The 9.6 million followers who tune in to watch Miranda Kerr having her hair done on Instagram — for this is how models spend most of their time — were treated to a rather more interesting sight last Thursday: a black and white photograph of a whacking great diamond ring.

Across it was the caption “Marry me!” and a twee animation of the tech mogul Evan Spiegel on bended knee. Underneath Kerr had typed “I said yes!!!” and an explosion of heart emojis.

A spokesman for Spiegel, founder of the Snapchat mobile app, who is 26 to Kerr’s 33 and worth $US 2.1 billion to her $US 42.5 million , revealed “they are very happy”.

At first, the marriage seems an unlikely combination: a man so bright he founded Snapchat while still at Stanford University, becoming one of the world’s youngest self-made billionaires by 22, and a Victoria’s Secret model who was previously married to the Pirates of the Caribbean star Orlando Bloom (she allegedly had a fling with pop brat Justin Bieber, leading Bloom to punch Beebs in a posh Ibiza restaurant).

Perhaps the union indicates that there is more to Kerr than we thought. More likely, it reveals something about Spiegel — and the way the social status of “geeks” has changed.

Since Steve Jobs made computers cool and Millennials started living online, nerds are king. Even coding is **** enough for the model Karlie Kloss, singer will.i.am and actor Ashton Kutcher to learn it. Silicon Valley has become the new Hollywood, as moguls and social media barons take over from film stars and sportsmen not just on rich lists, but as alpha men.

Being a co-founder of a company is this decade’s equivalent to being a rock star or a chef. And, if their attractiveness to models and actresses proves anything, then being a Twag — tech wife or girlfriend — is a “thing”. Sources tell me Twags are also known as “founder-hounders” because they like to date the creators of start-up companies.

Actress Talulah Riley was an early adopter. She started dating the PayPal founder Elon Musk in 2008. Riley, then fresh from starring in the St Trinian’s film, met Musk in London’s Whisky Mist nightclub after he had delivered a lecture at the Royal Aeronautical Society. I interviewed her shortly afterwards and she told me they had spent the evening talking about “quantum physics”. A month later they were engaged. Their on-again-off-again marriage lasted six years before she filed for divorce again in March. Currently Musk, worth an estimated $US 12.7 billion and focused on Tesla cars, is said to be “spending a lot of time” with Johnny Depp’s estranged wife, Amber Heard.

Model Lily Cole dated the Twitter founder Jack Dorsey in 2013. Later she had a son with Kwame Ferreira, founder of the digital innovation agency Kwamecorp. Actress Emma Watson is going out with William Knight, an “adventurer” who has an incredibly boringly sounding job as a senior manager at Medallia, a software company. Allison Williams, Marnie in the HBO television show Girls, is married to Ricky Van Veen, co-founder of College Humor website.

Could it be that these women are onto something? Dating a bro certainly has its appeal. They are innovative: how else would they invent apps that deliver cheese toasties or match singles based on their haircuts? They are risk-takers who must be charismatic enough to inspire investors and attract crowd-funding. They may not be gym-fit, but they are mathletes who can do your tax bill. They are animal lovers: every start-up is dog friendly. And they are fun: who would not want to date somebody with a ball pool in their office?

There is a saying about dating in Silicon Valley: the odds are good but the goods are odd. Nerds are notorious for peculiar chat-up lines and normcore clothes. Still, if geeks can be awkward, that is part of their charm. Keira Knightley, complaining that Silicon Valley was all men in hoodies and Crocs, described how one gave her his card, saying she should get in touch if she wanted to see a spaceship.

One Vogue writer recalled a Silicon Valley man messaging her via a dating app, in which he noted: “In 50 per cent of your photos you’re holding an iPhone. It may interest you to find out that I invented the iPhone. More accurately I was an engineer on the original iPhone . . .”

Most promisingly, some guys are astoundingly rich. It is suggested Kerr’s engagement ring is a 2.5-carat diamond worth around dollars 55,000. She has already moved into Spiegel’s dollars 12m LA pad. Between his money and her Victoria’s Secrets bridesmaids, no wonder sources claim they are planning an “extravagant wedding”.

It might rival even the Napster founder Sean Parker’s $US10m performance-art bash. He married songwriter Alexandra Lenas in a canopy among Big Sur’s redwoods decorated to look like an enchanted forest. Some 350 guests wore Tolkienesque costumes created by The Lord of the Rings costume designer Ngila Dickson. They sat on white fur rugs and were given bunnies to pet. Presumably rabbit babysitters were on hand when the disco started.

If such fantasies inspire you to become a Twag, the great news is you do not have to be a supermodel to be in with a chance. Such is the dearth of single women in Silicon Valley that one dating site, Dating Ring, crowdfunded a plane to fly single women to Palo Alto from New York.

Be warned, though: guys are single because they are married to the job.

No wonder most meet their partners at college or work — the Facebook chief executive Mark Zuckerberg met his wife, Priscilla Chan, at Harvard.

The Instagram co-founder Kevin Systrom met girlfriend Nicole Schuetz at Stanford. Melinda met Bill Gates when, in 1987, they sat next to each other at an Expo trade-fair dinner. “He was funnier than I expected him to be,” she said.

Kerr began dating Spiegel in 2014 after meeting him at a Louis Vuitton dinner in New York. You can bet he was networking. Shortly after Louis Vuitton showcased their cruise collection in a Snapchat story. Last season Snapchat went on to become the biggest new name at NY fashion week.

