Pretty pretty lil kitties

Pretty pretty with those lil titties

Pretty pretty lil kitties

Pretty pretty more the so with glitties


Summer brings farmers markets to town squares full of dither

Perchance you’ll stumble upon a man aged and steeped in wither

The stillness of his appear

Among the tussle will chance you to him steer

As in the far he looks as if his eyes beckons with a whispered plead of “come hither”

Yet close the darkness within them up your back coldness will slither.


Emanuel is the old man’s name or is said to be in many places

Always sitting in a shaded stall – never up going through a seller’s paces

Alert but looking dull with his surround behind his table

A handful of wares nary with a price or label

Looking lovingly down stead of potential buyer’s faces

At his table sparely spread with glittered sand dollar necklaces


Appreciate the baubles that leave Emmanuel beguiled

But be aware that if asked where they are from the answer is not for the mild

To him his baubles he will gather

They are to be sought than buy rather

For if truth be tell they are hardly trendy or styled

Yet fashioned are they from founts designed to nourish a child


Pretty pretty lil kitties

Pretty pretty with those lil titties

Pretty pretty lil kitties

Pretty pretty more the so with glitties


Town to town, time and time again

Tis but all he can do as his condition he sees as opport than bane

Emanuel is not what he would seem as

And his tastes is for the flesh of a dying motherly lass

Which most would consider much insane

But always his latest bauble lets down his memory reign


Emanuel stood between the door and her

Volatile, pert, aware – far from the half lame aged sir

He had wobbled up to her so weakly

Propositioning Annie so meekly

That a block away flashed the money that had her mind whir

In such a weak rasp “Such beauty have you” he did purr


“I apologize for the dreary and lack luster apartment -

What do you need the money for? Drugs? Food?  Rent?

Can I make you more at ease?

Or do you just wish to know what I please?

Am I your kind of gent?

Ha! But of course I am – considering the money I just spent!


Here my pet a dabble of warmth for your body in the form of rum

Odd isn’t it how it matters not where one is from

Man, woman, or those whose thoughts of themselves are inbetween

Knowing what is and what can’t be seen

All Life flows through blood and cum

To which most seek to spread to others some”


A smile steeped in sad lament drifted along the thin lipless mouth dry

“I am not most, alas” he continued longing sigh

Emanuel went quiet for a moment

As if despite his intent his body’s functions had already their energy had came and went

Patting his groin to enforce in what words belie

Then laughed “But by no means do I intend to arrest any attempt to try!”


“Come to me my little delectable one

Come to me so we can have some fun”

Emanuel took a step toward the womanly company for which he had paid

With no intent to have her an opportunity to spend the money from he she had made

Then a sidestep to block the entrance to which she could flee in a run

“Come to me so I can do what must be done”


“Hide not your beauty with such attire that highlights your highs…and your lows”

The woman felt a tightening in the pit of her stomach as the space between the two did close -

All Annie had wanted was a few dollars to breathe from the monetary stuck

What else could she do with a baby at home to make enough in a couple of hours but fuck?

“Be more that what stitch and fabric shows

Surrender all even what nobody else knows”


Emanuel wished he could play with this one for a while

Unlike most of the others her demeanor was a simpler natural style

To discover to what depths could this toy withstand

An assault upon her mind under the influence of a mind altering dose of contraband

But his need overtook his wishes to a frothing rile

He lunged towards her with surprising agile


Annie had not a chance to react to the old man’s attack

He knocked her off balance as her knees went slack

And though Annie tried with her hips to her body steady

Her coordination was not up to task and ready

Her head bounced twice off the thread bare lime carpet with a dull crack, crack

And Annie’s world turned from of shades of colour to black and back


Pretty pretty lil kitties

Pretty pretty with those lil titties

Pretty pretty lil kitties

Pretty pretty more the so with glitties


“Lay still!” the old man did harshly rasp just barely a whisper but Annie did not abide

