Frith Hilton Collection II

I created a base of fermented cider

To our love of its kinky halter fetter

We both hid in the blanket’s shelter

And let our breath sweep like dusters.

It was the evening’s veil blister

My girl had arrived offhand

And we held on the shoulder

More kisses, already misses pants

Welly scud grabs.

Bread to the crumbs, you’ll starve

Whispering half

I felt a passion raft

Pierce me awl sharp through scrim bath.

Days of us and the cold date nearer

You wanted more whatever

But we had it all March.

When I went home for more cider

I told her of a new party of hunters.

We had it wrong weeks further

Your toe swelling my face with your lilting height.

The hobbies have blunt

Burnt pursuits at once.

And there was you, with us.

Wise and gaunt

Still by known old rungs

In new blossom.

I always thought in kind.

Doors and their raring tag in cline

Rooms with acme ubiety sides

Adduced twingeing words by lines

Sonorous ooze, hankering find.

And now a cleaving story starts behind

Back of faces of pastel shuttered minds.

Unsure reflections: cliché. Which is mine?

I.

Rowing bane ane did it

Waiting late at the same post

East gate loafing.

Threads made her:

Haven’t taste

The take hardly plate.

Her legging’s trappings

Spinning that first view oat party.

My keyboard hasn’t any on-board light

My screen’s night light keeps the white

Tonight I have gone without it all right

And its phosphorescence’s striking indite

Has simpatico-blue, both my wide eyes.

I’m offline, and with that, is a certain bite

Missing Alissa, her pug, London, the times

My big sister, Paris, and her hollow guise

To the beating she has for my bedroom tripe

Stories puncturing for miles my online pike

. . .

Lumme! It’s dawn! it crept bamfoozling dry

With shadows bedaubed in its sepia twilight.

The brown seems forgotten by the hillock rise

Its green shows in the splendour of tree stiles

Violet gathers, orange collects, concrete shies

I woke up late and to an iris, most colourful his.

Incessant chatters

Hop on a tractor

Hauling trail of

A topper-weighed shoulder

Its rants.

Mead, as such

Bottling the cloistered.

Barring out silence’s act

In smooth slakes of direction

Of favourite conversations

The warmer considered

Teeth locking in

Pulling up.

Taking off its perimeter defences

A ratio decision report to potshot

Coming to water after sweet honey

I tell of the grade, how intoxicating. 

How did we give up

To meeting in the real world?

From our last days in the halls

To my bedroom’s nooky spot.

In there, we had the braid 1101 bun

Racking stature every o’clock shore

Patching new again my shudder fur.

I for one stopped

In tracks on spurs

To listen, stunned

By a geek’s Red love.

Meets in the shower room to shop

And po-faced Adam’s frame’s drub

Home, he was choirmaster, conductor

And everything I could touch, I bought.

I would love to sing, strew tunes forth

They say I own a voice, a bit of flavour

But not how they sing any good songs.

And on, long on, he would teach, bare butt.

Your old songs are no good, very immature

It’s time you’re serious and pen new ones.

He hadn’t heard any, but gave his opinion

It had me embarrassed from my own hunch

Having written so little in years, then stopped

It expired my little jotters, and my best chorus

My favourite line remains like fine wine stored.

And paints my world in a little rainbow . . . Only love.

The tune came from a white film, a romcom

The scene had snow, so white it is dubbed

The theme song had stirred my emotions

The tele place so far, but still within touch

I had no worries then, but a song addition

So I wrote Only love for the still far future

To my dutch.

But a few years later brought me transition

Too young for the old “wedding” thoughts

“Too old” for Only love and now impervious

Meaning my new jotter holds a quiet edition.

Adam sang exceptionally, but was not serious

He’d written no songs, but replicated scores

His music playlist though was a real junction.

The first Taylor Swift fan told me I’m a bore

So I never listened to Red or followed the cult

Instead, I chewed his bits and dibs on Red’s cud.

Time passed and Facebook became passport

Everywhere but there, there was a withdraw

I started weed, and I wrote a lot on my wall

The summer I was too musical, but no Taylor

Then it happened, the 1989 album dropped!