If you want to meet tech guys, you might catch them at Silicon Valley parties, which is how the Uber chief executive Travis Kalanick met his partner, Gabi Holzwarth, a violinist hired to play. Or they might be schmoozing clients downtown in a swanky Noe Valley club in San Francisco or a boring Union Square hotel in New York. In London you find them around Old Street, aka Silicon Roundabout, in bars, at hackathons, or start-up meet-ups. In the day they are coding at Google Campus or practising their pitching in a co-working space.

Some tech boys date the old-fashioned way: on Tinder. Airbnb founder Brian Chesky met his girlfriend of three years, Elissa Patel, through the app. When I interviewed Instagram co-founder Systrom he admitted that when he had been single he had signed up.

Dating agency Linx — presumably a play on operating system Linux — is dedicated to making Silicon Valley matches. Amy Andersen set it up in 2003 after moving to Palo Alto and being “flabbergasted” by the number of eligible men. She claims her clients are “extremely dynamic and successful individuals’’: tech founders, tech chief executives, financier founding partners of large institutions and “tons of entrepreneurs”.

Andersen says tech guys make “fabulous partners”. Romantic and chivalrous, they write love letters, plan dates, “even proposing on Snapchat!” If you want to marry a tech billionaire, she says, “you need to bring your A game.” Her clients look “for women who are equally, if not more, dynamic and interesting than he is!”

There are drawbacks to dating tech guys. Before Google buys your amore’s business, he will be living on *** Noodles waiting for the next round of funding — and workaholics are dull.

Kerr says Spiegel is “25, but he acts like he’s 50. He’s not out partying. He goes to work in Venice [Beach], he comes home. We don’t go out. We’d rather be at home and have dinner, go to bed early.” Which might suit Kerr, but is not my idea of a fun.

You had also better be prepared to share your life. When Priscilla Chan miscarried three times, Mark Zuckerberg wrote about it on Facebook, while Chesky used a romantic trip with his girlfriend to promote Airbnb - uploading a picture of her in bed, with a note saying “f* hotels”. Besides all of which is the notorious issue of Silicon Valley sexism.

It has a chief exec-bro culture that puts pick-up artist/comedian Dapper Laughs to shame. Ninety per cent of women working in the Valley say they have witnessed sexist behaviour, 60 per cent have experienced unwanted ****** advances at work, two thirds of them from their boss. Whitney Wolfe, a co-founder of Tinder, took Justin Mateen to court for ****** harassment. Her lawsuit against the company alleged that Mateen, her former partner, sent text messages calling her a “*****”.

Spiegel has tech bro form. He apologised after emails from his days at Stanford emerged: missives about stripper poles, getting black-out drunk, shooting lasers at “fat chicks”, and promising to “roll a blunt for whoever sees the most **** tonight (Sunday)”. After one fraternity Hawaiian luau party, he signed off emails “f*bitchesgetleid”.

No wonder some women are not inspired to become Twags. Especially when you could be a tech billionaire yourself. Would you not rather be Sheryl Sandberg, chief operating officer of Facebook, than married to the boss?Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

Part 1 At the Saint’s Book Store (Singapore, 1970)


when I was just 15
and just after
a trip to the National Library
I saw a slim volume
at the Saint’s Book Store
(named after a TV series
and true to the borrowed name,
a second-hand book store)
and its spine said: Kama Sutra


Now that’s a title
they don’t have at the National library,
I mused
and I took it down off the shelf
and stood, agape -
transported to Ancient India
by the very seductive picture
on the cover page;
didn’t make me feel like a saint at all


but my reader’s instinct
got the better of me
and so I opened the book
in which the Introduction
ran boringly longer
than the main meat of the text
and so I went on to
Vatsyayana’s
own enigmatic words


This I must have-
I said to myself,
after only five pages of Vatsyayana
and the sticker label on the
used book replied: $2.50
I bought the book
and walked home
and had no lunch that day






Part 2 ***** Science


What are you reading?
asked little Somu,
a year younger than I was


It’s a Science book,
I said, turning away from him

If it’s a Science book,
the little rascal said,
why are you hiding it behind
another science book?


Mind your own business,
I said,
Hardly taking my eyes
off Vatsyayana’s classic


I’ll mind my own
if you tell me what it is;
otherwise dad
will come to know of it-
and you won’t be able to tell
him to mind his own business


Oh! I said, angry and afraid,
and I threw down my books
(the cover book and the hidden book).
You’re too young for such things.


But he looked at me
as only a dangerous blackmailer can
and I yielded to his request -
I would summarize aloud each chapter
for him as I finished reading each
(That’s the trouble when
fate throws you in
with siblings who don’t read)



And day in and day out
over the next few weeks
I summarized the Kama Sutra –
no, I don’t think I summarized,
I extemporized,
I added details, I confess –
for the benefit of non-reading Somu
that silly pumpkin of a brother
who didn’t understand a word of what I said!






Part 3: Weird History



That night as we lay
on our mats on the floor
Somu asked me:
You know…I was thinking.…
ever since you provided
your summary of the Kama Sutra
delivered in such melodramatic actor’s voice…
I’ve been wondering….Do you think Dad knows
the Kama Sutra?



Oh, I said immediately.
How would
dad know
about the Kama Sutra?
It’s been banned In India
since the middle ages.
He only knows
Hare Rama, Hare Rama…
Now, maybe it’d do you good
to repeat the mantra 100 times
and go to sleep…
You might end up in Vaikunta.


And then insomniac Somu said:
What’s that book you were reading
this afternoon
covered behind your
school History Text Book?


Oh God! Nothing escapes the eyes
of this sibling who came a year after me;
and I had to make an honest reply
or he’d pursue me to the ends of the earth:
Oh, it’s another book
I found at the Saint’s Book Store;
it’s called The Perfumed Garden;
it’s in Arabic and you won’t understand a word;
you can read it when you’re fifty
because that’s how long it’ll take me to translate the work


Somu, the silly sibling ever,
sat up on his mat and looked at me suspiciously:
When did you learn Arabic?
You can’t even read Tamil properly,
you monolingual Indian!



