as its fiction.  I wonder how her recent trip to the United Kingdom
                 'was' how it went  (it happened before so I know) ;  
                                             England, where i  used to play guitar
                       holding  a ukulele  wearing a shamrock and 
                                                      dangling a shillelagh. 


Bank Holiday Monday


was waves washing the shore

                weather reading the beach line lining up the words of

                         of brea thing , dying and seeing,

                                           amidships there is wreathing to be seeing ,


Galway, Ireland


friday it must be fridy friday is worst but not


 all across the blue dark ridged sea she thought she could love a man she'd
  never met what did he know of her power and will her will to win against odds?

 were basement sweeps not enough for the capital of love the retreat of pain no
  numbered' be known poetry always been dominated by the means at hand

perpetually in flight escaping that same scene not the whores of british verse of 2

Would you explain the above  Sir?the class is stalled due to your forensic science  of poetrys poesies poesties 


  Was Monday Sunday Friday Monday wash day everybody's happy but I must say.

All (y)our friends are dying, dead or deeyingDyeing____

                      Dying into the desiring machines of eternity   !

               . As a wink in a foster chil....e  callsout his name to the numbering down of Jill's frame there is no satyr

Jill has a dog I was born in Ireland . That's kept knowledge tell no soul!



Saturn sat Saturday


 is and was   was guilt free  remaining so as it's international working class proletariat daughters of Utopians Karl Marx loving day the red road unfurled its

 historical passage

  free for all men and women

 the dualism surpassed passed compassed internally externally compassion world-wide the buddha's belly

radiating peace and   love for any sentient being coming along corantoed on the rear end of goats avenne the wayfarer


amor matrix subjective and objective genitive

   the day second day last befor  the the second  



and then it

it was Friday poof the world was created made a breath none too soon. Not under a silver moon nor a rhyme parrying with the night.


re : perhaps


Will: perhaps then be abated by the clear blue  of  cinnabar? Ah you cinna bard!
                                fusing scarlet, cerulean , and vermillion,

                                         a lover of many reds and deterritorialization.



between this that and ...


~  AN ascot or pinze-nez ~

narrowing the page you cared parting netted curtains 
your accent parlayed drama
silence you're like pagination grabbed the tracking the
trip a getaway coach? is that you queried round
your humbling thighs this
traveler not in W or ending but mended its fixed pockets
click goes your door silent jamb your mouth packed  love
come again you do  do its hope your orphic wish
wishing's not wanting departing day
ever up and way you'd suggest? come along dear lent removed one your fabric's
darning at the edges of pages you'd wish
not this forfeited burial of your true terrors your tremor
what'd you be without me that's us is rosing round your cheeks
the nerve of you woman!  'bad girl!' intoxicated 

by yer possible pearl like silence
you want love in all the right places

but won't clean sweeping and brooming purge your pilastering saintly side with
incoming tay and sugar __ not that's not a question
but something yer inhibition must answer

I'd offer gatecrashing for free if your libidinous'd speak
Speak me this narrow I you're gaging
flirting won't carry the way of inverted come and up and uppance's not yer date.
this as which is the only date you're going to find then

O well, you can as you wish,a wink and blink to it
Hold your secret there close as timber.
We remember your coming. not christ like or sapphic or revealed. but concealed
by yer berries, and oranges, the grapes, the trusty man hope of yourever English longing

this is where you belong then
not whispered and cunted by the air of your pretending but hummed twice
in the key of yes ~

virtues's not yer best friend.
flirting's believing with this grapple of air that's your hand
round ~


this was writ for fun. bit of parody and retention. of vowel shape hirsute monkey to paw shaping not afliction but flctioned by its admiringreader ~

___________ A moment of intensity a plateau:22.06.09__________________________


if poetry's


if if poetry's not about living and love what is it?

and if those loud moue whiny

 troubadours only run around the world stage

shaking their ass

making money, then they're not human.

  why is it only some of the world's kids get to play? others starve
                                                                                         burn to death with cholera     ~



a quarter


   Seeing a quarter of her face she was moving  like that
              held her love for an instant, gathering what might have been

                                 held, shelved for eternity,
                                                  luxury's plenteous name

  But Hover that lamp Jill quit pretending to first person spooky's sombers which witch holding you back from the puff bumps of Belmont rides and the park eternity and she was down the hall like me at the Park eternity's breasts   it was years before you thought about her what was she doing there with her lover?   she had breasts enough to suck unlike yours . Jill bouncing on the pane window to eternity
       the lover ruba  dubdub Risk and the  come to red ruby lips
                    I am yours your and your to say the secret word



Was Thursday Wednesday?