I met you, Teacher, it was the best welcome

It is sick! The beat on Welcome To New York

How I started my mornings, screen sessions

Then like a para-influence, my very first o’clock

And another, and yet again in a mood summon.

I told myself, I’d awoken in a “virtual” simulation

Of my brain being alive, the reconciliatory factor

The best thing from looking for nothing at all.

A calm hit me, with few months to graduation

With Owl City and Aloe Blacc’s congratulations

It declared all: clocks on necks ticking on a run

Out on the edge for the rest of our lives. Period.

Everything changed for me at 1989’s airport

But I did not rush into Taylor Swift’s nation

At least not immediately, I had a cart to fill up

So I picked the Voice Memos in the collection

Hearing you play, learning, developing a bond.

A hundred and eighty songs to track were fun

I credit you Teacher for the mighty turn around

And your Taylor insignia on every beat dump!

It was a dream, and now it’s reality in perception

Unbelievable, I think I write songs? I write pop!

I and Adam’s relationship later fell off

He knew my girlfriends, all that botch

We talked music, it’s a lot we discussed

And there was bad advice for me to trust.

He’d lent me money to get ostentatious

She didn’t need or ask for the high storm

But it felt good sending her the big sum

It’s my whole month’s allowance she got

For her birthday, but come mine she forgot.

Her reprise back to me, whacked and it hurt

With the typical, daily calls and discussion

Not seeing mine, not bothering with a call

For my birthday, for its date, not one fuss

So I called that one off and picked a crutch.

Time came to payback for the mis-venture

And I did, like any debt, forgetting the loss

Here is where Adam showed me his disgust.

His claim was I have a voodooish purse

And money I paid to him had dissolved

Right into thin air, in dark imagination

I’d have to pay what I owe, no witch hunt.

Thought breast.

Of your head and mine in rest

Bed buckling in its feel of nest.

Your bosom keeping how much in nascence?

Grovelling with mine in pick of beat perfect.

Troth to our first fist bump dear.

Our heart tugs must be bam

From birth to death

Not to say it’s me.

Here, you.

I was with you

It was the both of us.

And the graph

What it draws beating

Pounds

Prurient thump rhythm.

I ponder my days excited

Our moments

The tug of the fraidy committing to jeopardy

Our breaststroke to the finish brook.

For us, it is in the choices.

She made tea for me

At the bat’s heart wing

Long before.

With the whop of my sling

A better taut massé for the dream

Unfurling the carpet fin.

Not for sure

In all ’s pure.

Lust in foot hope cure

Not a ’tis more.

And a trait tape

Slurp chemistry.

When I will

If I build a bridge

A more startling nude ridge

Forging path marching

On to the house of siege.

Before I had knickerbockers zip

Little worries, still a kid

Spending his time, had smock as bib

Pens, notebooks, and a friendly verdant mist.

Evenings set, swallowing lines of dialogue

And the most nights, I sang of love

Of love with a meadow’s brush.

A summer saw me better off in a group

Away from my playground’s loony dupes

So the bastion, forth with thoughts of kith

Coming to noontide at a school by Olive.

And there were whips, quizzy bullies

Assignments, and once I wept convulsively.

I think of the classroom, I see shrieks

Olive, its fence’s mural oil painting.

Not a face I remember or a repartee

But the odd peculiar is of a boy’s lip

My bleeding purlicue, his pencil’s tip

Eraser and unfriendly table margins.

The house of siege

Visiting

Anywhere about its purlieu

A quiet can be heard crying.

Peel. Drill.

Peel all

To the withers of the peel

Agreeing the knee the fairer.

Whee!

Callow barrier

Ersatz accosting my mind’s dial

. . . more time tuber!

I’ll bury you some feet

Please grow thicker skin

Or thinner

For so rude sheath.

At it

Lose the bitter-fanny’s sleaze

Then we will feast.

None than

The steeple before I learned myself the carving

The dissolved sugar cubes should be the pointer

Those trompe l'œils were windsocks to this pokey

Where bent, I’m trying, cussing this pantry cadaver.

I remember piles of you rad

Showing off your staple win.

