sun kissed fruit
i wanna bite you
leave my molar & fang imprints
for the csi to find
as the ichneumens circle
& bearded dragonflies dance
around your corpse . . .
but not really
i was only kidding around
& id plead insanity anyhow
end up criminally insane
but an artistik genius like van gogh
so many letters & proposals
id get - from philanthropistic widows & dry-docked barbi dolls
but i was only joking . . .
about the biting
of bullets & flesh
because the current flows too strong
& my heart is an epicyclic train
so dont go thinking bad thoughts
summer kissed peacherinedream
not until . . .
Friday, September 24, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
into the castle of death with the doppelganger
After I'd been away from home for three or four years working as a chef, I went home one weekend just to say hi and see how things were. And things were pretty much how I'd left them as it turned out, only the arguments between my parents were worse and my brother was older but no wiser at all.
No, he was still a spoiled child, only now he was a spoiled child with his own drum kit and sound-proofed rubber room. But still, some parents will do anything to keep the last remaining sibling at home – just as a kind of domestic argument buffer zone. Yes, my brother had taken on the same status Switzerland had during WWII – the neutral newt. So there he was, his hair longer and his hearing considerably worse after a couple of years listing to Sabbath and Zeppelin through those quadro-phonic earphones that looked as if they cost more than what I earned in a month of busting my nuts cheffing. Did I despise him? Hell no, he earned it all living with my parents and that was way harder graft than mine.
Naturally he was pleased to see me. We went outside and kicked a ball around just like we'd done as kids and we laughed about the old times, many of which have already been recounted in this fine book. He was still a firestarter. Only now he'd progressed to petrol bombs; syphoning the two-star from the old man's ride-on mower and then going down to the small copse we used to hang about in. I went down there with him, dubious as I was, and let me tell you that that copse resembled something out of the opening scenes of armageddon. My brother's handiwork was all too evident on many blackened trees and scorched pieces of earth. And he was keen to show me his latest bomb, a cute little number he called Lady Penelope because it could say everything it needed to say in the blink of a false eyelash, maybe less. He lit it, glared at it admiringly for what I considered far too long and finally launched it - as I was already four-steps behind him. For a moment after its impact nothing happened, but there was no disappointment on his face, only expectation – just like he used to look like on Christmas morning before all his wildest dreams became wet dreams.
Suddenly there was an almighty whooshing sound and then a bright blue and orange and angry fireball lit-up the copse like we were in Cambodia. I half expected the Strolling Bones to rock-up unexpectedly and launch into 'Paint It Black.' The stench of insatiability filled the immediate environment and as my brother turned to look at me I saw the kind of evil wonderment on his face that I'd seen before; the one that all but certified him as both borderline psychotic and criminally insane. Easy come easy go. My parents had created a monster and they had no idea whatsoever about what made their golden cherub tick. One day for sure he would incinerate them and later be found standing smiling in wonderment at his skill with incendiary devices. He had been born too late; had he been available to the Allies during the early days of WWII, even as a prototype, he would most likely have been able to fry Hitler and the rest of the ragtag Reich high command alive inside some Austrian bordello while they fucked albino eunuchs and played with Mozart. Problem solved. But nevermind . . .
It was the following day when he told me about the castle. Not that I needed telling as it was me who'd first heard the legend while I'd helped my grandfather build my parent's very own blue stone mausoleum. We used to see its turrets when we were up on the scaffold scaffolding and shit and it was my grandfather who'd dug the dirt on it. He was an old man and old men have a way of getting the local lore from other old men while they leaned on a fencepost chewing the cud. Not me, I was young, fit and bearded and I was too busy trying to get my hands or another independently-inclined appendage into some part of the wife of the couple building their house next to my folk's plot. She was always out there in denim shorts and a bikini top in summer waiting for her old man to get back from work; just idly stacking bricks or chewing her hair. One day I helped her stack bricks and then I helped her stack on some unwanted weight and after that she and her old man split-up and their dream home remained just two-courses of breeze blocks. I had no time for haunted castles or bricks after that so I returned happily to cheffing, and cheffing as far away from my parent's house-to-be as was feasible.
But now I was back and as my brother told me about the castle I sat there smiling. Haunted my sweet ass, I told him. So what if the Count who owned it had run amok in nineteen-eighteen and hacked-up his family and a few maids into the bargain. It was war time or near as damnit, and that kind of shit in the greater ocean of attrocities went all but unnoticed. The guy probably had a good solicitor anyway, all those incestuously conceived royals who were put out to graze with an annual trust fund and a bogus title did. With that on his side he could have killed the whole town and still escaped clean as a whistle on some legal technicality like bribery or midnight calls from Buck House. Fuck yes.
