He'd been hanging around for some time now, indeed... he'd become rather proficient in that direction of late and although it would probably be rude to point, you could hardly accuse him of loitering... and certainly not with intent, which would have been of some considerable comfort to Norman's Mother, given his current situation, particularly since the latest complication in his otherwise dull and uneventful life, had left him predisposed towards looking a little more drawn in the face than was usual for the time of year and a decidedly deeper shade of green.

     Barely discernible, only the deeper scars now remained to  mar the roadside foliage, bearing scant witness to the motorcycle's recent and untimely misadventure... regrettably with Norman still mounted astride.  Having lost all adhesion with the freshly resurfaced country lane the motorcycle had promptly slewed sideways and across the wet grassy verge before plunging down the wooded embankment, there to encounter its own humbling demise and land in the shallow watercourse below, but it was still early Summer and already the verdant undergrowth had begun to recover.

     At the point where his motorcycle, having determined without deviation or interruption to take the most direct route to its final resting place below and follow the downwardly allure of gravity... Norman being somewhat lighter and more aerodynamic than the former had been propelled, amid a flurry of leaves and twigs headlong through the outermost branches of the nearest tree... and promptly snapped his neck... Far below a dog-eared circular proclaimed 'kidz do it better on wheelz'!!!

       In many ways it was the most handsome beech tree you could ever wish to lay eyes upon, majestic in stature and albeit stationary in nature, was full of life, contrary to its uninvited guest who decidedly was not... but who definitely was just as static as the beech tree... and which by any stretch of the imagination had far more right to be there than Norman did.
  
     The sudden and unforeseen turn of events of the previous forty eight hours had cast grievous, Holiday nullifying inevitability directly into the path of any plans Norman may have prematurely made in that direction... and for the moment at least to be left hanging high and dry in the lush, verdant canopy far above his motorcycle, currently languishing in the sparkling clear waters below... and it has to be said, without so much as a pair of galoshes between them, and having little else to do other than hang around nodding his head in the warm Summer breeze he swayed gently up and down in the light country air.

     Pausing mid-twitch on three legs between Norman's deceased neck and his equally demised shoulders, an inquisitive squirrel was now the prime mover in our eponymous hero's sudden and discontinued modus-operandi as it provoked involuntary nods from Normans head, gestures of consent as the prying rodent set itself to investigate in great detail the darkest, innermost depths of Norman's inside breast pocket.

     Norman's unintentional leave of absence had finally extinguished once and for all any further thought of future remittance towards the outstanding balance due on the motorcycle hire purchase agreement, which as luck would have it was just as well, because his equally unintended leave of absence, so it transpired, had also extinguished Norman... and thereby deprived him once and for all of any further thought of his outstanding ability to pay them or indeed, any further thought at all.

     The squirrel meanwhile, having brushed aside the meagre contents of Normans pocket finally emerged victorious into the subdued light of the dappled canopy, brandishing a hard won paper-tissue proudly clenched between its teeth... before moving on to other, far more pressing matters on the branch opposite... then paused to scratch its ear...  Now it may be of some interest to the reader at this point... or not, as the case may be, but the squirrel allegedly knew a friend of a friend, who incidentally runs the little B&B; further down the road and who would be prepared to swear on Norman's other-worldly life that she'd seen far worse looking faces peering back from the bathroom cabinet mirror of a Sunday morning after a ***** night out with the lads... than anything she could ever possibly imagine exercising squatters rights way above in the majestic beech tree.

     Flies seemed to be one of the few living creatures that morning who hadn't raised any objection to Norman's ill-mannered intrusion... indeed, were currently hatching plans of their own in that particular direction and take intimacy to the next level with regard to lunchtime seating arrangements... and who had assured him from day one, that while their long term prognosis for Norman attaining ***** and independent posture was by no means cut-and-dried, he should nevertheless be moving about, not necessarily under his own steam in no time at all... and by the look of his complexion, it would seem that in the interim period he should be thankful for the company.