Was that the question in your heart fire of night over the clocked plains bounded by dark and sundry fares the bogs working down and the helpless shadows grieving. Your plains

like mine were shot by an equator an encounter no might have foreseen the beautiful

w rod should being shat on shattered 33:1/4 speed is that it relay baby
molesting by docks and doors and

gabbling paints I mean saints wooing in the dark

   kneeling in bed at your prayer

Hold  this bliss,
    forget the dead the old,




   was a  subway called the Tube in London you'd taken and left
  a postcard for me so far and yet so close the intimate special latitude of jet lag
         and broken lovers couples for the sundry

                      what was it? was that it? a word,  wine, an air of coarse mating,
                               a crossing to your between and something else

                            telling me about the hostel   in London the places she visited

                                 i who was prisoner to this,
                                                     round repetition poverty its name
                              yet freedom of the glance
                                                          liberty within the isle

                                                 as no other yet like any other prisoner
                                                          paying the price daily  the aches, the bakes
                                                                       the dripping  cold water of the forest,

                                          two years ago it was postcards and tea,



Re... .... ......n


Rerererere  .... .... ......n

  and I really don't care one way or the other about Jane A     n ,

                      she's dead she wrote these bks no one reads
                                         (i mean really a tiny select handful  But compared to ... it's nothing)
                                          it's Joyce Carol Oates I really don't like
                             she never stops talking is paranoid
                              thinking an believing all this crap about Russia and America
                         when it's actually America with its head up its ass
                                    burrowing deeper into the shit
                                                all the time
                                                     n guess what? it sees more shit
                                              more an more shit
                                               as its looking out of its own asshole
                                            seeing shit shit an more shit

  And what about Woolf, and Emily Bronte?

                                     Well what about them?

                                                                             they're almost gods, aren't they?
                                                      the intenties they created are almost like
                                 gods windsdows windsows

                                                             window gods  gods winds gods intense windows
                                               electric buring into eternity the shock electric kind of humankind
                                                        at smokefall tusking up the chill into eternity




  two days slip without much   thinking life and death it's gotta be a sun song
   resting the storm

  a day goes off you go off the ending of the world and it's love was a foster
window what could have had
        what was it?
a  book, a kiss? smoke rising in the air across an old colonnade ?

 which was lioness that dares speak its name
        loneliness  was the lion's roar
  c rushing its stake



make weight



no pretences what a bad poem is  

       a mouth hanging off itself tiltled untitled left to its own devices
       voice an voice
         producing the generative chaos producing

Over here  my characters speak are free wonder wander bounce off walls, pull quantum leap and bound into the

          imagination of becoming anything going

I'd rather be there but here am I another I stuck on the face of it with an I always going on

 already in demand in bookshops around, round the world, a n I for you to identify with

with your problems, and hopes and nightmare dreaming,

blithering, blathering forcing on me your bloddy self ,

A blotch,

a singular hodgepodge plodding along in the turf

the tare barely  caught for,

of this make weight world, of

      of lovers and would be wive,




  was late as your arrival
        leaving never arriving
         always seeing you  from behind turning a corner
      walking away
               not in  a rush or even a hurry
          just turning



was it a ?


             Get it through their heads, a blog is not a book, they don't contradict each
                the other, dead Hegelian heads heavy with contradiction

                 contradiction which so long ago (1917) denounced by Tristan Tzara my father who
 are in heaven, the dadaist paradise of picking your own choice,

                     a blog is not  abook, it's  differnet different medium not better nor worse,
  (not for better or worse not married but loved the multiple plural free)             most likely on the way to the future, displacing the whole old beauty of the book

  gone, gone  book gone gone with the electronic
world of vaporizing elements and particles
              my syzygy beauty

Was , today ?