And irritated, I said:
Oh shut up and sleep…
Don’t you go digging into what I do.
I learn all sorts of things in my own time –
and you’re best, little brother,
to stick to Hare Rama, Hare Rama
Or Hara Hara, Siva Siva…




And for that,
the traitor of a brother told all our school mates
I was reading ***** Science
and weird History!







Part 4: The Puritans Come Home



What is a young boy
just turned fifteen,
said the outraged visitor to my father
doing with a copy of Kama Sutra?
And he pointed his bony finger
at me, sitting with my brother Somu
and his thirteen-year-old son Kittu;
we kids sat on the floor
and the dignified adults
sat elevated on the sofa

And he continued:
So, tell me,
what is a young boy like
that doing with erotica?
Is this the time for him?
This is the time for him to study
his textbooks and do his homework.
And the outraged father
pointed his finger at my sheepish father
and he continued:
Your son goes to the same school as my son –
and I’m afraid he’ll be a bad influence.
At History lessons and Literature class,
my son reports,
your boy asked the teachers why
they don’t teach Kama Sutra.
This is outrageous and crazy!



My father looked at me
but couldn’t see my eyes
thanks to my state-welfare
horn-rimmed glasses
and he said to the outraged visitor:
I don’t know…
He reads all sorts of stuff…
He discovers all these books
at the National Library
and bookshops…
He’s read Gandhi’s biography…
and now it appears
he’s discovered Kama Sutra…
Should we really stop him?



The uncertain father slumped in the sofa;
but the outraged father jumped up
dragged his son Kittu to the door
and he turned around and said:
You call these discoveries?
Get him to stick his nose
in his school textbooks!
He will come to no good!
He will bring you shame!
You call these discoveries?
I’m not coming here anymore –
and turning to his son
he said:
Don’t ever talk to that boy;
don’t you ever be near him!

And off they went,
Outraged Father and Trembling Son
into Dusty History.





Conclusion


My father and I looked at each other;
not a word was said –
and he is not here today
for a translation of what I write here now


As for my little brother
that traitor who had told Kittu,
I took both books
The Kama Sutra and The Perfumed Garden
and hit him smack on his head:
and he has remained
stunted physically and mentally ever since








Postscript



What’s that thick book,
said Somu two weeks later,
on the shelf?

That’s Origin of Species
by someone called Charles Darwin,
I said.

Is it one of those ***** books?
he asked.

I think so, I said. I heard some religions
have it blacklisted
so it must be *****.

And what’s that one beside it?

That’s Shakespeare, I said. Complete Works.

Is it another of your ***** books?
said Somu.



Well, I said to this juvenile sibling
just a year younger than I.
There must be many ***** parts in the volume…
You can never escape dirt…it’s all part of life.

I love the way you stare at me blankly from behind your coffee.
You take slow, painstaking sips...
It suggests exciting ***.
I love the way you sensuously lick your lips,
every time you put the cup down.
I love the way you're not flirting with me.  
I love that you tell me your **** looks amazing in those leggings.

I know.  

I love the way you say my name-
distantly,
boringly,
disinterestedly.
Your mind a million miles away, on another man-
You tell me how nice his **** is.
I smirk and tell you I'm glad that we're friends.


You're a special kind of torture.

All through science she has thought about him, scribbling his name on the palm of her hand, doodling his name on the inside cover of her exercise book. The teacher rattles on about chemicals, about combinations, of numbers, but Christina isn't listening, she's gazing out the window at the sports field over the way, there where she and Benedict go some lunch times if it's fine and she's not stuck in the girls playground watching other girls play at skip rope or other childish games or chatter. The weather looks fine, the sky blue, clouds sparse. Good. Be out there. He will be there, too. Miss him when he's not about. A piece of chalk whizzes by her head and the teacher calls her  name and to concentrate and not daydream. She turns to the front and picks up her pen and takes down the writing on the board. The teacher scowls, eyes like hawk's. She saw him at morning break in passing by the tuck shop. He gazed at her. Sent tingles through her. Watched until he was out of sight. She scribbles in the exercise book, writes down the script on the board. Last night she dreamed of him. Had his photo under her pillow. Her head inches away from him. She pretended he had come to her room at midnight(the parents were downstairs still) and stood by the door looking at her. She told him to come closer and he came and sat on her bed. Seemed so real. Mere inches away. Hand near mine, pretended to touch. The teacher talks on boringly, she writes faster. The other kids seem to focus, make effort, look up, write down. At breakfast her mother was in a mood. Dark mood day. Moaned about state of my bedroom. Clothes everywhere, she said, books, paper, I won't have it. Christina puts down her pen. Inky fingers, pen leaks. ****. She wipes on a tissue, rubs away. Still stained. The other day she held Benedict's hand palm upward and read his lines. Wanted to see how many children he'd have or his wife. Couldn't decide. Wasn't sure. She liked his hand in hers, his fingers, the smoothness, the skin on skin thing. They kissed briefly, other kids were watching, making silly sounds, comments. She thinks her twin brother says things about her to their mother, not out of spite or telltale, but innocently in chatter over the dinner table or by way of idle talk. Her mother invited Benedict to lunch one school day. Studied him, questioned him. One of her black mood days. She managed to take him to her room for a few moments while her mother was out and showed him her bed and her doll collection and such and kissed quickly until they heard her mother's return. The lesson will soon be over. She cannot wait. Bored titless. She closes her exercise book and puts the cap on her pen and stares at the teacher as she finishes her talk. Her big brother has books under his bed. She saw one the other week while looking for his record player to borrow. Magazines of naked women. Piles stacked neatly. She removed one and opened the pages. She stopped at a page where a woman was kneeling dog like. A man was there ,too. She blushed, closed the magazine, shoved it back under the bed and went out of the room and to her own room. What the hell was that all about? She tried to push it from her mind. Her big brother had touched her in her room and she said nothing. The magazines were still there, she supposes, watching the teacher answer questions of those who were interested or pretended they were to get in the teacher's good books.  Hands rose in the air by those with questions of science. Christina ponders a question:  why do some women kneel dog like? She doesn't ask. Imagines the teacher's face, giggles from other kids. Best not to. The biology teacher was best to ask. But he will probably blush. So would she. She wishes time would fly. The sky is still blue. Clouds drift lazily. Her big brother lifted her skirt under the dinning room table and touched her leg. She said nothing, but stiffened, he smiled. Mother moaned about my untidy room, the ***** clothes under the bed, put in the wash basket, she went on. A bell rings from the passage, lesson over, thank God, she thinks, shoving her books in her bag. She goes to the washroom and enters a cubicle. The fingers are still ink stained. Benedict's name is written small there on her palm. She kisses her palm. She remembers the first time she saw him. He was new to the school, came just before Christmas. He stood in the assembly hall in a year above hers. His sister was in her class. They talked about him. She introduced him to her one lunch time on the sports field. They talked shyly, sat near, didn't touch, uneasy the first time. She left the cubicle, washed her hands, scrubbed her fingers with the white soap. Cleaner, still slightly stained. Try again later. She leaves the wash room and goes along the passage  hoping to see him. Crowds of kids pass by. A boy and girl by the gym door smooch, his hand on her thigh, her hand on his neck. But no Benedict. She stares about her. No. Not about. She moves towards the next lesson, maths, double, time passes, boring, wants to see him. The bell rings, next lesson, his sister walks beside her, not him, o if it was him, if only.  The passageway is dull, her life seems dim.

