(AppreCJ8n, 0.44: A-P, R-Z: It's Cee's Love That's Lice's A)
- my 'mylysandarling' -ing Lady gottherefirst. Merci mah Cee for
clemently purging me of unlovability perditious. Andfrom budget personality inanity
of therubbishrestofhumanity, andfrom anathemarama armour o' an outlook
like that, from rightroyalpainintheorama
it had all become when i was doubtfullon there was anyone not a nong most unmoxious
in norwichingham notnottingham notenglandland the nilkywayphonebook.
From a dumb heart of smart hate, Her love meant
liberation, occupies
thecherryonthecreamonthecrestofmyheart'shighscoretable, capping all
the highschoolswornswannabe 'n' darkhorsecrush leagues of love,
at topmostmost poz poss poz.
But it's not my falseclass trip ta worship superjacency ; lemme laud
a lowlandgod who has hardpan substratum as loadbearing love,
a holyintheground whose area anchors
a living levelplayingfield onwhichtabuild, locale o' whose compassion
be a plaindealed paradiseofpracticalsupport. This basal divinity i bigup doxologically,
basically an igneous jesus in the geology is freelyperceived theontal purport
if there's a Hostess like homegroundHer - the church of thegroundShewalkson
digsup god who's my terrafirma's preserver, Prithvi Woman tho' not a dharti mare,
Superceejay! And Cee You're myrock - only theodicy i got.
Mother and founder o' my new foundness found my footing for me,
my putmyfooting, longstanding longbuggeringover precarity, has pushedoff.
She's whymy tootsies' two low tens hifive third rock from the hot with runragger
gladder strides. She's horizonsamsoning cornerstone of the improved
fourleafclovered kidgloved globe
my Youthhound hooves of oomph runon. Andtheyrunon
thehourglassfigured carrot that's Her coaxinform. And they runon
onefoot collie's onefoot colt's t'Our trysts, tho' my legs are pippedtathepost by my
boneofoats when i runon home ta Her stript - where i'm hornyandspawney
as a tripod dog who pawned paws in a pawbrokers
for horseshoes forged from napoleon'sgenerals'medals.
But a doingitdoggyology degree in trustexercises is the best secondbest ever,
forta break my unfuckedup duck as a sanity stallion is betteryet,
my brightside unbridled, a stud's peaceofmind since
i met You in matchesofthespirit, Cee. Yours, benevolent
ta very bone betawave breath of Yourbeing, thus my soul lusts ta be decent.
i'll be a warhorse of everygoodcause, minister
like jesus sheepdog t'all the schweinhund sheeple,
so Our personalities can play snap, Our souls play strip snap.
But in mattersofthespirit my soft hespirit
'ppears pale potency beside the 'white full' of wisdom and care on tap, or whateveritis
one calls anemotionalblackhole's antithesis, which Yoursoul is, a purespring of peopleskills,
a spa of themilkofhumankindness. And what You contribute ta cosmostasis is ap-
ollonian yin like a firm stream of sublime cement, Your strongshapegiving
sympathyforthevastmajority boasts those bottomless feminine bollocks, whose bettiness is
cosmik bostik that undercoats intact turpsytovey Spirititofmatterit, stickybackplasticoftheuniverse
what mankind's benefactresses' balls o' spir-grit
glistenwith. Whateveritisonenames a Soul that dazzles as if nemesis
of issacneuronwiththemotornewton doc shawking's hobbyhorse holes,
it's whitefull soulswithballs of superrepairwomen like You cosolidate the cosmos,
doubletape stars steadflash in the big gap, cohere mothernature's mentalstate, cure
blackholes, balanceout blokes' blacksouls.
If there's allkindbinding understandingoozing lynchpin layer of spirit,
a motherly rhythm of underlying overtrue e.q., Cee Yer esprit
is a majorplayer innit, the Ladypope Ductcrutch or somesuch.
Meanwhile my pet 'ternity is spent - well?!
Becoming my own posthumous prodigalson
thru roughversioning a selfdirecting poisonpen int'antivenom verse,
in tauntin' the toxins' foreman with thanody, th'ol' babies,
as if morbid mellifluity inthemidstoflife
which lives over the premises of disease might mithridatically freemefrom
doubledeath of poets dead and understudied; as if autoprethrenody
bloodied allthefew photos licefeatures features in a bitmoreinteresting.
i'm victimising my death by itemising its victim i sing, yet the irony is i'm my own man-
slaughter he wrote - coz poetry's like jessicafletcher, wherever it is death's nexttaya,
strewth at least a stretcher! The understud's died, but i'm lysandamnedletdown ta myself
if deadoralive i'm strongsilenttypeofnobody, so tho' Cee's my celibacysellbydating angel,
ah
lands buried enambered in licelime pit of lines ta be man i desire - non omnis moriar,
tho' notice only everlasting lice i could live with dies. What notorious nanoem
p'haps page o' mine pouts, whatever deelish discord once in a licetime outs ,
it cost calenders crumpled in illegiblets ofliteraryguts. i va-va-vivisected
text isle of morose dr. rochambeau outta defenseless paper with stony scissors
of myownworstcritic, ever howing and huffing an uncling cry over what a doddle
it's not
whittling lines down t'a lean lens when thru 'em the lostyears look legion.
Why i have ta've faith death will facesavingly flesh me outapoet, that whensome
butchering butler, tardy paramedic, aspiring pallbearer impatiently pushy overacliffy,
when whatever strikes, a failsafe fame fastactingasphobias will followup my
scryptkeeping lines, and the years lost therein will be set off perfectly lost then.
The hack'n-eyed gobby lacklips sein-sum-todt subtext of everything
hurtling like a worm towards fullstopped subtraction, holepunched completion,
absence morethan anunwhole crying uncle, no, perfect somethingatleast.
Coz ta be one of thedeadmen who mean everything
means i'll be the ultimate imperfection once being's done: unforgotten
supernova mess. Death's understudy, my smoky woo-wound of a mouth choochooing
rebuses runes renames that remain
sweetly jarring like spoton forgotfulness.