

~

No one ever really warmed to him – like Robert Duval.

I'm holding back – I can feel it. And oh, for the love of Mike, The Nutcracker broke his two front teeth too! Fuck it – I'll flay my skin and I'LL be the back drop – as long as I can make myself useful.

~

Can you say Moulin moustache? You must be doped and red for an E.E.G. saline and corpse for the magnetic fields on Bosworth Field and a shifting icetop towards a slushy Dulsinane.

I beg your pardon, are you quite up to snuff?

"Oh why yes – by all means – explode them!"

I'm Winnifred like I catipoled from her yellow crack of a window when. She's stroking her whiskers below the pane and you can see, just to the right there, Peter Pan peeing his tights. She's dressed in panto green; a youthful lass refuses to push the snooze on this calamine not-won.

It's raining

Pouring

Old man

Snoring

Bed-

Head

Couldn't get up in the morning –

How boring –

"You crooked taled coward; tell it like it is."

"I yam I yam..."

"The fall seems to have scrambled his memory."

"Good....good."

~

Redoubling bound of misty fairies careen off the blood-white walls of these fixtures – to be out and about levitates celibate mind walking and lessons the hap of a frisson.

Outfree where the joob joob birds play and the kava kava kava runs Jahmed all day. A clove and local one-for-all beanbag jubillates the swim swam of an Offenbach and Judenmayor – they'll burn 'im one of these days.

Soldering a hamstring bypass to the next world of legs and leisure – I don't hate these people or this life – I just find myself in a junction of neverending possibilities – each one happier than the last lasso of pain I make my Mum.

Left and left and left again –

Can you stand to be here in the false of your own prematch –

Is this the grovel you would proffer?

I mean I woulda never sat so close to the window unless I loved all of it –

Strike one.

Put the ball in a cup and let it roll where it maidez.

The tendons of a feeble sandstorm lash thought-shows round my heart – glass ample amp Rommel sugar perplex bells jingle. You hear 'em. I know you hear 'em.

So Shrew

So Gatsby

So Frump

So Square

So Mumsy

So fat

So docile

So Czech

So where's the love at? More hate and fear than benevolence – This is how you wanna play it?

The sidekick vampire has become a seven year-old bully child egging on Disraeli cheers some hope of a boardwalk cafe and rose-tilted stare: asks "You there?"

"Can't be too clean now can you?"

"Makes 'em look dumb."

"There's the anthem again." The professor thinks. "It's a sign. I am to drop dead at the stroke of midnight."

All a ling long he dreamed it would crawl along in just such a manner. Lennon's harp teaching toons to greedy specs and camera cheats.

What may the nipples be?

Not solemn enough for a museum of torture – not festive enough for a sacrificial limbo. Doc Martins and beach boys make hay while the soon shies – bubble jackets and guide books below, sag at the ocean bottom sagging. I could droog a little more but the sharp bit's sore.

He's got a tuba; she's got tight buns; he's got a gob on; she got African jewellery; he's got a Van Cleef rain coat; she's got ten years on her she never counted on and dresses like a postmeditating murder.

The truth – like a dog – sics on cruelty first; that's why people are wary of it – The truth cannot be told lest it is trained – All lessons are lies born to be misunderstood – (understood by different people differently)

Truth means never having to say you're sorry.

Truth means looking for the weaknesses in the scaffolding –

Too precarious an existence for anything more than a fetish uncovered and derisive laughter – A chess board beginning and a few words well chosen. A good lie down beats a stab at variable truisms anyday. A good shark steak and fuck the fuzz.

~

Endo screels his father's name as he chides the door; hitching up his back banjo so the Nellies don't bark.

Scurries in as handsome as a crow and all went well.

A diamond flack and fifty year-old snow job – Tata, Endo, Hanyo and Michult. The four eyes of his doom. Eight if you count the storm. It's not the theyness of it; it's the aroma of nostalgia that permeates a thoroughbred of a meme stat dashes a course cross the frost bit meadows of a snug camouflage canal.

"Yeah, I've heard of people getting nose jobs, but I've never heard of anyone getting a hand job."

Hug me now, you one-armed bastard. Now put me down, I need to pee too.

"I want a leather-topped coffee table."

"People in hell would like a leather-topped glass of erm...but people don't always...I....wait."

Truth is women look older and men get lazy – so here's to face jobs and boob jobs and a healthy Hawaiian diet of virgin pina coladas and the penny drop of a philosophy which not only wisens, but hardens within an inch of listening and a heartbeat of reading, a leg-stretch of cardio vascular Christmas warming and a hole make believed nurse's duty – cum in this receptacle for me Mr. Need a hand?

"You look like someone I know – off telly."

"Don't run like that."

O'er the army fatigues he trundles with his arm-flaps rubbered to his hip-hip.

Andalusian bags of Chinese food and a plum in your gimp's boosh.

And we look at 'em like that – like a puffy-eyed soul giver – steer clear of those bars, barfly, there's a cloud of smoky red jizz in the what-would-be of your irises.

~

I see them naked

I see them skeletal

I see them sperm

I see them child

Now now – not no how – no know-how. The end of the worm as we hoe it. Soz bud. Hack – Hack.

~

### GENIUS BISCUITS.

"I would rather die now than suit up at six every day."

"You already did."

"I see – so we're wide open then. There, see – the truth ain't so bad."

"You can't write if you don't relate."

"She's got nice hair."

Whence you slow it's a conversation blooms ladle like a school feeded troll – A troll you don't ream every day but would Ryker. The wrinkles don't count if you never let up on the top to toe and tangles. Brush the salty breen from your fringe and lean back into the afternoon custom made for one.

I'll tell ya later. In me roll up neck held ear to phone lemons he gave you. You say "Fuck the lemons and bail." And he laughs at that.

Their language as constant as their hair – bouffant like a salmon bagel or bulbous like a padded bra – they lisp over biscuits and tea and pretend to be free – gargle the truth till it's indecipherable between the streaks and dye; it's all a lie.

The English village hailstone, hops and brew tome follicles – Alsatian brain wave – black child spelt comfort – finally kissed.

First off you've got to be clever to say clever things –

Like a cute puppy doing cute puppy stuff. Go ahead – pat the genius, watch him beg for more. Feed him, but be sure and let him know where the toilet is before you go. The genius will need to poo.

~

The phone flows me straddle the ankle socs – the cushion a pattern before it's even conceived – the ceiling a concept before it's even odd. Sloping thataway to your Mom's golden ass. Hello Mr Eleven, you certainly do have a cheek.

~

The too cool hammock of ache trills like a dumb gargoyle scratched by menus and trumped by hauntings. I memorise that street. I memorise that French. She's just warming up, man; don't get so flustered. I cannot see if I don't keep moving, an' I only wanna see because I've been told there are sharks the size of cups out there – otherelse I'd stay in bed where seems the sale of stuff that's sold by sad drunks still out there.

I promise to be good from here on in (ibulieve) lord Ibalgin; if you would please stop this twat of a toothache, I'd climb back in the womb and start over – but Mumum would be furious.

The Christmas decorations all wear glamrays and appear so serious this year. Fucking well brushed, well bred readers – where the hell are all the filthy baubles?

I'll leave it to lapel and seminary bobble hat dashed frast out them door – wish wish till still – Froop! Off come her coat – Swoon! Down go her defences – Waiter – Waiter there's a bean in my stoop....HOWL!

Then the farmyard smiles its bandstand gravitas – all hands and feet for the taking glad tiding – dark warbling of psychobilly Christmas songs born gruff of a comic penchant for role reversal and a torn tight or two – Aunty Pauline played plenty of the punch called happenfall – Hey Yaaa – they all miss those parties and bootlace come mace would pass on the gene but up wends tomb that grieves mainly opiums and and, I never enjoyed those trips that much anyroadup.

Kidsulsuffer

Diesalsuffer

Weyoom – Christmas cake.

The burnt bit

Stir

The fresh bit

Stir

The thigh rise building of a fish net fetish – a cross between a lion and a lion, but different lions – herein lies the secret (lays the secret) of misread moments and dunderstood words – half flapped explications wound down the bottom of a basking robin. Ice spikes to the head; thoughts you couldn't even slipper.

Russian girl – "Czech's easier for me to pick up than you because.."

English boy – "..you're clever."

Russian girl – "Ha ha, you have a nice sense of humour. That is good."

The car still rattles at the sides of the roads skipping pedestrian Depps and bubble wrap sentinels – message sudden rap singer springs into view – aim fire – massage.

~

As low as you show there's a bottom line and bar serving whisky-go-get-'em – A Flamenco memorial knee slapping wet T-shirt contest and one more episode of the likely lads – Everyman renamed Carl.

Everywoman – the wife apparent.

### You are now in Bedford falls.

A bright burning sun beyond the black night –

Extraordinary claims in a Cadillac encounter - 1961 – Hey Dulcie, you got your Canadian whip at hand (at paw) – you got your gate trailing at your molar high. Of course there are aliens – and they smell different – like a multi-coloured blockage or a Ner fit told violin stroke cummerbund.

They took a couple aboard.

The dog stayed behind.

Most country lanes lead to - one more turn and a better sandwich – a book in hieroglyphics but hammered into the winter earth with the coat tails of a totem.

Me and my magnifier are gargantuan but lopsided from your craft – Don't get all eyebrow on me – we have secrets buried inside all of us. I recognise my people's codes. I still remember.

Carnac and Luxor, Teth and Rosetta stone – 1828.

I intend to charter the boats that floated up to the surface now – Ghost ships well travelled from shoal to shoal.

The mundanity of a pilgrimage one hour from the cafe trail blazing M&Ms across the fields of Athen's rye.

I'm not leading you up no garden's templar – I'm coming up the précis and applying an alphabet – Implying an epoch.

I truly was colossal when I arrived – you drank me and buttered the cat up. Eyeballs, wavey lines and a lot of birds –

"You get better results if you don't think about it too much."

"Is that an obelisk down your trousers?"

One of us precocious notes ring tru – Blakes seven and a half now we've born the little one in a dream she had. Dark haired looks like me, so looks like God then – By rote.

The trouble with that being the folding bit.

Bend the twig root loft cover anderton file mix tape – A bride through a flower trailing leaves of soil Mum made special like so you didn't need to go to Hornbach. Wound round flesh tones and ankle white gray – tautology of onanist ego chin-ups. The Christmassy outro gone a tad Enya – bit much for me that – still, on her hunkers she looks like a Chuck Berry holiday.

Until nature gets creative with us we should be still – rest your temples a while – two thumbs advantage, an electric banjo, bongos and a crock of shit.

"I ain't jumping through no hoops till you get the toilet doors fixed."

It all goes two ways even though the in-out of it is circular wink-a-penny.

Backwards or forwards it's still all the same direction – an ontological reflex for a handstand priestess guesses ownership of a triad bus shelter office bloke; he who helps her off with her Rowan Atkinson impersonation can wear her crown of porn Marimba.

"That's a moot point." She.

"Moot point!" He.

Ham knees.

Reading Playboy on a tactical bomber.

I'm a slim wasted secretary of a dundercloud – "How's the powwow goin'?"

Brain grain and grizzle burnt radios, all slats and Venusians turn away with a smirk and claim "It's rude to write in red."

"Funny not much choice." She.

~

Shunted lol troll peanuts scooped nay hoovered her salad and beamed confident sayence.

"That was my idea." Nicely – Over the way – like overwooded particulars and cutlery maimed the beast master, projecting Mandy.

"I'll flail you if you do it right – ignore you and tell all my friends if you do it wrong – Now how much do you need?"

Play it polite chewy apple slices – Gorey turns out to be the name of the place your great grandfather lived – Maybe he really did plant a tree.

"For the love of all things reasonable; I'll do it!"

"Huzzah!" they brimped and hell we paid. Yeah.

~

I write as you knock down the door.

Crumbs, that was labia; delve – elf – rice – sugarless pud. Cope.

Inaction is often the best 'action' of all – reaction, the palest. Contraction, outlying and offworld we pray for plums, healthy gums and metal Mums.

With all the time up my sleeves I can ring up Dionysus and hit that serendipitous beat till he curls up in a ballon and joins me on Martian soil. Soil being the imperative of the inner why – mud. The margarine glowing on a black girl's pinky nail – underage and leaking. She says it all wrong in the heavy lighting of the cameras. Slinky and underage for what by what?

I promise I'll play that tune as soon as I find it. Now pop your top off. Gold lettering and the comfort of a silver spray can.

Simon Wanfering does whatever he wants – no one tells Simon what to do.

"Someone says "Simon, touch your toes."

"No." Simon goes.

Someone says "Simon, touch your nose."

"You can't touch 'No's." Simon goes.

Simon says "Fuck off!" and helps himself to a crabby patty."

When he gets home he feels peachy and naps –

Has Schnapps.

Fills in the gaps.

Big baps.

~

I don't have to look when you cook.

~

Our day will come; I mean they were playing that song on the radio in the limo when you got married to her. "We are young – We run free – Keep our teeth – Nice and clean." Funny. Sunny.

"Fledglings speak foreign languages. The originals never got past Egyptian."

"Dig deeper dan dat Derek, you are fucking inches from the universal G-spot..."

Elvis cat-king eats the birds in the pyramids – like old people dancing at the wedding – Birds + dinner – Correlate the birds with the stars and you have a billion tweeting twinkling hors d'œuvre.

And that's an 'M' and that's an 'R' and I don't want a fucking car.

Elvis cat-king eats bricks and stares at birds –

"You looking at me or chewing a brick?"

"Like, both."

"No we ain't gonna mutate – we'll just change back."

AM SOLARIS

"No it's not a dream."

"You are drunk."

"No....not drunk."

The 22nd century thanks you.

Thinks and symbols.

~

Great imampossible I'll.

Could have had only one arm. Could have had no eyes. Got zome welt shuttle jazz. Lazy days and crazy nights.

"You want money – Go and get some money. I gather she cleaned those large nozzies before she thumbed those skinny legs in woolly tights up the shoot holes and played out a large-titted Xmas lullaby with her toes on her teeth."

"We live longer – s'why you shouldn't get hitched till much later. If we lived till 300 would you marry at 20?"

Now we both drown in a black sea covered in parachute like squid sick kicking and punching for xmas corals.

And she found the wolf's head, the skull of it, and she put it on her own head and got down on all fours and made like she was the wolf. And this guy comes up to him and says there's a message for you; you must go down to the river. Find a place near the river.

And she says "Why else would I have bought a house 40km away from the city?

It's the end of the world as we know it."

And he laughed and said "It's always been like that."

"Do you recycle?"

"Hello MAGGI!"

~

Woes come to woes it's a toss up between Stoke on Trent and purgatory – A trite squeeze in anybody's pocket book. The accent gives it away – Indian – Indian beside gullible strudel around seventeen but tipping. Cream and denim and a wraparound and salt seller propounding axioms unalterable and defiant. You read it all and you still didn't get it.

"Atishoo!"

She's gonna need a bigger chair.

~

Killing two birds by any means necessary.

~

What I did and didn't on my holidays.

The yawn of close horns in dewflap dawn inspread yet though he's been and.

The pack light trunk May of a short Beetle freestyle down and up hill all the way to Porthwen. The winter settlement on church steps and friend's foreshores – believing and blessed with Jesus blood. Steps at half-life. The rise and rise of the odean football-seat to seat overlording the dancers moving like they bedaman. A neverending cheapfall into the arms of Paris.

Cock crows alarm choke we splut splut dazed and grateful into the streets and Montmartre of the cleaners waking dreams. Gray-eyed with starstruck in ageless art cinema. Black and white – a 24 hour night.

The beach broad daylight of a ski instructor's nightmare – look over there – look over there – look over there.

"I wasn't looking for a conclusion – A happy end – It doesn't exist – not till the very end – and even then....

Looking over there for beginnings always. Now what to do with it? And now and now and now. Every day we escape death's greedy clutches, the healthy man should celebrate."

The theme remains French with a grande chhhhrupky – like gagging thigh Marshall – She points this way as if she held that pose her whole life – the table blushes the veneer seems like a teenager toppling from his coffee caught apple cream-handed in the act of appropriating lint from a 60 what bulb?

Her pal shushing esses like s-s-s-sexy bon bons behind cardigans and sibilance before agreeing that 'I' yes 'Je' is the most common letter/word in the language of us belly freedup leadbetters. The pen IS mightier than the sword, unless you're in a sword fight; then it's just shit. And even if you do look the same, it seems she seems more.

Warm tights and cold-hearted necrophiles (it takes one to know one) pile up the bodies with a soupcon of finesse and she's catching the langue so finally with that last breath and rowling blood pressure; he might have told me if it was one way or the other.

"So, pardon, wait, is it a loo you're looking for or a hippo/twix?"

The 100 year itch.

Suave – the way you moved in and stole everyone's attention – cough cough contact lens boogie – Grin. In.

Soul decided the pictures of Buddhas, our Christmas recommendation – or are they both teachers?

New beginnings mean no questions, only answers – If there is more than one answer, then come the questions.

But there is only one....

Begin again Michael Finnegan.

My true beard clueless yet trimmed, my biceps beauty but hymm dans la rue nymphette – peak – l'avenue braggart – blue.

~

Segregate 30's from 40's Black and blanc minstrels coated soft centred boasting of Rue des Chattes and Paul's acrobatics – Aggrandizement of all.

I can take it if you practise first but over and out if you up and leave without ever filing the sharp edges of your wits' ends with the shin bone of a moose.

French music sounds like Christmas music. I kiss myself in public all the time. Then smile.

Baby puddles and rock guitars rubber undied so as not to electrocute me mandrake; Christ forgive.

Sit back you pretty thing, you've got so much to say.

Your boyfriend is too fond of chocolate; this just isn't manly. Leave him and start a commune for us folky feckless – we'll stump up the cash and carve out trees with your name.

A sharper name, Emma, than any committee loons frugal with Winter's spectral memosa. Old plate, old plate, old grate, old bust.

You'd pick France over England because...PIF PAF.

These neon love hearts distill the fifty yards or so I am from a tram.

If all those exploded over there, I would feel something; perhaps a little more than my pleasure at that English man's cap. Afraid of the dead. The dead within. If I wore newer clothing; washed once in a while, I might be a whole lot more Disney porn about it. Afraid of the living. If I opened up fully, I know I couldn't bare them.

I'll learn French and work my way into them slowly; the hawks and the monkeys.

The wrinkled brow of an infant – true confusion – That anything confuses us grown-ups is red-fingered folly. Chow down on your still life and wipe the oil from your chin; you look like a tiger now, ahhh, ahhh, ahhh, you look like a lion now, ahhh, ahhh, ahhh.

~

St Paul on the run.

~

### HORUS 1 – 1 SUROH

~

In a panic the kid on Speaker's corner stole some bits from other bits he'd heard other successful speakers speak. He looked great for a short while then swallowed a filling. Went all squiffy.

To the the to. Chansings of a mail catastrof – ou lame ou weight is guest leaves proceed edge elder Hanz brail sooner said than RUN!

"I, me."

"Yeah, you."

Rudolf don't dare dear dangling orange pumps – Air blimp.

~

Cross sonogram seas and plasma gradation – she you him it – I signed the paper just so as you could see the dolphins from where you were standing. Table stripe. Slant spun Geiger clock – o – worm. All crawling out the woodwork now you're famous. Why don't you feel like speaking to anyone? Work doesn't suit you, ay? Leave me alone then.

You wanna talk or you wanna digest? Which is wickeder – the D.J. with no pulse or the D.J. with no purse? Cypress pill – you kept me going long after the fabric.

I think I hate this beer. What time you playin'?

Come with us.

Stay where you are.

Another line?

Another century!

This jacket is heavier than the two of us. That's a metal pumpkin and the drugs don't work on anybody else except you, you and you.

Yoom. The Iranian dangerslide.

Never as

Clever.

Jaundice yellow of the mercury tribe – marching in gloss the slippery surface of a pan crack mean time.

Time bombs unexploded – thigh high the hair-pin bend – crunch drain the insides of a jellyfish surrounded by nonsense and mumsy vowels. Like a Mojo misstep. The heart and world of a sweating catcher.

The categorical imperative – fish.

And would be a fridge magnet but for miracles – the stenograph ricochets in the golden cheek of Christendom; thanks Christ!

"Sheesh, better remember the lights."

The cobblestones of a warm-hearted entropy, limp gaily with fixed smiles, I love your kind – the brick wall and unconvincing smeer of a teenage blog. Nobody understands you because you are God, that's the rub duck of it – one webbed foot in the wed womb one in the gwave – the mallard straddles from fish to porcupine, each prick inked and ready to scorn. Such a long wheel since the sleek fear of a minnow and minnow law firm, slish, slish and slish.

If the categorical impunities are to survive even their utterance, we must hold fins and order anything that tickles our fancy; as long as it's not heron.

"Keep your enemies close, keep your skin closer; you need that more than you need your enemies."

And one day he smiled and you could see all of his teeth – And one day the road lead straight out the frame and into his enemy's home.

"Alright."

"Alright."

"Whathaveyougottosayforyourself?"

"Noyoufirst."

".....blobble."

Nature chased us from the sea like a drunk dictator and we slithered.

Nurture chained us to the land and like a drunk potato we withered.

Noo noo cheered us from the sand like a trunk call to Phoenix, we giggled and flourished.

Fish smile after dinner. Inside.

Stumble all these mounted definitions of nothingness fibulating, murmurating, masturbating without hope of an offspring but the helm of a string section.

Her car was there but the gate was locked."

~

Walking was deluxe – darkness on the face of the light – Waa waa – a wizard of adult film and global eyes.

Extra large.

We start now I got the green.

The weed agreed.

Braun and Czecho-Slovak shop on the coroner – 146

Take a liner-note and teeny bopper got fangs for nostril holes – 149

Shave your chin lady goat, mine's a port if you're asking – 656

Nearly a punch up over the fix. A race card up his sleeve and 'Indian' written on his back – 151

It just don't make sense if it pays. Too proud to vocalise the oyster cookie on your dish. The yellow satchel sounding at your side – the lungful of mushroom cloud and thing-shaped hump.

{{{{{}}}}}

2000 and eleven would meany moron – hallowed be thy HAME.

