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Everyman feels this when drunk and alone after getting dumped ...
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A plump gherkin swims round a jar, as chips crackle. Pasties malinger and saveloys shirk. Gristle and sinew are scraped with a rattle off skewers. Through lack of hard work, thistles continue to flourish, they lurk in untiled nooks. The misted wall is panoramic Istanbul. The boy you can’t take that place out of sits these days beneath the Brandenburg Gate (a model, leastways) he’d stitched out of chip-forks. It stands constant, noble, above the ...
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Sweet folly of wisdom, the experience of your hardship is more valuable as education than whatever merits of material life, certificates, awards and medals counting nothing in comparison with the humility of personal disaster, since most people have to learn the hard way by surviving suicides and nervous breakdowns to be kind and human, all that matters. Indians of America regarded lunacy as sacred with respect and veneration, as if idiocy was actually a higher ...
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How come that love is always either or, an overwhelming inundation sweeping everything and everyone away or drying up for thirst in smothering desertification leaving you alone in languishment pathetically miserable in abandonment? – and then the flood comes back again and drowns you in its force. How come you never find a middle way in love, which seems to make impossible whatever compromise, as if it must be all or nothing, and if love ...
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When I was a child, at school I lost a perfumed eraser green border on top I cried for days. Now I am losing my world signing it off to destruction life catapulted with weapons graying the verdure of being together as friends, family, neighbors. With painful words adulterated actions the infinite wide stage, not an eraser, is breaking apart wild intelligently; but I have learned to endure now, I am an adult as far ...
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The moon was ready to part unlike me the silver ball, with all its crews in its single hue hidden forms, out of sight knows it’d reincarnate anytime in the huge blank of blue. I am never done it seems with transactions of all sizes, shapes and colors alas I am never ready to leave the body. That pending interaction or the other relation to be cleaned or for some elusive attraction I hang on; ...
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History, can it help our future? Green is worn Faces prop a smile. Eyes hide a story or two. Minds and memories hold painful tales. Souls carry all. Hearts are heavy. Life brings forth a burden. Generations carry the pain. Years upon years of torment. We walk in silence, Whilst the Jacks sing. Wounds gradually heal. Only time will tell. Munster © 2018 ...
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When in the shadows of the night we change identities in cover of what can't be seen and get confused about as who we really are, emerging with profundity into each other, you becoming me and vice versa, it is difficult to know if love is real or only madness as our senses are distorted by the ultra-rational intensity of our confusion, spiritualism taking over our perceptions as we blend much more than just our ...
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Fuck off, shit slam-poet soaking up at the bar, convinced you really know wit, convinced that you’re a star, applause in ears as you stand cocktail in hand, full of cocky tales that entail your hand on your cock, or your clit, with your Mockney or Jafaican accent turned down now that you’re off the stage, to reveal you’re a slightly-posh clown who affects proletarian rage, waffling about yourself, not even asking my name, as ...
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I think this has been here before but it has been savagely edited - so not quite the same pome as was ...
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Love is not love if it is bound in chains by obligations, promises, routines and duties but must live by trust alone and understanding and needs freedom above all to keep on flying steadily sustained in permanent expansion, progress, growth and pioneering enterprise, for which you have to have your spirit out of bounds with more sense than the ordinary five ones and with one eye ever turned unto its own divinity; for love without ...
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I stumbled on this on an ancient pc -  seemed worth sticking up.  ...
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In trying to write your script I forgot mine. Managing your lines is such a waste of time my page is crowded, gripped with your words, your wounds, your footprints. You I was trying to change how on earth does it make sense? But the world cannot disengage from this clouded ignorance; in the allowances, it oversteps. You I was trying to control confused in the given roles my feet, never on the ground my ...
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I greet you in the morning with a prayer that you might be spared all pains and all adversities and worries, since I care for you with infinite protection, wishing all I know a hundred years of health, accomplishment, perfection and success and nothing less than all the best; but you stand out before the front line in your delicacy and vulnerability, having cried too much already in your days and scoliosis being as a ...
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There was an old churchman from Limerick who believed his behaviour was chivalric, for he only would force himself on a horse in the boundaries of his own bishopric. There was a young lady from Penge whose minge was as wide as Stonehenge. Her vaginal fluids would froth like some druids were brewing a spell of revenge. There once was a young man from Norwich who squirted his panhandle-porridge into his sister. Their son could ...
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I love you – if you please, and if I may, in morning time when I arise and in the evening when I close my eyes and in the night in all my dreams which even in the days continue in my work. So has it been since I first saw you now four years ago, and chances are that this will not be discontinued. Although separations mess our lives about the mind is always ...
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Finally I feel I can start writing again after the loss of my Spaniel, Harvey ...
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The war memorial’s slashed in brash Cyrillic-esque graffiti: “Da Shapka Krew runs tings” and slits your whistle-throat entreaty for peace in a pebbledashed circus where defaced, de-souled banditti give a blindfold knife-thrower sort of show down South-Central Walthamstow. Innocence treads tightropes over crack-fiend, thief and lurker and Romance is a concrete-booted rubber-gloved mazurka. The only feeling in your gut’s the chunks of chicken burger juggled by your gastric flow down South-Central Walthamstow. Boys in bubbled ...
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