The whole town was shit-scared of the joint anyhow. It stood in Christ knows how many acres of overgrown undergrowth and the sign on the gate said something like: “No entry under any circumstances. Trespasser's will be shot on sight, twice.” It was in German too which pretty much told you all you needed to know about the royal diseases of madness and infidelity. They were all at it, all over Europe. Arbeit Macht Frei and all that jazz.
As soon as we hopped over that rickety old gate wrapped in rusty barbed wire the temperature dropped about ten-degrees. I was already bleeding from a laceration on the inside of my thigh but being a professional chef I was of course immunised against tetanus. We crunched up the driveway and as we rounded the first curve we were somewhat disturbed by a line of fence stakes with the skeletal heads of rabbits on top of each one. I clenched one callused hand over my brother's lips to stop him from screeching. He had this terribly annoying girly reaction to horror – even though he himself was a monster. Look, I told him, don't be a baby, back when these rejects from Watership Down were hammered up here there was most likely another one of those myxomatosis outbreaks and maybe the humans got it too or mayhaps they just wanted to scare the crapola outta anyone foolish enough to come up here trying to hawk poached and infected rabbit. I removed my hand from my brother's mouth and we forged on, the temperature dropping, by my rough calculations, at a degree every half-mile. The long and winding driveway was about three-miles long, although why they just couldn't have built the thing straight and cut two-miles from the road to doorstep journey was no-one's business now. Lords and suchlike they have a tendancy to go crazy after a while with brain fluke and liver worm and gout and oozing appendages and they lose any perspective they once might have had for distance – think Lucan.
We could see the house now, Castle Greyskull indeed, a dark and sinister form all but consumed by vines and ivy and out of control climbing roses. Why the fuck David Attenborough hadn't been up here filming the life cycle of the ten-winged cyclopic dragonfly was an all- together separate unsolved mystery.
The shadow the house cast, crept toward us maliciously as the sun continued its perilous journey to the outer Western Faroes or wherever it set. As I've mentioned previously my comprehensive schooling was interrupted at regular intervals – mainly when geography was in session. There was an old sun dial with a toad sitting plump atop it – and no wonder with all this insect life swarming about like Japanese fighter planes piloted by kamikaze types. All that toad had to do was sit on top of that sundial from dawn to dusk with his mouth gaping and he could easily stack on a pound a day. Fortunately we had come on this journey armed. No boy in his right mind would venture into the dank interior of this museum exhibit unarmed, no indeed, I had my old cricket bat and my brother had his hockey stick – as I've mentioned before he always had this strange girly quality to him that unsettled everyone.
Anyhow, that was how the fat toad got summarily despatched to whatever afterlife toads and whatnots go to – maybe the great pond in the sky. And so much for that, add another one to my ever-burgeoning slate. That ugly fat bastard hadn't even had the time for one final croak before he'd croaked it. It'll all balance out on the day of reckoning, I told my brother, fear not, think how many goddamned dragonflies we've just saved.
We inched nearer toward the house, our eyes skimming windows for signs of life, movement that resembled life, or paranormal interference. It grew steadily darker and colder, oh, and mustier, like they'd just finished testing mustard gas hereabouts. In the porchway, where once I suppose stately carriages had spewed out the bejewelled landed gentry and maybe a few fresh young orphan boys looking for excitement, we stood a while thinking about whether or not to ring the doorbell just in case some phantom butler still resided, or simply to kick the thing in. Thank god my brother hadn't brought a petrol bomb with him. Anyhow, it was me who told him that kicking in doors was for chumps with more density than carbon monoxide or whatever gas it was that had a lot of density – my chemistry had suffered awfully too under the amalgamated education system so lauded by podgy old peers up in London town. If you're going to break and enter, I advised him in a brotherly yet still professional manner, then first we have to creep around looking for the most prudent point of entry. So, that is what we did. We crept around the perimeter of that house peering into blackened windows and seeing nothing until I got sick of peering at my own reflection and threw a rock I'd just requisitioned from the Brideshead Revistedesque rockery through the large rear doors. We were out on some kind of mid-nineteenth century patio by the looks of things as obviously when this place was built gargoyles and demonic water features were all the rage. And besides, this whole area had a history pock-marked with the telltale signs of pagan worship and devilry – nevermind incest, racism and bestiality. The glass gave way with a certain dignity I noticed as it first spider cracked and then simply fell away from its damp frame in what might be construed in some circles as a welcoming gesture. Well, I said to my brother, what are you waiting for? Get your arse in there boy and scout around and then report back to me.