North cornered near the glass ain't gonna' last
Cause the money is running out
It's running out fast
Nickel and dimed' burning money burning pride
With the liquor stores all closing and mother mary praying whispering
"Sarah, sarah, sarah..."
No names in these streets empty touched' defeat
The meat is getting angrier surlier burlier
The heat is getting heavier breathier and touchier
Blankets burn in the Connecticut sun mother mouths something
But I can't make it out
With these posters on these white walls falling for their own droll
Committed to the picnic that is not life at all
Putrid in these notes that sail through the air never fail
With the heart that once was held
By a women that I thought I'd take the time to know
But then the winds came with the side ways rain
All that pain that I couldn't bare or understand to stay
There was the window washing maniacs pinching pennies
Letting go of their soul for another side dish and entree of dough
Ploughing through their TV screens which falls through their skin like
Love used to do but in the blue hue there was nothing
They could bear to do
Bear man breaks open the skin flecked electro heart machine
Shocking every last one of us past the point of divinity
Already through the heart and mind and limb of man
Into the skin and the blood and the beating eye lids
Of a brother I never had, that man named CID
Jesus named me no name so I wander wherever my feet may carry
Never had no religion only long lesions through the seasons
Cut wound bleed break breakfast dinner bird
There was a glint in the sun
The way she gripped and held Her sword
Graining through pages of past history *******
Seeing visions of kaleidoscope faker ***** with their blisters
Gripping their panoramic sisters
Beauty in the eye of the hair that twists
In the mid-west chilling winds of the whisp
Forests burning boringly gripping the last hope of
Mother murdering herself just to stay alive
In a stride of elegance tides of benevolence
Roaring rewind curb side b-lines
And a mix-tape that spins and spins and spins
But plays nothing
No nothing
At all

before they made it public
they created the technology
to create living puppets
producing a tapestry of thoughts
manifesting
through the filter
of authentic bodies
and minds

their enchanting color of
implemented poison

they had two versions of the site
one the true one and one the public one

the true one was
showing the nature of a mind
in a spherical wireframe
3-d
projected space

that could make the motives
of a mind truly observable
using this hi-tech breakthrough
(hi-tech for their time only
i.e  their hi-techness is still
bound to time)
to/by/for those
word loving
businesspeople
and hired scientists
and hired technologists
and hired creatives
and hired psychics
and hired you name a profession I will say yes es  
of their time
working for them
for an almost literally ground breaking technology

a time bound technology that showed them an observable truth of the visualized data
a design driven and poached from the participants’ ingenious minds

the public version on the other hand
looked naively innocent
with an amateurish design
using a ready to go script
presenting an acceptable ‘good site’
based on personal motives
of hard working profiles
of young idealist sisters and bros
you know
like teddies pathetically hugging each other all the time

in reality though
snail shells were being used to implement
new poisons for the game
on unshelled ones
poisson as is French
would be prettier term
to describe
an honest organic fish farm
but alas

yet in reality that hugging was distant jutting

to purposefully run a game that entertained
pockets of those who had it boringly full only
to spend it for their own fun
but which they vowed as
for the salvation of their Utopian land made of the
illusion of their materialistic psyche same as their popcorns
which  continually justified as they  repeatedly asserted
these well learned set of words
on communal and cyclic ceremonies

oh my!
stealing intellects as such!
for the game!
game also runs in a closed circuit just
so no one can see it
they have all passed the Turing test
for the game
cool right
and it works

so who on earth could judge its’ ethics
once a reflection of their own minds
even unknowingly the game admins
once falling in love
with unshelled ones
may turn to the unshelled ones
like the prince falling for a Lorelei
they were warned continually
and then still some
willingly stayed so
in love
and disappeared in the game
loosing their body

well whatever
there is a place though
don’t believe me because I say there is
go find it yourself

from that place
the headquarters of this game
is nudely visible
with all of its partaking pawns
because it remains too low a place in the universe

yes there is a mountain higher
where lives
the inhabitants of the residence of the destroyer
who are a little bit bored by now and since some time already
and so the destroyer -they think- may as well decide to
wipe it off - hiring a well fit dragon that can gobble it all in one go
so that dragon excretion may benefit a famine of sorts in the universe
eating that kinda stuff
****  yeack  ARG hhhh
(or Namaste!)
:)