Woozily she tried to roll to her side

As he tried to straddle his prey

To keep her movement at a minimum – at bay

Blood, teeth and mucus fireworked in grim display as Annie’s flesh split wide

As the heavy bottle of rum and the bottom end of her face did collide


“Hush now!” Emanuel spat at the weeping woman in venomous tone

Given his choice of temped abode it should be erred for sexual moan

He had chosen it for its rent by the hour

And the lack of interest in its activity as told by the stench of old sex sour

A sob too much might become a wailful moan

But it not…an interrupt he shant condone


Pretty pretty lil kitties

Pretty pretty with those lil titties

Pretty pretty lil kitties

Pretty pretty more the so with glitties


She wishes to cooperate none does she!

Well if a bitch she has decided to be

The staggered glass of the bottomless bottle he brought to the middle of Annie’s face

Shattering, strewing, gnashing until her uniqueness had been shredded to not a trace

Emanuel’s anger keened like the tip of a honed epee

I will make her understand that her master is me…ME!!!


Annie, just looking to make some quick cash

With a little nod and a flicker of her eyelash

Not a muscle nor gave a breath of defy

Still and broken beyond her life did lie

As Emanuel from his straddle to beside her did he dash

Gleefully whispering over and over “ash to ash”



With all his might around her meaty areole his teeth did become entrenched

Driven by the hunger than never quenched

for blood woven in mother’s milk;

an acrid concoction that coats his throat as if a cloak of silk

Freed from its nestled spot with merciless gnash and then wrenched

Relishing in the warmth of the moist while choking on the blood and milk his mouth in was drenched


He spit out the fleshy round as it still had some perk quickly leaving from life’s lack

Into a pickle jar half filled with shellac

Delighting in the bob and twirl that made his mind gleefully applaud and twitter

Then he pulled it out to add from his little crafter’s bag sparkle and glitter

He lets it dry for a moment on the flattened head of a belt buckle’s back

Then Emanuel placed his prize in his burgundy velveteen sack.


Sting does the bleach as he cleans his face, toes, hands, chest and armpits

Once dried and prize in hand with indifference to the room’s liquid decor tacky he splits

Though all the evidence of his deed is strewn in a large mess

Who Emanuel is and will be next gives clue even the less

So that every weekend Emanuel in a different town sits

Showing all his hand fashioned glitz


Pretty pretty lil kitties

Pretty pretty with those lil titties

Pretty pretty lil kitties

Pretty pretty more the so with glitties

A cry mmm of pass – shun

Began with the thought “me oh my my my”

Of bountiful delight flesh desired compact

In scene of innocent flirt blackened

For actions the imagination hast designed

Of what lust hast upon both could be wrought


A whispish sigh

Knowing a lack of tact

Flaws reckoned

Hope in lust aligned

That a complimentary notion sought


Silent shout of “Me! Me!” Tis I!” –

Yet a react,

A look second

A flicker of want in kind

There is to be naught


That moment hast elapsed by

The distance between intact

Despite a wish to be beckoned

Paid no mind

Of attention pleading to be caught

For a Whisper Kiss’t

For a whisper kiss’t

Breathily presented by such succulent lips

Of thee I insistListen of a beat quickened within thine chest

In dalliance of this lonesomed behest –

Lend the warmth pooled between thy hips


For but A Whisper kiss’t

Of that pleasure beg thee do not forestall

An impetuous arrest of unharkened desistshivers of shrill canst pierce deep unto the night

Though when cast into the day’s aft light become contrite;

