Friday 15 November 2019

well comeback

Stories for you.


For you

of course


cuz I'm in love


So smitten, still

Obsessed, even.

Every word that I could possibly pitch at you, with hope of cracking a chuckle, in desperate aim of bettering my status or faking my fortune in them eyes, trying to communicate some bevy of ultimately meaningless, albeit entertaining ideals, but only one practical conceit: that I simply desire to make you smile, laugh, relax; that I speak to charm your ears, allay your fears, altho these spells are spun in public, they are not meant for everyone, 


only for you, my dearest darling,

unkept unspoilt unknown.

Patronising muses in old greek getup, bicameral spirits held in thrall for the beautiful and bold to breakdown, schoolyard games for millenials, watch me stake and shake it now, dusting off all those closeted bones, reporting to the world after weeks alone, freestyles flung thru the seasons without a  microphone, (no gear up here quite clear not near my dear) sans chute, cutepute, or too many of those interpersonal struts and supports either, with no retorts, contortions of self or structure, no other goals, a verbal eruption.

What I'm trying to say, if I'm saying anything, is welcome back to the blog. The tinderbox is due to be set alight, the net is ready for some of this fresh shit, raw and uncut like I'm serving it up, me kenning can-dour, unseeming, all-seeing, and u all quiet, deserving, like you'd never be silently satisfied, like I could never do in person, like the hollywood version, Rene Ricard, like endless sapphic devotees chasing eternity in weightless breadth, 12 steps whose repetitions describe the parameters of a yard, small mouth noises, resounding in signifyance just like every tragic death, pronounced afresh in iambic stretch besides: when I speak, no one believes me. When I write  it down, ppl know its true.

So here's to you, my brilliant unknown. To your trials and triumphs, your blood and bone, your kin, kith, kinder, twine. Here's to the rest of yours and mine. To all of your joys that may never be, to your sorrows inescapable, to your razor mind and childish needs, will and deeds, your throng and clique, your club and blob. That's who and how, but what? And where?

the west side of a human hive,

I walk along st Clair,

down Dufferin, Bloor,

Swansea and shore, 

the borders of what comes to me called Parkside, and there's a story.

But, nevermind, milove

Much more to come:

the spring and fall 

of Sammy D et al.

Sitting out rounds, living out of bounds, laying about to stand up tall

The tiki is my dojo now.

Farewell chef sensei,

hello barefaced youth.

Cu l8tr DD, 

Henlo dada. 

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