 Was Today Friday?

my little molecular poem narratives. 

          where do you live? in bed with sheets cleaned laundered and remade by loving hands, 

             threading, embroidering ringing, rigging, stitching , winding, 

are you jealous
                  of my second body?  don't be  i love you,

                                           why be jealous when you can be happy? didn't I write that somewhere?
  or did I think I wrote saying it wrote it?

                               I saw you
                                  I saw you
                                         I saw you with her adopting her as your lover
                                                   I saw you I saw you too
                                                     I saw you with two an two
                  something like that take a thing 
                     thinglike take a thing,

                                                                                      and  it bounds off,
                                                                                               bastardy syllable yielding the sounds ,





d, Friday 's


  Friday's on the way

          but I gotta crash I'm bushed,

, and ,


     And unlike my enemies I don't believe in death,

               to Stephen Hawkings  is it ? and whoever else born of their resentment and hatred
                                                    of life,

                 thinking it ends at clock's cut,,

                                          no, not so,

         it's richer more complex,  more elevated,
                 it's always been so,



Already all ready Thursday


 That's right all ready Thursday a name of gods and places and your rational heart thinking its all okay that finding something it was trickery only kept us apart we were broken things shat into the water

    that voice continues while the old president builds and unbuilds the dreaming of others hoping a new messiah could be born a moment's notice

and Hosanna! Hossannah! a Logos Saviour Messiah   Moshiach  chosen to lead the world  Messias ,, Christ Al-Masih                  Mesuch born leading everyone to
     a promised  claim  of real estate

   each group imagining and some more than others ours is special our turf's better 'n yrs

working the years keeping their own piece of fancy real estate property taxes sailing up the decades

roll by

~   I gotta run, back to this song later,



Wednesday was

Wednesday was like you __________________, now the week's half through,

speak, speech which is the beauty between two,

  No, that doesn't work., Not getting it, broken things everywhere commas, period, just juxtapositions falling apart

apart failing failing part, fail art, art thou there?

My brain wasn't working it was missing our conversation, how cld.it be otherwise, what went wrong, it was my fault, all , all                 ,                         all              m                 I             n              e,

  cld. it be otherwise with your fears and mine                  o                  w            n,

 a body reaching for loneliness out of habit falling into the     whirling of time,
    and on top it all

                                                        working high speed at a new edge a 21st c. adze

                                                                         some one called it failure

               bt was it?       or was it another type of success
                 I can't believe it happened

            i  cant believe either in life or death
                          you you hard headed folks with your jets and bets your Leers and careers,

                  none of yu believe in death when the chips are down,

     her hands trailed along the water,
          i was knocking at her door
                    flowers or chocolates,





    take an airplane to the center of the univ   ver se   e    e e  e 

   the air plane of    consisttency        cy  cyy yyyyeeeee 


Another Tuesday


Another Tuesday will come again  ,
                 with you in it,



.... .... ......n


that's right fuck jane austen 

  i really dont care
  o stick her on a stamp 
     out to the coal shed
                 (an her crappy o so british books)
   out   out she goes she goes
               out out out
           along with the rest of the lot

         I really dont care and you dont either
              dont pretend you do you do you do
                   not care about her hills and boroughs
                 mansions and servants and catching cold
                    on the moors, there are more important
                   things in life than her her followers, her 

                 bks, boring as clones of varry  gotter and the 
                               palooka herself that other
                               causten, the twitter pal
                             of 'teven bing
                            the bore within
                                     the bore

                               their 230 books, 
                                their endless parade of twitter
                               in a ditch followers
                                 living in slum apartments
                           while Miss Princenton lives it up
                                      and patriotic as putty
                             dumb as mud

 i dont know what to say, except that it's hot,
                    that i prefer Emily 
                                 I prefer Emily
                                I prefer Emily Bronte
                        I'd choose Emily Bronte
                              any old day

                        every golden night
                                      Bronte this and Bronte that,
                               real love not  class
 british bs
              but suffering a la Dostoevsky
                            and real feelings and lives, and deaths,

                    not the upper crust exclusions of the millionaire
s         of empires and their builders

                         so fuck Jane Austen

                                     that's right, Ditch her an her crew,




  I remember a Tuesday two years back, the long lonely
               the idea of her being somewhere else, unreachable, the pitch of death at my every mouth,
                     the romance of emptiness, the loneliness  dying

there was nothing  Romantic about it, it was hard, painful,
                            what was a poem to do in the midst  of all of that?