But for that moment pillowed would be the fall

If For but a whisper kiss’t

Of thee doest I upon insist

What happens when I’m really tired

What happens when I'm really tired

My Genderation

With the hours I work I only get a couple of hours of the children being awake before they go to bed for the night but most of the time is preparing supper, doing laundry, doing dishes, crying in the darkest corner of the basement uncontrollably – the usual stuff that married men with children do. It is a treat when I found myself with time (1) a couple of weeks ago. With the three boys this family time simply requires for me to play video games and allow them to wipe the floor with me (notice how I say allow thereby nullifying the factor that my skill set was developed by an entirely different sort of joystick which lends itself to the notion that I could actually win – as long as the video game relied heavily on the seventies decade’s National Geographic and their stories on the culture of isolated pygmies running around without attire to encumber their daily activities) instead of being outside and exhausting all their boyish energies because in the span of my youth to theirs some scientists have made it their mission to use scare tactics on an already overly-sensitive and paranoid government (2) regulated modern parental model that being sent outside is a punishment rather than a positive. The littlest one, at fifteen months however, is quite different; she has yet to be of school age (3) has yet to become a trained seal.

My daughter is at that glorious…and painful…stage where she is finding out the textural differences of different materials through touch and kinetic experimentation (meaning that her hypothesis is “what kind of damage will this inflict upon my father if I strike him with it…repeatedly and in areas that have subconsciously pinpointed as soft tissue spots) and then laughing maniacally while I double over. To make matters thoroughly worse, those precious boys have no empathy in where their little sister has mentally painted a bulls eye – they merely roll their eyes and say, “really, dad? As if you have anything there” –because thanks to the my wife’s oh so age appropriate description of the procedure I went through last November, my boys continue to insist that they see the jar that clearly I have hidden because they haven’t seen any jar on their mother’s shelves that the doctors put my testicles in.

After the third volley of the “Green Lantern” action figure attempting to trampoline off my groin into my nostrils I heard from the living room, “Next on Treehouse…Sesame Street!”  I thought to myself, hey, this is an activity where she could be more involved with the characters than attempting to stick various items up my nostrils. I picked up baby girl, walked to the living room and set her on my lap and told her of my intentions for the next fifty minutes of our time together. There was a gasp from the oldest boy who had followed us out of the bedroom.

“Father…” the boy started out with a firm and stern voice; he was using his “I’m twelve so you must heed my sage advice” voice. 

Twelve is a magical age, it’s where a boy becomes a young gentleman of the world, becoming arrogantly aware of his significance to a society that mystifyingly has survived utter self implosion without the input of his omnipotent wisdom and presence while at the same time squinting into the bathroom mirror with his mother’s mascara in his hand attempting to make the sparse speckles of facial hair that are ninety nine percent imaginary fuller and eye catching to physically display his maturity in the ways of the world – a direct contrast to the screams of horror and panicked yell that something is wrong “down there” when the first pubic hair makes its appearance(4).

I steeled my fortitude.

“What is it, my son?” I asked in a voice so silken that somewhere in a Malaysian sweatshop the steward was licking his lips as he was planning for my kidnapping in order to create some a new line of scarves for Ralph Lauren, Troppo Pronto era Concime (5)– the stylish accessory “for every man who lives on the edge” (6).

“I don’t think you should let her watch that show,” the boy said with an admonishing stare, “It is inappropriate for someone her age.”

I was stunned – not just that anyone would think “Sesame Street” was inappropriate, but that the boy had used the word “inappropriate” properly. I decided to play it cool.

“Any why is that?”

He leaned in close to my ear so that the innocent would not be tainted by his words – which probably would have been far more effective if he had not chosen to whisper (7) into the side where his sister was not perched on my knee. “Because the other day I was watching it and they used ‘gender’ as the ‘Word on the Street’,” he said with the gravity of a prophet of doom and damnation, “And ‘gender’ is the same as S-E-X-but different.”

I gathered up the sum of my fatherly knowledge and understanding of the mind of a twelve year old and responded in the most rational manner that I am capable of, “What’s that now?”

“I don’t think that Princess needs to hear or see about that kind of stuff,” the boy asserted, “she’s too young to have to deal with it, you know.”

“Know what?”

“You know…that she has… ‘those’… parts,” he responded as a tourist who thinks that by slowing down his language that the taxi driver will comprehend English, “and that we have…the other kind…of parts.”