Gingerproboscis loaded table service stud silvered diaghram twenty seven year old neck. A tartan saunter besides the fellowship huffing – the stairs too much for 'em – her bodyguards sidle together with fluffy hoods and a gap between her teeth – SHOULD HAVE TRIED HARDER –

Sitting on your turquoise watch strap, high cheak bones and the smell of lassie – That you shape? You cross with me?

Ice in the X-cream.

"We are this much better." Please see below.

~

~

People watching pancake battered together in airport Muslin. Romany carpet blares next to my jean scuff and tall handlebar moustache – Cart it over – doors open.

You see clearly the '2', but in reality it is a '4'. You are convinced of your truth but you have been misled. So many wrong steps – I'm talking people – watching unconscious unplug and tuck it away before we take off – Thanks Mariah.

I don't live near the hefty boot show and fluffy arctic penguin.

Urlum and Eccles and hills and industrial estates – Pop's a vicar and they beat me up because I'm gay – first time home in 4 years – She's not going to like these panda bear eyes the hotel bouncers crumples sprinkled tramped and banged out like a facebook elected hit.

A session till six – Still teaching.

The yellow safety clip of an adult dinghy puller – If I lean over shortly – I can hear your stockings.

Your bra punches into your back like a layman brace – A fine for you who. Hold me darling; the legs are taken away and even your soles are barking – Hamper home doorstep Ethan, he waits – you wrap.

They unwrap – last year – this year – have a heart wouldn't ya?

Bar calls lasties and lectures on night callers round your heliotropic sheens.

kneel – sheens – bend.

One by one we would. In-out In-out – CASH!

No financial benefits you zelenou.

Pep back a mo', lunch mate and his symbols, crusty bean break looms large in your legend; one more fruit picker does not a sandwich make.

A cramp in me leg and sugar in me butter. HOPS.

Gargle notion with fiddly fingers down her tongue – The chance of ontime departure...officer Krupky. Thank crunchie she's fat.

I told him what to do

The attack was on

It was uncomfortable

I only had three glasses

Sten guns and formaldehyde in his veins open the Chicago bay doors with enlightened bag-boy. Further back than that the family hilly and vertiginous, wonky and salubrious.

Persephone ring rings and loves the tear you bought her. Dance light hang – cool sight warm. Language entraps; the boys will talk cold danger twins.

Stein you study that's not much. Jung you fret so much much. Not you much you crowd much. He & Crisps.

There will never be a point where 'knowing' something shines – Get it, got it, giggle. Now. I'm talking about fucking – I'm not talking about fucking the symbols – I'm talking about fucking – literature as a Rorshach test – Pour out what you avoid, then lay it. There's your black & white telly show for you.

There are 7 billion different realities – spoken and unspoken – we could never share one vision; every vision is and always will be different. We must disagree to agree.

ROBOTS share a vision.

IDEA FOR SCI-FI DRAMA

A world full of ideas made concrete by dickheads...

Money, marriage, monogamy, meat, melancholia...

Stumped? Stooled? Releesh!

Don't be a grampet or stammerphone – hold me tight and neverletmego...

Tall coffee like tall lady like coats folded for steam roll derby AND yadadadadayadadayadadadadada...

Faster and faster till he picks up Norwegian blue balls and a rising cough mix tape - both noses – both roses – both Russian.

I read here – and fold

I read here – and fold

Then the red blooded film festival – Iran Iran and Iran till I couldn't run no more – now we are bonded in an intimacy only Debeauvoir could fake. There's nothing platonic about her philosophising, nothing remonstrated under disguise of vanilla powder or nutmeg shyness. Don't stop asking. It gets boring when you're not asking. The desk empties – the race is ran.

The cobalt blue lamp Mercedes rise as I tap tap out the ghost girl's message saved in a broom.

"I'm in the garden – there's a man in a Mercedes blue suit – near a car – " Her horror story bounced out on the ground as I reassure my lover; it's fine to sleep in. I do not work to spite you.

Jazz and Gumption! There's chocolate in your mouth braces!

"What you think? You think she was abducted and killed and she's come back in a broom?"

"Maybe. Ask Aladdin."

"What do you call them slidey things that make pictures that get all jumbled up?"

Dole out the revenue at the reception; your family are curious.

"Yours are just lovely."

"French is like a whole other language."

"Im Anfang war die Tat."

A

Tale

Told

By

An

Idiot.

### Totem.

The child's fold over thing – each segment of the body different. The possibilities – endless.

"And I looked up into the dark, gathering clouds, my best friend by my side and the clouds did part as a bright light replaced the Voldemort gloom. A shining cross appeared – Christ's cross and it did fall from the sky followed by many other shining crosses – And from each cross stepped a bikini-clad woman. My friend and I went to the corner shop then to get some cigarettes and were shockedandsurprised to find that they did not sell Marlboro lights!"

NUMINOSITY – the difference between the elephants painting and the artist's masterpiece. Crawl.

"The change must indeed begin with an individual;- But since nobody seems to know what to do, it might be worth while for each of us to ask himself whether by any chance his or her unconscious may know something that will help us."

### Some of us have work to do.

Rain suade neck trim the bed. The sheets are echoes in a club door sliding shut over a somnambulist Adam's apple drench thucked in Chinese water torture dripping from plastic pink cars melted proportionate to his misery being a star.

The Irish christening – Another – dressed like cake and hoping – sickening spectacle of a broken fighter you. A Victorian Pierre Huyghe dubbing Pierre Huyghe subtitling my nightmares. Another.

"Does it frighten you?"

Scrooge answers with a broken shoulder his girlfriend a bitch. I'm lucky.

"No."

Placed next to the aunt – one bald clingon to the right. Fatter. The directions for the game in the woods have been smudged incomprehensible by those who went first.

"Let's look around anyway. It's beautiful."

I'm Robin Hood. Bob, little Johnnie. In he falls and I beg him not to splash my clean wedding trousers.

The bridge unstable. The water filthy.

In the bedroom the actor's flirt with one another. I am aware of her bare leg propped up on the chair. She warms to my double entendre –

"Scrooge would be the perfect Sweeney Todd."

"He got the part."

The jealous flirts weigh my words now. My trousers, the ones which had oil on them, now belong to Bob. Dry.

What's over in the sand dug pits of his hair brain? His father tumultuous and discredits him to live and breathe without the waistband that is T.S. Elliot's stomach ulcer?

The bulbous lesbian nose of a golden pig castrating its way across the colourful bartop – lick and curly the pubescent cries of dance hungry whores and mesmarooned souls singing. Who'da thunk they'd be so pendulous?

Mum's dress does make you look pregnant. That dog makes you look desperate. That dog makes them look lonely.

Apu juice – one by one – we are not all of us stardust. Some are just dust. "His cum was funky."

Groll doesn't impress ses sans pill home. Hilbrid hero walks lopsided across pilou junction cherticum the sound, slink bells of keys for Vaclav Havel Havel Havel Krisna Krisna, wouldn't wanna kiss ya.

Summer's had it again and someone asked to get liberation wet. Get down on your knees and squirt at five minutes notice came the neighbour his GTI car spewing noise and fumes and spumes about the flats.

"She likes it like that."

"But how could she?"

"You look like a boy – no, an angel."

"Not a boy then?"

"Not really."

### THESAURUS OF THE DAMNED

Here's the place to tie one on.

Yellow globe.

About time.

To create a piece of work/art by oneself is too crass for words. Selfish & contrived – trust no one. Especially not.

She looks like she looks like.

She is valueless.

"My arm she is! I'll hail you as soon as you throw me a freebie."

If everything was up for grabs – how long before we came to some agreeable arrangement? How long before we quit working and started killing each other indiscriminately?

In the best of all worlds there would be no stink of vinegar coming from that table. In the best of all worlds the beast within. Mix it with gloss it won't crack, the bedsheetstorm blood on your back – A panda for a head and a grown tut tut to tulips who scarpered?

I'll wait and wait and fold the stalemate – no answers – no questions – just this – this vinegar smelling red barn and the 'genius' native to each individual.

-STREAM MORE WITHOUT TURNS -

Sookie Stockhausen – the bloodsucking avant-garder – plink plink drink.

~

Red-headed grrrl snaking up to dead eyed boy – There's nothing to say when the love dies.

"Save apologies for boxing day." She says.

The tiny pony filmed and distracting. The groundhog lemony taste of a too familiar lettuce.

The hemp of a burgundy roussillon – peregrine talon – Armandine grown up – The number tattoed on her head the same as this song on a loop.

They're laughing now – Oh the relief. Explaining away the mistake of the day like a blow-job pending. "I thought that eveything I did would make me feel better."

\- TOSS OFF YOUR PRECONCEPTIONS -

\- THEY'D LIKE THAT -

Gannymede dry now, a claim for partnership belched out as many times as necessary, until the gray blended floorspace speaks English without a hint of sarcasm. I wrote it down – mainlined it – you're fucking your teacher.

"I'm not reasonable – you're not pushing me – you're old and lonely – I dreamed of sand – he'll make a fool of you – if the car crash doesn't do it – you will."

### SHOE PANIC!

This is elliptical and your balls up; a notebook, a novel and a nasty one.

"Which you wanna see?"

"You have an American iccent."

"Ammonia."

"You remember their trains right?"

"Northern."

"No Brittany exactly."

"Your laugh is the same as it was when you were 7."

"That's about the size of it."

"I still regret not hitting that kid back to this day."

"Lift me up and kiss me, I'm worth it."

"The low crotch does nothing for you. Makes you look like you got a baggy vagina."

"I looked for him sleeping down the wrong end of the bed – and there he was the other end looking up at me – like a ghost."

"How much would you pay if you had the money? If you had all the money, would you stop at some point?"

"You lack the courage to speak nonsenese."

"Are they singing 'Jungle Charlie'?"

"No, something Creole."

"You think?"

"She wants and expects him to ask her – It's been seven years. She wants a baby."

"I like it when they sing 'No – no – no – yeah – yeah'. That don't make sense and it makes sense!"

"Yeah, they're all blonde."

"She's not."

"Okay, one in every.."

"She's not either – You should look before you speak – write before you think – starve before you eat – Die before you live – be obsequious purple and clairvoyant, chop wood, eat yer greens and do the whatoosie, then and only then can you call yourself a PEACH."

~

"DEJA VU!"

"I think he was a disgruntled student."

"Or just a twat."

Things that are usually 'not said' are said – but loudly so everyone can hear 'em. Reasons for connections are explained as they happen. Not after years of gestation, but like someone's been shouting for your attention since you were first able to think and you finally catch wind of what they were saying.

THAT FIRST MOMENT OF CONSCIOUSNESS – WHAT DID THE SPIRITS SCREAM TO YOU?

" _Don't forget us_..!"

Enough to make you change; but like a werewolf infront of a vampire.

"No thought sneaks by unchecked."

It's the same case, the same case as, the same sad case as – heroine. The split seal and white. The cream of young cleave smiles up at her customer and taps a Streep across the vinyl.

I dreamed the black canvas tray of black I would use to paint in the birds. The sky ready to burst with activity.

"It hurts to read them back."

A table set for six I sate. A coffee held by two.

Sugar one, but long blanc.

The big nosed girl fancies herself a catch.

"I bet she goes."

Quince tree boy loops his Rs and trembles gaily at his tablet. One p-pill too many – heaven with a shirt tucked in. One mummy too Mary.

Clam up, bail me out, Hey Wayne, grand pic.

Dye my blonde hair and turn me inside out till I can't stands it no more. You push and you just get more frothy and famous at the same time. I love all your ages. Ahh Bon Temps. The clay mail flute coos from their nest "Oh where, oh where should we leave our dirty crockery."

"Watch your legs, love."

CATARANG!

Thar she blows.

Browned off with the comparisons it makes a helluva bucket to mainly squirrel ones way into out of.

Fourly boys poor. Whore hair pony stares – Glacial manifestations I tip you. Them owes. 3 x 3 in a four by four booklet. The controversy of a lisped list live on a troglodyte boxclub.

"Took you ages to put that coat on."

What it lacks in simplicity; the ease of everything. I chose not to choose. The mistakes I choose to leave are no mistakes; the better to borrow from plagiarists. Yes I suppose it's about the cirlcles. Circles and coughs. Cashews and tissues. I think of her tall there and feel melancaholic.

"Where is Angel? Where...is...Angel?"

Passolini please and a vanilla cake – your dress a little older in dayzgonby-pink. A lonely boy told loud girl but same as when you're a man but a man.

So how can you say soat sold at less than 65.

Are you? But.

I'm apprentice and don't like him.

Lean and dream aka jukebox machine hims and haws over the recipe for a day in the life. Jim Beam's folks ears the here. I'm losing all the will to give.

"Thinking of sinking."

Not if the dead can help it. Make me. Make me now. I hopped onto the stepping stone from the river bank.

Is the club?

I reached down into the water for a semi-precious stone – tossed it to the princess and she approved.

Lead us not so much.

But back again to another stepping stone and this time I fall backwards. I'm lifted...

"What are they/that?"

It's the dead hum up and carry me to the shore.

It's Xmas. Don't be late.

She just copped a look at the waitresses knockers. That American bird there. Cathy's clown. You dancin'?

I draw a blank when I think.

General motors and a puff light. Season's tweets and a half light. Rind grown height and a step ladder. We let the food digest digest – we let the food digest.

~

Op cretin sandahog, blast the catnap, zap! Pow! The more the menacing. Promo – must means – dark. The grimier the more. Dark. Dogs. Grinning bloody infant. Samr C.D. different fag. All these reserves and Christ-like. 'Whom' died for U.S.

You are diamond dog. Bowie crucified on a browning canvas. Bruising version. I know you can't leave though elderly lady hump. There's tears in your daughters burns. You were 30 for 60 years.

Hip dipping brolly dance. Dodge that car, watch that whisper, wait on glory days, wait on! Herbie blown into all kinds of glamerous puss.

A handful of orios set free. The sky crumbles like a glare from a spinster – nay glance. If only I'da bin 20 for 60 years. Saw your knickers too.

Bin-rims.

Ya don't eat yer ribs like that!

One more resonance –

One more egg burger

One more beard

Homesteads ahoj for local produce and disco balls for the kids.

How could you forget a whole child at the shops?!

Your dream, an objet trouve.

"The man who cannot visualise a horse galloping on a tomato, is an idiot."

I do recognise you from your scrabble to shame – the knowledgeable 'a' preceeding the 'K1' pulverising the knee knee caps of a Geraldine Monstrom.

You danced with me – I disinherited myself at the D.J.s behest.

Mine an' mine-a-noid.

They belched you commonly out the foxtrot garmet, gourmet, gamut. Cleaning woman.

"No, I don't have any Rhianna."

You look just as slow from the train carriage as you do from the embankment.

Slow is slow.

Dim Akroyd.

Dan Asteroid.

Blew Moon.

Charming German.

Type up an actress...

LINE!

The Venus of Willendorf.

We're not demonising or demonstrating, but demon-castrating, SALAMBO.

I retched at the thought of the lamb cooked straight from the womb tombed in rice'n'she cries when she pulls the dying arms from the plants.

"It took him thirty blows to kill the twitching fish.

Back home they know just the right place to hit. I said "No, no, no, I don't want it now.""

"What do you see?"

"I see one of those Star Wars creatures, no, transport things, ground vehicles with legs and a vulva for a head."

"Great, you're still a little horny child. I know you." The whoops and cheers of a bear's homosapien tendencies – "Ahhh. It thinks it's human."

The young buck.

The wine like chocolate went down like wine.

~

AN ABSTRACT

Of course that sad table red – the red of a salt soul cellar burdensome pillar collapsed at the sneeze of a mosquito choking, reigning deaf over the bad lessons of a sign languaged haitus. We could go for free if you just spake up a little.

Two to the right and one to the righter. Him half happy – she utters she udders – he shudders and guffaws like a pistolless cowboy. No, agedoesn't matter when you can smile and laugh and dance and sing – Those are the pink shirt boutiques of a peeper sealer's heartstrings. That a shine...that she wears mine...

A sideways glance at the mature man – the schoolgirl in her hopping at the memory of her heros played hoboes, but when they did, oh my!

He's buying something!

Okay. Let's deal. You smell like four of the best laid plans gone to waste. And so I shall visit you in your tiny flat and I shall thank you for that – she's a photographer. They are all photographers. Advertising is her pitch.

He did sell. Now he buys. Even when he buys he sells. That's maturity. Oh now that's clever.

But she don't see. She's too full of that shine; that shine of mine. He touches her like a joke. She laughs harder.

Sol is close by. There is a certain type. A trip over claims and bowl them all out in one over type chews all the flavour out before they've even got to the introductions.

It's my party.

Round past the Asian store culpable; swing past the kebab bat palpable, scratch his way thinking to the reception obstacle – All of these things and many more touch Sol like a retired salesman harkening back to the mediocre life far outweighs his unhappy Autumn.

If he comes this way, I'll tell him. I'll tell him I just can't put on the play.

The lead is going to be the understudy is going to bewitch the now clammy audience. It won't take much; a lick and a brush of the cheek in a week at this table of red before coffees and bread given free from the lady; the waitress in green.

Her silk stockings mirror – the sparkle in her eye from the gift of an ear-ring or the slap from the cook.

Poor Georgie Porgie.

3 crimes. 3 times.

No, no, you're right. There's nothing fun about a brooder. Nor a mooder or a fooder.

They're funny. On the one hand he grins – I got nuthin', on the other hand he cries – I got somethin'! and on the end of a long arm stretching from one side of the river to the other he shuns the interview of human interest distrusting his motives – you must be hopelessly lost. She's thirty. He's fifty. He's moneyed and thrifty. She's dark haired – He's balding. Hooray Captain Spalding!

"I wouldn't dream of taking your last one."

"Oh go on."

"Tram!"

"Damn."

He came in his car. He smells of comfort and seven of the best laid children born in haste. I seek another good looking loser.

Sol cheers me with a warm glass of zip yourself up before you leave the toilets.

One for sorrow, two for joy – that girl there should leave that boy.

And if you gave me all the money? I'd sell my banjo and stop trying to be so bloody chipper all the time. A well earned sulk. I would buy in bulk. I'd pile it into my living room and burrow my way into the centre like a woman with a point. I'd also buy a packet of those cigarettes that don't give you cancer.

"Is that Gar' up there?" I would think as I inhaled.

"We all got 'types'," I would think as Sol blew on my sails.

Huff huff huff.

No one's not.

Sticky tabled recognise of the loud clink her voice threw. I coke rhymed the atmosphere cork: The blemished door of this soon missed bar. Tygr Tygr you and her both.

I'm rounding up all the passers by beacause I have a demonstration to ask about.

"What's all this demonstration?"

That's the question I was talking about – and no, not just because these places are better. It's because these places are better.

I don't remember any of this – only that I ate more pasta than necessary and now I look like Mr Forgetful. Only bright bright red.

"Okay, we can meet."

"I have so much questions."

"Many."

"What was her friend's name?"

"Antonia."

"Were there any changes? I don't know what to do with her."

"No. No changes."

5.58pm Duende.

She shook boot pity kavu. The same self window they

~

Foorwud

A book from heaven is written in the sky

1 – 2 – 3 Spring

Poetry

"There's been a call to arms

So I'm picking up me gun

The one from in me father's draw

I chose for years to shun

I wave me gat in clenched fist

And pause to take me aim

It's not me ignorance at task

It's the 'greats' who are to blame."

Manifesto

It is a firmly held belief of the Loud Noises Collective that world peace can only be brought about through NOISE.

It is incongruous and fallacious to capitalise on the widespread humument that is the manxome troubadour trailing upon the welt.

Play

The 2 float –

In the air like that

One from here – One from there

"Is he gonna drop us?"

They both think in different languages – same muscles

"And who is that floating next to me?"

"Is it now? Is it now? Is it now?"

"What has he got in common with me other than his imminent death?"

"What's the delay?"

"I'm hungry."

"I'm bored."

"I'm ready."

"Oh for the love of Mike, PUT ME DOWN!"

Thom – Nowthefork.

The song followed Wolfli and same-ranged. Maybe it's that big-a-thought-a-brac.

"There is no 'here' to 'there'."

And so in practice we look for a way to wrap our heads around infinity (literally) – and maybe along the way get some kind of a grip on otherness (laterally)

Psychiatry.

I'm sure I remember feeling like this – more often as a child – moving but not moving – Time slower because time did not 'move'.

Not moving...

Mob=ving, but not moving.

Philosophy.

Concerning duality – spirituality – onanism – oneanism – infinity – mortality –

Not concerned but concerning.

An Art.

An Art concern.

Universal Unconscious as a solution. No – silicon – heaven.

No illustration but the thing-in-itself. Glad tidings.

Cosmic totems.

Act of unity. Not a comment on...

Unity.

Act.

Art.

Illustration is illustration.

Art is Art.

Perspective is magic.

Reprogramme.

Dream.

Skydiving – they let me do my own thing – I seem quite confident. I pick clumps of long, thick grass tips from the top of clouds and put them in my pocket for her. I pick a bagel-shaped fossil from the top of a tree and put that in my pocket for her. Our baby daughter is called Louise.

I shrink myself to the size of half an ant then meditate with the loud noises in my tiny ears. Could never picture a shining light with my eyes closed – just big fat eyelids.

"Mirage?"

"No --- Smokey Robinson and the Miracles."

"I hope it's the originals."

Introduction.

Man and beast – featured forms of focal prefundity – Capsize mansions at the behest of behoves me to say this – "God's twots." Lance Armstrong, Humane Shakespeare – Gray's Anatomole – hyperbole grown too big even for the ploughman.

Pull at its roots and you'll find a fine fettled bread-lock.

Sad but beset on all sides by the devalues of silt staled time, we procure mummified remnants of cartwheels and jubilant cups.

Combing the clouds for more sheer stock and don't let the grafters grind you down. Heel for one, one for haul.

Adamantium riots formulating over superhero despots.

Hold it there.

Tighter.

Tighter.

Now pull.

Film.

Goldilocks Vishnu stare, same here as over there.

Your post stage fangoria; peeled of its black and its white.

You moan so much they fill you, your pansy hands and middle digit.

Now take that finger out of your nose so I know where it's been.

A silent film – mainly

A search film

Looking forward for Atlantis.

Your lipsticked moon grimmace.

Your puzzlement.

That's the way to grow.

Don't go to work. Stay here and cuddle.

The red makes you look devilish – may we have sound now please?

A warm in the underground.

A trachion blue light.

Cough in respile sputum.

Anus gratin.