     As the balmy Summer afternoon steadily drew to its own happy conclusion Norman, without a care in the world and now in the early larval stage of being in the family way, so to speak and shortly to shed a little life of his own... stared vacantly out at what had recently become his own neck of the woods, rapidly becoming a permanent fixture in the pastoral landscape... and while his sudden relocation may have been a real eye opener for some, for Norman he'd discovered the true meaning of be at one with nature, about the birds and the bees and especially the flies in the trees...  

     So there we must leave poor Norman with his recent and enduring affliction, nodding in the dappled shade of the majestic beech tree, playing host to the countryside and the following seasons crop rotation, leaving his Mum to worry as to whether her Son had fresh underwear that morning... or not as the case may be... the County Constabulary making their door to door enquiries as to Norman's current whereabouts... his former employer re-adjusting next months pay cheque... accordingly and the hire purchase company about to dispatch final demands indiscriminately left, right and centre for financial delinquency.  The only other claim you could probably make with any degree of certainty was that Norman's full-face motorcycle helmet had by no means achieved that which was expected of it for his ultimate well-being that day... and was doing little more than keep his hair dry and his spectacles from slipping further than his chin.
                                                           ­  ­                                                                ­ ­                                                                ­ ­             ...   ...   ...**

A work in progress.                                                        ­                                                     1122

Ah, Yorkshire, thou art purer than Coventry;
and thy promises whiter; than my fluid poetry.
Thou art braver, prudent, and all the way more intelligent;
thy lands are mightier; and perhaps in every possible way-more imminent.
Thou art sincere-and so more delicate than wine, and thoughtful;
Thou adored my words, and made everything else healing, and more beautiful.

In my heart but there might have been no Yorkshire at all-
had I attended not one Coventry last fall.
I witnessed not-at t'at time, all t'is rude twilight-and toughness and madness;
and every chapped breath it had in its roughness, and hilarious-though indeed fake, felicity.
No soul has even bits of a heart, here, to forgive others' soreness,
No being wants to share; no human lives in joy, nor simplicity.
No delight indeed; as I stream my way through every roads;
Everyone is either busy with their selfishness or their coats.
No living is cared for; for humans are phantoms at night and on morns;
Vulnerability is mocked, and demised and often slyly torn.
Ah! Coventry is but a sphere of hell!
For even hell is still lighter when has it not hellfire;
As well cities are, when there is no scoundrel nor liar;
But Coventry is not at all tender;
Its wicked gasp is alive, and never to heartily surrender.
It falls for glory; it bows to such fears for pleasure;
And wanes by the light of whose death; the end of whose allure.
But thou art true-thou art as shy as every flash of virtue;
Thou art indeed-everything t'at is solemnly agreeable and brand new.
Ah, and just now-I had dreams of a fine image of thee;
Smiling within thy fullest verdure, bushes, and lavish undergrowth.
And thy summer is but vivid and friendlier;
Healing every sore heart, and turning 'em all, merrier.
Thou adored the nouns and verbs I wrote,
and admired such simple notions I quoted;
Thou shine upon me-asthe light that shall makest me grow
and the promising dim, faraway region, that lets me glow.
O, Yorkshire, this is still but too early in the transparent evening;
But I am deeply endorsed yet, by t'is poetry writing-
And with thy soul that remains but too witty,
Tearing me away, but with loveliness-
from my cautious present engagement,
Thy charms might be just too hard to bear,
for thy tongue is too sweet;
and thy veracity too chaotic, ye' imminent.
In thee shall I find peace-of that I am convinced,
Peace whose soul is calm, neat and on all occasions, careful-
Unlike t'is bustle which is at times perpetual, and sorrowful;
Unlike t'is very city of Coventry,
Which is damp with exultant bareness, and haziness,
In many ways exalted, but indeed too proud;
And its tongue which is blurred with sin and poison-
Its all-too-loud excitement makes everything but faint,
And at times sends my heart to exile, sends my heart to pain,
In every possible way too unlike thee,
With an imagery, and coaxing voices so sweet
Thou shall leave all my poems bright and freshly lit,
Even though I am still here, even though we are still yet-to meet.