A sunny afternoon on a cellophane’s back

Stretched in display like those showy ads.

It dwindles natch

Itch, itches

'Twill

Wilting careless strips

At the thought of more food in the pantry

Of its twee through the mill

Rubbing your sense still.

Between the guava root

And its spring hot shoot

Was a poem laid for good.

It came to noon

On its first day of soon

And nothing but a breeze of soothe.

Of the sweet good life set below the blues

Hue banter of ruddy med, titivating tooth

Waxed wing clambering in a trilling boon.

Irrigating the seed was a lust for mood

To play, get frolic, achieve the height of should.

Down with its whistling the breeze of a lover in maroon

Amoroso burgundy sweet in the wind’s playing flute

The seed shook its shack weighed in laughter at the foot.

I used to have a paucity of girlfriends

Knick-ties, movie tits, booty kenned

All baddies hitting early on the sands.

If familiar with Coldplay, to and listened:

The tod ruler of that old clatty world

Who sweeps now, the streets he owned.

Of all my stored gifts and paraphernalia

My favourite is an old tawdry black band

Mayhap, slack from stones in its past hold.

We used to be a pack with the lights, spelled grand

And to the outside world, everything, remove bland

Recoil; another recon, it all made for spangle, clang!

And there was my Janice.

. . . then Janice came in.

The truce to our huddling!

First, on a close sheila's page

We met . . .

By my account, a we case.

Flecks on her bosom that displaced

What whom knows, how got braced

Mistaken for vitiligo scattered heys.

Knocking for the seltzer

Taste, exquisite

Too, slat

With bibbed cantrip heel pace

Strewn as every follower in cadge ache

Scrolling unto another shake.

Come another day

Was here to her name

And another . . .

Innumerable merry dates

Till I was in for all her fame.

Her mincing in were like that in heels

Likening irony of a sprocket's teeth

Nonslack was her hold on me and clear

The whittling of our ingot agreement

Left me enervate in ground bare tears.

The much: on another's touch.

And he did touch, all too very much

Caught on camera, to say my fudge

Loaded to me, through me, surged.

Laying tears, eying . . .

Does the indelible tideline

Back sulkier.

I think I am . . .

Even now so matt

I think I am . . .

Trialled and lammed

Voices in a halo to another band occupant

Concinnous rhythm now a whine discrepant

In précis of my tears for desolation shards

A DJ, as she, a model; beautiful queued pants

Residual dale carnage posts, all due dew tart.

All night soddened in face apprehensive, contrite

I pleased in rumpled sheets, my only dare height

My lookalike comparison of her to an old cobber

Brought on the wilt, this biff, and my footle plight

One she rebuked in parse and farce

Cheering to her night

Wading celebration days spliced

Turning a new age, truly happy without spite.

I expected better for my old gal, the trodden wall

The old ghost of bad blood, despised by everyone

But what came mimicked beating drums of war

The percussionist literally did, collecting mulct

His paradiddle, the fondle, then boss sticks drop

Imploring credence of my will with a touch gall.

Supposing his steel attitude, I grinned my teeth

Such a forearm touch could only be by a git

She is just way too special, chose jugée

She had to know, not even for a flick, if.

A clear message from a colleague

Hack! And it was a good beat.

I gave a dune smile like a cretin

A device holding cretin pinning whid.

Back in my office, in my chair, ill the wind

I thought of disbanding, bye to the coterie

Maybe for better air, but for my mood’s heed?

I’ll tell my tailor I have a better flair

Not the notions dressing this affair

Higgle on in my ensemble of the fair

Something simple, pedestrian and breadth

Sex.

It'd be too plain, too bright, so I wrote this

About a black band with only a stone in it

The rest all out, all to their own still.

I corral one stone at the moment

And she brushes through not one street

A band slacked for her free feel

To your treat.

And what does Janice say?

I've got a new girl, a hottie

For you.

I hope she knows you got no birthday wishes. 

Out of seeking connexion

You laid quiescently, kink’s con

With my eyes oneirically pawned

I saw you there on your turn

Eyes closed, shedding a jiff one

Burying me in swimming fuscous

Seeping bubble passage

In a barre-brow oeillade.