Horrible us.

Is anum.

Making its way slowly into your system – what feelings; what ideas; what make up and friends.

Who's speaking when you speak? Who are you speaking for?

Don't go to work. Stay here and play.

Higher ranking metallurgy –

"I wish I had some salt on an apple now."

Unconscious.

Why isn't it a triathlon you suck on to a cut and dried sink. Your badly made andirons, your head band triads – Your Chaldean memoirs – Your hedero sexual momos.

"Yeah, that's a pretty dirty start."

"It always was."

"You got a razor

the water spouts and you

talk talk.

~

A severed leg and Rostrum

A kurt nubile and bread

The sun burns – that's a spring.

-A bird thing -

feet and slings

wormless.

~

~

Early the dew blew. Can't relax for the prozac. The Prozac of your style – the black on black of a tough day on the rails – At the rock – on the Streamside day desigual, you fold your college into chats about equals – grow your toe nails just so – so that they.

A sunglass brain reflex, in deep deep drone dressed in deep. His puma – your king.

"This is my lucky St Patrick's day drinking shirt."

You chew in a black tight speculation and wonder at the crumple in your saddle. Helmet won't help you, the toilets are shut. Go and find your smile elsewhere. There's no problem here – no problem here – just listening to your glass roll – your leopard skin girlfriend and your friend who's here friend but you seem None-The-Wiser the second.

I don't want to burn but I recognise you.

That tight Jean Mum please don't go.

You can't meditate your

EVERYBODY

You can meditate your

EVERYBODY NEEDS SOMEBODY

You can meditate your

EVERYBODY NEEDS SOMEBODY TO LOVE

You can meditate all your blues away...

Are you Belgian?

Can I fuck your feet?

Do you slow down in the sun?

Are you Belgian?

They are not the girls they used to Remember? Buddy?

Cleaner now, like they all learnt a lesson – Cleaner – These are their daughters.

These are the sandles they didn't find in the garbage – the shirts they didn't reverse but washed – the bags they didn't steal but found in a garage sale – the men they don't share – the hair they replenish with Epsom dreams of (fill the Gap).

Where have all the dragons gone? Where all the speedballs and negativity? The shitness is half of the thrill.

Rimbaud before Pam Ayres. Keats before Beiber.

C before C.

B.B.C.

I blow down the you might think that....

Hate crime crews of advertising morons – eye tape. Kane bought a Sten gun and ricoched the smash meal up her heroine's pipe laid plans lame to waste. You don't look like Joe. You're too smeeth.

We left messages on walls.

Totems.

We built walls. to – leave – messages – onnn

Tears of time in the.

Having to share – if only with a friend – the one thing that matters –

The gastro pass doesn't get you that drunk and I filled the place –

These are 'accomplished' but who wanted this?

Rock'n'Roll asks no questions.

Except the one about 'fools'.

I want it when the lights are low and in up. Hup hup, you squeeze the ring of bright water out of a guessed at day. Oh that penny loaf – oh that hot Chili you made so well – Oh langa langa langa. I gotsta wonder if you ever had any more than this...epsilon.

There's are ours. We's are they's. Hands together now – RING RING.

There a cruppuple sats. She sames the coat – a grund at the kava machine and a stretch of listen. Sneeze, kapluff! Under the iPad bland. Just a look and a shave and her grandmother's girdle.

There's no replay or fuck you spells. Or made to mope. How do you pronounce MAN. 'EMAYEN' any Aztekl tell you.

Wum wum the wayfarers on busses because the cars they build still crash. They gotta fix that. Woo woo caretakers because the Skype Still trills with her barbery clams and tinsled gums. I would take a fag if you had half a mind. There's no better way of carving up a real mess of sculpture than to grin at a table so mean that it dries itself till it looks like you did that night you cried yourself empty on my shoulder.

Which reminds me.

I sit in this temple of memory-otter and ask the saints to grant my wishes –

Forgive me

S&M, K, E, F, G, D, UA, C, C, D, E

Now the light on the ground looks like snow. I should look out the window more. Mirror less.

Chequered red white smiling wanker comes in for a piss.

Forgive me.

M.

"Words are shy; they never say what they mean."

"Sing it!"

This is where two girls would have.

This is where the painting danced.

This is where she met me.

This is where he said "Quiet! I'm listening to a thought."

Out there is where you shout at children and they don't know why – or they don't care why. Or you don't know why you shout. Where none of us know why we shout.

This is where she left me drawing.

This is where he slept the night he was accosted.

This is where I shouted "I LOVE MY LIFE!"

Out there is where I shouted "Fuck you!" to the only place, to applause, to laughter.

This is where I drink a little bit too much and nobody ever comes anymore.

This is the last place I ever ate when I was truly hungry.

It's up to us to hurt for want of a familiar face when we are surrounded by those who love us.

She poured the sugar on the table and made pictures in it with her finger, on the table. "The waitress won't be very happy." I said, and she said "Fuck the waitress, it's her job to clean shit up."

Seems silly picking a glass up by a handle.

~

Language –

-A permanent donor of pleasure – Oh language can be funny.

A bear went over a mountain."

"What did he see?"

"The other side of the mountain."

"So he went back over the mountain?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"To see what he could see."

~

Deep snot.

~

In many pages the hair's never a breath away from one to the other – permed and pterodactyled all over the hypogryph's grindhouse.

"I mean, you see, something like that, you gotta film it."

Acid and car bumpers deserve attention on a day like today. Registration plates, scarves, hoodwinks. "Here's just fine."

"How come people freak out about skin colour but not hair colour?"

"Well there's only so much racism a racist can channel."

"It's about one day where everything makes sense. Where you don't have to pretend to be anything, where you don't have to act your all confused and everything, and like, to be like..."

"I know."

"Lovers have only so much to say, then you'd better hope to god they're your friend."

Which reminds me.

Thanks.

H.

So, one more for the soft top bike girls – In the sun staid of a thick thied bar master she laid me up with her perfume – positive mooshoos mixed with affluent bellhop stories from their hayday. I'll leave them that way...fits better...

More comfortable.

\- And for her, I'd lay me doon a dee -

That's a blessing the table welts – blister ferdun, carry two, the lady outside the jacks is back, carry everyone but me. Camera. Fiction. Go!

"We're so pretty. Where did you go?"

Lens like a gaping twat. Four flaps of a farmer capped obeyance – look! Four curls of post-pubescent suede – look! Four peels of pen-repulsant laughter. The Mack. Those, the well=dressed masons. Those the well –dressed mooms. Those the well paid peasants. Those the hem hums.

Captain Gambrinus welcomes the smiles – first the spring of calf gantries and wedding balkons. **** for the camera. **** for the crowds. **** for the hell of it. Go on! For the HELL of it.

You make me say. Spew.

Haaaaa. Dog.

I found the shade. You found someone fucking safe.

I know three people in the place.

I don't know. Derrick, right? You know he cried last time we bought grass from you?

Say there's dark tights in your future – the twelve minutes or so till all the day puts on its rouge and succumbs to the dump that we built to praise health.

You smile at your hijinx – Daddy's girls, you get so much –

\- I don't mind a wrinkle or two if you H.O.L.D. me –

That's a dark brown blanket. I remember your name.

"She not with you?"

"The hat only cost 49 crowns."

"The hat only." "That's your legs I saw earlier." "Only now in your shades."

"A cigarette would help."

"I won't catch your eyes."

Can't read in this state - never will be able to - It's the predatory look in new parent's eyes, like they don't trust even themselves anymore.

"Is one good looking girl better than two not so bad looking girls at the same time?"

"All women are beautiful."

~

In a cafe on the coast couldn't draw right from the ground. Upright bench breeze shadows like beneficiaries in the noisy sky now the sparrows are humping. A toy glider and more French than you know. Once a year makes no sense. Don't run, don't write, don't read, don't dream, just...let time travel. Let the past and the future be all Atlantian mountains and all. The glue remains of a pilfered plaque – this chair was important once. That baby will also be important – once.

"Why label things?"

"Not enough labels if you ask me. Should be a name for every object different from the next and different from what it was called last time you called it something."

"That would be impossible. There'd never be enough time to share the changes with everybody else."

"So you keep 'em to yourself."

"Tout droit?"

"Oui, oui."

Sturdy white girls and walking boots – jumpers wrapped round the middle – recording the sound of bare arms on my phone to play back any time things get too loud. Makes girls nervous – man walking alone.

Girls always bringalong

Dogs

or are

jogging

bringalong

prams

or are

taking photos

bringalong

boyfriends

or are alone and self conscious about seeming overtly poetic or needy and you see a few with their Mothers. I only saw one other boy walking alone and he looked like a dick.

Hand in hand with this ideal – live by the sea –

Bougainvillea, hot neck seeks tinned fish, ice cream, lilos, heavy metal beach towels, mini-markets, euro pop, a new cap, a new sunglasses, a new olives, a new small beer, a new hillside forest walk and a new pen. And a Donald Duck comic in German if at all possible.

Boys always bringalong –

boys.

Actually, I did see two different boys walking dogs. They looked like dicks.

The man in lycra riding a unicycle is also worth a mention.

~

Homebound lid shroud, darling tattoo preached from paper just thumb tacked in like that –

Anti-art.

Lizard scales like yo yos and leftovers. Graffiti like 3108 you can take large photos and shove them up your ass. Hope you tan and fuck. As best as the cool marble becomes you, the aknowledgements were remiss in not naming you wtfmnschcloprn of the yearn.

I'm not sure scales even look like that.

"The evolution of his intellect has outrun his needs as an animal."

~

I've forgotten your name.

Common as sundry the yellow ribbon of a war lead by a chief of a tribe of a book of a long dead miskerchief come good now he's driven the dog that bit him from his home and loofered the recompense with a bald toothed grin and an enigmatic "Howareyou?"

"You don't need to buy something if you want to use the toilets here."

"I seen you in some band."

"What are they called?"

"I've forgotten their name."

"oh."

The manner of their fishing means little when one looks that good – You would hope she knew the tune but then diamond boots don't mean a thing if you ain't got that bling.

"I definitely know you."

Thumb thumb click, he coulda been bigger than Sinatra. Death Metal, musicals, show tunes, folk, the whole thing – It's a real mess. But good.

No one knows more about Gods than Greeks and children –

"DICK." I think she called me too– but then more like "Blessed Dick."

I could ride with that.

"Blessed – yeah blessed."

Injuns.

Half Humed it fell if it fell – not because it might but only if it did and when. That's the plain french fire of it – no need to ask tassels to spin when they are born to the boobs they well-and-torn.

"We've got those cups. They're from IKEA."

Norman Thomas takes everyone away from their guy. Click click thumb.

Can't tell a lie.

Close your muscle-bound dream complex and just let fly with one almighty peeling head.

DOOSH!

Once again The Beatles save the day.

Beige trees or salad days oak mistrust of the shoulder spoke waiter.

"I think he fancies you."

Oh the shame of it all.

Oh the humility!

Stomp stomp whip! I let that one go – but if you touch this horse one more time I'll sulk you into a snotty little ball the size of a snail's house and take my game back home.

It's mine. The dumb waiter's. Mine to. And it was my idea to paint a big mouth over the shutter. 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

~

Much like the like, I hand the one over the other because you can't really really do that – thanks. Slow summer stomach uncosy creep of metal hoodie and loofer scoffers.

Head bowed down I become nervous at the thought of how confident I have become. I don't know what you're fucking thinking do I?

In here.

Flaming

Like Bernard.

He's English. He's English.

She's not.

A moonlight shindig – tri-colour respectacles. She seems fond of you. How do we keep this up?

I'm lesser in the throat and dart throw. The protagonist lost in the crowd – the water dripping from a gigantic black olive you hold precariously above the story line.

The darts in the mirror of your bob. The tight in the frump of your fixed cabbage golden seat. That's now even a jar!

The ladder dark.

The tartan brain coat of a burbling gas hound.

"You mixamatosis! I'll polish your nail-swizz."

Her rough throaty cough and dry rasping giggle – light as ashes fallen on a soldier of God is God. There's a lot more going on where that came from.

I'm glad I brought my breast plate. The warm sweet. Glad you showered and got rid of that smell of warm sweetened cock too. The warning meat.

Molly was coddled.

I'm the Bartman.

~

The three 'R's

Re-patriate

Re-educate

Re-generate

~

### Cyril's pub.

Always one step away from Tulsa in the slippy grip of a recruitment agency's quill. Wow – so zowee the lipsave main eddy current under the bad vibrations of a forgotten phone or two.

"You bin waitin' an' restin' all day for this."

"It's the faces they put on – the actors. I just can't."

"Sit here – take you feet off."

"First thing I did – downloaded them for you."

"And I await."

The pleasure pronounced pleasure of a half gratin' cow bowl. Hair too hair for the C.E.G. kept slippin' off like this damn pen. She froths and bothers the tempole of a thousand Tudors who we fought wars for – because of. The silver back open-eyed. Stardom of each blank lined but blank page. The thrill of the chase. The whole of everything to run after in this slipshod way.

"Would you work for someone who did what you did? Said what you said?"

"Those type of people wouldn't work at all."

"Nothing wrong with a little shut eye."

"Not as long as someone's steering for you!"

Thome Thom agin – feel on his chin – brain comed up and wrigged his wrainment. They have happy hour for three hours here.

All own that sanity trial – all were at.

You were sitting at the front I remumba.

"Hail the précis!" you shouted.

"Halve the prices!" you whaled.

"Hilm the invites!" you wombed.

"Hope you hope." You hoped.

Then of a ringtone I blistered,

"Doom she really feel likely?"

I'll a helluva if you prang me. That's not a same. Never mind. Not. Not. Put.

Room the emoles for a deeper sensei. "Will you draw us a room?" It's saying.

Stable lamp for a lamb, roaring fire for the lion – either way they sleep like babies. plural. Then there the hero inwalks, sidesteps a story, fulls his way to an empty table and orders himself one. All red blood cells and white ones too, he reads through the arrow stock and happies the twins in a shimmy.

The lights at night in a photograph of night should not be bright because the paper is not a light and paper cannot shine and neither do you.

"I'm sorry I broke your paw but your friend's got your back; she's growing much slower than you."

I've been here before , not this exact place but I've been here before, and there were some of those people but none of you.

"You're not made out of money!"

"I am!"

~

It's hockey everywhere though I can stand alone amongst these tripe – eating individuals and grin/grimace/furnace at their fun. String like flaming chromosome caught red handed badgering and undervalued plasterer in the middle of a game of charades; y'know, strong!

"What's it like to fuck such a tiny woman?"

"I don't know, I mean I fucked tiny women when I was smaller but they seemed bigger then."

"Funny old world."

It'll take her longer than that – you're barking up the wrong rope.

You take all the fun out of freedom when you forget to tell us what it's all about. FREEDOM is way too much to deal with without even a hint of a direction.

Plato for the 'individual' – The politics of the human soul.

Sundial up for an automated reply.

"Not till 3. Not till 3 shall we."

Can you putmeintouch? Heen.

Keep it sacred – leave it for the hols.

You know Lol, you know Sol, you know Raven Raven. It makes good sense to avoid the heave ho of a lifelong terminology unwritten by law and sent flying by right, up the spout, Sol, you know it does.

Peck peck Bam Wallop Kazzam!

No need to be preachy about it if you're the one holding the toothbrush.

It's already funny – don't play it that way.

I'm returning to be seen without you and smile like I'm concerned.

Perfect – now in an Italian accent...

Even better.

Tomorrow never knew how bright this day would shine in my history. Never dared glimmer though it had the wardrobe. She made sure of that.

Can you credit it? I'm in love with myself.

Pause. Do you mean it when you sing out of key or is the feeling flat?

The violet underground ripples in Vltava reflections off the olympic offices strobing Letna's perambulators. Each and every one a gallery of its own curation, drool, curator, bib, curatorious, pacifier multiplied by three and tossed onto the floor for effect.

Godot will sweep that up later.

How about a musical? A musical about the countless minutes spent committing suicide inside tall buildings. Inside small buildings. Tall buildings inside small buildings. You kill yourself but it's still you who pays.

We'll call it 'Bedwetters'.

One half of me can't stand the idea.

One half of me can't stand itself.

One half of me lies.

One half of mehangs.

One half of me never dies.

"Call me. Tell us a story."

The slate, the heat, the roofs like waves this terrace bar a sailing ship on an imaginary see – the captain alights behind me – speaking Belgian. He knows the words to all the songs.

Steady as a mill pond, we shall traverse the city until we reach Atlas, tickle him under the arm and peg it away before we all drown.

SECRET SCREENING.

"It's some sort of horror story but the director does not want to be known. Not until the end."

"Sounds familiar."

Free bongos, slightly abused, a headless guitar and a draughts board. Or is that a draft board?

Calling all sailors...

Picasso shows up in a tutu rearranges the players and sneaks off stage right. We would be disoriented but for the fact that nobody promised there would be a logical order to things. From chaos to a lot more chaos.

"I mean look at that mad cloud. I mean, it's mad!"

"I know yeah. Clouds are mad aren't they?"

~

"... **Three for a girl**...

a musical like.

We'll need those sailors."

~

They made me feel uncomfortable from the greenhouse inside out. Always the influence – Ultra violent – Ultra light.

~

"If I was knocked over by a SEGWAY would you still love me?"

Let the right one in an' ya have an what. Go there for the right raisin, send him, not you, send.

Laid out on a yellow brick tambourine – I was glorified for all to seer.

"I hear you're a master of all trades – Jack of none."

"Yeah, you hear wrong."

"Or if he can't row a boat. I mean I can't go out with a man who cannot row. Is that bad? Am I a bad person?"

"Not really. I couldn't go out with a girl who couldn't give head. Is that bad?"

Almost famous last words – The ultimate goal; to live forever utterring almost 'famous last words'.

"Can men get hot flushes?"

Only the strobe survives the underwhelm of a sub generation. Him grumbles at the door lock out.

"No you mayn't come in. You're barred!"

Grumble.

The hamby couple drunk. Half drunk in the half of an after. He's back shaved leather at the toe of the stairs down which tumble – A girl's football team – a headband serenade – a free kick Petula – An offer of a job. Unpaid.

They play heavy metal here too and Denmark are losing.

"Okay, sure I'll fill this specimen jar with me wee, but who's gonna mop up the horsey splash all around my cap?"

Well, men, done, colleague, he's, pudding, sure.

They moved him before the face fell. Called me after the worry wart. Drama down the telephone line abated, averted, collated and flinged plastically into the frame of a painting of a fire where it whulps in to a maim of rape and a collage of meat and countryside.

She legs up spoke and gave me a silent whistle from her thick tighted lips – too wide spread and breeze-rid to be perspiring – just a long clean toooooot and how are you?

I think I saw you in the promo didn' I?

The female audience all look like men – maybe some things ARE best left unsaid!

No.2. Way too pretty to be worrying about 'High kicks' and penalties. Nearly got her nose all bloodied over some stupid xenophobic drug dealer thought our man was on his turf.

"TWAT!", "IDIOT!", WANKER!", STICKS!", "STONES!", "THUMBS!", "FEET!" – the work far more important than the job.

I'm writing a pisen for you in an old language before grammar or what. Age old like a grape mouldy from lookin' too hard for a margin in its book of woes, in which to write a note in which. Who cares what country your alcohol level came from? And like a big hovering red 'C' above a stadium, the question of hey now nonny nonny comes back to me. Sorry you're alone – you've got pretty eyes.

That get up and all. Your two days of labouring overalls. Your five days of worrying underpants. Your two months been looking up in askance – Where is the best couch in this grim half-baked world of theirs? A chair for an armour. I'd give my weaknesses for just one cup of sleet rain and memory.

"Bring on the sponge!"

"The orange sponge?"

"No! The magic sponge."

"Oooooh!"

In all realisation I don't think I can't remember when I didn't last not think of never having done the opposite.

That's a fag and a half in dungeon terminology. You can see most of their apartments from the pitch. Parents screaming out the window to pick up toilet roll on the way back from the game.

"I'm the fucking star, Mum! Pick it up yourself!"

What does broohahaa mean exactly and do you have time to fill this form out before the malign fiesta grabs your cleaning lady by the balls and drags her up here for her final inquest.

"Your mop! How did you, how do you...I mean where are you planning to get all your luncheons from if you can't hold a kettle up to a marmoset in its Sunday best on a rag day they forgot to celebrate your bum day?"

"Erm..."

And even in the interview she blushes for her long lost English lover across the seas and full of his own pissing importance.

"Pissing contest?"

"No, 'importance'"

Ahhh, I thought there Humed a lazy bilge tone on the most recent crap-break on the pool table he blinded since his Father's vintage cars in the 60s and proper vintage clothes all laid out on his bed back broken and operation in the mail. She'll be here in twenty Sondheims; better sup this business card and trellis a new moat for the in-laws. A one with big fucking sharks the size of teenagers and a Stanley knife for the president.

" I hug you Uhuru."

"Live long Prospero."

_ Czech footballers believe too _

_Ukrainian musicians spell things_

Lucie Vonkova has dreams as big if not bigger then smaller if not smaller then bigger than any tramsized version of a heroine pick up line involving the words rape and pickles.

"You just don't get back in the same taxi do you?"

"YOU'RE a rolling pin."

Left alone to my own devices I would probably raise chickens.

Hemmed in on all sides by cowboys and by native Americans he hunkered down in his cubby hole with a gingerbread man, a toy soldier, two spanners and a cateract. Not knowing exactly what to do with all these accoutrements he ordered another beer.

"Well that fine, boy, just fine, I think you're going to get along here just spiff. Wouldn't change a thing, now let's have a little ol' look at that song you're writing there."

The then guns draws of a pump saw shone disco lights in a wrong bar – I snort 1:

I snort 2: Eclipse

I snort 3:

The peacock's feathers sketched haphazardly – some taking; the bird like an infant on edge. From the swoop of a solitary magpie to the trend of a sun blessed orchard and a breakfast table set for two and a half.

The city pigeons limp in Morse code to me – the proud peacocks clear the runway and guide my flight with multi-coloured splendour and grass stained bums.

A light – a building – a mansion building – a history – a breeze – a vivid colour – a subtleness so vivid it transcends emotion and hovers on the surface of the mind's electrical impulses to spread its own wings into the infinite universe and kiss the back of the celestial hand which feeds it.

