what i learned today:

a. when people treat you cruelly,
    turn all your compassion
    that's left in you
    on beings that are more likely
    to understand it,
    those beings we degraded
    our language on by citing
    their tongues of onomatopoeia;
    animals.
    it will make you better off,
    not having a care for giving
    compassion unto fellow man,
    apathy, the sweet porcelain
    dome where children shelter under
    and provide the only basis
    for a like-for-like exercise of compassion.

b. re-felting the roof of the shed with my father,
    today, in the crisp saturday day,
    making cinnamon coffee,
    watching the imaginary leash on my cat
    the ginger punk maine **** quarus
    keeping an eye on us on the shed roof
    will ignite more in me
    than these charcoal mathematically rigid
    imprints on the colour of surrender.
    oh i've surrendered, all the spare time imaginable
    on an activity that wants people
    to bleed, but who can only offer
    ideals and easily falsifiable wants,
   who would march in a battlefield backwards.

c. in the english-speaking world, only two strands
   of books exist to a respectable popularity,
   fiction and autobiography, technically fiction & fiction,
   since all autobiographies do is write a fiction
   for us caught in the present: what life was like,
   what life isn't like back then now, what life
   will never be for us to rekindle it to a suitable
   reminiscence in the future - never a non-fictional
   account of what life is like now, always
   a non-fictional account of what life was like
   back then.

d. back when poetry was sung in the queen's parlour,
     or when she bathed in milk,
     but not when it was missing she took
     to the harrowing beast, the queen bathory
     and bargained against bathing in milk instead in
     ****** blood, when poetry was used as a welcome
     distraction for those with much ado about nothing
     of the leisurely time of crowned spare time,
     when poetry was not supposed to entertain a crowd
     but high eminence it mattered,
     for indeed the philosophical critique is adequate,
     sooner a playwright entertain a crowd
     with weird constrictions on only male-actors
     in tutus and corsets and wigs that a single
     voice, with no actors but shadowy personae in one
     body will entertain a crowd...
     but odd that because poetry lost favour in places
     of high eminence of crowned leisurely time
     deserving poetic narrative spoken than sung
     with the lyre to accompany, when this happened
     the crowd eminence joined the mob, reduced itself
     to full attire and prune gesticulations of tightened
     cheek for show of noble pride, among the rabble,
     it chose the public slaughter of art for the eyes
     to be gauged in the notably sized crowd
     rather than the luxury of a personal space,
     naked, bathed, as the art of poetry is, naked,
     even in terms of paragraphed punctuation,
     nakedness of the technique... to have replaced it
     by fully in corset and jewelled among the rabble,
     watching the weird and wonderful restrictions
     that gave us transvestites... indeed... what eminence,
     amongst the mob.