Asking what it meant, those words phrases wrung from the mist not from a conversation ,

  I was better than him, not in the sense of being a superior being or person

but I was better meaning less sick, more whole, more twogethers my pieces less intact,

          cutting on the board of excess the paradigm paradise the good fool wandering her kist,

dark before dawn,

__________ Improvise improvise ,




Today was Monday Lance Corporal ...... y...



Today was Monday drum rolled cartography 605 shine those buttons

straighten that beret Buster in this outfit or yr done
fried bacon and out on your ass

Walk the Sergeant Major's girlfriend home
its your job

dont matter if you get a hard on there's nothing you can do about

and her name is Sharon (Boyer street)  she has big boobs bigger than you can say
her mouth is wide and size 7
her boobs are really big and your mouth

and you go hungry walking this girl round the block what the hell you doing it for?
you have no money

Do you have cigarettes? you have no stomach

you're so hungry you have no stomach


that was Monday, they called it, Sergeant Major

have no idea whatever happened to him

and to Sharon with the big boobs, I don't remember and her smile,  hair
hanging over one eye, and her glasses, 

I  have no idea what happened to her  

I may have tried to find out later,

but am not sure, don't remember



Sunday became Monday


             That was yesterday Sunday. Sunday became Monday what's happening with the false idols of this world and the believers in death and taxes? there are those what die going to hell burning gnashing of teeth, others lift their spirit up to heaven and glory, not the false figures of Babylon and summmer simulacra the body toil and cracked eclectic electic not electric Whitma's fire of opening

 raod and long catalogue of the past and the river breathing down fire of goring river flames the ore

 the core of its effluent camera

 Nones none of its  strue it's all fiction, falese,fading, fable, true, false, faith,wraith, strewn,





Saturday's coming

                                    with your hips

                                                       thinking of lightning with your lips





 to be done


you were Friday
you always were the hope and truce.

the love of a  becoming rapidly knowing what's blue and good, holding
  my arm and right ,

to between its open sudden book,
its sudden open booking,

and like that, your lover,






                                                                              Postage not included
  Batters not provided

                                 lavender forgone as your lips, hips, your wide bastion of plate and song

           the love you could have gone,
                                                                             and i am whispering with my lips

      acorss the boom,

                           come to me           acorn, i  can't speak what i could not speak,

 speaking to you in the tender of night 

     crossing the bellwhether of the dill with a cinammon pressed thread

                                                     as no one's seen Mona in thebackwater pushing rigging loves

             on t he fair top sail of your body and it's as if a  hand cloned the wikced passage

                            of french to english and english to french and you're holding me
                         you're beholding me mama  ,

                                                               like a song in any dirty bandanana 

Miss doubloon and Miss Rangoon

                                                                                           apprised of all matters

                 their rapport with the king  (of bodies and sex)

                                                              reporting to the rear desk

                                              where al smiles made

  So thursday was missing you , again,  as  usual

                   again ,

                                 missed her,






I missed Wednesday


I missed Wednesday but the hump back whales kept trundling over the water like a cat used to

  and the rumble of big whales whoofing at the roar bottom of a huge mouth opening ocean

       was over there . yet ours never happened .

                   the enemies got in the way, holding back and out the won of love, the wrangle of climb and this

  woof of mountains

  Wednesday dyad was making and meeting, accepting and humbling and
                        then an artist could say her books met you, met your love

                 although you always refused me, rejected me really  the pretence being
           you had more virtue to offer more to hold on more money in that bank
                  that eternal bank of virtue women, esp. white women conceal

                              only to show after all to demonstrate to reveal
                                                        that                                  is                all  the same.

But that was Wednesday in  a  possible world, and the summer sun went down and

             she has thundered his body.

____________________ And lit his kittens or stared his crop. and this wonderous mason of thatched house and  a hut inviting you into her body.