Poets have differed over the virtues of virtue – but in the end – there is no end and a run of happiness is preferable to vexation caused by doubt.

Speak honestly and avoid as many things as you can.

"If you need me, I'll be in my studio in the field."

In the country there is only one drug needed to keep you awake. Pervatin.

I can hear the monks chattering while they cook.

The Nuns just walk back and forth like that.

From the castle, the trumpet asks the peacocks if they fancy stepping out tonight. The church bells save them the indignity of having to respond; everyone and everything is bodged back into a state of calm which only the death of a thousand builders can inspire.

Enter the Jewish contingent, and 3 peacocks (to a bird) jump into a tree and hoot loudly at the contradiction. The further from the beards they climb, the sturdier the Christian's resolve.

It makes the lay-lo simpule. Go and the door is yours. The door. I put the 'oo' in door in the first haste, you crumpled band amputation.

Cellophane in vein – dirtied see through become hum in me pocket – the squeaky voice of a child a precursor of all future squeaks about love and existence. If our voices never dropped there would be no poetry, no philosophers and no opera. The ravens made me do it. Coo, the pigeon plagiarist.

"Just blow your nose, you'll feel much better."

"I'm not so sure the telephone was a good idea."

~

Get the wrain seat you lucky loop – and seasoning help the meatless swarms. Could I? Go veg' and dark eyes? They filter in like mad squiggles coloured in too carefully. Shaking with the joy only 80s brings – I mean 80s not 80s 80s. When she comes nation to nation, a tad pregnant but nothing to boost aboot. She still takes care of her hair.

Plum – one hand this side of the sad head

Plum – one hand this side of the sad frown

"Do I have to eat here," he yawns. "You think Coke makes a difference?"

"No but a straw does."

How can one and one and one and one?

Well that's the mystic lounge for you.

Keep your resolve and wake that seat in your pants to a roof full of ravers. Wham!

I used to loaf just behind here. There. There. Through that door.

"I put the 'or' in door."

Car. Hill. Race. Puffy outy dress (or is it a top) cake floats with the bends on a lemon looking.

A whisper like a noise – the soundman punctures his red tipped novel scanned onto the last bands toilet roll and filtered to recording of Zulus coughing after accidentally passing wind.

A noise like a whisper the act shakes his nerves off and using his palm as a book mark tosses his entire length onto the top of a moving bus, leaving only the feedback and a childish hand shape five finger spread of blue-ish/red paint everyone's afraid to go near but for the set list he trampled and whaa whaa –

Now here come the punks.

Grave makers and skinny birds make graves.

Only my metabolism has changed its choice of badges con badges sum up la la la likey lie.

I imagine gambach is cheaper – Now, here come the drunks. The tour bus arrives with the dead musicians lying all askew on top – nothing to be done.

Act Two:

"How about you?"

It gets younger the darker, outside – handzinpocketsize muff tissues – Gazzick – Gazzick –

A – Shprshss.

The robots aren't only on TV anymore; they are committing tank crimes (and with a lecherous gaze the Kaiser empties his ticking time bomb with naked aggression).

At least the music suited the victim back then. At least the music suited the victim.

I was hoping your hair would lank into a more challenging reign than 8:45 and a felt tip.

A musician must look like a musician,

an artist like an artist,

a twat like a twat –

that is the way of the world.

knees tremble.

make up melts.

arms fly.

belts loosen.

Against a stream – the drug is a lava flow of consciousness gone diarrhetic.

The laxative of love.

\- It made – 'IT' made more of a modem that that. Holed inbag, I am mat, I am. Tam tam gone back in time to the garden where dreams were worn like turquoise leather raincoats, skinny thimble calves on acid, chain mail threads to a noother adventure.

"You get your hair done?"

"No, I always walk this way."

Your slingshot tickles me but reading you makes me uncomfortable. Did you mean to say 'I' here and not 'You' there?

I can't recall; we are all so good looking.

~

Calling all rabbits

Calling all rabbits

~

I blame the distance on my morals – put it right up close in my face and the blue crystal vase and porcelain farm animals could drag me out onto the balcony and cram that view down my throat and I wouldn't even flinch.

I betcha.

I'll hold on for a Sherlock of my own and mistrust those stolen glancets. I dun beleeve yu.

Chrome red cream horse papers in fist – zum zum zum past the plaster window of a bankomat mean strain – The thing is full of people: you see all of them there and you always do see them. You see them and we all do always see all of them always there. The bar pearl I shoulder fall and pin pushing back strain of a metal pen in the shin and the shoulder blade – can you think of anywhere more conspicuous?

"Please, what do you think?"

"Of your idea?"

"Yes of that. Of my idea."

"I think you could afford to lose a few pounds."

She damn well chose that spot: I mean deliberately. Who else would have gone to that exact spot? It's inconceivable that anybody could be so, so...wonderful. Her rings, her ears, Karel Roden and tears running down her flowery speaker.

Sardines.

"It looks like I'm looking at you, but I'm not."

They seems they say one two three away – I'm in the same room as them but not clone. I begin to smell my own smell only when all is well and eyebrows meet and love is in the air.

The golden spatula of a well wound orange unpeeled – God wound it, we unwound. We then MMS and can't feed – me hop on whatever bandwagon you advertise on – those ads where the whole side of the thing is used though, not just some flimsy flyer thing – I'm talking the whole side of a building before I even say hello to her,

### Chorus girls.

or anything.

~

"There's a lifetime in that nose."

"Are we all actors?"

"Naah, just the wet ones."

"The things you buy?"

"Put your cigarette out."

~

Martin – whatsyername – I'd be you.

You'd get 'em.

Dark that – I leaned over to see. The dark. The sound echo we cook. The sounds of flesh we nuclear mind waved with chips.

Sweet she bagged him, heat she caught her bobby socks on her stool and dragged it half way down the boulevard till the auditions.

"And what's that you have with you, missus?"

"Why that's Martin whatsisname," she wilfully brunettes.

Payday!

Coffee in the middle of the room – do what you want with me.

We are all actors.

You tell me to get a job, I'll do it – you're the director.

I speak for...

Who watches?

Once in a wifetime someone asks the right question, like,

"Does that estate agent have exclusivity?"

Or like

"Are you single?"

Or like

"How come we have keys?"

~

Thom reruns embarrassed by tunes apparently which implies a cocaine addiction they never wrote about. You smooth smoo, wood liniment orchestra be-bop. You make me sick with that Czech lilt'n'circumstance. In Russia we would not put up with such underhanded pleading and whine. A hard soil for a fennig – a raised eyebrow for a crowd of none; and I reckon this one here's blind; so far as I can see.

"You gonna call me?"

"You gonna call me?"

\- They've gone for a piss. I did all that for nothing -

It doesn't even matter. It's ridiculous. All anyone wants is love. Right there's the punk romance, the philosophy, the monk, the pain, the poetry, the breathe, the job, the drink, the friend, the fight, the quit, the bile, bone, bane, forest, calm, meditation, movement, sleep, glasses, clothing, home, goat, bull, scales, tracks to and from, to what – what – what. FACEBOOK.

Follow the tighter word for word she said that exact thing I'm sure. You didn't hear, but she did. And sat in that exact spot. You didn't see, but she did. And she thought....what exactly?

Shoop shoop. S

Before the day even started I killed myself in my sleep.

~

"It was a beautiful thing you said to me that day. I can't quite remember what it was but it made me feel like every minute was worth living and I could feel – really feel, but what it was you said I can't remember – I wish I could remember because it was a really nice feeling feeling that but now I guess I'll have to listen out for it and look out for it to happen again or maybe just try and say a lot of things until I come across the same thing you said and I get that feeling again. It was a lovely feeling..."

Vystup – see, the entry was slow and we could always make egregious the entrance of a triathlete or two, or three – the glasses don't fool me. Yes she had/has a mother but who's going to hold that against her – just think of the money she makes – grounding like a hyphen – phut phut in the penile colony of the trunksome load a grandfather's clothes collection would never be enough for a marble ingrate like that. He felled a love tree over the 'twaddle' and gained again. Some say lucky – some sway back and forth – others wait for a waiter to do anything but wait –

"How you fill that sailor suit, dear – there'll be a scandal."

A Czech gymnast and the elderly like spoons. They trudge and they wean but they don't remember what they just seen. Her back is a problem just as his gait is of rusty acquiesce – please believe me Humber – yours was the most profoundly romantic river to flood my garden cemetery; her name was Olga and she was big in '68.

"You've all been here twice as long as me – TELL ME SOMETHING! Give us a clue!"

"Shush you goomba, we've all stopped at a signature too many. If words foul a nation, the signature is the foulest; take two bicarbonate of so so and be glad of the varicose. There's mace in what you say."

My eyelids are torturing – stick, stick, hobble. She reads, but leisurely. She diets, but mournfully. She smiles, but nervously. "I'll have her," I think.

Two frankfurters and a speech later the four men take to their heels and canter out of her range of fire; a spy-shaped woman operating the scene with an armful of dynamite and benign plasticine. "It'd be great if you could just speed it up a bit. My arms are beginning to ache."

I hold all the war-fed at bay and invite plasterers to defile my senses – only the lonely obey and it's a long time since I tied one on. That boy Ashley, a famous Tom.

"Do you miss Ina?"

"It's like a dog dying – that you slept with for three years."

"Life is a gift we are left to pay for."

Tutti rottu tangu, you who get the limbo – you who get the sackfull reck-fell of a derelict mum soft. And ha ha softly softly, did you really think you could get away with less than you owed? Did you really think you could hide your gold bullion from the nigger in the loft? Did you hemmemby grose you would lazenby the last million corrupt dollars in a penny fold you mentioned the mummery gland? Hap hap.

Grasp at the badge blue waver she conferred after tha rally putz – they never knew she were wayward. I woulda let 'em all know if they'd have given me land masses larger than the spiritual glazenby's they hopey tribed. Glutton.

I'll get to the end yet. And you're still awake you 231 crazy castle, wild castle, wild women house on the hill.

Take me away once – I don't believe you.

Take me away twice – I'm your puppy lap tissue.

Take me away thrice – I'll be damned if I'll pay your fucking daft mispronounce any longer, you malinformed goose stepped.

"It's pale blue – but not a pale blue like you've seen in banks; more like a revenue brass humble. I'd go so far as to say I'd go for both, though I'm not into either.

She, on the chair/bench was more like a joke shop fly for the pudding – a doll crepit dandelion gumption. But hell's trundle, her boyfriend, like a red dwarf diminishing, gross in the halfstring theory of a paler doodle night – Her veins more eye-shire, her family more moosed.

Oh where oh where have you little jugs been, the Persian was waiting and my jeans have been chafing and my neighbour is gawping at my lack-a-day style.

"You'll dig it for like seven or eight months then you'll wish I were a golfer."

Pretty ankles and laxxenhrady – brogues made double by leprechaun daddys. Gelf shamed gingers hoping for endings; an eschatology which rhymes with the stories they recall from library lendings come little toddler stool appreciation – Mum over there. Dad way off in the distance and you. All snuggled up in a Dr Seuss confusion of icing sugar buns and tomato soup sicknesses.

A segregated bee line and memorium crutches – the brass alchemy of a restaurant nappy wax. Gandalf's clown lipstick and her hairy armpits in the gazpacho.

I'll blend and blend until I'm forsworn – I would delimitate and deconstruct if the flavours weren't so richer than the bloody rich or poor for poorly church dice. The ratty queen at the windows has it – a muffled sigh beneath her national theatre costume and thespian pride as measurable as a kilo of guilt. Scales as dry as the head wound I got a week ago walking into a very sharp branch. That's a t-shirt they don't warn you about at school. I'll take all the above with a pinch of pepper and I can't be blamed for Asia. And...

On the shore of this wide world I staid aloof and think until love and fame to nothingness do sink, I do and then I run like a madman for the life belt and I fling it at the waves we like to jump in but nor surf like because that's well dangerous. Fruitless. They do sink, but I promise to honour them by painting a lovely big picture of the two of them all green and bloated at the bottom of the beautiful briny – sea I told you so – Andalusian refugees skirt Atlantis but fail to get off a good shot – we are left with a banana republic akin to chap stick cradled by an unfrequented street hooker. Call my bluff. See if I give an African fart.

Terra – blemish

Aeris – Aqua

Infini – Belmondo

Jubilee – refreshments

"I love this place. It's got tits coming out of the walls."

"Remember what they said?"

"An eye for an eye, a toot for a toot, she shall have roses and an island to boot."

"Nope, that's not what they said."

But look hence – the sky map – the horoscope HDR on this railroady nerd quest lead by an ageing hefty and a corpulent wog-muscle.

The opposite of cross-eyed. Wide angle and beleaguered by the home team, he attempts a flying rugby tackle which just makes him end up looking like a Sasquatch. Took a man down though – spitting at the police – great gobs of pre-pubescent syllabi – Gravel for a hymn book, morning slimmer. Sugarless puppy love, a stroke, a stroke. I'm waiting for my kith and my kin, my North, my South, my North, my West my angry, my kettle, my calms, my truthsayer. Pulpless. Smooth-ride.

One more handy, empty blonde. I recall the way you used to look at me and I can see the future.

"G'way!"

"A stroke."

That's the last lap leather bard – now for the seasonal match up – the small white light becomes a big white light and I step inside only to find a small black door, which (by wrote) out of habit – of course I embiggen and in-I-go.

With alacrity I sabotage all that is good and holy all for the sake of symmetry.

Mauritius.

April.

Stand your ground.

Step up to the plate.

Lay your claim.

Wash your brain.

"Write more about the starving and the unwieldy; how they get dizzy all the time and cough clock mechanics at detractors. I'm fed up of being right all the time."

Sunglasses

All my hair

Stone my sisters.

'Stand up' at the door: a dark one, a light one and a small one. The small one was not as good as the other two.

Peels of laughter.

Pips of black.

Plant 'em to make holes with.

Skull screws: an upside down M with a line through it; like skull screws. Two peepers this way and that, a bleeding audience and a copycat. I won't wear anything shorter than a reindeer hybrid. Don't even ask me.

I mistake looking forward for having visions, ignoring the tightrope.

I could just get off the tightrope. I forgot about just getting down like, you know, off the rope and onto the ground, and then the gozzy eye trick comes good. No one was watching anyway. This is far more my scene.

"Oops! This your seat? I've been away. I'm back again now. Who are all these girls?"

Ball and chain eliminated by a bark'n'call up names it ART names im harm. Straight. Jack and lit like a sparkler amplitude coming for flint and New Zealand disparagement – copulate – flower girl summer time – edgeways. Grow up and draw in your scratched black board of a homeless enemy, animule, cobalt, tight jeans, three friends and a fairy-but-larger.

"I'm over here! I'm over here! In the sand and the waves and the salty remnants of love and fame."

"Halo!"

Even if you left ten minutes ago you should have left ten minutes ago.

"Speakers 1,2,3,4 on the wall Simona's for a light saber."

The cook works its way into the corner to carve her wings – A fairy – but – a downer.

"Cables and gussets, boys! An hour!"

~

VISUALIZATIONS

Books from heaven _are_ written in the sky.

I was done but lull and busted when an amp went holy holy through my temporal gears. Hammer ye Gods the chilblains I got for a cup for a pint for a penny. I railed and O'Reilied till the bled remonstrated anticipation glitter balls – to travel – to travel, they is the membrane. Gall and vent I persuaded my coxswain to alleviate. Thanks a much. A merry Wirral took she amtraxed the fling I flung and backtracked an inchy mile. Hep me, Homer, don't be shy. I'm a real gone cat and a regular sort of guy. The stars shone and I got me mettle just in the nick of.

With it I wooed, the fledgling prices of a life well worn – not too tight round the calves. The left side taking over the breathing part. The brain crippling summer sun to wanton hobo. Ah bejeezus you may as well be a christ for a grocer's daughter; no one's watching.

She belted out a rhythm hide nor hair before.

"Go back from whence you came Jojo. Get Lily off the phone and grab a nail pummeled jab-stick till you carry your own weight in wonder. Only you can save us now."

I gelved.

"I may."

"I would."

She plume. I'd love to get my hands on.

The dangerous part of a mash like that is tealessness – suffer for your art and the sugar comes free, but bend over too far and the pissing pot becomes your squirting slush puppy.

Cream on, cream off – if it must be raspberry – so be it. The corrupt government was will be overthrown while the junta makes do with a Jeremy Catchpole, two dozen oysters and a flack maybe hell coast.

"Oh if only the world could be more humble – It takes up way too much space in this cosmos – especially from where the cope lead the pride to the hole in the side.

"More money please hole. Hole. Hole?"

You made that up!

There's still a tree,

The bible, notebooks,

You and me.

Now concentrate you land ahoy.

"I'll help you out if you meet me halfway." "Out if you." "Well met."

The corpse this time – seems somehow unreal – like a plaster cast of a cast or a cummerbund. How can you be so flippant at a time like he's. Thank Lucifer we have the chain gang. I'd call her but I pissed her off – my days are crawling entries – 12-4 I wake to you, 3 I lost my memory – 8 I closed the bar room - I shouldn't hold it against me.

"Can you hear him? Can you hear him? What's he saying?"

"Amamanoo, haffallanap."

"Hmmm."

"I think he's dead."

"So we will never know..."

"No, his pronunciation was clear as a bell – it was 'Amamanoo, huffallanap."

"Shit."

"Clitoris Stroganoff! This place always reminds me of gellatine spanials. You?"

"France."

The would be vicar pushed his congregation of two to the floor. The woman grazing her leg on the pavement. Her tights knackered she retaliates – shoving the vicar yard by yard into the traffic. The speed with which he is flattened makes it all seem quite surreal.

"Help me choose can't you? The lesser of two thousand evils."

"Stay where you are. No one can get you from there."

The rain recalls even if you don't – The start and the end of it all.

I could have breathed air into the rotten carcass but for the squished head.

It's the torn up dwell of deciding that mainlines druid capsules to a wake and benefit. A crapulant obscurism which dunamites the nausea and beckons nitrate manipulates to draw candles in the sand.

"Thank you for the pizza and the ice cream and the walk, but where's the sand?"

I'm paying double because I'm seeing double. Count to ten. Again.

"It takes a certain type."

"I slept more."

"That's not a storm; that's a sculptor."

"I pinned that on him."

"The beat. The happenin' beat."

"Roller discos aren't 'back'!"

"Leg desks."

"Where am I cooking? Where? Just point me there and I'll go."

"But there's so much more to it than that."

Warm this

The negatile stress boomp.

Symbiotic meta needs of ground loose the mountbank. She rocked the boon by askance (as am always im) and maked the bread hope for more than it was doughy. Tinsel. Blow-up balloons. Hair dye. Upskirt. You're a clown they here lumps, but they always came back to give you one. Semaphore.

Oswald caters for the pneumonic tune gatherers – these Czech station fashion cartons – legs in bandages up to the knee fascists and not a lot else for the imagination. Dun, Dun and Gatsby. Hale the Sodom. Hail the moron. Grain in the Rusholme crossfire linear oil stains at the helm. Brokedown. In the nick. Of time – you loomed a lesson a tricks to says you love me – stay all around the world.

Da Da and Daaa!

"You say you needed this?"

"With every beat of my heart."

Self loathing acronaunit lead my day to supra-height sooner.

Nervous animal kingdom, the city – Rural beggar's got more pride – The human comes out when you're not inside.

A solitary multifarious confine of judicious bows and wavers – She sounds just like my ringtone – the screams of indelible youth fleeing from birth to language like a 3 legged dog. Like a 3333 legged dog. Like a petrol driven bee in search of a mate. An A,B,Z of scouse and a YMCA concert at Golden Gate.

What are you asking for in that tongue of yours?

Why can't you be more like us?

"For as much as we both read, we never discussed philosophy or politics."

"For as many as we bred we needled physiognomy to a mutant of its self."

"For just two quid, she'll suck you off if you wear protection."

"Four by four over the head for a whore-white twenty year old."

"So what did you talk about?"

"Weightless and marbles."

Tied in a bundle tighter than her toes we trip. Polygamous forethoughts to much further than just lunch.

An afternoon in Israel –

Struggling but eventually faring well with the hunch shouldered blondy carrying her eggs in a sack.

The farmer's market betrayed everyone with its breasts. She snake-oiled her way into the bubble of light we have been enlargening in our newmares. I pull at the flickering sides but cannot curtail the remonstrations being hurled at me from the ancient balcony that is my trapezoid costa nostra. Distractions from flight causing cists in my visualization tic-tacs.

Everyone's covered in speckles of light when they should be climbing inside one big one. Looks good on the dance floor but who can dance in this news stand mesh?"

"You done the eyes and the mouf wrong."

Sowheretonowthen

A triple-eyed precocious brunch-monster shows me hers. - Sol takes to the park on the back of an air guitar WAAW WAW WAAAAA – W. He ignores the new sign on the dentist's which says Elvis was gear and pelmonism is a big word.

"Those children were identical!"

Meddlesome biomania put paid to the drunkards.

"I want a home, not a house."

Landed

square and circle

the light rotating at every angle – infinite capacity for toys. She's shaking a rattle; he's waving his pen – I came here for a bit of peace and quiet. The shade under the workmen's empty beer bottles more greenhouse than Buddha.

"Why you leave these three?"

"Because 'ennui' is another big word – but not big because it's long, just big big."

"Bicycle boy – send her a message – The mansion is too small and you look like a man."

Custom made for hang on a minute what you up to? These peep show thoughts you gather as you lone. VKLAD means deposit. DOSTAT means give.

DOSTAT VKLAD does not mean give deposit. How will we ever understand one another in a world nuancing and grammatizing itself out of fair sharesies?

Give it up just once and thump me on the chin when it's too sunny. If I had a fiver for the baths I'd sell it to you.

"If I had a fiver for every time you said that, I'd have one pound seventy p."

~

~

Like a Shaolin monk he sits up there, with his bag by his side, or like a twat. Who knows what travesty of a sandwich he has concocted for his solitary picnic. He's filming now – reckons this is worth keeping. From the confines of my hammock, in which I'm shackled in..., I have conjured traffic that sounds like the ocean and trees that beg you to come back. The homeless washes her feet with her hands which look like feet and then the Mother and the poet leave. For different reasons.

From the hammock I would have left out the cigarette butts. I'd have coloured in the marble statue of Hana Kvapilova with marker pen because in the end it is just stone that looks like a woman and we paint them. Better that way too – they look more like they're up for it.