Coventry is too proud and vibrant-yes, too vibrant,
Amidst its own foolishness, which sadly made itself formerly too elegant.
Too elegant to me-in various shapes, and keenly cloaked in unseen deceit,
But only by some beings, whom I was to meet, and my breath to greet.
And as I wake up to an early morning hour,
the plain summer strangely makes me thirst for honest water.
And should I love still-one intelligence t'at is so bitterly repugnant?
I shall certainly not; I shall turn to thee, Yorkshire, who is truer ye' far above, tolerant.
Ah, Yorkshire, but honesty is something Coventry promises not;
for its soul has been maliciously beheaded, and twitched,
It has been paled, corrupted, and despaired-
by its own claws, derived from the jaws of those evil souls
Veiled by their even still inhuman, disguises,
And shall still be wicked, otherwise.
In t'is sea of hate, and these waves of despondency,
I shall think of thee with tantalising depth and scrutiny,
Though thou art still imprisoned in my soul,
Thou who hath flattered and accepted me as a whole.
But Coventry is-still, accidental with some of its bindings,
For mortal as thou art, itself, and is unable to escape its fate,
Still I canst think only of the beauty of thy linings,
And upon thy lands shall I venture to fill my plate.
Ah, Yorkshire, remember that virtue is in thy hand,
but neither is vice-thy dormant enemy, is in its therein,
Virtue who is vile to all of t'is world's inconsolable men,
like in Coventry, as deemed it is, unreasonable and ungenerous, within.
Virtue which is tragically abandoned, in its pursuit of honour;
virtue which was rich, but flattened, and dismayed and disfigured
within the course of one unsupervised hour.
Ah, York, Yorkshire, when shall I ever taste the grandeur
And the very superiority of thy dignity?
For in yon picture, thou art still but a comely neighbour,
Which endorses and attests to my mute, yet unaffected-virginity.

Ah, but Coventry shall despise thee, and with its stubbornness
and overwhelming pride, shall jostle and taunt thee;
Shall defect and isolate thee-when I am but by thy side,
But God be with me still, and blind shall not, my virtuous sight.
Detesting and confronting thee for the remainders of years-as 'tis to be,
Which for thee lie ahead; as how hath it deluded me-just now!
I, who, disconcertingly, placed my heart within its sacred vow,
hath been robbed of my satisfactions, and utmost fortune,
All were perused in centuries and gone in one moon.
Ah, Yorkshire, shall I continue my poetry here-but call out endlessly to thee?
And shall I abandon this tiny caprice of mine-which is a fine, tiny desire of glory
And let myself on the loose, and for evermore be in search
of thee, whom I shall've lost-under the very indulgence of their mirth?
O, I think not!
For I shall mount my poetry-and achieve my silent dreams,
I shall take him with me, if allowed am I-to conquer him,
And make him and thee mine, just like I hath made my poetry,
And be thy light; and thy spiritual and endless reciprocal adoration
All day and night, at the end of our quest for destiny
Wherein I shall dwell, and thrive as my intellect be granted-its long-lost coronation.
O, Yorkshire, for within thy hands now I shall lie my faith-
and trudge along thy forking paths, unto the light of my fate.

Ah, Yorkshire, I am infatuated with these paintings-
these very paintings of thy lush green lands,
And of myself wandering and skulking idly about thy moors;
With my best frock, and his fingers, the one I love, entwined in my hand
As lights procured and on our storming out of yonder wooden doors.
I am shining like a bee is-upon the sweet finding of its honey;
but in whose tale 'tis like thee-to sweet and unpardonable to me.
Be with me, Yorkshire, and be with me forever, only,
As I leave behind this faint malice and commence my journey;
I shall be with thee, and my poems shall be free,
And t'is bitterness of winds shall be no more tormenting me,
Furthermore-be them what they desire to be;
But let me write; and play my song as beautifully as yon naive bee.