Perhaps it is my wife’s perspective of while a person doesn’t ignore their sexual identity you certainly don’t flaunt or accentuate it (apparently unlike some people that she married do).     Perhaps it is the sex education that he received in school (8) that could be stating things in such a way that make him feel as if his own and the perception the school would like him to have about sexuality are in conflict. On the day of his sex education class, he had walked over to his grandparents’ house afterward, walked straight up to his grandfather and growled, “Grandpa, you would not believe what YOUR daughter signed me up for.” It is not that the boy blushes and hides himself when he sees the human body unadorned; he’ll come into the bathroom and blow bubbles or play with the foam numbers and letters that we have for baby girl’s bath. He has sat beside his mother watching television while she was breast feeding – he even walks into the bathroom to use the toilet when I’m in having my “private time” with Mr. Froggie and Foo Foo the Foaming Flamingo. I would like to think that in terms of “real” humanistic nature of a person’s physical characteristics in the absence of attire that he has a positive approach…so why the aversion with Sesame Street? Could it be that mainstream media advertising has become so sexualized that it has created an aversion or a negatively based awareness of the way things are presented. Could it be that the boy just really doesn’t understand the multiple definitions of the word sex?

I explained to the boy the difference between sex and gender, though he was not convinced of the difference until he went to the higher authority-his mother, and was satisfied that he had been mistaken on what Sesame Street was conveying to their viewing public. Yet we did not watch Sesame Street that night… or since. It has given me a wider vocabulary though. 

At every opportunity I ask, “Does this make me look gendery?”


“Hey look at that girl – isn’t she just so gendery?”

The boy has yet to see the humor in it.  I suspect that he will not see it until he becomes a father and his children become almost teenagers –when his IQ suddenly drops just below a dust mite, just as mine has. You’ll have to excuse me now; I need to go put on my leopard thong on, mousse my stomach hair to a Mohawk and go around the house singing, “I’m to gendery for this body, I’m too gender for my”…

(1) Due largely to looking at the stove and openly defying it by phoning for a pizza instead of staring at the hypnotic swirl of the heating elements) to spend  time with the children (which takes about 4 minutes to realize that marriage and children have an effect on men similar to the Stockholm Syndrome has on kidnapping victims in terms of what is considered “quality family time” over, say just as an example, as you’re downing a few ryes as AC/DC thunders out of the jukebox just before turning over to Conway Twitty while playing a few games of pool and talking just loud enough to your competitor that the women sitting at a table nearby who should be old enough to know better but aren’t can take notice of how well you handle your cue stick . 

(2) See professional lobbyist and special interest groups who clearly lacked something in their childhoods thus as adults have decided that the Stalinistic approach of fear and threat of prosecution is the means to overcome their inadequacies by projecting them on others.

(3) )Which now is being pushed for around four – with Kindergarten being five days a week for full days in our little school division. I have to laugh when people say “whatever happened to family values and earning your keep? Clearly with the push for families to put their children in dayhomes or daycare in order to survive because the idea of a single income family being over the poverty line is quickly sinking into mythology status where “professionals”  with no personal stake in the child’s development are the primary caregivers therefore disassociating the bond of family over that of the intuitional mindset and instill the belief that life’s learning takes place through books over experience that evolves the child’s yearn to be better to that of entitlement without paying one’s dues.