Walking on high knees, I'm there to hold you up. Your disc a melon away from Clatterbridge. Him's ties a dickey bow of Oxley. The butterfly meanders like a five point pole fight and ascends a-big a-kiss a-to a-you. What's a worm do?

Grandparents are even worse than parents.

Blue Green Cream Gray

House white

Clear green blue Grey

Rabbit cloud

Blue sheen lawn green

Sawyer strand

Huck proud fence paint

Bush book

"You never really talked about philosophy or politics? That whole time?"

"No."

"'No' you did or 'No' you didn't?"

"No. Yes we didn't."

"I like it when dubbed Alexander Fu Sheng says 'He's a bastard' or 'Here's the bastard' or 'Oh, look at that bastard."

"Yeah, me too."

"It's just funny when he says 'bastard'."

"It's like the only bad word he knows."

"It incorporates all levels of wrong doer. All encompassing."

"Indiscriminatory."

"Neil's looking for tour guides."

"He can suck my arse."

I'm blamed if aught, to take this peaceful offering and kung fu chop it into a mealstrom of ideas – happy ideas –

"Tell the truth! Who was it?"

"You lie!"

"Don't fight. It looks bad."

"That's the thing."

"Get onto it."

"Sleep now; I'll kill you later."

Colours of God – The blind boy reading the stones on the river bed like braille, the seeds on the alfalfa. A code for bird-speak. I feel there's a bug now and many more than this.

I am the frog, the lizard, the snake, the centipede, the scorpion and No.6.

"You believe in nothing, you become nothing. To live in a monastery with the original belief – the one we received in forms in sun in respite – Dawn.

SB 333

I find a hut and I lie in it. I live in it. It's bricked up. I travel there. I didn't make this up. None of us did. That's why there is no end to the things

"The country won't appreciate my loyalty. I'll live as a hermit and wait for the right time."

God bless you merry.

In the skies and no desires but to be oneself in good humour – but not too good, in bad humour – but not too bad.

In shining steel stolen the pen ruptures age to ageless, the ripened grain multiplying until golden and you forfeit the right to become a Buddha as soon as you steal yourself. The pains you will go through are nothing compared to the beauty.

We are under a spell and must act accordingly. We must ready ourselves for the applause. To live ones life in search of a peaceful death.

"Is the crowd pumped up now? So stop hitting the water. It moves to match each thrust. It was built that way.

"We expanded by 17% in the first quarter."

"Good God! What have you done with your freedom? Your sight? Your senses? Your voice? Your limbs? Your space? Your time?"

~

Foot and shop the soul dangle cupboard bag. The clan ablaze after ruffling the ants up flags - There's me, Joey, Cable and Razz, all ablimp over the caterfold – she shouldn't have minded but she minded. Looking into her phone'n'holdall tells her overtight calipso buddy – "He did, I swear!" The size of the affair an only silhouette but she brayed anyway – like Elizabeth in man-jeans or like Henri Rousseau blended shakesplit.

"And then he kissed me."

"It was rape so?!"

Black does a dark cowboy make – don't try to tell me the French are flim flam men –

She waits beneath a backward flip – a statue blue and scolded – the end is nigh for the tooth-bold pirate and his tatty-headed monster come nubile romancerum. Shaved and acting, homeless and hopeless an upkeep of gossip a nose job too far – Still she will not stop till he's damned – those crazy Pynchons, my timid mindballs, hell's glamorous bangy bongs – come here with those, that scarf and that mole – your friend with her hole. I'll not brave the death star for you.

Pull this one, the rabbit's ears go up. Pull that one and the ashtray becomes your substitute husband. A public message; a pullman's stubble, a square fag eye-bone; a glandular 1-1 draw.

A knight's cross in reflection is a lower case t in any other institute's menu. We are closed but not to people. That is a replica and the cigarettes enstrangen us.

"I never had none of these troubles till he moved in."

Andy Bers cleans off the door stickers and a text just wouldn't do. I need them to see me and what I'm like when I talk on the phone. In the courtyard beneath the cold she Heidi Cloomed the chair piece all cut out of one. Not like them but already begun. No, not shut to people, just...

"There is no money!" She cried.

OBSERVATION CHRONICLE

VISUALIZATION CRUMBS

ASPHYXIATION BUBBLES

LEATHER SENSORIA

"No, I mean it. Money never existed – he made it up."

"Who?"

"I can't remember his name – but he was a bit of a knob."

...and there's a singing angel, and there's an orphan and a grass skirt all pulled apart and a two-handled cup like the ones for babies but none of it matters because she's only gone and forgotten to call off the murder.

It slowly go-toothed in fabrile heat lumps –

"I couldn't fathom the bung up." He fell on their body bags like an airless room full of lady's arms. Elbows. The wicked stench of elegance alight aloof in heaven's copy paste envy child. There's a hubris in due process which that where who.

And she dug and she dug but her husband was bandier than that – they broiled the mattress down to the smudges full scale on a puddle bank.

"Gerrim'!" they all offered but Toby got the helm of it in a jiffy – the swish of the blade cutting off the late minute's reprieve.

"Oh my gods!" tomb late minutes.

"He he!" he laughed late but dead now. Closed to them too – not people.

"I'd let them, but she should have checked first. He hadn't really done all that much to deserve it."

They banjaxed the prelude with too little fanfare.

"Not in this bedtime."

I shoulda known weller.

An organic shoulder barge massaged its way into her conscience. If only she'da been and gone and went already – binangonanwent – she's in the navy now.

It's not about British bulldogs; it's more about the detox of an ethical suspension. The teleological post-box of a stand up and talk advertisement on paper-ties. There's is gross abandonment.

"Who's been layin' molars?" she summed – "Can't you burn them too?"

Segway to everything has gone except the answer everyone was looking for.

Everyone's a joker till they humble the bass on the banana – charitable babscombe, we read about him in the papers all chopped up in a river in a nice big plastic one of ink and criminals – there's pen on me and blue ribs. He had leg brains. Wednesday fell fowl – Thursday grew wives – Fursday conjured a shrink and asked a number of questions.

"How you lead me him?

Well you had not but.

Can you stop me try?"

"THE ANSWER HAS NO QUESTION."

"Got your old man now. Had it been made of buttons would it have been better or more of a coriander fanny pack than that?"

"No."

I'm soothing you – you're on the ledge – the way you should – we're built that way - but step back – eat the mint – it's what it's there for – a reminder that for all the fakery there's still an undercurrent of real love.

"How many minutes left?"

"I dunno. Seven. I'm freezing – I'll fall whether I want to jump or not."

"It's Fry's chocolate cream, man. FRY'S CHOCOLATE CREAM!" She blamed him but he never forgot – she shut him out but he tried the best he knew how. The fine men who killed her husband wept not. The wild girls who fed her back to life weep. Like all the time. She will weep but not just yet – not till she has cut and pasted her own history into the pages of just one more blank flirtatious look.

12 centuries of high expectations because of what? Because of the no hopers who hatched words.

Hypnotism all women

Buddhism left at the lights

Hold me pumps give us a fag

Encryptions masking tape

Masks Zionism

"If I had a voodoo doll in the likeness of the first toe-head who took peyote and felt the need to share, I'd comb its hair then kick it in the vagina."

I selled me mam that and she was well made up.

In honour of his memory she architecturalised the amplitude she welcomed, the finger- conducted or bender if you prefer the luminosity of a child's game and weirdos for jumpers. You holy muncheon gladbacks you – No82 – all wet through. I capitulated and promised a stairwell. She'd tumble down that and we'd get the insurance money; hobby horse or no hobby horse. The golden key-eyes sown shut wakeful hour and omelette a la Vahid.

"Ooh, she would have liked that."

"Yeah, till she couldn't breathe all that much." Like her throat cut on a slippy hammer.

Moral = She should have dreamed better

Mural = A big thing on a wall

Murial = An unshaved lady

The source of abject manipulation – a distance of a thousand years and a girl's pride mixed in with a little Appleseed and pee yourself.

"There was an old man; a silly bastard he was; couldn't rub two pennies together – he was that stupid.. He knew he knew. He saw saw. He he (as we mentioned.)

Universities of dim refusal since nobody might not remember this dickhead but I'm telling you, he wasn't a bummer like from the books about him but he was a workhouse flopsy and lent a fellow a hand on occasion. Things have smells mostly and that's as much as you really need to know. With crapulous efficaciousness he became a she and wrote a song about it. Under the auspices of the powers of darkness a standard monkey rose to be king and that's when rubbish rules got fucked into the bum hole of our tentative social contract – The vengeance of God's sense was pummelled into the chest of the empress of love and all the cheap mummery that went with her.

"Did everyone have their hands up to ask questions, or was it just one wee lad?"

"Just the one."

"What did he ask?"

"Is there a teleological suspension of the ethical, sir?"

"And what was the reply?"

"Something about wafers and knees."

"If the masons ever get hold of him, he's a gonner."

They all wore orange on the inside and velvet was enough to start a riot – All the women were in trim and the football field was awash with whale fat. One would add that with just a little more virtue, we could have screwed up the entire registration process – As it stands, our Zeppelins have failed us and we are left to fail again – guilt free. The woman blog beside leg notions layer upon layer of calf meat and square heels.

"How should the Mantis fare?"

"Was it a praying one?"

"No. One covered in grapeseed oil."

"Well."

Light matters. You're not even looking. Even if the director's fetishes miss their mark, we must trust their truths till they (the director) proves otherwhence – they have a point – The best solution so far is we. Me. We. 'There' and 'There' not the same at all. One is there and one is there – not even from where you're standing and you're singing into the hilltop all Victoria and Bertik.

"I notice because I'm the same as you."

"Not from there you're not."

"Do you take me for a foo?"

"I wonder why she smokes."

"It's on account of her old man. They say she done him in."

"Is that so?"

"It is from here. I don't know about you."

"She does have charming eyes."

"She certainly does."

Note – no harm in a little romantic music here.

...and the game goes on, but the cheerleaders dictate the run of the match and the people are pacified for the first time since the moon landing.

"Which one?"

"The one that left that big imprint you can see from here."

"The sea of tranquillity?"

"Yes, yes, The sea of tranquillity. That's it – at that distance it is the same from here or there."

"Here?"

"Yeah."

"Bit different though."

"Aye, but close as."

"Nothing will ever be on the same spot. Vive la differance!"

"But if you just move a bit this way you'll see the crater better. Less light pollution. No, here. No, here. Yes. Try that."

~

The soul shaker gums of a princess karma leaned sided on the one over the counter. I cannot take your work without a discount of ginger fresh from the sundries and sundries of pantalooned clerks. I beg I will not and yet still short of breath space. I'm an unreliable pauper as long as this doubt regains every latch-fold of grim Beasley of a fashion. Maybe Claustrophobia, maybe conversation jolts. I've taken ones huge intake and let out a let down.

I get a rush of memory it's where I met your veins, and for all the carnivores and all the omnipotent loves I'll hail this feeling as a dry vice president to an introverted Republic just waiting for its own revolution. Sporting inanities is not her game but she does so anyways.

Her was a dress – Him was a shorts

Her was a chequered – Him was a wavey stripes and for all the differences (again) her dictated the table from table to table.

"I foresee a day when women will know what they want – fussiness is not a pre-requisite of knowing – it is precisely this fussiness that leads to all the things one doesn't want." I laughed at him writing that down because I knew of what he spoke. I smiled at what he did next because the people at my table were so very dull.

And in the middle of the sentence he was describing, the men came in with their bludgeons.

Cripple – Cripple, the menu romomified credulance over the people sitting at the next table to table till she was perfectly happy with her choice of polish. You couldn't move for the solitary blood cells fighting for sunshine. Only from a certain angle can you see the colours, otherwise it's just black and gray. It's made that way. "Look at meee!" the sangre flaid, flayed, said.

"She's not worth it!" They who screamed now – "It's all business to them!"

I gathered their drift and shoved it in a helicopter so it would go really high.

Soldier on b-boy. Crane your neck to see this. It's a close up of some cinema very far away; a tragedy (of kinds) how the intimate runs adjacent (and tittering) to the construct of intelligence. Widespread like a crown or homely like a sceptre, the reformers holding tightly (it looks like) to various shields and pencil boxes filled with chain mails.

This is one warhorse they made upside down. Have you guessed the symbol in the sky yet? I don't think we've been near this one. And so the rain falls – a shower's reflection on its morning's work but busy like so it doesn't really ever have the time for true reflection. Sounds good though; hitting the glass-roofed conservatory and breeding wasps.

A pentagon of majestic rooms, diamond Ethiopians and an App for everything. Rest if you must, I have a duel to fight. We must be born of the same black eye you and me; a temptress and a dingo, pleased to have you. Speak too slow and they'll mistake you for a retard; speak too fast and your footstool may as well never have been planted or earthed in fulcrum thy plentiful heliotropes fumbled for the pepper pot and nearened it to Christ even without the sacrament.

Let all the music be never be what it said it was. Let all the vows be wordless. Let me into your honey disPlacement and a hole for the thanksgiving. Mad fulcrum frazer they called him, bound 'im and gagged 'im then paid 'im to be 'im 'cos we're not.

Petroleum jelly and butterfly affectations will not save you now. You gotta be a man about it; now lend me a dime. Sadly the unions blew what little power they had on vending machines and a penchant for The Mothers of Invention even all in even they were orchestrated by the philharmonic borechestra and giants high five to the sound of tadpoles menstruating.

"G'bye Eggs."

"So long, Chips."

Every road has been blow jobbed into submission and the dwarves run free. The wild cats they keep as pets frighten the photographers and documentarist into growing beards to appear more savvy to the strangled infants hanging from the billboards burnt with gumbo and misinterpreted weather strains.

This sun's a petrol bomba – and yes I'll sing it agin' – I feel as still as the desert when you are happy, as ruffled as a tree in a storm when you're down. I got one kiss for you for being so kind and one for my big fat lazy behind.

Wherewithal

Headed

Upstaged

When they put her on the dock she grinned a grin so huge it shook the room of gawpers to their britches –

"I ain't got nutthin' to be ashamed of." She sermoned up a deliverance.

"But it was him did me up, not me him, an' I ain't sorry for it. I weren't no killer afore him an' you can bet your scratchin' fountain pens I had a perkier pair than this before he got his filthy grapplers on 'em. Tidy they were, with mouths for nipples that would sing ya ta sleep as soon as tuck you up. You can all think what you will, I know my rights and my rights is written on the inside of this frail body you see before you now, an' the only way you're gonna see it is by cutting me up the way those fine men did him. Good luck but know this, I'm not even sure we speak the same language. You bring along your interpreters because the rights of man ain't easy to read all smeared in blood. Bring all the fertilizers and sewing machines you like, there ain't no fixin' what ain't broke and there ain't no growing what don't have no circumference. G'luck to ya and may we never see each other again. God be with you and all over your face." And the lights went out and the lights came up and the boyfriends all looked at their girlfriends and hoped that they had enjoyed the show.

~

Brendon aremswitch palm – thrower expectant – Trained and trained for the chorus but was stuck was. Heavenly hicculps pervaded the mainstttream he mistrusted like a Hussite wedding up a barman's work-skirt. Short of being hailed as fargone, Brendon found solace in the entrails of a zinc mine dug by mau maus for the seventieth elevation of the dag-tailed Mother-in-Law. He would never judge or capitulate, but on the wrong day caught side sleigh he had it in him to jump queue and pardon why cum through a neck. Can't say fairer than that. I write the book I want to read. It's cheaper and it makes me laugh. It keeps me on my toes. I haven't the foggiest what happens next and I can't recall the beginning. Either way I'm onto a winner and no, I don't keep lists.

The canon for you is an underpaid. The weight for you is a celebration balloon left in the corner of a room after the less laid car-moon haunts the newness out of this stamp prized yoopster bearer. It speaks rude and tells you to 'Shut up' whether it's in a chair or not. You've got 30 seconds to make up your mind. Will you join the world, or save the world? Can't do both.

Don't run away with this now. We've only just put up the stocking. If she crawls a few miles more we may let her loose. Till then, we stuff the sock full with pressies and make believe she's real, blood or no blood. I put my arm deep into the jar she was binning and pulled out a bouquet – carpet duned, rain-dread, smarting the windowed now by two purposeful pups and danger crowds. Uplift – hall – hall – upstair crawl, there, there, almost there, there. Her.

Bush next to ponio shattered pig-bone and eye-lid Spector. The meal could have been better the slipper shadow knuckle bind of a father's got to pay because he wanted it that way. Can't trust a man with money. Means he's pretendin' sumthin', somewhere.

"Just doin' my job."

"Man, you don't own a job. We give you a tit to suckle and you just ruin all the fun. I don't believe you anymore than I could feed you to those badly-dressed slaves and peanut tasters. Eggs, Peanuts and football – all taste the same sold separately with a shard of sunlight and don't add the weapons extraneous. Don't add the sunlight and don't add the weapons and you don't have a show and I don't care what fucking chicken it came out of. I'll iron my pillow cases if I need to and not before.

Holbein Japanese schisms rate the Tylenol table menuriffic. I can't say I trust them either.

You may say gently men's singles but I say mini-skirt. You say potato, I say tornado, you say tomato, I say lumbago. TOMA!

In order not to count.

The count was out of order.

The count died old.

Lucky count.

~

There's a warm orange light on the pier. The sea puddles reflecting tiny amounts of proud which add up under horse drawn donkey squelches. Nan holds the most in memory stakes and berates the star tattoo on the sandled feet of underage eclipses.

Do up yer belt. Tuck yer shirt in. Straighten the sun-glasses. Hide for a month and come out fighting. Neat looking and all your pen tops chewed. She looks once, she looks twice, but she's a foreigner and Nan suspects they can't cure her cancer. The funny old man says things from old vaudeville stand up bits like I'll do one day – I think he's the funniest person ever lived, but then I was nine. The storm clouds gather but the house bound whiners are comfy in their trunks. I trust them. Them I trust. The drive better than thesedays. These days there's birthrights summed up in hateful morning afters. Then there was only. The epileptics brain smell of a vacuum cleaner of clean nausea given a bad name. Cognitive behavioural therapy predates the antiquities of these preambulators, these alligators illuminated over the streets of Blackpool, doublin' up in terror and terrify – a child's 'ohm' cry softened to temple in a mad dash to get out of the Dr Who exhibition on the strand.

Dizzy ass-legs and Francophile bean-pod cusp the telly. I mean they cusp it, they really do – ignore Sal sack and Eeyore eyesore there nudged in next to 'em. And above the pelt does nothing for them and nothing for me and I'd rather be here than anywhere else not talking to someone and wishing for a friend.

I can't translate the ministry warning on the ashtray but I'll bet my white cells it's about your wife.

The Chuckling American

The chuckling American bored the Czech girls who sat next to him...to death.

The smoking hot Czech girls

The smoking smoking hot Czech girls frightened the chuckling American...to death.

Now everyone's dead I may continue.

Two dreams now. One of the sites of the city, one of your underarm where it connects with your daughter's large breast. Both milky, one freckled; one dream underdone, one milked...one my fault, one the fault of the dewy eavesdrops crinkling dry on the barroom flaw. I feel like Pollock with a pen again. Yes I noticed your old repeat in a rain-drenched tram on a moonlit street. Your bald father fishy on his backtrack looks up at the light pollution and spews, "HOW MUCH?!"

Cat of nine tails stroke MILF minors have more to their bow than the movie suggests. Here we have the hero – No I haven't decided just yet but here we have the femme fatale. Only one so that's easy.

"You know your mouth moves when you write?"

"You know your eyes move when you dream?"

HOLD THE PHONES...

There's the but. Construct - now ovulate

Constrict – now eggs...she's still speaking...gotcha! Yes, they do all taste the same.

Your friend's coming now. You should invite a young one. Even the women look. For God's sake! Who has 43 years of conversation in 'em?!

Better keep busy. We can all be black goat masters, or it's not as much fun the crystal bullion; a mature line for a defenceless rogue.

Eartha Kitt was sitting next to me – over the way really – but close.

"Who's gonna call me?" he sang. She sat there. I thought. The last thing that's important is being famous. Last thing. To connect with the person in front of you. First thing.

The pink-skinned hair rye on ceremuncheon second landing. It says 'closed' but it's not. Not to us. You say pleased but your gray-scale representation of unhung combobulation is preposterous. A heavy store bag and menu baked vinegar; my head, my shoulders, my ankles all dumbfounded and weary of the long German it takes to get here. We coulda skipped the bronze age if they were just gonna make mistakes guessing the dates. I mean what's the point?

A stupid heart then a cracked Day-Glo diving sword tilted just left of the sound boom and John Lennon's wife. I'll carry le sac if you promise that there's nothing queer about his questions, the context, the content, the censor, the low-cut, the belt below, the laugh-o-matic, the creole shaker maker, the audience participation, the anger management, the dressing up for the occasion, the price of beer here, the wooden slats and non-stop talkers, the game aim and rectangular table trip goes large and is paid.

Bernard and harpstring theory made advantageous by substituting the iambic pentameter with the free verse of an elephant seal kicked a policeman in the head and got the order wrong. Don't sit any closer to that dark-haired wanderer, they have no identification papers and reel backwards when you poke 'em. That just ain't enough.

EBOS K

LLUP

TAM

PUSH

SHUP

K SOBE

Let's say he didn't know her. How can she then say it is deliberately obscure of him to dance that way. Who needs to understand one man dancing let's say. Let's say she doesn't know him. We can just say that. He still shines and the Czech bubble lips of likeability answer for a lot. You can't just climb on these walls like Mathew Barney might. Let's say he might. We can say that. And the muddy prints he left on the whitewash aren't nearly a see-saw re-run. Not by a long shot of mescaline it's not, so don't come the innocent with me – her bingo wings tell it all. You cannot unwear those pants! Let's take this outside, to an IRON BRIDGE school trip, the moles on your cheek will never leave you and they will never lie. You have this in common. Her throat bangles may slow her down a bit but the garage music never will. The slow equine approach.

The fast theoretical exit.

A paper left unread.

A newsreel of green-eyed optimism.

Bell-air ear ringer of firey red oppulance.

~

Tell me more about Westphalia.