It’s scrambling, fending handy.

Let’s say I figure the squeeze

When it gets glitchy

Which is

I’m busy

And the screen spreads fishes

Hard to catch, bait

Wetting me late.

Let’s say I figure the squeeze

Whacking in haste

But it’s a lorry on my mind

And I can’t write

The maps all key wrongly

I’m trying twice

Now worrying

Haunting, the aphorism

Always to temper with sense

A pad’s hence burnt-out ends

Ends with

Let’s say I’d figured the squeeze.

Let’s say I figure the squeeze

Lumber dopey

Not boot it

All three

In a spree of

Punch! Punch! Punch!               

Down chutes of missing

O no!

Let’s say I figure the squeeze

The ConTRoL.

End it all.

Four grey ever curving stilt trolls lift my purple one-seater

The lone chair in this bedroom with faux fur giving feather

Kludged out so, for I won’t let my buttocks a line that’s flat.

The house is not every old stitch seam-prick clean catered

As the dining-room, it’s without stick, enter a name holder

Occupied by worthening sentimental junk, sorts for a cellar.

The room next, tagged parlour has no curtains, nor is better

With no door handle, my bedroom is missing several louvers

When it rains, it pours in my room, so the poor curtains shiver

Sliding my bed over apace, the headboard holds them in a catch.

For staying guests, it’s choose a dohyo or develop a cataract

As a long time guest, I have fought, too many times crabbed

And I still see, with my eyesight, it is frank better in a delta.

I've slept for days in a bedroom with cockroaches shacked

It was after an apartment switch, away for weeks at large

Maybe it is why my page got lotta likes from Madagascar?

Round the clock I was making a mixtape, writing a program

With so much to do, being away from home was very usual

With most hours in my office, only home for laundry tasks

At night, I would sleep on a pile of greasy jumpsuits stacked.

Coming home finally to the new apartment brought drats

It was a maladaptive snag with some pest control brands

Little cockroaches numbering hundreds in night’s hands.

It was hard telling where they came from by most cards

But I suspected my bed frames only, out tiny, and so calm

They eventually reduced in number; several times halved

That was not enough, it’d left me very dazed, so I packed.

My purple chair enjoys time alone, it’s an old shod papa

Its borrowed fur is my travelling buddy, acquaint with Mat

And has seen three of my houses, and is now on a fourth lap

Mat is endearingly new, very young, and lately got manned.

I was on the flush toilet yesterday and there was a rat

Maybe a mouse, tiny, observing, and a bustling whit rap

I made it out from the parlour, came from the cellar it had

Nothing amusing, its nimble; it had to be that absconder.

Locked motionless at the parlour’s doorway, then it departs

Through the passageway, past a footlocker, moving in trad

In the few seconds of its appearance, it had inched closer

Not in my view now, its skedaddle for the wall and sharp.

Eyes in a wincing face owned by a head in total stealth bath

Towering, deigning in silence its every move from man strata

Its room entry was effortless, well imitating my own prance

Next to a mop, it follows the edge, unto a black bowl's back

A wash-hand basin hangs over the black bowl, it’s ever under

It’d be hidden behind the shower curtain now, if now further

Silence and no movements, I remain stolid, holding my cat

It shows up, sliding past the shower, and the heater tank

Now having completed twice, two turns perpendicular

With few tile cells to a good scare and a successful grab

It freezes by my right; I size it up like an unstriped zebra.

Did faint whiffs of my poop lure it in some attract?

Did getting so close quench all rouse of a feast pang?

I was hillock with the toilet, and wasn't its mishmash

Its sudden stop started mine of odd thoughts in cark

Less than a jiff, it ribs in front of the bowl in a thwart.

It had to be the poop for there was no longer a hatch

Months have passed since that cement stop up patch.

Having no business with the wall, a long way of a path

Its visit bruised me and the natural fashion it scarpered.

It drove through the doorway quickly, hiding in a dash

And this part, I am not so sure, but for a behaviour pass.