Ah, Yorkshire, and wait, wait again for me;
But before let me sink again into a deep sleep,
and tease thee again in my dreams;
Read me once more-the very passages of thy indolent poetry,
Take me out of my stiffness; swing me out of abhorrent Coventry.
Coventry shall be envious, and waiting forever for thy demise;
but honesty is honesty-and one that has no lies,
for thy virtue is clear as thy Western gem,
which is to God, shall always be virtue, all the same.

your eyes are like oysters i'd wish i would have gulped,
  a scenario of Narcissus who ate by the mirror...
     but then i listen to a heavy metal song:
and retract to change the lyrics
toward: fear of the selfies... fear of the selfie...
fear of the selfie... i have a phobia that someone
somewhere needs me to pose.
it's almost a cheerie cry, i'm a big boy i can walk
into a deathly hollowed-out road of
confiscated pride... the route i took,
engaged me with seven horses and one that almost
mistook my fingers for sugar cubes
and knocked my brains out after discovering
the plight of what it was nibbling on...
  but that's so ****** personal,
i might have insurrected the existence
of a satanic cult with me shouting
in the forest one time or other...
never mind that... your eyes are still akin
to oysters... a gulping-down of
whatever content it suggests...
no tongue-waggling, no breathing,
         just that shape akin to feline asiatic squirm
above a permanent slit: entangling with
what's known as sober-faced poker... or beyond
    purring: murmuring a sodden / well-trodden
path: and was anything else expected to suffer less?
   those eyes: esp. bound to a hispanic frozen lot of longing...
oysters jeopardised along with snails
  whenever the inquisition dared to come between us...
ergo dispersed the oily sexed up
***** Juan stereotypes of piston pump-pump...
nevermind, i call them twirling pumper-nickle gymnasts
of all things necessary kneaded into a chasm of org':
                         hispanic tilde eyes...
the eyebrow within the eye encompassing whatever
needs an expression... surprise? mmm, nada.
sunrise and was phone-*** so ever interesting as to
forget writing mistimed odes such as this?
                  thespian hoplites raised their tongues
toward the spear that suggested a marching was
the proper aversion toward a coup
with the director of theatre too violently itemising
Shakespeare toward a boorish scenario of
thrown rotten cabbage onto the stage.
        fewer hoplites suggested ******
  in the trojan horse, and fewer of the said "hashishin"
might have allowed history to bite at Homer's narrative
for posterity, had they not already said: ha ha! dope!
still, that locomotive tilde of the hispanic girl's eye
that ate the eyebrow, and squinted toward a sunrise
in demanding asiatic slit offense:
                           as monogamy for the sun invoking
marriage...
                    spinoza im eisen mädchen?
     hilfe anaconda! hilfe anaconda! hilfe aisha!
pricklengrund von hattin!
              hispanic tilde of the eye that ate the eyebrow
and demised the asiatic natural "squirm"
    and the forgotten sales of eyeglasses for myopia,
or too the once ticklish origin of silk with her
spinning don quixote's platonism to a
dame (akin to that fabled bride of Athos, good grief!)
that's dubbed *riza'doviento'dealma.