You and I could start a whole new race of people – you know, if this tram were the last place on earth where there were any humans. I'm sure that old lady would die soon and we could eat her and then, even though you are lots younger than me, we could learn to love and you would soon come of age and we could call the crop we grow Zachariah, Zebedee, Bo-Diddley and Toots. We'd love them like Gods and hang the old lady's bones outside our cave as a sweet reminder of how we met.

The stout version drowned – gone bye bye over Daddy gone comatose.

God's teeth! A snow man synthetic of origin crumbled in a magnum freed out of you and me, the T.V., the hand-made films and young nationalism eschewed buy and buy until the trees very own earthquake quells fairy spirit to lunges of mustard flavoured criticism makes you look jaundiced and badgering; or was it a haunting? I motherfucking loved it when you said you were won over at Constantinople but trellised by Istanbul.

~

Womb-badge and milkless pin-prick – No I don't hold it against you – you never held 'em against me. Ailment one: a trigonometry pad. Ailment two: a late dinner of no pleases and thank yous. Ailment three: I told you I'd be back by two. That's the fourth time I'm hammy and won't be eligible for a Grammy and want to piss in the wind because I like the odds and the taste of spammy.

As strong hearts prevail the paint fall from the pen-head and the Manchester tram makes better time than your wife.

"Wife?!"

"Sorry, I forgot the word for 'woman'."

Amma blame the one who spoke to me of texture – completely ignoring the fine works made by flatties. Don't spoil the illusionist with that winning smile of yours, he'll only turn it into something you've been dreading since you first raised your fist in silence.

Give him much less and you won't be able to tell the blistering from a good old fashioned blush. A war in the twin moons of the backwind in trumpet blaring Jesus-speak – I'll lay five to a foursome you go the way of the hipster and drown your banjo/lyre in liquid custodian.

So many stars.

Ahh, the black belt comfort of knowing your destruction is what takes you higher, longer and uncut. That's a pledge Lol borrowed and wetted – red solo brim of a think-headed soldier blade.

Bang my chest plate bad boys, the corridor is full and my mix-tape is jammed – if I don't cough up something quick-style, the princess is sure to be captured.

"And when did you learn to fly?"

"Don't copy everything I say."

"Don't copy everything I say."

See to it that the grids you call eyes are thoroughly turpsed and corpsed before dangles and perped. We wouldn't want a regardless history message you tripped over delightly. Hum, hum, hum up the steps not the tin can. Bless. Rutledge, Beans and your copper bell bottoms.

There is no repetition.

A cordless biography is the home of the colour-blind. An alien autonomy is the bungalow of the damned. Teleport, wellies and whelks, I promise I will do my best to do my duty to God and the Queen and when she cries she sounds like a rainforest bird.

~

Sounds like shade or gold spilt on a lesbian's cheeks, the noise inside the echo which makes the echo make the noise - I hold my breath...huuuup...

Between one hour and a Jamaican name change all changes, then solidifies into a whole new bag, now it's been refused entry into 2013 due to fashion sanctions and scar-faced hand-me-downs.

Magda

Payman

Canada

arga

manmag

Canaman

Payda

Pay da Canaman.

### 3.3.

3.3. - "The milky bars are on me."

The library flag flutters in anticipation – The crowd stirs. The bird on wing unwing. The hushed whispers of the meteorites scud across the planet's atmosphere sending sparks of anticipation into the eyes of the ready-steady-GO!.

"You see that, Pa?"

"Yes I did, son. That was your uncle up on Jupiter. He's ready for that pick-me-up."

"Shall I, Pa? Shall I?"

"Go ahead, son. No use waitin' any longer."

Eureka and Endymion walk the dogs while the traces of life and living tie-dyed into the child's creeping grace stymies the opponent into simpering acceptance –

"We knew all along you would win us over with your shuffling farsee. We knew all along you would Hoover us into your forgiveness and race-track. We always knew you would be taller but the fuller for it. My platform flip-flops were a bad idea!"

"I love the way you lose."

The memoranda read:

Up should slight corner bread five by five cupboard necks, shower heads and fine dancers – or cider (an appendage), cream sodas (an appendectomy).

It's like shooting bullets into a church hoping to hit something palpable. Ptooey on your foot sex, the minister sold the rights to the bible to Mr Jackson's agent. God only knows what he'll do with it.

"I don't mind you jacking me off – not if your Mum's at the shops. No, no, go right ahead."

"We always knew you would win her over. We always knew that."

Draft FCB reserved outside a delicatessen.

"Howard Jones billboards and forgetfulness. You changed your name to Dachau as an incentive. You believed in patience before anything else. You wore handlebar moustaches on your sleeves like St Christophers or the Purple Heart. You made eggs of senators and riled car park attendants with witty monikers. How do you plead?"

"Silly."

"If anybody objects, forever hold your peace."

~

"The boxes which hold a wedding ring all sound the same when they shut." So says Check Mountain Guitar Brother.

"Ms KIKUCH! I can't be serious despite how I may look."

Then Teas maids, toffee apples and barbeques ruin an underground recipe for prawn risotto on a neighbour's lap dog.

"I seen 'er pantin' round the yard, I did, wiv' a pen in 'er mouth and 'er bikini bustin' at the seams."

Oil of all of Algonquin Dalloway trade – the bones for leather, the leather for lupine owl and a rowling wolf, yellow tippers run from their tables like bottles recycled uncoloured but bled. The buffalo slowed by two-a-penny undermines and over arm toss throws. Intertribal amity and casual killings brung horror-struck teen-labourers by enemy breechcloths, hem of beard and string of head bead/ Drill one plummet, drop two, vertigo planet then dolled up flunky on the jest of a slave.

"Yeah, well fuck it."

"Do I really look like her?"

"More than a basket of acorns or a cabalistic satellite, you do."

And so the plain clothes drifters settled in their manifest curiosity and kept their nipples. About 1623.

I'll hold him down while you tickle the brains from his earlobes; the candle's lit, the sacred clown is painted, the stripy thinks of a middle-aged sketch-of-a comes spinning down the mountain in arms of T.V. guides and murmur perpetrators, low speakers and boring leopards. Grab his legs before he kicks over the Carson and take into consideration the chiefly invitations. He'll talk even if we have to do the talking for him!

Madagascar

Yemen

Hobbiton

Croydon

We have more chains than squirrels have splinters. Get him to his feet and pitch me a low one. This one's wearing stitches. 108. 108. 108. 108.

There's Arnold saying, "There's an old saying, Count them – there's no end to their delusions – the music rises the screams dulled scarlet – the curtain petard of eye-spite. The blind Carpathian yodels for a vodka and receives a one way ticket to Palookasville.

A brand on the wall signals queen, queen and moon. One gruff voice like a dark nursery rhyme pixilating the moon freezes and the hanging man card is dropped in her hoof steps.

Run Spot, run!

The somnambulist's toe-spa just below the volume of an extra terrestrial grindcore band and a history teacher gone soft. Her calf taut at the sight of the puma; the well said lilt of a peroxide voyeur hidden in the bushes of an unmade bed, Persephone's unicycle locked to her tongue-piercing, she jabbers in English till the tyres burst on the wolf skin rug we use as a wee tent cover, mouse legs for the teepee struts. 108 mouse legs to be exact. Tent pitched.

The burnt offerings were made in a hurry so you can still see the marks where we cut her. Nothing to show now. Not since the Godspell. Suspiria close up of a child on its back – the day dawns and no one is any the wiser. We are the spirits as we are the sacrifice. We are the latch. Forgetful sods and disappearances. We- the royal one stays back a grudge from the daubing onslaught in memorium adendum – All of them going out of their mind.

Step one without judgement but trusting.

Step two reach back to see if anyone is there.

Step three fall back and get a much better look at the painting from here – Never good to be too close to anything for any length of time. Ready to colour it in now. Was that the sound of the Tardis landing?...

Elpsis Boo is back!

Vanilla moon is not.

She be he'm was. My, that was a tale-to-tale.

Sing bins of psychedelia when you slump too deep and come up all cummy mouthed and waiting for a writer. The baubles is just the air and water, man – there are no gaps to fill.

(Speech bubble)

~

It takes a not too salient orchestra to chop at the operamic hyapathon and squeeze out 16 or so gold medals this coming trimester. The dub you found excited me. I used it immediately and it brought fruit. I was so happy just to stare at the sketch that I forgot about the frog march to a solution. Never ignorant of getting the goal accomplished mind. Mind accomplished. Neither should we wet beds or drapes our nik-naks in kerosene. Back 'em up until. I'll bring to you the philistines, you bring the pancakes, we'll shade in the darker bits and use emulsion for the avant garde sideburns. What e-mix.

Menial ease pictures and a two-for-two trial. I'll make money yet.

Albeit in cellophane, unto keep, albrecht mein lunch your leopard skin is a narcotic room of dark glasses and Warhol gulps. Don't bend over before any man, neither be a cock above nor over. Take the spend of coffee ritual slash migraine and wish for your disembodied fascination. Don't rant, but let time pass. Don't picket but demolish. It's so much easier to maintain a rectangle. We got sofa-roosting cabbages who do that for us. Now make a start. The End.

~

We never invented a God, we invented a landlord.

~

### KA CHING

### The book of change...

There's the clash of the free houses and an oblique Soho. Recognition for being unknown shared amongst a boosh – wheat and the Canal Zone. What became great at night and the sound all over – you all don't have the university or Sunday let you down but totally cool. The publicity costs sure but go easier; go Easter and prefer.

You wanted a lead-sugar day and you role out all the spirituals. A can-do overlay for penniless pantheists. Is there a dance move for that? I don't think so, I mean we all lived hand in mouth back then. Whoa boy and squandered youth doodles. My father was from a vegan sporter's cheek. Or titanium flecked Nike junker.

"You are the positioner. You made the cable extra breads of your over stimulated hippy."

"Is they the really really are party clown men? You support the colleges but don't make red the confidence."

"No.Z."

Demmy Kenny went in and sold, man. Plumb SOLD. That's my clarinet beat boy. I liked those of your bad world but you didn't give me cash till now. How can I say I love you world with a hammer in my craw?

The downtown 81 assassination briefs.

1) This is a hold up

2) Stick this up.

3) Stole + Art

4)

~

Sol tried to mathematize words but it's a necklace sitch as you know. Umbrage 1 – I could tell he was aboard the seller and go node dinner although. Self-short circuit your new shoes and embodiment of what constitutes work. How proud they are. How humiliated we.

Sol sitch a drawing foam eater, so stir in the miso for a better future. Pork prices titillating the Tar tar of the neo-nixus. All seemingly unfinished as if abusing if. It's easy to see some tincture; you dog/don't need to point to others. "I'm a sweet tooth and you drive me crazy." She sang, "I'm a sweet tooth and you drive me crazy."

Only a hold on the bar-room Bolero you smashed the £2500 lost in Roman Gerald came.

Chicken and eveything.

I mean wait a minute, I mean he's your man. Them in the corner's a mattress; spicy like. Write like a hobo eat. You read like the botchy Tempkin.

There indeed is a context, and unless you put Payman the flammable, these creatures ain't influence but have facts and Twain. I mean Burroughs really got there, man. Like a structure broke and drag-tail thur-childs. Here goes the pollop-frito! The pinnacle peak and all the sum of heros historian.

That Galaxy's not in peace time yet and you can't convince me the slats in the shutters will slide so socially in punk revelate and constant eavesdropping.

"No one tells me what to do."

"There's the sun."

"A plan(ate) was swallowed."

"Way it goes."

The bigger there's an art you're an aversion.

It still felt a bit more like there's a less of contempt.

This only is the upstack and of a white academia.

There's a workroom for all stories.

And BOOM! You're a secret society.

Joseph Stalin, as an X-ray, walked out the book and they were dead ace the way the kids used him for that. That beard, this crystal, those short leathers and a cross-dressing third wheel. It's always a lung re-cat.

My name is we paint you.

My name is we film you.

"Would you eat at the savoy?"

"If you paid me to, sure."

"And what of the hair-dos you miss?"

"The Hindoos?"

"No, the hair-dos."

"Like parties?"

"No."

"Nothing."

"Are you the bank?"

"I'm a bank and history. Walk with me."

"How many were there?"

"One big one."

"What am I to you?"

"A qualification of words. Something for words to do. To look busy. Otherwise why would we need 'em? I'm a Derrida Filibuster."

How can we give up the 'out of hand'? A punch-blame box-out. A child's cry after a long journey in the backseat of a car. I always thought.

Got on over after that it's become. We don't talk about that. They all went hard at the smokescreen. The drugs behind tittered out the I don't remember where I was.

A man writes about his own death. This is no prophesying.

I am a Cookie Muller, we have a big back catalogue. It's the bean of a makeshift Columbine we all know the reasons – the burp of the goblin the blue white and read of the cinematographer wet dream writ in Persian for en masse leglis.

'Mangez Du Cheval.' Don't of visa control. Do of a rip-tide. Speed is of the essence...I...I...It's...I...

He's only rewriting the idea of the beginning of a film; he is not re-rewriting. Unwriting. There's an old cinema around four blocks from here. Abandoned. Derelict. Full of hungry dogs. Closer.

"But you need money."

"How do you know?"

"Someone told me you have a very beautiful wife."

Knowledge and virtue – but first know thyself.

Now let's see the rushes. They're big on undies and paintings of rivers. I see all this in the rounded brickwork and fear of defenestration. He's a lover of classical music but his indifference is a knightingale. A wig. You proliferate then change your mind. What can happen in one hour which changes you forever? Don't interfere with beauty and it won't interfere with you. She likes dogs, she doesn't look like one. You should look more carefully.

A bell rings.

Or is it?

You are beautiful.

50.36

Against nature.

Fly away Peter – Fly away Paul – Come back Peter – Stay there Paul; you've got shit for brains and I just can't talk to you. Jesus. Don't try to explain this joke to me or you'll take away all the fun.

I refuse to stand in line and join the others in the market selling their lies.

Best things.

Best (verb) things

Time does not move forwards,

That's just silly.

Best things.

The low rope of all the things that have ever been; within reach from this delinquent non-spot.

"It says, 'What would be your ideal job?'"

"Put, 'Nothing'."

There's another word for what time does; 'Move' is not it.

The clay red gorilla hung himself but time didn't stop. The hang bled sad reptile quelled an urge but time didn't. The honorary ace bunch member relapsed. Here's to your thumbscrews!

~

~

Raven told that one wait. I mean this is what I'm talking – a crossfire of wits and do it yourself bongo kits, white shirts attracting flies from the syllogism, adjudicating lateness; a phone call from the bottom of a well.

"I'll call you back, I'm on the loo."

Do you want this light'n'shade too? Are you deliberately postponing? That deer hunter a drug glove. That goth-covered butter-bag. I could have been you, but I had a staple gun stuck to my double-chin, cello neck. Made a scratchy sound when you went up and down; that labia that. Cold shoulder that actor you. Colour factory are in the hizzoose, one on a toe-nail etched Erdinger, the other on a mast wrapped round in plasticups and piss. You brought a dog and short shorts and you're ready for the party. The camera is in place and his arc-light is a French building society gone bankrupt undernight. The prettier they fall the dirtier they shoe. Hope glass times independent; I shall not refuse my density. Not with a riff like that.

How does one get a ticket now guitar? Please don't forget the fallopians. I've seen him in something.

So they put a child behind the bar, cheap as it was, skeleton teeth and a blind guillotine tuner. That's homeless for you. She grew them on a farm. The wish master will take care of the homeless that you thought were the band but they're not, they're the homeless. Them's a bar and you heart stopping for a heartbeat. So the child, the child they put behind the bar. The blonde one they put behind the bar; he's a film maker he is. You punished me better than the last crowd. They just failed to accordion the shanty's low notes whereas you, you've gone overboard. Promise you'll leave me your insides. I always loved your insides.

And oh how I'll make it up to you. I mean I don't get what the plan for all these wheelchair yetis is yet but I'm listening hard as I can and 3 strikes is a quarter to. It's coming soon! In orange.

"Oh! She's that skateboard queen!"

"Guess who's scared?"

"Here?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

Look around."

"Okay. Her?"

"Yes! Who else?"

"Her?"

"No."

"Him?"

"Who?"

"Him from the planetarium?"

"Maybe. Where did he come from?! Ha! I missed him. Man, he looks petrified!!!"

"See."

The dolly they run the camera along isn't beautiful. The camera's needs aren't beautiful. The man with the camera on the dolly in the park for this shot isn't beautiful, and what comes out? Something beautiful. It's worth it; the dirt and the teenage up skirt.

COUNT ME OUT!

You could not plug in the clue you don't have. Shops don't stock it and the fizz has gone out of me Gatling gun.

"You chew too fast, that's your trouble."

"You suck too hard."

"Your tan is stolen."

"Your Dad's too fat."

I hate all you breast-loving infants and I wish you were my Mum. You've got a deep voice when you say 'Ciao.' And you love cats. Not my idea of heaven but at least you don't spell 'Yale' with a '6'.

"And yes it's your fault the fecker bites."

I don't want them to film me if it's true. Gooma-fed stomach ulcers for the beast who prays on sleep and uncomfortable goodbyes. The later you wait the better. I mean it – tell me in fucking fifty years. The hair twisted night light for an escaped toddler. He scrambles over the cot bars like that and goes all blonde. They give him this crappy job behind a bar and they talk like they're from the valley.

"Where are you, pal? I'm sky without you."

And so it came. The time to hide. The time to paint the future bride. The time to wet the baby's head. The time to join the sick and dead.

And so it came the time for joy. The time to sketch a girl or boy. The time to praise the life that's in it. The time to cheer and bare and grin it.

God bless ice-cream and your phone on silent. I do not want to be directed right now, but remember to tell me you love me. That's a backdoor Kenvelo. I left you once. Wasn't that enough?

If historicity isn't enough, then what's the point of this room?

Nono-capitulate – the dance bob brunette Massa-chew-sets! Let me smoke a big bowl. Get proper high. The cigarette complements the artist like a cashew emproudens the nut. The idea of 'nut'. If I make the ringtone brighter will the phone call be so? I think mechanized skateboards have had their day.

Youth is wasted on the young I heard a zebra say. She still rallied against the proles and the votes aren't even in yet. Oh, man but there's a whole weight of (light of) people unfuddled. You can tell by the way they dressed that they expect no upsetting news on this rare and sunny day. I can still read you, all you Adam Fey and prerequisites. Spider writing and a head full of ideas driving you insane. Keep it hokey. It's the only way forward now and I need a friend as only a beggar appeals to the will. Dizzy without money for a taxi bereaves all clematis' in me mother's garden. Green fingers, green fingers and ham off the bone; the English tease the aristocracy that Rome ensconced, predated and final caused. Silly the extra, and all for a comfort – drag – cry – hold on till Dad comes and let it all out. Whaaaaa-Eye!!!

### Surly Valentine meeta Elpsis Boo.

Surly denounces 'Westfailiure' as a concept; deletes all borders and finds herself on holiday in Mongolia and lots of other places, having moved not an inch. She asks Elpsis to go with her and stay put.

It's criminal the lack of identity now. We must book our faces even; sculpt our noses over again since the Greeks lost theirs. Eden Roc we shall name her. One big bastard nose.

"Did you get that she was the one doing all the work for him?" She lost him at one old game machine after another. 'Estrella' they called her, but that wasn't her real name. The white on the trees is so you don't crash in the dark. Pointless if you're zooming without lights.

Surly was more bouffant than shade, no stolen gestures but a lizzard's tongue she adopted from a crate load of paint poured over a rented childhood dis-pepsia, Cola Loca, "You learn much more packing someone else's things, then you made me feel like a fraud, someone who could never be a good father.

"And it hurt?"

"Ah, she wants to know if it hurt."

Nostalgic hat parody.

Ripe quince.

My own dead bed of grass. The old me is hungry.

And then you lie down and the police come and they ask, "So what did you do with all the borders?" and they're all like, "The ones separating the countries." And so I go, "Well there was never any in the first place." And they're like, "Durrr." So I'm like, "Oh fuck off will ya."

He's got a heart shaped like a bath and she's just like all this heavy smoke that's in it. They haven't taken out the empty bottles so they're all piled up and when the children cry outside it means nothing.

"More questions?"

"No. No more questions."

~

Said the fly to the carrot:

"I am your own way of looking at things."

Said the carrot to the fly:

"It was like someone dangling a carrot on the end of a stick in front of a carrot. I didn't want to consume the thing I saw, I wanted to be inside it, to be it, to finally be 'there'"

All the walls and graves and walks in the selfsame hearts stop parks of Canadian mountain mist, dropped apples, trailing mules and new friends gone to shore. They made me want more. And it was Elpsis. His kind give me the willies.

\- Fork to the left – knife to the right –

willies in a good way, like I was the woman dangling on the end of a stick and there's this stick over there dangling on the end of a man and I just want to consume him then run like mad.

For all the hetero eye-pads and can you give me just one more card pleases, we have elbowed our ways to anon-tha-weisers.

"Call that comedy?"

"Call it commercial."

"A commercial."

"'B' sociatal."

"Experimental marketing scheme gone up the spout it was grapplehooked from by that bearded nurse we gave a lift to in January – remember the one with all the pimples and ways of saying things."

~

Would never wanna hurt your feelings so here's one from the seventies. Pants pulled up too high and an ethereal tone to your Lucy Guest. I love you so I'll hold tight – I'll be around as soon as you've gone and your hair starts to grow back.

### My Bloody Heart.

An analogy.

He was here and then he was gone but then he came back which takes from the story somewhat depending on which way you crawled out your Mum's chuff. Call him what you will, it's donkeys since he bit an ankle.

"Feels like you got hit by a bullet. A sock and then this thrill of, "I GOT HIT BY A MOTHERFUCKING BULLET." And then the fear and then the death – A bit like life really.

Are you sure of your straight line now? The aim you took from a narrow minded thought crook? Him liking Guinness surely was a sign. Him reading The Little Prince surely was a sign – Did you really think the clatter the cardboard made on the spokes of your bike would take you to the planet you envisioned in caramel Grandmas and semi-automatic Uncles. Now breathe darling, please take a deep intake and calculuminate your so far weary.

Count your hop a little hop and illuminate the softly spoken disc jockey like children honing in on a skill unbefore. All these girls and your brains are brighter.

~

Broke in with eye perspiratory complimentarian bride-strain – Off me, you safari-gonna-die. No.9 is the one handling misprinted mist on the Vltava boat boatswains - Hi captain Hi Low, Hi tally, Hi Ho – Lonely Tacchini foot hikes up the skirting board and repels all red cross donations of succour, candour, Elmore and Daz.