All these whinging intellectual poetic wankers,
scribbling Conditional Love "poems"that boringly
lament why they are such obvious  failures
at the game of life and self realisation.
Spewing out weasel words of poetic hypocracy while
wrapped in navel gazing infantile emotions.
Writing degenerate untruthful words about a love
they'll never know or never have known,
as if unconditional love can be bought
at the local Walmart.
Voluntarily assisting the machinations of mind and groupmind,
since their birth into a lifetime of Conditioned Identity,
in the servitude of the Amerikan Oligarchy .
Strings of meaningless associated words,
lines of lies about life and love that are ever popular with "poets".
Starting with every one of the so-called "holy" books
from millennia past--calling for suicide bombers
and child killers to strut the world stage
spewing  religious racism and sexism like enlightened beings..
After all words have NO SHAME
nor have poets..
Sin Verguensa.
Words have NO GUILT
nor have poets.
Words have NO EMBARASSMENT
nor have poets.
You cannot hide  behind your lies from me.
I see you--I have nous.
Your beard is transparent.
Your unceasing lies deny to others information
to which they are entitled,
"poets" are the worst LIARS of all,
so easily spottable .
Read these pages--see for yourself,
through my eyes .
See the silly ****-fed children of the Amerikan Oligarchy,
wrapped in spangles and colours --posturing like super-heroes.
Vomiting verbal diahorea in lifes gutters,
appealing for just one more chance
to play at love and humiliation.
People with low IQs and lower morals
pretending ,as always, to be mature and human,
characters moulded like products of talk show hosts .
No integrity.
No truthfulness.
No honour.
No decency.
No morals except those learned from Readers Digest.
No to these escapees from the gallows of decency,
torture instruments dangling round their necks,
their prophet validated by being nailed and denied.

Let us leave for foreign places
Away from this city of boringly beautiful faces

For ash filled cobbled stone streets
Fields of blooded roses and golden wheat

Castles cemented in antiquity
Crumbling walls of barren cities

Abandoned cathedrals of a bygone era
Smoke filled bordello backrooms with mirrors smudged by mascara

Let us leave before the hours turn late
And I have wasted my life awaiting fate

But I grow old
And warm dreams turn cold

How stunning you look tonight
How badly I want to tell you these words I write

i frankly just needed to get this out.
this is one hell of a long thing
not really poetry,
not really a diary,
maybe some sort of life
maybe a letter.
perhaps one last crazy word out
to be read by anyone
or no one
or everyone
that matters.

...

more of a wanton drunken rambling like my old works
but i guess they were a little bit more
interesting
if i had to be my own worst critic
i guess i feel i've been denying the fact
that most happiness isn't the most interesting

do i remember what was back then?
of course i do
the most interesting things were boredom
and ruin
and toil and fury
the most interesting things then were the worst
and the worst person was the most interesting

and i met the world with my eyes lensed with two bronze bottle caps
and she was a soldier who fought the silent wars
and sang the mornings after

i sang out words of disgust towards the words i was foreign to and denied the privilege of being lectured boringly about
**** your love, **** your happy family and **** your tolerance towards different people
i am nobody and none of the things you do impresses me
i was nothing and I was beginning to suspect i had to live with it

and you had to hear it
god, you did hear it
when it came the time i knew enough words to decorate the world i threw my spit and **** out in rage
i think i felt that it felt nice
or that it felt different
and that was somewhat better than what people were supposed to hear
yes, i know life is ****
it'll still be ****, wouldn't it?
your ****** smile won't do you anything

and i saw you sit quietly on the corner
waiting for me to quiet down

and i remember
vividly remember
saying to you
i'm not a good poet
i'm rude and vicious and disgusting
and i remember saying before i passed
i wanted it to stop.

...

somewhere between a good morning hangover blue and a worldwide health crisis i ate my first batch of useless pills
and it took a good one year just for me to wake up and feel on my bones
god, this feels awful
and my hair is fading
and my skin has blotches of red all over
and im incredibly bored

i don't think i'm dead yet
i must have thought
i could still curse god and some other religions and maybe the government or maybe even that guy next door who keeps singing to his kid
hell, i could probably still go out and drink and feel that high again
i'm not dead, i could get high again
i don't think I'll die anytime soon but i think i gotta live with being a corpse from now
i don't think you know how great my life is considering how awful of a body i am now
I've got more poems to shout to you
and a lot more to shout
and a lot more to shout
and a lot more...

and i realised
i was shouting
i realized i was hurting
it hurt my head first
then it hurt my entire life
and soon the only thing happening was realising
and hurting
and realising
and i realised
i wasn't just hurting
i was at some point
pain itself

and no happy memory came without that searing pain spilling hallucinations at it like glitter from a fire extinguisher
none of the days started making sense for me to remember them at all
and none of my boyhood years seemed to matter at all
hell, all the glitter made it seem like they never existed
or that they were somewhat the well made delusions of a well made lunatic

but i remember once
you came to me
and i almost wanted to scream to you to close the ******* door
but i remember once
i had a thought that day
that i liked seeing you
still there

and i think i remembered the past too, of course
i think we all enjoyed the ****** times with ****** things
but you stepped through that door wearing gladness on your smile
alongside the pity of your eyes
you came through that door and saw me
as if you saw someone worth seeing
or someone who at all
had a life

and do i remember who i was back then?
god, barely at all
or barely
since i had wanted to forget
but i knew i told you
when you held me as i was hemorrhaging from the pain of a lifetime
yes
i wanted it to stop