A tiny speck appeared just at the spot I had seen it last

Not after my poop myself, the lure around my sphincter

I walk forward from seating to the door dropping my act

And my, amiss, what is here isn't dirt or grit, but a spider

The rat had a good spider keep watch? A decoy for rank!

Die for me? In total shock I squash brusquely its topper.

Past midnight in a room

In loss of any quiet tune

The walls whitewashed new

In bosh of machinery speech dew

Straggling knacky-clank way my pew

Ware rhythm caught combing mood.

Instead, it is the simple

Shades hidden group.

Sternly unlike this foot

Inaffable clumped youth

Ashenly highday brute

Stamped passport mute

A blimpish backdoor route

Guarding a stain.

I met self in a cabin without design

The path hath led from a mien sign

Arriving guided, and lethargus eyes.

The seconds of a leavened enzyme

Enjoining in darkness-whiff shrine.

Cluttering from the mantelshelf WiFi

The coruscating power-icon, it smiles:

A lapidary sight

Or whispering word-ride

I met myself in a cabin without design.

Incising in topiary

Butter-melt skims

Piecemeal chaw

Until chock sure.

Your smile has me

Even écorché in love.

With the table set

At up: breakfast.

By the well mount

Lay a silly jest

A frog in death

Floating in water coat

Appellant in my bucket.

Knew nothing fair

Way doubt

So I threw it out.

Tho' midnights switch

It tocks headlong lead

And It’s dah-dah-di-dit

Stats: Savoir faire dip.

Muzzling blately dingy

An otiose poetry seat

Nodding only terms fit

An alp tryst

Our marriage piste.

XXXIV prods on a tense here

And the sense of my peace twos

Galvanizes with care of a fast tap

With a nail hold of knowing it first

Your need of a new mug’s whoosh.

My dart unto your bull's eye

As you set its path to a mark

For schlep on a round of mess.

How you love it this thirteen.

I should pace and feign

Atop a mound

The thought bouncing around

Of the a sound and o sound

Enounced the same

Especially with these names.

Fontana or Fontano. Shape?

Critic or the shriek breaker?

If true, I would have to bake

To lay my hands on any cake

Then manage staying awake

Taking the pressure off taste

Just for the oven’s own sake

Sipping tea, mind hobby away

Tapping on by the alarm break.

These cakes I’d owe my brain

Not a win at the Anon’s game.

No ruining babe

It’s silence draped

Sweet aroma’s date

My tambourine’s flake

Locking the third date

Joy, happy birthday.

Drinking drops me off sissy

I’ll hold blank stares easy

It is easier when on duty.

I am Nightswan, Mr poetic

Appearing so from quiddity.

Having spent the day being

No more how you had me

Canned to this such, piddly.

It’s unlikely, weird for me

Maybe it is your singing.

And if this works, my pity.

Happy birthday North.

Thoughts have broad chest

Memories bear conscience

The former delivers a spin

Framing the frail thing brill

The latter, a hold that make one’s

Swatch the métier’s riposte or churn.

Too clear, vivid—soppy convincing

The cinch, wart soothe, shale punch.

Memory pranks, well corbelled sumps

An isolated flash; a temple’s bead drip

Briefly feeling snared in a right mitten

It isn’t scary, but there is a dot of fright

A speck in that big space, very reassuring

A returning phantom taste of chutney

Obvious like the hardback of a new read

A long knotted rope drawn, as if eternally

Pulled out from my mouth; a bad dream.

Iota orifices of weal screech cheer

Could be li’l somethings to cherish

A safe haven, to let go, seek asylum

An ecdysis to the long consanguinity

To ponder away from the accustomed

The union of thoughts and memories

Their concinnity, to that I’ll acquiesce.

If it writhes, rolls on its belly

I'll point, call it a snake clearly.

Sprog tomato, sourpuss barely.

Roof fixtures, undo. My muse belie.

Cereal phalanx, a spoon perky.

Rationed sup, tog healthy.

Why does it feel like you whisper?

An alternate world

Where a light beam to the eye

Isn't infuriating

But appreciated.

Glad in the blindness.

Thanks up in tacks, tarts

Plans and pranks

Marks on marks

The alphabetic type

Be aesthetic write

Low thoughts, tick height

Roam clots, nick brights

With the calls of franks

'tis neat odds cuff.