There once was a black man... Old at heart, he fought verbally and accordingly with bold words, which abbreviated and arbitrated great art! He spoke of activism. Not just racial, and economic racism. He fought against demonic injustices for you, yes, made me see. He stood for principles of non-violence. Acknowledged corrupt government

mileage, European knowledge and college. A philosopher, teacher
and preacher as well as a civil rights leader. When he spoke his words of fire indeed chiseled and inspired. Causing some to conspire and also perspire! Born January 15th 1929 in Atlanta, Georgia. Named in honor of the German protestant Martin Luther. Bachelor of Arts

degree in sociology. Making a mark in doctoral studies, systematic theology. June 5th 1955 This King married Corretta Scott in Heiberger,
Alabama for many to see. Proceeding with four children: Yolanda, Martin Luther the 3rd to be! Dexter Scott and Bernice to increase the peace. Despite the European police, the movements and stressed

protests, the silence, ****** and racial violence. The segregation and interrogations in force, instead of integration of course. Black mishaps, lack of differences in relapse perhaps! Plagiarized and slandered, demised by some of the wise. Accused of communistic ties. Blinded
by others’ eyes and of our world’s twisted lies. Montgomery, Georgia

bus boycott, 1955 was the year. However, forever in disguise, our fear of tears was apparently adhered. From here to near, also all those dear. Mere letters he wrote, from Birmingham jail I quote! From the slums, some of sums, hail and prevail! A creation prevailing into a deriving and thriving nation. Mr. King’s vision of a dream, mission,

opposition, optimism and truism, on our wars, welfare and more. I suppose this sounds honest and fair. Mr. King’s theories and worries in emotionalism, evangelism, humanitarianism, racism and socialism. Nobel Peace Prize won in 1964. Regretfully, you may have heard of this before. Government conspiracies and indecencies. Assassination

and discrimination, allegedly, by James Earl Ray. On April 4th, I
almost choke, because for him, his blood did soak. Some thought this **** was a thrill or forced by will. Others still procrastinate in hate! However, forever Martin Luther King was and still is one of the late greats.

I really wonder everytime
How they feel
When they crush every norm’s entities
Is this part of a ritual you religiously do?
Do you smirk or grin everytime you did?
Do you feel better perceiving lives too see them ache?
You do don’t you?

Why?
Because you've been there
You felt that pain, that agony that preludes
That melancholy past precedes you everytime
"Why always me?"
Why do you end up in bruises and blood-
Dripping from beginning to the end?
End?
No!
There’s no end to this
Unless you make it stop

But why relay the pain on others?
You created that villain in your head
You've become what you hate
Do you like that?
Making others suffer for what ‘they' did

You were once good
You still are
Well your pretense won an Oscar for the 'Ignorant'(s)
They know what you did
You broke their wings and the mettle they believed in
They don’t want to lose a 'Friend' like you
Their courage demised never to prevail again
You became this (****)tator
Which everyone obliged cowardly

But be reminded
Like every TV Show
The Hero always wins
Karma will be chasing you
Waiting for the right moment to expose you
You will get the retribution you deserved

You will cry
Remorse will elevate in your senses
And Every Name, Every Face, Every Sound
*Will be remembered to those you maimed.

ARTERY  CONFESSION.


Her love to me is like moon light, on a starry night.
As rising sun at dhawn. Like vine planted on his heart's yard. which he ought to water to flowery And fruitage.
his love for her is as deep as the dept of an ocean, with the fishes abiding therein, as stars, moon, and the sun adhered to the sky, it never
departed away from her side.

  his love to her can simply easily be compared to GOD's towards mankind.

So he confessed and rendered  his heart to her. Like a teeming downpour upon  earthen  soften, it surface.
so her love compassed his heart comforting, like pabulum to mind.

As light rays to eye sight. His love for her is reality only can be told in tale of their love story,

gory to glory. He so
Much love her  and
really ready,

in for her, fell in the water.
Lost and found with her for ever. He wish he could wash her feet wilt the waters of his soul, cleansing her heart.

because he see her heart compatible  to his.

Remembered old days of midnight calls, they never used to give sleep to their eyes. While talk through night, dusk till dawn,

Remembered  promises and all the pain they both had gone through heaven and hell.

Never forgot the only first day he felt the fullness of her *******, how sooth her heart. Tongue on tongue, mouthy pleasure.