Don't hold against me what I don't have in me. God wouldn't want things like that – we're talkin' tricks from a devil's hat – Rabbits'n'that – Go on, a take a good luck – take a fucking photo why don't you? It'll last longer – check your watch now – one two three Jeronimo! Hells Bells these sausages look good enough to put stockings on.

One of those days you stole about but never breamed – Jebus and all his cronies never fatuated such periferal – was she hooked that pamphlet – was she reeled the monster truck inside with one cough of her vagina. Everyone is either waiting or selling. Death to the salesman. Just you wait!

Seig heil Monica Belluci – Gas masks on and a brunette sucker punch – Try me, I've seen me, the bald headed husbandry – the clam-roasted Helleny broad fingered Rogery. Tout le monde in a sparkling blue retina; a bizarre Mobil of the times. One trip to the Candy Store – A root beer and maybe more –a butterfinger – acorn slinger – not the best – look to the left. A squeaking Heroin addict clenches his crack round the hand bag of some lucky Chihuahua – count its toes – that bum looks shifty.

A second hand bail bond – a lolly pop for someone else's root canal – a fiver for your misery – get down and give me fifty.

"Now?"

"For the rest of your measly mouth." Probably Asian, she's got garden wings. Cute how he drools over his own syndicate – His girlfrienz shallow kitty – Ghryff Rhyss Roars out the tram – "Fuck off Russia!" Proud of the pariah they cremated. The juice and crinoline adrenalin pumped arm fold into the ten-time mache; papier frappe – gang rape, baby; ain't nobody here but us chickens.

"Do strippers wake up this early?"

"The Iranian talls and evil eye, binoculars blondes and a roll of the die."

"The giraffe and cold-cut. Part back-hand..,"

"I hope I never see you again."

There's nothing less attractive than a 'busy' woman.

Nothing more attractive than a 'busy' man.

Nothing more unnerving than a drink-free party.

Nothing more relieving than a bottle-filled pram.

Ever been filled with a poem that just won't come out? Ostentatious constipation – Gathered round wee penny pranx? Byoon?

Hope's Alois a suspension geek. The sun ravishing the day like a toothless sewing machine – gumflaps and Gaviali – The underwater circus of a gun-toting scally. Happy today because he doesn't have to go to work. Just sit swigging rotted Pims from his Mother's armpit bay.

Past all recognition now – the cafes buzz with Indian summer – the shock-tide of a lit-up sky on a lightning night turn on and offable. Red Dwarf snook in by the C.I.A. as a sit-com – under our raw noses – "I would never judge a person by the colour of their skin – I judge them by the size of their nostrils."

"Hymen."

Hodge podge – Hershey bar – A&W superstar. Karlovo Namesti up in bubbles, sagging limbs and sunglasses to glide behind. Feremones Feropeutic, violence like like.

"Hit me!"

"No, hit me!"

"Don't invade my body spaces, man. Where do you think you're walking? I'm sitting here! Hold up,...now you're a kettle from a different story."

Bag 18, sullenbride; tender brogue, a rough diamond, a slinky heifer, a cowish prude, Blakes seven caught up with you and wrestled you to the ground, all the foreknowledge of a bookie, all the hindsight of a heshl feshl.

Fat bikers and pony tails, briefcase and a lesser-spotted shot putter. These are the pea boils in my neighbourhood I write like a cat shits. Hidden in the busshes away from 'Hi'ing pries.

Smoke up that goldfish policeman plod – this park is for haranguing strangers only – blobble.

Swaddling clothes of a bumble bee rakes progress in my trouser thigh fake zzub from the hip solve phone occasion, latter-day Hemel Hempsteads grown filthy with size. Wash behind your fears dears you don't know what kind of grizzly grime accumulates over the years. Hudsucker seers the sheer fancy from the snazzy red car you born – go on with you, that was never three dummies in one gob – that's a two man job!

The church of time chimes two times every time, the lamp shines like mine and with this sore throat, I thee bed. Big red, milk-duds and a big head –This clock smeels mainly. Rocky rode in on an Italian neurobeam. Jack lost Frost who's the boss. Sounds don't rhyme – rings two times rings two times – me moe moo.

~

But don't let me down now – I can feel it coming – and it's spelt easy like a new tube or bikini Egyptian rubbing stomach flirts into a Vernisaz – She elipsicalled the old gentlemoid and graped the free Jew-wine I guessed, I helped the elderly hold a few but he jealoused my youthfulness – It's a stone, it's a stone – and therein the rub lay – until I grayed my own presumptions at the dawning of the day – IRAN calls hay ho from a distant star well lit and my haemorrhoids got better just from hearing wind of it –

"I saw him I did – from exile in exile to relief and the freedom bit –"

"And what did he look like?"

"He looked like me, your honour. I swear. Not a bit different but for the beard."

"Lighter?"

"No darker, sir, and stiffer at a price."

"So the steps?"

"Just two, your majesty."

"Go on. Go on..."

"That I realised I said would I knew from right off on of kicking starts we knew and words bereft of homo came trifling from the Boondocks and limpwrist out the May 1st. Hand Hand and bump bump bump. I have something to offer."

"And what is that?"

"What it is like to not be up shit creek."

"You can sell this?"

"My Father fucking hopes so."

In sooth I know not why I am so sad – whether it is nobler in the mind to weary me – I know it wearies you....Gratias!

I adopted him like a eunuch may a ball sack, but the leather straps and coils came at an extra cost. Should he have lent me a garter I would have licensed it. Cock! Fairplay, upside-down-sir. It takes one magic Christian and one Smithsonian citizen to share the news, aujord hui.

Don't be a tiny colony – Not if you've got something to say, size wise.

Please taste my function and slow down the newsreel. This room feels wobbly.

"Oh don't cry. You just lost your thread, that's all; you lost your thread – It's only natural."

"Well now there's Bi-focals and there's bi-focals and that's what I call big flippers!

I bet you think it's funny pushing your tits in my face in such a fashion – but it's not – it's an infested leg at Auchengillsen.

"Is that a real place?"

"Not that it matters."

I had my hand on her ass and her popeyes – one frogman too many they say.

Sergei.

Sir guy.

Bloody man.

The enlightened person does exactly the same shit.

"Dad."

"Yes."

"Do you think words corrupt?"

"Not immediately."

And on every gravestone it reads...

One and a half gentlemen

We all copulate as out teeth rot.

"Stroke your pen as long as you want – everyone has his price."

"Ya think?"

"Is there something you wouldn't do for money?"

"Work."

"You, my man, are the very thing that fucks up the very thing that we have begun to believe is 'the rule'."

Hair.

Hair piece.

What would it be like in the furture? Hair. What would it be like?

Hair peace...

...

I'll draw anything you fucking like.

### The Five Senses Explained.

Smelled-

Nurtured by ourselves interrupted – every bend session and twisted Lokal we tumble upin we shame ourselves into changing tack. The politics of the human soul behaving like a government of bell's hells derailed for the forks and flames of Hades deepest bowels – a function biological but claimed by intellect till it rumbles when hungry and laughs when happy only the other way round. Because I can, yes we can but that don't make it so. The devil a result of uncooked chickens. God, a bean sprout caught in the heat of two hairdryers and a pilot who swears he saw an alien. That's the price we pay for knowledge of this thumbnail. The Promethean eunuch foreshadowed by a crack rock in which we see the light of all holies and the trade of a Disney snake unpaid, unlaid, unmade, detached, contraption they showed me in a flash of celluloid I recall as a child on Sunday afternoons, soup and slippers, cool breezes and heads caught on the corner of an open window.

Eye height.

"How's the gutter doin'?"

"I dunno. I'm seeing stars!"

The bones got the technology and all that. Tibet, I bet.

You can hear the music man playing from some kid's earphones in a tin tin of truculent mimesis. The guy in front doesn't get it. He doesn't know he's been born. Disconnected. You see them sometimes. They look like wage slips of waifs squashed flat iris like they do between the big hand and the little hand of a vicious circle of a clock on clock off tell your wife you're too tired and your kids to go easy on the lemons they've been given.

Tony – "Your body is a temple. Your eyes are the window to your soul."

Bony – "Your body is a government building and your eyes the digital dancing girls and bribary football shirt found in the hooker's boudoir. Public expectations realised in the paparazzi glimmer of reality brazened. Everybody's body is a temple – as many different policies and religions as there are dummies learning to walk upright.

"Monks and bitches! That's a hearing aid in the works for those unwell proportioned trolley car riders. I put a lot of time into this 'hell' you prepose.

Answer me this. How are you going to reconcile a trail as long as a gibbon's wing tangled like a skinny box chain necklace named rabid excellence century after century fox and the comfort of a family for just getting here?

Scene-

Vladimir and Estragon exit stage centre.

It's right there. Not for you to actively listen to. The ammunition of your senses stored in an armoury perfect till your island's accumulation truly rests, peaceful means and dryads rush your parliaments canteens and finally stop naked complaining about the limited lunch menu.

Our men.

~

Robross, our God of philosophy must needs of our accurate debate occasioned and past in deep historical embezzlement. Here we should enter into those exact catch-wish.

We bequeath upon the goods more than one stultifying angina made her a preface to exaggerated laughter –

Part one one one –

In no doubt now of our place on this stone of companions and water, we gather and agree. The pains now we trust to the heavens – that they may learn from us all they have said – erred – blurred and matured.

Billion upon billion we take it upon profanity to improve one upon one. The contraband of opinion to traverse the stars and time to make object of our subjectivity as it has and always will have been on points of abstruseness or extended familiarities.

\- Within the narrow limits of reason – our transport was questionable till this stoic broke free and accepted the natural morality in leg to leg principles. A walk to our accounts. Under cloud of princes and heliotropic drug – immutably incomprehensible we go beyond the reach of trade and politics which only strengthens our propensity for flight and dematerialization – The laws of teleportation well within the borders of instinct. Reason's abstraction counterpoises all argument against the senses – Would not a man be? For the vulgar who attempt to disprove the existence of God I make a solemn pledge – I will never again pour cold water into a frying pan, nor attempt to cut vegetables after they have been cast into the aforementioned pan.

1 – Ha hi faith of an upskirt bookspill, in the name of the most fleet-footed 'babe', she roamed in reference but in love she cried – a griffin of life to her own station.

The unlimited imminence of subjectivity.

By

Elpsis Boo

Film –

Chocolate Johannson and the Furry Theives

Ill claims and suit shops me baby's Hrabana. Then an old age got shipped after case till the firewall and placed. With loving hands. Up on the. A climax to begin with, Miss Mellor; or were they just words?

"You were always good with people. Strangers mainly."

It's a form of pattern of tight sticky straps down the sides of the legs and a mistrust of the foghorns close up – closer – still – stop.

"But now it's different. You've realised nothing's changed."

Except 2. Except 4. French doors and the whory call of an electricity bandit the day went the day well. I clipped on the security bands to protect them against themselves and needless for the pills or toilet. The light grizzled but nearby stroked. A couch. A heater. An iron. A nook. And doomer sticks played pooh in the alleys. New pushed the anxiety bag out the fenestrator and capitulated with a PLUMP where the coconut fell.

"You see. It works!"

Unbuttoned, my mistress/ Johannson's mistress left for her hand make up and horse sense with a wilt, cough, sigh and par de deaux, par une. The banks on shelf time now till this all blows over and I'm a goon a gain.

Wilt they strimmed into the night my shield you clothes and bed time bears. I thrust them with me pencil-sword and landed a pike-shaped Wexford man.

"She'll stick to ya, lad."

Then the toe-styled Oregon of a jail bird muse attack incorporated its primordial slum into my Romani butter game.

"One – two – butter my shoe

Three – four – talk some more

Five – six – Brixie Smith

Seven – nine – "Eight was fine."

Nine – ten – nine again

Ten – ten – ten – ten – ten – ten – ten

Then the toe-styled Oregon.

The bus drove and the roof slate but I opted for marmeljam. I eat my cake and eat it.

Thereof: think what the city has to offer besides metal and truncheons.

The torture of sporadic clanks makes me wonder.

That's no stone of wisdom – that's a pebble born thrown in. And gather life on edge ballanced delicate derogated and erosion-build. Trees and them thar banker problems parboiled your office leak – the odour of delay and a manager pummelled with guilt and legislature. The relentlessly miserable durge of the idea of once – even this a misnomer capitalised to enjoin and cohabitate with new girl, gashes and a baby halved is a body doubled.

It's no use battling the demons you brought to the party yourself – no one asked you to pick 'em up. You're too nice – that's your problem.

I'm aware of their names on the chalk board also the wooden cancellation hammered into the call of it. She...no, he belies her availability. It's an adult thing. Can't hide a sausage.

"Levi-Strauss spoke about it."

"The jeans guy?"

Their there and our hour homonymous now we've come of age. Solvent Svatomartinske floralled and balled under glass for a tasteful arrangement of Xmas gifts and winter colds. Ablutions here, Ableshoos there and raiment cantering the atoms up her tight sweater. Going guilded with pride. The deep voice of the faithless; the high squeel of the beltless. The genuflection appropriated by a Godless mummery stroke nunnery stroke abstract stand-hand Grannery – me bread, me bread, two loafs for a bed, a shoe, a shoe, a flea, a flu.

Illustration No.4 – A toad.

A black & white train, a german, a german and a mother. The first friends the third friend. Mum joins inanditsnicetosee.

One more bevelled trophy says we're the best pub; no we're the best pub. One soft location taken hardly for its stylish Bromwich shoes and an offer of session musicianship supporting the fucking Stone Roses.

"That's just stuff people tell you. Everybody to the worst scumbag has babies."

We handle hand the Canadian film crew an acre of Republican won speedier menus less the brazen Canonite of her entropy. I wood, and I wooden. The rest were celluloid and funnel-visioned – Big goes in, small comes out but it seemed much better when it was bigger. What do you even don't say?

A Pruhonice empty knee high

A dirty rascal cum shot castle view

A would you mind golding this please?

A Hello, I was...no.

Jarm Mark

Aven coup

The deliberate obscurantism of a bomber jacket. He – the toothpick of her discomfort. She – the waistline of his despair. This pair – there is no once.

~

Gimme a call – A Berlin call – an artist's cardigan and cryptic rappers call-out-call.

Don't leave me out, I just got in. Harsh in.

Dramatis Personae – The son of a second messenger who told her to tell me to tell you it's a whole second C.D. of cover songs you'd never guess. Third messenger is there but he's not mentioned. We dub him anyway and add him to the madness rein. In a world of such edicts the report is – 'SPEAK'.

Ismene is mean.

Antigone went, but came back and is mean.

Sat there is a mutual destiny; what nature contends with satyrs in nature contends with. That way, the wives don't get upset and the business of us aspiring lords is settled.

"They said he went to hospital and his arms came off."

"Leaves can't fall 'drunkenly'...That's mental."

### The weird of Oedipus.

### Another title.

The love of other monarchs shed-historical. This shemanic gatherer as gentle as paint. A craving for the clockless nowever.

I paid heed and got change.

Finally a tenth series.

The boxless criminals accessing their obsessions like Sontag swineherds. I appoplect. I bobulate. Then under the incredible now on from sleepless draughts and coagulating drool. Yours'n'mine!

She pissed all over me, but only in a clean dream. I liked chapter one and the flutey crying child that goes with it.

A repeat but still original. Always original. You are idiotic and photographs are not still. Nothing is still.

And still there is nothing.

The origin of the repeated. The allusions to prophecy wake him up with a loud peel. He smashes the ring at his bedside. The everlasting turned to shit. Coils and twitchy mechanisms prattle at the door for others ears cliffs falls fasts wakes sung deep and solemn for the night that's in it.

Crown court was all an act whether it was based on true stories or not. A suspension of belief as I recognise the notes of the track played again now back to back. The screensaver "There is more out there than us megabytes could ever calculate."

Praying to the unexpected.

Crart.

~

We are ideological, well-lit. Omni-potent by proxy only. Move to this other country. Travel light. Travel lit.

Even with the 'smash' he became implicated in the daguerreotype. In secret he crawmed to the kitchen. The fastening of a stare this way over my right shoulder but held by hers. Mannish features above a blade of bunda – acetate bunda. The tables and orgies of his days of Sodom licked and indexical and lost in the mail, to his Mother's chagrin. Isolated she immolates the art he shrugged into his-her non-heed.

"I would transform you if you."

"I hate it when you do that."

The story vetoed before it could crouch in supplicance to the limits of brain. Unnavoidance but meets pretty thoughts.

"You left at when?"

"Not long ago."

"You vacation?"

Validating free time...

Vandalizing empty space...

Draw words, don't write 'em. Draw 'em. Draw 'em. Draw 'em. Draw 'em. And say 'em differently each time.

He gets to the hall unharmed and unlocks the front door (the one on the ground floor that leads onto the pavement of the street of town) and he goes into the street of town and goes left unharmed. He gets to the tram and goes onto the tram of town to another street of town. He gets there unharmed and meets interesting people in places in town. Mostly unharmed he comes from conversations to the streets of town and goes to another place. After one or two more places he gets home (through the door locked and unlocked) and goes to the kitchen and eats unharmed.

"What next?! What next?!"

He gets to the bathroom and goes to bed in his bedroom after the bathroom and goes asleep thinking, "I wonder what I will dream about tonight."

He dreams about going to lots of different places but this time there's no conversations.

"Is it wish fulfilment or does God have something to do with this?"

"They've written books about it."

\----- A song from the legendary The Beatles ------

Did they dick the they would have? Nay, they Jimmy Joyce. 'Bi-sexicle' being neither clever nor funny.

~

I had it in me hand when I was there. When I was standing firm in front of the view – in the view – the beauty geodetic but now gone. Mainly it is gone and even though I had it in me hand. I can go back and I do, but the tag I failed to give it makes it so artless as to belie the necessity of membrance. I still have me hand mind.

It's like that innit'? beauty.

Why did I in then wrote Ivan can't fly there there Spain and the long light legs of a cigarette bloomed secondly. I kind of say you're beautiful and sort of save your life and tell her again. Those and only Troma throw the party, two falls to a knock out. I forgot all about the tits parts and even all the kids could see, so she cracked him one on the jaw and I'm all James Stewart but me legs work and they drop one from the living room with the windows open onto the tree tops line the lane.

There was the bearded cup bearer glides left to the hall for some bird looking over this way. And I snap me Polaroid.

I blowed them and red black paint.

Is that no way to buy and DeSoto.

Where's your head and why the Carlisle?

I'm okay.

Cut price okay.

~

54

~

"The best way not to be unhappy is not to have a word for it."

But it's just nice to know. And then there's fireworks. Don't only and there's feelings come back. The cinema really is the best place. Then it's time for bed. I mean every single shot. He writed on his side and complains the mumblebust so and so the dream he wants. Like it's really happening.

"No. It is."

The Halloween mask was finally off. "There he is! There he is!" The children cried. They wrote about that too.

\- Groucho Marx

\- Willie Mays

\- The 2nd movement of the Jupiter Symphony.

"There he is!"

Known and unknown, armed only with brevity. He explained to the others in a caliginous munch room. Hexpat! She delved on him his reverie. "Hug me! Just hug me!" Awail he spinned and sought the dance floor, which him had bin awaiting.

The folkways stolen of a Mormon magpie I promise you herewith. The new numbness. A crypto sagist capitalizing with legs and wings and feathers and barks. The words made picture made nothing made us.

All on a Chrimble morning in his sleepy hay, they threw him in a dungeon and wrote a song about it. See, the tune couldn't be pictured so it was that much smarter than the eye.

It's instead of some more morely morer mashable. It makes it stronger-no weaker. Weak is much less of a bastard and no need for replays. The world is stopped, Warren, and we are all jumpin', jivin', swingin' and skiving. They overrated every 'it' since the darling of the fifties and forgot where our muscles sinnewed. 16 billion years I put into that drunk. We no smarter?

Unquestion ؟

We have a flower bearded teddy bear engraved glass window and shower-teared parties within. How more open we can fall into space and all that empty black matterless. We're as better as we've been and surfing the outer rim of the big-bang it pays to practise.

You can even close your eyes a spell. We're miles from the nearest galaxy. I'll wake you if it gets too dark too long. We'll want you to sign something soon. Thumb print'll do.

Poor print.

"I thought of reducing words to paint. Paint the words. Words like pictures. Deconstruct the shapes till they spread out, took off their pants and grabbed a pina collada. Pissed naked print still wanted to give the picture a name though. Poor sober print- language got a life of its own now see, like androids turned on us humans but they were never supposed to. One too many fairy tales, you dig, and they got smart. But words need us. They do. They wouldn't be here if it wasn't for us. Ungrateful. Hiding like this, under ink and fist and grinning up at us like a mocking blue plague breeding itself of itself and anding. Empty lines breathing little blue spewey fire."

The big whimper. Now wash your hands.

### Dan the unlikely.

Kazumi evaporated...

"Best ketchup we ever made!"

"He's only lived here three weeks. You can't expect him to fling himself at you!"

...and that's how you start a novel.

Re-wiring the brain is simpler than anyone suspects. I can't even think (with words) without destroying, creating, manipulating, singing, repeating or being at the fair. Bar. Adams.

"Sit down and study law, you maniac!"

"So, I travelled back in time seven gazillion times. Every time it got simpler."

"Adams! Relax that accent. Relax that jaw. You won't be able to concentrate on the mantra. So uptight. If it's so awful then why are you still here?"

"These are lovely."

"You're not concentrating. You can't breathe. I can see it. See right through you. Into your salty gut. You're a greedy pig. Don't worry about time so much. So much time wasted..."

Not time. Life.

Not God. Life.

Lulu plays Peter Pan.

"Well you didn't go back even once yet."

I wish I could write like without a jailor or the Cambridge dog-hands scuttling disconnected from the flagrante similitudes. One more joke committed by a jack-a-ninny or nonce par excellence per shotgun certainty. I mean who carries a rifle on a Ferris wheel?

Some

one

fun.

I dropped the case because there wasn't anywhere near enough evidence to show he had been there in the first place. Nothing but his cockhedge syndrome and university scrubups. He bridged the gap with good reason. From a dickey stomach to fingers pissy with peace. Sol growed up a bright lad and paid the extras a quid each and a bacon butty on set. It's green on red. Black windows and you can't see the faces, but I know it was him, experience or no experience. I guess a quid wasn't enough. Oh, and they never picked him for A Christmas Carol ever again.