What? He said to me.
What ho eh! You wanted to come see the castle so here you are – I gestured theatrically at the freshly broken door glass – in you go then young master.
Fuck that. He said to me.
Great, I thought to myself, just fucking typical, the little jackoff has less spunk than a neutered dachshund. Ho hum, no wonder I was sent forth into the world first – imagine having this as your older sibling. Which was about when I hit him with the cricket bat. I had a brief few seconds where when I glanced at him I saw a giant toad with a gobfull of dragonflies. Maybe this damned castle was exerting some evil mind control over me – or maybe I'd just always wanted to hit him with a cricket bat, either way the shriek he let loose sent a mushroom cloud of birds up from their roosts like monkeys off into space, jabbering and squarking insanely. A whole new bedlam. We stepped inside together, well I stepped in and then I yanked him after me by his not so iron maiden-ish hair. I was sick of the whole debacle already.
Now, there are some people, mainly psychics and suchlike who will readily testify in law courts for a flat fee that the ghouls and ghosts are all about. But, they will add as their cleverly-worded disclaimer demands, that only a select few can see them. These psychics call those who can see the frolicking dead the privileged ones – although most other people call them fruitbats. The rest of us mere mortals – folks like me, scare the dead nightlights out of the dead and thus the dead hide from these kinds of people. Mainly it is all gibberish but nonetheless I do not see dead people whereas my younger sibling does. Obviously his mother's psychic ability gene was transmuted to him in utero or she was on the Pimms bigtime during pregnancy. Which all explains why he is hanging onto me like a dandy in the underworld and why I am forcing him into every room I break into, as I still have my breaking-in gene functioning, making him say howdy to all the spooks. Yes, I am no kind of brother to a boy with psychic vulnerability.
Eventually with him muttering bastardised rosaries and Latin exorcisms I find an old newspaper – the Ratworthy Chronicle or something and it's faded headline is about Chamberlain and Lord Haw Haw playing footsie at Windsor Castle pre-war while the pox-ridden and soon-to-be adulterous king shot clay pigeons straight off the gamekeeper's head for kicks. More examples of great English traitors with less backbone than that toad I recently sent to an early demise. Let's go, I tell him, I'm sick of all this musty air and mildew and these cobwebs and nothing but dead memories and futile ambitions. The only thing that got killed here was wildlife, ghost stories my sweet arse . . .
I went back to my job and forgot about castles and Chamberlain and toads. Frogs I remembered, as we were battering their legs and deep-frying them daily in the name of our earnest profession. Snails too, and partridges, even the odd rabbit or two certified clean by HM's aides up at Balmoral. Then I got a call from my mother. She was in a panic, the Titanic was going to sink. Sink? I said to her, that's not news lady, now if it was going to re-surface she'd be onto something. Then she remembered why it was she'd actually rung me, yes, too much psychic interference on the line. Look, I told her, get a diddle on okay, I've got eight quails sitting snuggly in a copper saute pan on medium heat. Medium heat! Ha! She didn't get it . . .
No, I had to come home immediately.
Mother, I said to her, the professional code of conduct chef's toil under would never permit it.
But it's your brother! She wailed dramatically.
Is he dead? Am I getting the Porsche?
No, he's seeing a doppelganger?
What? Whose?
His own goddamnit!
Listen, I told her sternly, calm down, there are no such things as doppelgangers, even Hitchcock admitted as much. What he's seeing is his own monsterous reflection because he's high on high octane and heavy metal, go to my old room and get my cricket bat out and don't worry about that toad juice all over it . . . willow is the only thing he understands. Then I hung up. The quails came up rather nice with a cognac and full cream sauce and the Lord who scoffed them all down told the waiter Diego to tell me that I was a culinary genius. But by then I was in a nearby bar regaling a few interested parties with this very tale – overly-garnished naturally.
No, he was still a spoiled child, only now he was a spoiled child with his own drum kit and sound-proofed rubber room. But still, some parents will do anything to keep the last remaining sibling at home – just as a kind of domestic argument buffer zone. Yes, my brother had taken on the same status Switzerland had during WWII – the neutral newt. So there he was, his hair longer and his hearing considerably worse after a couple of years listing to Sabbath and Zeppelin through those quadro-phonic earphones that looked as if they cost more than what I earned in a month of busting my nuts cheffing. Did I despise him? Hell no, he earned it all living with my parents and that was way harder graft than mine.