I waited at the quit end.

All over the fizz crest

Was my eye rest.

I did have the thirst

How to put it?

A heavy led leaving.

We could close seal

Meet to tea

Wait for the creat

And call toots.

But now, how?

How mine by her bow.

I left store caught subtle

Hitting on the strip:

I'll be waiting for sonsy.

Thirteen saw me grow

I landed some old goals.

I got gifted two radios

One at a time rodeos.

Saponaceous things I owned

Brought more than trivia close.

Tombs to hit, soft spoken prose

OAP’s nod to this, and oh nos!

Shimmy crêpe letters insole

Wand waves at girls’ clothes.

Argh! 'Em vibrating fidgets!

Grinning blanching sets

Clattering laid then sooth.

The wakening construes

I mean, hurrying boots

Hitting pedals, jinn jets.

Generators have no degree tooth

Hopping every ear met

Just cause the lights went shoo.

A running tap and a dying lizard

Took no time saving the busy man.

Too busy for his wife, bashing rams.

He studied snails, faces they make in their path

And on her part, reasons for the running tap.

He thought she never got it, his idleness and her

The running tap, dying lizard, the idler.

Maybe with babies together.

My gaudy art.

I had a thought gland to run with

The morning was sodden

As birds chirping, tweeting . . .

I picked up to lookup in a dictionary

Heard a neigh on my walk in the mews

I picked up, pipped the pea to the pony

And in the draw of my hands, had it feed.

In the soaring of the singing flock’s stream

A count swelled and its neigh, it was glee.

To call and to say to you the must

Your narrowing goads at my droll lust

As your adds meet my duct at my choice

Likened to the rate, this time I hold back, stuck

Caught in the thought to text, a sort of filial dross.

Attraction amuses like a shocker's pulse

As the air bathes in no reasons at all

Taking that one time still, playing the fall

A silent movie with a twisted rerun of must calls.

Hospice whispers

Not sung

Under breath

On hushed lips.

Hips dangle

Shackle, tangle

Hair wet.

Breath, earth

Statuesque, shingle

Where to?

Rattled, daffy.

Wind food

Brought about

Athwart

Tune. Tune

Nipple, cockle

Address to still, snap.

Napped, crapped

Sat at that awe too pap

Would've, could've, should've.

Crude groove suckles

Too purple.

Beat bad, forfeit chant

Beatbox’s ruff fall

Slant, pant

Pant, bantam hump

Tit for tat, dart tracks

Quant, ever quant?

Turnt tap.

I could get a locker

Doesn’t have to be a safe

I trust the courtier

From the grin on his face

Hits the better

I might get this one package

Sent continual

But if it does, I’ll manage

Unbox an anorak

Pick out, identify any fails

Mail back barrage.

Twice arriving on the day

Then straight purlers

No deliveries, blank space.

Weighing the drack

Assuming the contravening sake

I seal it up wrapped

Over expecting, for another way.

With several buckets of doubt

Slew whacks with her droit flout.

My motion flows and stows

With caution she old knows.

The tithe’s snit

Bare dearth.

My mummy has a Greenwich

She says it’s off the wish list.

Her first opinion

Were my dote dinghy roam

From

Her taking my minuscule croak

Serious

She’s won at the pageant of jinks and bones

Contention.

Paste this athwart

Word bought three short

Ward dot strut

For runt snub

Podge purse shod.

Nothing feels as much

I do too, as complacent

The spinning fan’s knob

Dial’s stop, speeds in step

Thoughts ‘tween conclusions

Describing the crunch evident

Pores sopped; thoughts clogged

And its sole direction for west

My mind remains as staunched.

What does it mean to you?

With the blurs of the rust

Ousting the non-eventual decay

For winnow the shucks of ego

Actions of their weight drought.

I greased the windows of heaven’s walls

So let all springs just shower free

From our heart in where we act

Seek perfection for the helpless path

If that’s all we can give them

It will only show how much we care

From all around in our world

Make this love we have be still

Tomorrow changes not

Make this love we have remain

From “WEST to WEST” for everyone.