...

a month after that we paid for some very expensive injectable normal

and i told you how much my life was getting better as it was getting more dull

for the first time in a while i liked water
and solid food
and open windows
and barely detectable ambient noise
and life?
i didn't know so i sneaked out to find out

you didn't hear from me for three days and i didn't have to hear from anyone about me or anything about me
and i was a stranger for once and not a ghoul

and when i came back i had to wash my face because my eyes burned a little
and i had to wash off the three days of dust that clung and wafered off what must be two years of non-being

and i don't think i remember what were the first this and and's that started a mentality of rambunctious pointless yammering about stones and rivers and seas
and leaves that glow emerald after the rain
and skies over parking lots tattered like beautiful paintings
and guitars and synthesizers
and unloved things
and unloved things
and unloved..

i think for a moment then i realised i was an unloved thing
the man who was foreign and disgusted by the world
and reviled by it
was just unloved, and..
life is ****, i knew it always was
or has it always been?
i swear it was loving before
or somehow...

and another delectably painful injection
and dangerously large amounts of significantly more effective pills
and i started feeling the warmth of..
well i knew the words for them,
Neruda knew some, and even Buk.
warmth is the sun, and the morning
and your old ***** cat sleeping on your pillow
and warmth is a person
and the world, somewhat well distanced enough to be warm enough and cold enough for life
which was
warm..

and the air was nice
alongside the dying river
as the rotted trees decorated the dying world
in a moment i knew i loved it the same way i would have loved to have always seen it
or perhaps seen it when it was most alive

and do i remember who i was back then
and i do
and i did
and i...

was a ghoul.
a well fed one
a well read one
but still with an accursed mind
ruined by the death process and healing method
i was an addict.
i was a freak.
i was a broken thing
i was entirely sure i was permanently broken

and i knew the moment i started to love
for when i did love
i clung to it
every love i felt and every love i gave i cast and behold to everything in the world that felt like new and felt like poetry
and i loved you like i loved the leaves of the sunset trees
and i loved you like i loved the raindrops doomed to be forgotten
and i loved you like...

and i was addicted to love.

when it was ripped apart from me damp and cruelly i winced in pain like the first few months of a cold turkey stop

and in that moment it felt like none of the work to get better was going to matter

i started to become a loving thing.
but a sick one at that
a recovering alcoholic at that
a ****** or a bipolar or an autistic or i don't know
for a moment i was a loving ghoul
and when it did end
as all things felt in the first times would
i felt once again

an unloved thing.

and i came to you and i had still the energetic wanton drunken list of words and questions that all asked the same thing
i have loved you, life
and i had hated you
and i was starting to tell everyone
that hate didn't have as much of a life as love
and still
i am in pain
i am in shambles
i am disfigured
why is life ****?
i was planning on not letting it be anymore-
why couldn't you?

...


on a warm day after the coldest of monsoons i sat on the forest road
where i stop to sit and pray to my only faith and my first comfort-
the wind that felt like peace and calm over a world that turned so hard and complicated

i closed my asked and in defeat i said
i love you, and i had
but i want it to stop.

...

i had work that morning and i couldn't see you
and i had friends planning a gig and i was planning on throwing my energy into it
and i had family coming over that demanded the best from me
and no one knew i started trying my best for once

i was still drinking the pills,
dreading the pain,
but watching for the sunsets and perhaps the last comforting winds before the ocean currents suffer a stroke

and i was starting to decide what my favourite color was
what my favourite clothes would be
how to describe my favourite music
how to help the ones around me
understand enough of how i liked happiness
and..

well i guess life was normal
but on those few months i wasn't entirely sure
it was as if i came out of a burning building
onto the next house on the block

and i didn't have the time to find out if this really was what normal meant
if ordinary was ordinary
and if the sorrows and fear were ordinary
or if they were as abnormal as they were before
i learned the new normals of the new people
and i couldn't help thinking
well, i remember that
and i remember that
and i'm pretty sure it made me a lunatic
and sorry but as long as you're with me we're gonna try to fix that sleep schedule
and we're going to eat properly but still satisfyingly
and we can just sit in silence knowing the sadness
but you could still see on my face how i believe in you
hell, i know life is **** but i'm pretty sure you're not.

and i couldn't help being worried
i don't think they could tell who i was from what i looked
that somewhat apparently,
everyone started turning into a ghoul of what they once were
at some point

thinking about it now i thought all of you looked lovely
and i hoped you were fine with what i looked
because i don't think i have enough new stem cells to look healthy anymore anyways

and where was i...?
oh i had a job
and friends
and a boring existence
and...
wait, am i back to the start,
or did the past exist,
or am i doing this right,
or am i somehow
alive...?

it's the same thing, is it?
or some new thing
or a sheep in wolf's discount clothing
or life has taken a new form
or
or

and i realised the one thing that made me who i was
and seemed to fit as an answer to every event that i couldn't warrant a question to
was the same thing asked by everyone
as an afterthought, or a ruinous dilemma-
what is this life?
i am so torn and confused and tired and what is this life?