Naturally he was pleased to see me. We went outside and kicked a ball around just like we'd done as kids and we laughed about the old times, many of which have already been recounted in this fine book. He was still a firestarter. Only now he'd progressed to petrol bombs; syphoning the two-star from the old man's ride-on mower and then going down to the small copse we used to hang about in. I went down there with him, dubious as I was, and let me tell you that that copse resembled something out of the opening scenes of armageddon. My brother's handiwork was all too evident on many blackened trees and scorched pieces of earth. And he was keen to show me his latest bomb, a cute little number he called Lady Penelope because it could say everything it needed to say in the blink of a false eyelash, maybe less. He lit it, glared at it admiringly for what I considered far too long and finally launched it - as I was already four-steps behind him. For a moment after its impact nothing happened, but there was no disappointment on his face, only expectation – just like he used to look like on Christmas morning before all his wildest dreams became wet dreams.
Suddenly there was an almighty whooshing sound and then a bright blue and orange and angry fireball lit-up the copse like we were in Cambodia. I half expected the Strolling Bones to rock-up unexpectedly and launch into 'Paint It Black.' The stench of insatiability filled the immediate environment and as my brother turned to look at me I saw the kind of evil wonderment on his face that I'd seen before; the one that all but certified him as both borderline psychotic and criminally insane. Easy come easy go. My parents had created a monster and they had no idea whatsoever about what made their golden cherub tick. One day for sure he would incinerate them and later be found standing smiling in wonderment at his skill with incendiary devices. He had been born too late; had he been available to the Allies during the early days of WWII, even as a prototype, he would most likely have been able to fry Hitler and the rest of the ragtag Reich high command alive inside some Austrian bordello while they fucked albino eunuchs and played with Mozart. Problem solved. But nevermind . . .
It was the following day when he told me about the castle. Not that I needed telling as it was me who'd first heard the legend while I'd helped my grandfather build my parent's very own blue stone mausoleum. We used to see its turrets when we were up on the scaffold scaffolding and shit and it was my grandfather who'd dug the dirt on it. He was an old man and old men have a way of getting the local lore from other old men while they leaned on a fencepost chewing the cud. Not me, I was young, fit and bearded and I was too busy trying to get my hands or another independently-inclined appendage into some part of the wife of the couple building their house next to my folk's plot. She was always out there in denim shorts and a bikini top in summer waiting for her old man to get back from work; just idly stacking bricks or chewing her hair. One day I helped her stack bricks and then I helped her stack on some unwanted weight and after that she and her old man split-up and their dream home remained just two-courses of breeze blocks. I had no time for haunted castles or bricks after that so I returned happily to cheffing, and cheffing as far away from my parent's house-to-be as was feasible.
But now I was back and as my brother told me about the castle I sat there smiling. Haunted my sweet ass, I told him. So what if the Count who owned it had run amok in nineteen-eighteen and hacked-up his family and a few maids into the bargain. It was war time or near as damnit, and that kind of shit in the greater ocean of attrocities went all but unnoticed. The guy probably had a good solicitor anyway, all those incestuously conceived royals who were put out to graze with an annual trust fund and a bogus title did. With that on his side he could have killed the whole town and still escaped clean as a whistle on some legal technicality like bribery or midnight calls from Buck House. Fuck yes.
The whole town was shit-scared of the joint anyhow. It stood in Christ knows how many acres of overgrown undergrowth and the sign on the gate said something like: “No entry under any circumstances. Trespasser's will be shot on sight, twice.” It was in German too which pretty much told you all you needed to know about the royal diseases of madness and infidelity. They were all at it, all over Europe. Arbeit Macht Frei and all that jazz.
As soon as we hopped over that rickety old gate wrapped in rusty barbed wire the temperature dropped about ten-degrees. I was already bleeding from a laceration on the inside of my thigh but being a professional chef I was of course immunised against tetanus. We crunched up the driveway and as we rounded the first curve we were somewhat disturbed by a line of fence stakes with the skeletal heads of rabbits on top of each one. I clenched one callused hand over my brother's lips to stop him from screeching. He had this terribly annoying girly reaction to horror – even though he himself was a monster. Look, I told him, don't be a baby, back when these rejects from Watership Down were hammered up here there was most likely another one of those myxomatosis outbreaks and maybe the humans got it too or mayhaps they just wanted to scare the crapola outta anyone foolish enough to come up here trying to hawk poached and infected rabbit. I removed my hand from my brother's mouth and we forged on, the temperature dropping, by my rough calculations, at a degree every half-mile. The long and winding driveway was about three-miles long, although why they just couldn't have built the thing straight and cut two-miles from the road to doorstep journey was no-one's business now. Lords and suchlike they have a tendancy to go crazy after a while with brain fluke and liver worm and gout and oozing appendages and they lose any perspective they once might have had for distance – think Lucan.