His hands on her curves. Briskly remembered she told him that after her
momma he be  next to her.

She call him dad he call her Mami. Before she demised his mama used to asked about his lady. His homies do too.
His young blood can't either forget her memories,
last night he was asked about her, oh sweetness
is all about thee. Can't forget
her,   _he always craves_ her. All he ever wanted and desires are all found in her, his boo. He truly loves her because he  knew she'd  make a good mother,

Hope she'd understand if he change sometimes just only because he never own everythang as his. So remember he always told her
that he will always be there  for her as time,
even in the world after here. Her love is so good to him

She has  the key to his heart.
reminisce she told him she'd


rather die for him than sleeping at someone else side.
She's his inspiration like a transportation, his motivation only she can help build his cloud nation. His aspiration
all is found in her, all in ONE no one else but she.

She source the past time joy and still the reason for today's and the hope
of tomorrow's glee.

Sacrifice his love for her because he believes in future with her, she's his  destiny his fate mate his ruth, his batsheba,
His mary, his eve and soulmate.
#c9_fm

i staying this hostel in amsterdam,
less glorifying than ginsberg
to be a czech fool king wording
self-praise about spinoza,
two germans (who decided to take
mushrooms watching american dad:
i tell you, hallucinogenics
and television - plato's cave -
equate to plato's deepest caverns),
i spent the first day with the germans,
i didn't smoke ****, i just drank,
second day i spent the day
with the egyptian (architect student,
nice scrapbook of doodles), who was cradling
a bottle of the potato elixir known as *****,
in one of the cafes he gave me a blunt,
then gave me his hearing-aids from which
music blasts, he chose to play me
le trio joubran's masar (https://goo.gl/4vcBE1),
there and then i opened my mouth and
in oh oh oh surds imitated a woman's ******,
all ******-active drugs are a release from
thinking, ******-active drugs don't like thought,
indeed i was thoughtless, and in ecstasy bold
enough to attract a dutch girl's curiosity
at my mouth turned in O and my eyes closed
being fed the agarwood trembles of horsehairs
tied either end for a song,
it felt... it felt like a unison resound of
solomon's harem... i turned marijuana into
a ****** because of the music...
these ******-active drugs don't like thinking,
they disperse thought into a semi non-existence,
less carousel more dodo (extinction),
active ingredients of such a nature restrict thought
and reveal an intoxicated self, or self without thought:
a "true" / "undiscovered" self.
and now looking into something resembling
a library, but actually a graveyard...
you tend to do that, keep company with the dead
scribblers, given your position of demised
appreciation numbered less than expected
filling a quarter of the imagined auditorium,
you turn to the dead ones...
among the tombstone crucifixes a few are still alive:
will alexander (poet), fady joudah (poet & physician),
jim bradbury (historian specialising in accounts of
philip augustus), norman davis (historian,
author of god's playground, competitor
with paweł jasienica about the history of poland),
there's also an addition by will self and irvine welsh,
but that's about it... the rest of the ******* are dead:
and this makes me feel nearer to what's intended:
a brick, on a shelf, a brick in the heart layering
of first 20 years, and subsequent life after till
promised anno mortum 60 with the world's age
of civilisation aged 2052 (e.g.);
hence too the exhausted day filled with sleep
awaiting its completion,
but that memory stitches me up into a whole of
the puffy duck-feather teddy bear's abdomen content,
as i parted the egyptian with laughter
once a single drag of the blunt started to wear off.

getting old
who wants it
like a slap in the mouth you see

cosmetic overhall
cream for this
cream for that
something to stop that fat

southern hemisphere
it draws near
pump them up
nip and tuck

cellulites a blighter
liposuction leaves you lighter
dreaded age
no more centre stage
liver spots confirm the rot

............................................

hang on though
is it so bad
the issue to impress
demised, no longer a drag

the rat race gone
no more out there on the block
competing with the rest
to attract the opposite ***