the sick and the elderly are waiting in line,
one man was in a queue of one from
ten past seven, the surgery would open
at 8am - i came at half past...
sunglasses on, pretending to loiter
with a cool - sweat and all that aquarium fog
to boot, the daily traffic crabie met dio'd...

even a pure hackney rentboy wouldn't be subject to one,
but not this one...

3 meters apart, no small talk,
then she came loiter in between us,
he was 1st, i was 2nd...
she was 3rd... who suddenlt became 2nd...
and we had the easy chat
as she attempted to skip
the queue in some variant og tic-tac-toe...

i was waiting for a morning most mundane...
somehow the conflicts left me,
i left the chronic religiosity of
the english needing to queue
for a while...
the most mundane aspects of life...
aged 33 i suddenly became
the boorish 60+ chamaleon...
complaing...
i was suddenly the part-time;
i was suddenly the constant reminder
of a week -
she read the tabloid sprint,
while we inquired about the
traffic of aeoplanes...
i kept telling her:
this one is from the city
airport...
how do you know she inquired...
look... i said... it's still trying to gain
momentum while flying upward...

talk of spain, the heatwave,
i told her... my bedroom faces sunrise...
so? so yes... an oven from the hours
9am through to 3pm...
but the sun is dying...
so the shadow will expand...
give it a few days...
and it will tease the cool
of the night...

i was supposed to see a dr. sura...
she jumped queue...
i ended up seeing a
dr. nazin...any dr. without an english sounding
name... will do just, just fine...

what else did we talk about
to fill up, sock-punch-point-of-a-queue?
anything to do for the leftover
for placebo's every you, every me?
when did trans-gender go wrong,
well... it went all the way wrong
without Brian Molko as the Adam...
and... Brian Molko as the Eve...

at 9:20 i'm back at the Harrods surgery
and she comes in...
my daydream of the daydream of
a common whore not wasted on wanks,
and nothing like the sort
of blowjob that fiddle with photographs
could ever excuse....
photoshop exfoliations
of breasts and thighs...
she's wearing a BOYZONE t-shirt
and a HOGWARTS rucksack...
thin legs, a bulging torso...
oiled hair and thinning...
just your atypical jerk-off in reverse...
broken minds and more things broken
on the people who would come
after her in the wilting tree of life
of the revolving door...

no... not even a pure hackney rentboy
wouldn't be subject to one,
such high standards of the rentboys...
even the rentboys would rather pretend
to be the woman this woman wasn't...
they'd sacrifice their anal sooner than
allow this woman to be a woman...
she is commonly known is pop literature
as a scottish widow, a troll...
the sort of troll who lives outside
the common threads of internet slang
and slacker and all that bollocks culture...
she seems immune...
she's still a BOYZONE fan
and a HOGWARTS pupil...

even a pure hackney rentboy
wouldn't be subject to one;
he'd sacrifice himself for the old prof.
ian mckellen... and her most princess
princely derek jacobi...
i can walk around this circus
carousel like the next tired abortion...
a conversation with a mother
over the next vegetable cabbage...
we talk... she tells me of the child's expression,
she tells me: sacrifices of the parents...
until they die and then become
limbo consciousness for all the wicked
people...
the towed torso that always smiles...
is it in pain does it even conflate
autism with a semi-consciousness
of itself?
can it differentiate physical
pain from the pain associated
to grief from the existential reality
of morality?
this animate vegetable like
the elevated consciousness
of the onion,
the only vegetable with a foetal
nervous extension...
sprinkling you with acid that
goes beyond fake or honest tears?

the honest, the good, the people,
to have the capacity for a mere heartbreat...
what about the capacity
for differentiate the pain of
mourning from a toothache?

common girl-boyo circus freak comes
with all the best taxed excuses
to flock around the sheep,
and thus... summon the wolves...
and if the wolves do not come...
they have been trapped witnessing
the birth of phosphorescence
on a ferris-wheel of Chernobyl...
each of the saturn moons
promised to them...
like dollops of ice-creams
on the tips of their K9s...

or the abnormal march of autumn
cutting into the foliage of spring
all the way from the Ukraine...
scalpel in hand via Poland onto
the tips of Denmark's fame
from the 1980s... having to dig
the already tunnel digging itself
of the catalyst of the end of
cheap-oh cha-cha-cha-paralytic -
yet... i see no more fleeing
to the land of the free!
to the land of the earth begot first,
came to around last...
carbon copies standing stiff...
from under the iron curtain...
to a valley...
and would you believe it?
thrown under another curtain:
from under the iron curtain toward
the shade of the silicon curtain...

where to now? moon?! mars?!
the concept of evil has dried up...
much harder to shoot yourself
in the foot than it seems to continue
to sprint... against
some propaganda myth
of journalistic affairs...
the ratio: what is eaten - what is shitted out...
recycling of plastic has a prelude...
a history: history...
but never to be confused with
creativity... a miscellania....
a flea market of Paris as the genesis...
and what if the tree of knowledge
of good and evil was actually nothing
more than a bonsai joke?

rhyme is no more...
when you can counter it...
with what, is best a photograph of
Heraclitus' river -
to rhyme is to doodle boxes,
crude geometric shapes,
or play jerk-off tennis with a brick-wall...
is it possible...
that flux will replace rhyme?