We could see the house now, Castle Greyskull indeed, a dark and sinister form all but consumed by vines and ivy and out of control climbing roses. Why the fuck David Attenborough hadn't been up here filming the life cycle of the ten-winged cyclopic dragonfly was an all- together separate unsolved mystery.
The shadow the house cast, crept toward us maliciously as the sun continued its perilous journey to the outer Western Faroes or wherever it set. As I've mentioned previously my comprehensive schooling was interrupted at regular intervals – mainly when geography was in session. There was an old sun dial with a toad sitting plump atop it – and no wonder with all this insect life swarming about like Japanese fighter planes piloted by kamikaze types. All that toad had to do was sit on top of that sundial from dawn to dusk with his mouth gaping and he could easily stack on a pound a day. Fortunately we had come on this journey armed. No boy in his right mind would venture into the dank interior of this museum exhibit unarmed, no indeed, I had my old cricket bat and my brother had his hockey stick – as I've mentioned before he always had this strange girly quality to him that unsettled everyone.
Anyhow, that was how the fat toad got summarily despatched to whatever afterlife toads and whatnots go to – maybe the great pond in the sky. And so much for that, add another one to my ever-burgeoning slate. That ugly fat bastard hadn't even had the time for one final croak before he'd croaked it. It'll all balance out on the day of reckoning, I told my brother, fear not, think how many goddamned dragonflies we've just saved.
We inched nearer toward the house, our eyes skimming windows for signs of life, movement that resembled life, or paranormal interference. It grew steadily darker and colder, oh, and mustier, like they'd just finished testing mustard gas hereabouts. In the porchway, where once I suppose stately carriages had spewed out the bejewelled landed gentry and maybe a few fresh young orphan boys looking for excitement, we stood a while thinking about whether or not to ring the doorbell just in case some phantom butler still resided, or simply to kick the thing in. Thank god my brother hadn't brought a petrol bomb with him. Anyhow, it was me who told him that kicking in doors was for chumps with more density than carbon monoxide or whatever gas it was that had a lot of density – my chemistry had suffered awfully too under the amalgamated education system so lauded by podgy old peers up in London town. If you're going to break and enter, I advised him in a brotherly yet still professional manner, then first we have to creep around looking for the most prudent point of entry. So, that is what we did. We crept around the perimeter of that house peering into blackened windows and seeing nothing until I got sick of peering at my own reflection and threw a rock I'd just requisitioned from the Brideshead Revistedesque rockery through the large rear doors. We were out on some kind of mid-nineteenth century patio by the looks of things as obviously when this place was built gargoyles and demonic water features were all the rage. And besides, this whole area had a history pock-marked with the telltale signs of pagan worship and devilry – nevermind incest, racism and bestiality. The glass gave way with a certain dignity I noticed as it first spider cracked and then simply fell away from its damp frame in what might be construed in some circles as a welcoming gesture. Well, I said to my brother, what are you waiting for? Get your arse in there boy and scout around and then report back to me.
What? He said to me.
What ho eh! You wanted to come see the castle so here you are – I gestured theatrically at the freshly broken door glass – in you go then young master.
Fuck that. He said to me.
Great, I thought to myself, just fucking typical, the little jackoff has less spunk than a neutered dachshund. Ho hum, no wonder I was sent forth into the world first – imagine having this as your older sibling. Which was about when I hit him with the cricket bat. I had a brief few seconds where when I glanced at him I saw a giant toad with a gobfull of dragonflies. Maybe this damned castle was exerting some evil mind control over me – or maybe I'd just always wanted to hit him with a cricket bat, either way the shriek he let loose sent a mushroom cloud of birds up from their roosts like monkeys off into space, jabbering and squarking insanely. A whole new bedlam. We stepped inside together, well I stepped in and then I yanked him after me by his not so iron maiden-ish hair. I was sick of the whole debacle already.