A fellowship. Don't give me your names. Just your email addresses. I will not follow your likes. I know who's behind it all.

~

Please don't make me read it. Show me the film version. I seriously do not have the life in me to go through this again. Nobody does. Or you make every line a beginning and ending in itself.

"How about every letter."

"That would be a start."

"And an ending."

A fancy 'A'.

a

~

### Keep the kettle boiling.

If you close yourself off every time you're getting somewhere...

Well there's the crunch...

There is nowhere to go...

We are there...

My mentor...

My protégé...

Our self.

We bring nothing that is not there.

We take nothing that we do not have.

No deposits that are not embedded.

No withdrawals which we do not already carry.

Then they looked me up and down, took a deep breath, got the green redolence, perused the room, the walls, the lead equations. "I cannot rescue you," they said. "You're dying."

"Now we're getting somewhere." I said.

"There it is." They will say.

How can you be sure your stripy shirt and god-awful banana tricks won't undo you. He woke up that way. It's a case of undo or die.

If instinct brings you to your knees before your copper's hunch sections you, count yourself lucky. It wasn't a bomb. It was dynamite. Destroy to create. Obliterate to find. Fine the scars, they can pay. The state is accountable unaccompanied legions and break-dancing palsy. Her skin flaked during the argument and we distrusted her racist remarks. "It's her age," we said.

No need for meetings if we're all in agreement so.

Pass it on.

One grape.

One tiny bottle of wine.

"You've got 30 seconds to explain everything! The only thing getting in your way is the length of the words necessary to explain. So show me."

@

~

### Godbye.

All the Barbara plant blossomed – ready to stroll away from the fantasy wang and swim goggled and flippers into the Arriva of a camp and saturate – 'Heads up!" Screamed incessantly since the chilly winter days of wintergreen and a supportive Father. Hundreds of millions of numbers and letters to Santa begets the birth of riptides and a sun too close for comfort.

"I'm only an enema." Shufties in and nudges other planets out of their brief reverie in books of youths of swats and Elves.

"We never considered you much of a rock anyways."

"So which way are we to go? Is space the place or you wanna delve into the shady bogs of Atlantis?"

"Well they're both bogs really – one more rubbly than wet."

"I say we look for bogs on other inhabitable planets. Deep space bog diving."

"We are in deep space. Let's go deep space bog diving right here!"

"We can at least go somewhere warmer.

We can at least go somewhere lighter.

We can at least go somewhere kinder.

We can at least go somewhere salent.

We can at least go somewhere other."

"So, we off?"

"Yes."

"You've said this before."

"I went. I went and came back every time."

"Why'd you come back?"

"I kept leaving people behind. I'm leaving no one behind. No stragglers. If there's going to be one man left standing on this beach, it's gonna be me. The last hermit waving you all Godbye."

Sol saved the pic he'd downloaded of the frogwoman hair silhouette waving frozen in the sea solid for his unsolved imagination to defrost. He didn't know what to do with it, but he tuned in, digested, made a list, drank his fill and shaved – Spacemen 3 – revelation.

I'll pack The Beatles. I'll pack my tablet with a trillion books in case I miss words, I will, I know it. I'll pack my favourite jeans that make me look thin. I'll pack my favourite jumper that makes me look intelligent. I'll pack whatever you need and I think that's it."

And the radio man crashes the Coldplay song 'Doesn't feel like Xmas at all' before all the broken hearted crying babies of the world storm the station and break his frickin' neck. Me included. Nana's gonna come and take you away bad man. Now let's talk about the beautiful future. One two, one two, I've found my station.

### It's the lax.

The form abstract write of bent form. Hold the tears together mouthless and grip. The picture pulled together even when not together. No need. Not all that effort. In careful but quick steps we conspire to murder the boy who answers his phone in the library. I refuse to sit next to the tramp.

Cold bones beauty crowds curtail their maths to open shop on their girlfriend's neck. She mawks at his shop. The lumberjack shirt and rosen tea crowd – It blooms when you stick it water. Looks like a sea monster but tastes like immortal blood.

I'm one of the jingle bell crowd. I follow Holub.

Honk if you like sex.

Honk if you don't like hunger.

Then rest.

There's the calf-simple principle to all this – a deconstruction of law, of society in general, of paperboys and gliders trapped in trees. We are all of us peers since God gave us peepers. Perhaps the first eyeballs in the universe – even when longer arms would help us get gliders out of trees we concentrate all our energy on same-size artificial limbs. Where will our heroes come from if not fro cybernetics? All our robots rationalize themselves into existence while we tread the wordy path to oblivion. Let us take a page out of the inanimate's book – will ourselves back to the visionaries God intended and see that it is good.

Abstract psychological concepts is are every word connected to anything. Try to imagine a word connected to nothing. Cat. But no cat intended.

Home. But pronounced 'belch', but belch meaning 'a broken umbrella' but the broken umbrella I'm picturing is bright yellow and covered in an infant's audio-induced daydreams. Not 'Home.

Trust your surroundings – You cannot trust yourself – You are too far gone – Let the universe help – Give it a chance to perform – It shows up all the time like the keenest young football player – You can sense its confidence – It knows you'll like what you see if you could just shut up for 12 seconds and pass the conch.

There's less to read than meets the eye. Don't forget to look at the book itself once in a while. Books are beautiful. Even when there's nothing in them. And there's never nuffing in them.

Hand.

The homeless gravitate here like the minutes pile up on the desks student's blurbs. More that 25% of the hour gone on a bitch-slapped beige on the no room for gun enthusiasts. He's the type.

And then there were four. All dolled up. All pretty. All smarter than you's realise. Somehow skipped the three pound per baby per rocket-strung L-cup of the eve'. Arnold around the licked of 12 but parent terrafin sailed me safely. A long short flight and amma home. Home home. It's all really useful. I could use all of this city. All built up parts and fell down or never. Judging by the way he sings he should have. Ha ha ha ha. And even if he didn't get it, he still tippy-toed around the edges of the books like the authors could hear him. He's older and he probably did choose that jumper himself.

"I think maybe he's not that smart. He's reading about cars now."

"Still pretty though."

"You think?"

"The blonde one in the fur coat and kinky boots picked a book about dogs off the first shelf she came to."

"Still pretty though."

"She should hook up with 'cars'."

"That tramp there has got a picture book of machine guns. He's not in the slightest bit pretty."

"I'll bet he fucking hates cars and dogs."

...The more I think about it, the less I look like Frank Zappa...

That said –

The more a roll and can't breath – I dreamed I was the sun and I'd gone and forgotten my coat. Out in cold space, looking down at the bathers enjoying me, I thought, 'My Mum's going to notice.' I dreamed I was one. Old. Big. Scattermaster! I must bereave all I see. The snow won't be here forever.

### The politics of when's the Ben.

Two of the most attractive women having it off in my head.

I'm a painstaking numbness Picasso had. Now please don't go.

Sol encapsulated the error in a mirror play of the engine porter. He comes and brings victuals in a paper bag. He lags and so do all the people at the table and the saw dust like a rugged chin schools the place mats in tee pee complexities. Keep up the sketches and don't open that cupboard.

Courgettes and vests and Garth. Who invited Garth? I mistook his leg for a hers and nearly went blind! Almost instrumental. Except for the blabber. You're thoroughly unlikable even with.

Sol spits by accident.

You don't know what you're talking about. The table wells.

Don't rely on reflections or on memes or coyote ongoing topless villainy. Braid her cat hairs, pluck and pluck and take her – thassaway – theseaways. Least these days. At least.

You make everything awesome.

Language as a hole

&

The book of decision

&

The role of the existential exile

&

Conversations with serious men

&

History in a gobfull

&

How do I miss thee, let me count your face

### 1

On the first page Dear friend I have attempted, dear, to yield to a fruitful enterprise of gastrome, gas-giant and ghastly. Heem helps the eye. You'll find my words and bigger the more I hep. Only

### 2

When you see the trails I've left like pebbly alien toffees and away, you'll get a handle on the nausea of being the only child the Venusians visited. Me the Alpha through no fault of a battle. This is the confluence. Sol returns. And he's

### 3

got a pistol the size of a Buick. Or laser gun and I'm the historian. I'm hid behind the contradictions like an inkless nib with a deathwish. I'll record all this or die trying. Each silent explosion a vested signifier.

"I love you."

"I know."

### 4

Confluence must repeat the origin.

the origin.

(Scandal, sex, brainwashing, intrigue, violence, and more in:

'THE POLITICS OF THE HUMAN SOUL' performing live from 1971 to ?)

### 5

It was a dark and steamy white. A dark white. Spread all delectable like, but she's surrounded by this group porn scene of couples and threesomes – I'm on Mastermind, we've got this video to prove it, but just as I'm explaining what my job is there's this awkward cut (for seconds only) of this guy doing this woman doggie fashion while they look on at a room full of sexual degenerates having a great time. It stole a bit of the weight from the interview but took the thing to a whole other level. The weather here is

### 6

Intoxicating if a weather may. I hope you're doing well in wherever you are living doing whatever you do. I never remember friend's jobs because they rarely suit them. Friends should be paid for being friends, not physiotherapist's office assistants. Are you one? I'll never

### 7

Believe. You belong in my home. Where are you? It was so nice meeting you. You looked so handsome in your uniform. I gather the North wind foretold your prenups. A windy gamestay by any stand ups. I trust you found your plates intact and the cupboards as they should be. One can't abide a war with China missing dirty crockery. One has to eat in style before one blows one's fellow's head orf. The two things

### 8

we do so well. The only two.

Oh God, I'm so restless. Please come and rescue me from this Cotswold. The birds are playing havoc and won't let me out. I got a clothes hanger and stuck one in one but now they use him as a puck. S.O.L. Please

### 9

call. You know it means so much to me.

Love and reputations

Anna NG X

Scene 124,456,777,879,564,999,654,213

In space. Exterior. Time.

Meanwhile, fourteen zillion light years away from Urth.

There is a rock. An important rock.

~

Scene 124,456,777,879,564,999,654,214

Inner space. Exterior. Time.

Coincidence calls for you and is never disappointed. And so Levinas found me, and so Arnold found me and so I found Jabes.

Infinitely outwards and infinity inwards and then the other. Infinite think. Outless and inless and then rest.

&

A critique of criticism

at best.

The good is the Father of the (in)visible sun.

A pun.

Black is the heart of light.

Trite.

The act of valorisation constitutes an axiological object.

Shmobject.

"Thoughts can be uncooperative," thought (insert name), like a wife.

Lol missed her brother very much.

~

~

There was one other rock near to the important rock but nothing else. These were the only two rocks in the quadrant. And the quadrant was big. If the first rock we spoke of had not had the other rock for company. I say company...It would not, of a rule, be.

There was an attraction between the two which would never have existed without the other. This is an uncooperative thought, of course. I didn't cause the attraction, but by rote of the fact the knowledge I gained of attraction exists here & now because of the fact of 'me' brings us nowhere; much like the rock, had it truly been alone with no other. But there was. This other. Every action is a cause. But the very first cause was merely an uncooperative thought, and on and on we argue within this contradiction. Caught between the attraction of two dead stars flirting. There has clearly been some misunderstanding. The affinity between finity and infinity is our attraction to concepts named under the auspices of our degenerate nightmares of time and space. The affinity between time and space the awkward belief in 'next'. The next minute, the next room, the next uncooperative thought. Cooperative with what? The next; the other. This other is silent and knows as little as the rock. It exists because it is felt – felt to be outside. We are felt to be inside despite the fact I could move that cup with just the power of my mind if I truly believed.

Acid helps.

The rock knows no dyspepsia and has no eyes. Neither has the other rock but that rock is not as important as the other rock because it was mentioned second and not labelled important. Let that rock write its own fucking love story.

We suck tits and procreate. That's not how we do it, but it's a big part of it.

"Well that's just an extra part, isn't it? A spare part. It's not an 'other'."

"One of the sludge?"

"These have all been one book."

"One thought."

"Historicity deconstructed."

"To a flirting rock."

"According to what you have read."

"And heard."

"And heard."

"Not seen."

"No, not seen. Not really seen with flight and fingers."

"You could be wrong."

"I guarantee I'm wrong."

"And so."

"There's a reason I'm wrong."

"And there's the key. Reason. Neither is unreason the answer since it is only by reason we understand what is considered to be unreasonable."

"What then?"

"Acceptance, laughter and love. Reason is ultimately uncooperative because there is no 'other'. That rock circling that rock; they were part of one big rock that got confused. We are so much smarter than out chaotic cause; and this to the philosopher's detriment.

"How's this. We all, I mean ALL, get together after three days straight staying awake and we agree to have a nap together. An entire planet dreaming at the same time. Dreaming and not thinking – the closest we come to a cooperative thought and a true cooperation with 'others'. In sleep, equality. Equality through inaction. Equality through the irrationality of a dreamscape multiplied by 6,973,738,433."

"Yeah, but I never remember my dreams."

"Never mind. I can't really see those rocks."

~

Gas-light: I'm expecting a call.

Sol: Don't hold your breath.

~

There's a plasticity to the 24 hour supermarket and a plasticity to this sentence. A chemically flavour to these packaged goods. Something not quite genuine, not quite up to scratch; unfresh, unoriginal, diabolical. The sachrine sweetness addictive all the same. Monstrous results from the inbreeding of words. Gummy sages eating mushy rusks.

This 'other' – an illusion rendered corporeal treats savant eyes, breasts and the commensurable possibility of being shocked. Susceptible to the stench of the cow shed filmed by a hand-held camera. Wipe away those motes and drink your wine

I'll kill your bird

One more word

His fingerprints all over her neck.

A 'Miss Julie' banged senseless by the spinning drunks in the cosmology department of an Eastern European whisky hole.

"Are you embarrassed to change?"

"One can't change."

"To be omnipresent is never to be shocked."

"To talk in one's sleeps is to patronise the light of consciousness."

"Even with one's eyes shut there is light."

"For there to be colour, there must be light."

"For there to be colour, there must be the word colour. The rest is of its own. Being needs no charity. Being is always always laughing. We would like to join in. That is why we write. This monologue. That is why we question. Being. We are not invited because it is our party in the first place."

The wine.

But a good wine.

Now go and get ready for church.

### Of the ponderous world.

'Their Mother tongue is named complaint.'

Get Gale, she'll help she said. Gale like the two tone homeless meister. Her the bastion calls me and holds her Mother's tongue. Her Father quietening her in gatherings but stillshesmokes. 'The Boyfrienders' they should be called. The hero at his cycling pulpit looking for all the whorl like John Cusack.

Replete with arms and pink-white skin beneath the sideburns of her Samurai step-dad. He fantasises about her and spends the rest of his life in fantasy prison. The fantasy key fantasy thrown away. There are no extremes, only underexposure and an unreliable compass. Eyes heavy with fate – I believe 20 to a room would be too much and the more gray face blown block map inbreed guest grown palace bud or budding.

Creaking door drill fart.

"It's all a game."

"It's not a game."

"He's highlighting more than there are words there."

"He should not be stopping at the page's edge."

I see jewellery from the library window and traffic in a poor girl's hair; a cluster of classics and a paranoid neck-brace. From the head-piece devouring. Unquoting quotes for a laugh.

Girl down there getting her kicks just looking at passers by. One of her better days.

Sit forward in the interview. Sit more forward in the task. Sit more forward than even that and it becomes difficult to sit at all. You may as well be just lying face down on the floor because what you're doing now doesn't even look like sitting anymore, it's just 'stupid'.

Kick off your shoes and sit upright.

Galadriel sparks an issue with a wooden stick up a newspaper jibe at the mucus balled bilge barge ballad. Kimchi's crusty hankerbomb at least two nails of black tar away from the avatar brigade coaxing secrets out of the Aquarian librarian.

Lulled into a simple-mage breach of Totalitarianism the song writer reigns exteriority over the meta.

Transcendence transcends transcendence.

To be empathetic with the absolutely other.

Talking then the there we should she no change to the dermolactic corrolavewengths. Solaris transfer has never occurred externally or internally. It is the Spok you're speaking. We await all psychological change with grand erections – we endeavour to help you back.

The answer is two-fold:

1)

2)

Escape attempt denied...

We caught them...

they had been manacled, monacled and mutinied at

the very end of...

where they belong...

coupling...

I'm pleased to...

I beg your...

Hey Presto! Umay rest.

(1)

(2)

(Sleep tight)

() ()

Coupled

Double negated

Couple

Art exposed only to have its virtual dick sucked by imaginary theorists. Escape attempt denied.

### New programme.

Open country road. Open country rode. Flashback. Then the light in light made twixt in-between stop sign.

And I don't mind telling you, they change costumes but not the underneath bits. It's an unreal 'trip'.

It's Saturday.

It's time

for

The Monkees, brought to you by Clogs, the shoe-in shore man that can accomplish absolutely anything. In other words.

"Well, that's the same but I don't think you woke her."

Just keep nodding. Keep on nodding, back away to the door and pretend they didn't notice.

I feel me fell a yawn. A camel bared is a camel squirmed.

"Hots in his hump?" She spit.

Tic-tocking in her sleep.

They lower the boom on her now and send her this mail about the theme song and the Iranian boy loves to see a woman in drag. She's an Aunt and a Grandma and you should have seen her in the day with the sound turned down on a room sixteen foot squares larger and an opener head than the sleep took. The tree tops again but this time dripping with bird shit and ice-cream – I spittoo when I lick too farred, an' I 'emember I took off my parachute and put it in my left trouser pocket and I'm hangin' by one hand off the bar I left my Richard Burton anecdote at.

"What was he like?"

"You'd think he'd be all debonair like, but he acted just like a schizoid drunk."

"If they live on the beach, how come there's a stop sign outside the front door?"

The pink elephant in the room.

"That'd be Cathleen and the Orphans."

"That's no elephant; It's a horse-sense."

"Her new band and a Groucho Doc."

"We're newbound on a follow up already."

"A follow up already? Consider it finished."

"Now where's the fun in that?"

"Just a dull fact."

"That's what I was afraid of. Try this."

Neither love nor light.

Now make your move!

Girl says: This is my Saturday, not yours.

Boy says: AND SO SAY ALL OF US – AND SO SAY ALL OF US.

Girl says: I'm the new girl.

Boy says: You wanna see my Totem pool? Not just any old pool either. A very exclusive Jean-pool no less."

Girl says: I can see it from here.

### Archipelago Bites.

It's back and forward in 3 dimensions, not spiralling. Like a husband. Back and forward negates infinity. Spiralling corrupts rationality into a visual rather than an electron Archipelago.

We are the alterity of the 'other(s)' answered. This is what ontology lead it/them to. And so back we ontologate, and back and back and back.

Autochthonous mail

Appearing to have travelled but always originating where it is found.

Autochthonous male.

Limitrophe and Ipseity

&

Cheech and Chong

&

Etymology and Lexicostatistics

&

Catchamonkey

In fact there has always been one. I put it in a box – a climbey-up-the-stairs kind of box; a listen to a radio show at the same time as readin or/and writing kind of box. All this and more in the next hot drink on a lovely day. There's a twang, a twang and then a melancholy feeling as the last noise walked off over in that direction to buy cigarettes. It's been two hours now and not one single bruise. There is safety in writing. Creates comfort bachelor in the groundedest. Every single dingle pingle infinitude an understatement. Every word worth an encycopedia and dictionary of its very own. One's Ono Gargantubrain. There is only the shape, the aroma and the smile of these second hand women. The one woman. One at a time. Unless you got two vouchers, then you'll get one and a half hours, not two. I put that in a box as well.

~

### HAMBLE

"To be and not to be, that is the answer."

THEND

A nasal 'Flurrhurr' from the sickly growing audience unfortugradely feeld the whole stomp from the theatre where the author hid eated. No one body people ready for the cold reality of it – please meet me next Monday and let it be absorb.

Keel Nad Whom pertrayed the book and prefectly abseiled down the programme till the speed of thought, then pulled the cord, out slopped the chute and inkling they uglied.

You don't 'invent' a wheel. You see a wheel-shaped rock at the foot of a mountain, roll off it when you sit down and giggle for a week or so; give it time and let it be absorb, like a turtle.

"Speech! Speech!"

Portrait.

I'm softened and squeamish – like a humble. Like an unexpected phone call or vodka.

Sol has picked me up. There's a little cut on the side of my head. A tiny Chinese star. If I squint I can just make him out. He has a strong grip, like a Dad or Iodine. I can only see him properly now on the inside of my eyelid, and even then it's very blurry. If I rub my eyes there's six of him and we let it be absorb visualight.

Philosophical text: A work of unrequited suspicion.

Derridean Filibustering: and if we keep on talking we will never have to hear the answer.

Danish T.V. snaps up welsh the killing – man falls faster than thought – Teacher bans nowt –

Unpunctuated news blabs grapple the advert blimp monster SNAPPLE I dream-drew in a show off yesternight. But the sun is out and he has let me free.

I can hear everything he tried to say to me.

Everything is the end to the action – we are and we are not – Everything is a beginning to an action.

A candlelight vigil is held for the birth of uncommon sense. The theory of irrelativity proclaimed sacrosanct.

The sun stays.

~

Purposefully beligeranal the story continues

end to what?

Now look to your left. Now look to your right. Now choose the first number or word you read from three different sources and put them together. What you got?

"Eat Signor punk. What you got?"

Oop the car troubles down the coastline but after the end of the universe so up. It is still orange. It is flaking but even then the undercoat is a light red which in a certain light can look orange. We needn't worry about the colour. What we do know is it troubles up-down the coastline with people in it. A whole skeleton of people looking for their erogements; an organized lunch at a random spot. Like life but slower. Elpsis picks a shady spot. Surley wants no cover. They sit in-out the sun and shift as the earth shifts. The kids blow their noses. They won't know these moments till years later in a similar light, in a similar breeze. Surley and Elpsis pack the car and Elpsis takes a pad and pen from his inside jacket pocket and writes,

\- And everyone had his full share so that all were satisfied. And everyone had his full share so that all were satisfied –

Twice like that.

##

Copyright 2013 by Michael.J.Rowland

Cover design and artwork by Michael.J.Rowland

Elpsis Boo – Erogements is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used ficticiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or events is purely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN:9781301834983