(4)For the most part; in school there was a kid, I think his name was Aaron, if I recall correctly, who in the midst of the hormonally charged atmosphere of the junior high gym shower room was a late bloomer. Perhaps it was strictly coincidence, or perhaps it was the universe’s idea of a cosmic knee slapper but unfortunately for Aaron, his assigned locker was right beside Mr. Alpha Jock, the king of grade eight, the pitter for the patter of the girls’ hearts, Zack. A few years later, Zack would get tapped for taking performance altering drugs which could make a person wonder on just when Mr. All Canadian Wannabe started the doping regiment –and after meeting his dad on several occasions I could see Zack being bottle fed the steroids just after he was born because he wasn’t suckling hard enough, but at the time Zack had been the first velociraptor to the kill and made sure that everyone knew it –by picking on those who were deemed the weaker of the herd.   I don’t really understand those who profess loudly and repeatedly of being a proud heterosexual but take the time to check out the groin region of the naked guy standing next to them in the locker, but then again I don’t understand why restaurants advertize “home style cooking” – if I wanted to eat something that I could make at home, I would save myself the forty or fifty dollar bill and cook it myself. If I am treating myself to a meal out, I want it to taste like a meal that nothing like what I make.  Aaron took the ribbing with a half smile and a quiet “heh heh, good one” response for a good three months, then one day out of the blue, he stripped and low and behold he had become Sasquatch man! With a smirk and puffed chest he walked through the crowd of half dressed grade eighters into the shower and stood beside the showering Zack.  Zack looked down at the seemingly incredible onslaught of Aaron’s puberty for the slightest of moments and…began to sneeze uncontrollably. At the time, none of other boys knew it but from what I’ve heard over the years it would widen to a different, more vulgar use of the word, but Mr. Manly Man Zack was allergic to pussy…cats, that is.  Aaron’s family pet was a long black with slashes of white haired tabby – and one has to wonder if any of us had perhaps been a hint more investigative of the new Aaron would have questioned him on why the new Aaron used a straight iron down there or it was natural or whether or not he had some genetic fast aging disease, or thirdly, as Aaron would tearfully confess, why would anyone take the time to super glue cat hair to his pelvic area and think that (a) it would fool anyone to thinking that puberty was a ravenous beast that attacked him in the dead of night, and (b) if one was going to go through the trouble of gluing hair down there, why not take those extra minutes to discard the white hairs?

(5) Loosely translated as “slick as shit”

(6) Of insanity…or marriage…or fatherhood; all three are sort of interchangeable.

(7) I use the term whisper very loosely.  The scream of a Chihuahua caught in the mating ritual of a bull African elephant would be drowned out by the boy’s definition of a whisper.  The boy thinks that his mother is a witch (or some variation that sounds similar, the boy while being loud, also tends mumble) because he doesn’t get away with anything but the reality is that she could be at the neighbors two doors down, with all the windows closed in both houses and still hear him tell his brothers “Let’s not tell mom about this, ok?”

(8) Catholic education – you have to love it – they’ll bring in a guest speaker from the Pregnancy Care center about the dangers of teenage pregnancy but do not provide any information on the different methods of deterring teenage pregnancy to the point where I am sure they are attempting to replicate an entire generation into believing that a sudden spike in birth rates in a few years will be the result of divine conception and not the hormonal typhoons that rage against a teenager’s (male and female – there is no illusion here that women do not think about this sort of thing) groin.

There’s no I in Team…(And To No Surprise) Or Servant

Voided to null of opine in sought duo’d sample;
Gagged lest the other be over thine heard
As proclaim’d a succeed of cooperative example
(As WE with silenced “e” is basked in consolidated WORD).
Do hold fast in public’d boast crested with belied align
Yet if yours be crowed as destiny;
Tis but only within a singular design
As it be but us in the death of the me
-for if only the one perspect is to be allowed
Deemed as the true
Be I castrated in censure to beggar unproud –
More the more this tether I rue


Our “learned” who art’h in Heaven’s bless
Hollowed with trite be they in their domain –
Thy kine aback drooling to drown in the inane
As one without independent thought in soul
As less begets the less
Of expect in goal –
Inflate thine import none but thyself can discern;
To propagate the wiles of technology’s ease
As it gnaws to disintegrate reliance on one’s own learn
As doth the passage of an undiagnosed cancerous disease
Purge? Be devill’d!
Tis the Call to espouse faddish “fact” with benediction
Though naught but theory marbled with masked fiction
In field of play unleveled
Tis a revert to the ages of the dark
By illumination banal’d in learned helplessness’ spark.


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