   Choose day over shamble. Mark footpath with smokefall and tall ragged building the skyscraper Empire State and the other one the Chrysler was that it?

the antler of walking geese camber of godling ducks the crinoline of rare feet on a woman's laid back love
       her ankle sunned by that touch as her foot resting              on what precisely bare sheet of

________________  free Tuesday repair the subconscious defeat hope by win .

                                                                                   _____cld anyone understand you it'd be poetry

working the fruited vine of this sweet mouth the lip and taste
                                              of watered mouth



Re: Tues

Re: Tues

a kiss that went on long enough, went on

              for miles,

     that's what we are ,
   miles between years,

                    tears for all the fears,

            singing that song, ripping those things and lettering the marquee  where the woolen gloves
           covered the hallway,

                             the beautiful bodies you wanted balled the wink of star after star

           kiss before before kiss, hand to palm and palming sweet love's better

               of the oasis that was your dying,



   surely i was waiting for the doctor, Ariel,

                       twittering mother bird of children
             and the desires machine,

               spoon love  the cupping tea,

 Surely i was waiting for you,





   Sunday and the march is on not the merely dime of or parched in tackled throats
          Ha! a strenuous bearing opens the thought ragged to the wondering a lamb's chop.

  We won't stop there with marmalade cakes and rounded fish groups fillets of mockery nor
  names of ancient rattled geese the penny dreadful of murdered estates and

  Or buffeted by twisted weeds hankering after your body crabbing sire siren is my willing
     name wilting under the traffic and a lunatic as usual ranting about one thing or another
we've nothing in common walking with a friend like that, wasting a time, a meeting, breath,
to believin'g.

    And honestly I am tired of explaining my poetry to dumb ass non poets, either you get
         it or you don't  .


                            Mona has a split tease from my body with her!

                         Jill opening pops her gourd offering you her body her heart crackled on the Edgeware road turned out to be a mere phrase in an ambiguous wrecked bat a boat for calculated sums and working class accent    my only beloved chairs these meetings the Communist state not the pretensions of introverted foetry and its narcotic martyrs not me not me .

  What's that not me? not me?

  It enlarges enlarges   .


The thing about finding a period in   a blog is it's a new medium so where sentences end start and stop is up for grabbing in outer space   pounding in  the blind   





 Saturday July 8th 2017 my hero is W.C. Fields

                         and Samuel  Brisbee Occulist

              take that and put in your hat!


the juxtaposition of rivers, knees and knocks,

Private Positively

her kisses never tasted as good as yours
   your kisses were never as good as the fleecy cloud escaping me 
permanently short changing their    

on  a weird desire machine
                                    known as metamorphosis



devising .... alluding


back to live performance of kinds.yes. as within to dance and collage machine.

collage drive mixing out our 

driving texto its limitings

  -------------------------------------- i once described a connecting to inner texts
                                                   Inluding  ~  a sort of combinatory of textimage fold_over.

The “fold” is about involution - it’s about taking multiple perspectives on  

t involution - it’s about taking multiple p

 the detotalized piecemmeal pieceofwood  of time recorded on the sample that gives the “flow” of discourse its meaning in this context.

this text was made and eady to blog inset r

18/03/2012 09:28

but blog time is like any time always channging the many dimensions of time,the march of time, the dome holding it out
a rear guard action acting up
against t he datedness of language,

or language waking its own limits not the silliness of the worn wool night
an event - just like the “break”  it’s the break 

beat, the broken fragment of time recorded on the sample that gives the “flow” of discourse its meaning in this context.


                                                    it is a question of continual context and territory done undone and redone . again, yet agaain done and its mood
to permanent being becoming    ~.




   yester night or the night one before it was a spinning around in your head i mean my head

           a word trying a place its place mine yours a wor,  a  wo,   Mars, cars

                              the thing placing itself half on the hide a worn out crown,
 you'd not recall those

      as I don't why would you then,

 what she remembers is her own,




  July might be a fragile light that swept May and June 'under the carpet' the knight of nights, the night
  nigh to its next refrain a horse calling the passage

   recalling the dream hotel talking to the group and remembering always someone calling you back

is that a  fair where the punctuation ends? the longing be'gins the start and pagination of roar?

  a body wondering for her lover,                                       w  o n       dering for her lover,