i know the alcoholism didn't answer it
i know suffering didn't answer it
i'm pretty sure religion and the government and the baby crying next door was close to an answer but nowhere near properly useful enough to keep us satisfied-
i died and lived again reborn with well medicated eyes to see the pretty things from the avant garde form of this impossible physical world
and yet i knew that still didn't answer it
and love
god, love
love didn't answer it
and i had a big investment on that thing
and everything was normal again
but love didn't answer it
and love couldn't answer
and even my mad insane love-
love
love
live
life-

and love.
i saw you sitting on your cold floor believing you were cursed
i saw you play the greatest note ever beamed and still believe you'll be no one
i felt the wind i worshipped sing alongside you on the song you learned in a few minutes
i held on my hand my admiration of you and my worry of you while you were telling the story of how your family did nothing
but become the very capitalism they weren't lectured boringly enough about

love,
i saw your sadness once more
love,
i see your tears have gotten you lost
love,
i saw you almost die
love,
I started loving you
and you started to live
and i started to live
and everything
everything
will die
yes,
and i am still
addicted
but i know you made me not care enough about death
if it meant that love was real..

love,
you loved me and i loved you
it hurts me now to see you suffer
as i did
in your different life the same cold floor
the same empty garage
the same burning tears
love
i saw you start doubting who you are
love,
i held your hand.

hello, poetry
i must admit
i haven't been making good poems.
you gave me so many lives to live in that i was never a single poet.
my word turned cheaply strong,
cheaply sappy,
cheaply simple-
yes, i have started thinking
that poetry could never properly describe the absolute mess we're in
not just mine-
mine never got good enough to be a constant axiom of itself anyways-
a happy man wrote about war.
a sad man wrote about the cirrus clouds.
a lonely girl wrote about the best wedding,
the one i loved wrote of her fear of pain-
no, poetry does not make us a single poet
if anything, it just showed me how much of a sucker i am for love
no, our complicated existence never meant we were liars or idealists
yes, i wonder about your lives sometimes.
life is ****, and i understand what you wrote,
god, aren't we all tired...

i miss you, always.
i looked at you and saw life itself
i held your hand and held my tears
knowing what life did to one of it's loves.
you are not an unloved thing and i know because i never was
because how could someone like me
who was like me
be allowed to be cursed with the blessing of a normal life
a redemption in disguise
a chance to live and choose what he loved and be allowed to love everything-
i know it could be because life is a funny little ****,
and god is a bundle of fiber optic cables and yes and no's and just a nanometer of a "sure, you can have both."
and fear hurt love before
and love fears once more,
and you are not an unloved thing because i love you-

because i love you..
what is life? i don't know.
i tried finding out, and ended up almost dead.
i tried living it, and almost died.
i tried loving it, and realised it couldn't love itself the way i couldn't love myself.
what is life?
what is life?
what is...

...

i realized i am alive.

i quit my job, drank once more, talked a little quieter but talked a lot more.
i read and read and god ******* **** that headache can ruin a life and where the **** is my cigarette?

i tried not loving anything for a second. it was alright.

i tried being a barker for a few days. surprisingly fun.

i tried walking a little faster. i could still see the trees.

i tried forgetting you. i failed.

i remember why. i dreaded losing memories. even the memory of pain.

i tried ***** once again. i could probably hold my liquor better than these guys.

i am trying to live. i know i will die.

i am quite certain that i'm alive and well right now.

and after months of living and trying and being, after knowing every normal and every abnormal, i was ready for that dreaded AP test-

i tried to love you again, life. i missed you dearly.

i felt your sadness, and your happiness, and then braced for the confusion-

and i love you still.

and when the last question came, when i faced myself with the same last question as i have always faced...

i failed. i couldn't stop. i don't think i will anytime soon.

right now i guess i have a good answer.

what is life?
I don't know.
I tried living it to find out and ended up still alive.
I have known it simply, and casually, and in complicated ways.
I have hated it, fought it, hid from it.
I have loved it. I still do. Maybe later I could tell you why.

but what is it?
maybe it's us
or just you
or just me
don't let that get to your head though. share the sunset.

i have decided to not bother with that question.
don't bother with that question.
i love you.
i'm glad you're alive.

...

i realised i could still frown
and sigh
and cry.
i realised that all that I've earned was never sanity or mental acuity or happiness.
i realised i'm just a person.
i realised i'm confusing to read.
i realised most of us are.

...

today i ate two pieces of ham and drank nothing but water
i started to quit smoking a few days ago and i think I'll be fine.
i think of her and it makes me wince for a second, followed by a smile that takes a while to wipe.
i think of all the stuff i will be talking about with my friends.
i think of the ache on my picking hand and the callus on my fretting hand.

it's a normal day.
it's a hard life.

i think briefly on my previous thoughts and realize
man, did my mind go through the worst.
when i wasn't a person, I'm pretty certain most people saw me as an unhinged jaw. idk

i think of what i wrote today.
one last ramble.
briefly, i think about hiding my other poems for the time being.
hello, and sorry, poetry. honestly I'm kind of confused as to what poems i want out right now.

i think of all the confusing days i had, and all the hard times, and all the times i grieved because of me and the hard times.

me from the past was an unloved thing. you're gone now, but i can still love you. i'm sorry i'm a bit late.

i think of the life i left behind. i think of the world that remained and stayed alive with me.

i do not consider myself a born again, or a miracle. life is still **** and I'm in a minimum wage job right now.

but i am alive and living right now

i am alive and living right now

i am alive and living right now

...

and to love, and to life.
aren't we all quite tired.
but i am proud of you,
glad for you,
hope you forgive me.

and i will suffer this weird little thing with you
and i will care for you as you have tried for me
and i will listen to your complicated world, your ineffable grace, the silence thereafter.
look, i'm quite tired as well
but the sun is rising...