Now, there are some people, mainly psychics and suchlike who will readily testify in law courts for a flat fee that the ghouls and ghosts are all about. But, they will add as their cleverly-worded disclaimer demands, that only a select few can see them. These psychics call those who can see the frolicking dead the privileged ones – although most other people call them fruitbats. The rest of us mere mortals – folks like me, scare the dead nightlights out of the dead and thus the dead hide from these kinds of people. Mainly it is all gibberish but nonetheless I do not see dead people whereas my younger sibling does. Obviously his mother's psychic ability gene was transmuted to him in utero or she was on the Pimms bigtime during pregnancy. Which all explains why he is hanging onto me like a dandy in the underworld and why I am forcing him into every room I break into, as I still have my breaking-in gene functioning, making him say howdy to all the spooks. Yes, I am no kind of brother to a boy with psychic vulnerability.
Eventually with him muttering bastardised rosaries and Latin exorcisms I find an old newspaper – the Ratworthy Chronicle or something and it's faded headline is about Chamberlain and Lord Haw Haw playing footsie at Windsor Castle pre-war while the pox-ridden and soon-to-be adulterous king shot clay pigeons straight off the gamekeeper's head for kicks. More examples of great English traitors with less backbone than that toad I recently sent to an early demise. Let's go, I tell him, I'm sick of all this musty air and mildew and these cobwebs and nothing but dead memories and futile ambitions. The only thing that got killed here was wildlife, ghost stories my sweet arse . . .
I went back to my job and forgot about castles and Chamberlain and toads. Frogs I remembered, as we were battering their legs and deep-frying them daily in the name of our earnest profession. Snails too, and partridges, even the odd rabbit or two certified clean by HM's aides up at Balmoral. Then I got a call from my mother. She was in a panic, the Titanic was going to sink. Sink? I said to her, that's not news lady, now if it was going to re-surface she'd be onto something. Then she remembered why it was she'd actually rung me, yes, too much psychic interference on the line. Look, I told her, get a diddle on okay, I've got eight quails sitting snuggly in a copper saute pan on medium heat. Medium heat! Ha! She didn't get it . . .
No, I had to come home immediately.
Mother, I said to her, the professional code of conduct chef's toil under would never permit it.
But it's your brother! She wailed dramatically.
Is he dead? Am I getting the Porsche?
No, he's seeing a doppelganger?
What? Whose?
His own goddamnit!
Listen, I told her sternly, calm down, there are no such things as doppelgangers, even Hitchcock admitted as much. What he's seeing is his own monsterous reflection because he's high on high octane and heavy metal, go to my old room and get my cricket bat out and don't worry about that toad juice all over it . . . willow is the only thing he understands. Then I hung up. The quails came up rather nice with a cognac and full cream sauce and the Lord who scoffed them all down told the waiter Diego to tell me that I was a culinary genius. But by then I was in a nearby bar regaling a few interested parties with this very tale – overly-garnished naturally.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
trans federal express
they can keep me in the interrogation booth until i miss my flight
until i rust
they never quit
hedging their binary bets
although the adult stores are full of it
& all without an M rating
under the counter amyl deals
buy quick relief from invasionary stalling tactics
there are only two boxes available to tick
no neither or unknown
for corresponding details
up on a stage my voice betrays my physicality
they get interested or remote
controlled
then turn off & score low
so i get slam dunked
then get a turn in the booth to answer questions on my specialised subject
which is always horticulture
how they grew in the garden
but out on the cross we're okay
dynamic exotic specimens for import export
the oyster is plump
the losers original at least
& no one really gives two shits
whether you win or not
because the other game is far more dangerous
with a gun to your head
& a fed in your bed
doing paperwork
in duplicate for paper tigers
wise monkeys & papal whores
odds i lose
evens i lose
i lose
until i rust
they never quit
hedging their binary bets
although the adult stores are full of it
& all without an M rating
under the counter amyl deals
buy quick relief from invasionary stalling tactics
there are only two boxes available to tick
no neither or unknown
for corresponding details
up on a stage my voice betrays my physicality
they get interested or remote
controlled
then turn off & score low
so i get slam dunked
then get a turn in the booth to answer questions on my specialised subject
which is always horticulture
how they grew in the garden
but out on the cross we're okay
dynamic exotic specimens for import export
the oyster is plump
the losers original at least
& no one really gives two shits
whether you win or not
because the other game is far more dangerous
with a gun to your head
& a fed in your bed
doing paperwork
in duplicate for paper tigers
wise monkeys & papal whores
odds i lose
evens i lose
i lose
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