.. .....

He’s only just sat down
in the cafe when she enters
and stands at the counter

waiting to be served. He lets
his latte settle. Allows his
eyes to scrutinize. The waitress

serves the woman in the white
hat and black dress. He notes
her fine figure, the low cut at

the neck, the thin straps over
shoulders. He tries to breathe
in from where he sits her perfume,

but it doesn’t come. The woman
orders an espresso and says it
with an Italian accent. He follows

her with his eyes as she walks
to a table alone. She looks like a
girl Modigliani would have painted.

She looks at her watch and then
around the room of the cafe.
She crosses her legs, one over

the other, thigh revealed. He sips
his latte. Wipes his lips with the
back of his hand. Bad habit, mother

would have slapped his hand as a
child once. The waitress delivers
the woman’s coffee; he notes the

waitress’s fine behind, the hands
serving, the legs touching together.
Then she's gone. Just the woman

in the white hat to study. The way
she lifts the small white cup to her
mouth, her fingers holding delicately,

as if afraid to break. Get a life Brody
would say if he were there. But he’s not;
he’s away with that girl from the office,

having a lay. The woman in the hat
stares at him, her eyes devour, her lips
part like legs before ***. She looks boringly

away. He sips more latte. He doesn’t like
her white hat or black dress anyway.

Perspectives are bells,
Clanging and clashing,
They ring with different tones
Like those people that yell.

Some people have silver bells,
Those tinkling, happy bells.
Others have grand, golden bells,
All majestic and grateful.

However, some have brass bells,
They shriek at everything in sight.
More boringly, those with iron bells,
Who don't give a crap to anything in sight.

So after reading this,
Don't pick up iron or brass bells.
Get golden, or even silver
bells, as they make the world
Feel a lot better.

Your face is asymetrical in a way that makes me love nature.
Your voice is light and charming.
Full of care, sensitivity, and fun.
It tells me not to tell you again.

When you smile, I know you're tired of hearing.
Maybe you're not as happy as you could be,
But you're content enough where you are.
The sympathy in your eyes says that you remember.

Keep it to yourself. I know, I know, I know.
Don't remind me. Don't keep hurting yourself.
Move on. Please. It'll never be you.
Yes: when you sip your tea, I hear you think.

I bite my tongue.
I'll be quiet. I'll keep it light and unimportant.
I don't need to tell you how badly I care for you.
It would only be selfishness, and you feel guilty enough.

So instead of writing loveletters,
I devise the most boringly cliche poems.
And when I find your photo, the fantasies fill my head.
And at the end, I stare up at you from the water.
And I can't breathe.

The siren.
Inviting,
Promising.
Ensuring happiness.
Guaranteeing joy.
Not until she traps you do you wish escape.
Not from what she promised, but from the pain she brought you.
But you've made a home for yourself here.
You've gotten comfortable in the habits she's given you.
But every time she comes to visit, something in your gut screams at you to escape.
No, literally. Your gut. Your stomach. Your intestines.
Your entire body becomes exhausted from chasing her promises.
Now, you've forgotten who you were before she trapped you.
You try and try for what feels like years to escape.
And finally you succeed.
You've successfully escaped the place you call home.
After time and time of being lured back to home, I've come to learn this sirens name.
She is what she does to people. To me.
Forces me to control what I eat.
Makes me second guess myself.
Track everything I eat and drink.
Make me guilty for eating something she doesn't like.
I won't bore you with more boringly grim details, just know,
She has sisters.
Please, don't make the mistake of trusting their promises.

My quill is, simply put, – a magic tool:
It plays on winds and rhymes, on evening-mornings,
On sonnets and sonatas, never boringly;
The summer-winters, sunny moons fulfill its orders,
This verse – a pass to stars and heavens, too…

A pass to feel the spirit of adventure;
Into the theatre of storms and passions, dreams –
Where you’re the playwright and the actor, you’re free
To breathe the air of rhymes and beauty, reel
And hear a voice so young, enthralling, ancient…

My quill knows no choice, except to win –
It’s blessed by Shakespeare, Puskhin, many others;
And long ago, in ancient Greece, or maybe farther –
Apollo told me: “We are destined yet to father
A magic tome of futures, so whimsical…

And so we cooked the nectar: chords of lyre,
And Aphrodite’s smiling, thrilling eyes,
Some truthful flattery and magic in disguise –
It had no equal – healthy! – no lies.
The stars fell down for luck, the drink – so clear.

Each master and each maestro came to see –
From all the centuries and lands, and all the nations.
The wizard Merlin worked his fanciful equations,
And Cicero would speak – to melt the glaciers.
Became my palette – Earth, and skies, and seas…

Each poet, philosopher, composer, pretty muse
All nymphs and heroes, and grandmasters who came,
Inspired the drink with their talents, skills and aims,
So rose art to heights of starry fame,
And Mr. Orpheus and Lennon sang their music.

My quill has no choice, except to win:
It holds the kiss and smile of every beauty,
It lives those dreams of other artists – futile
And never made to be by their music;
To carry forth and make them true was their will.

What is this nectar? – All the legends, all the whims
And genius of masters through the ages.
We dipped my soul and quill – I dare wager
That after drinking such a mead, there’s no danger:
My pages will withstand the harshest winds.

And so they kissed the poet and the quill
To bid me luck through all the future ventures –
These charming dames of all the legends, ages;
My heart was calm but quick; serene, but raging
Before creating Universes-quilts…

My quill, it shines with festive lights and stars,
It writes and rhymes with spirit – joyful, ringing.
So what if someone angers, spouts, cringes?
So? – Winter rages when the spring is springing.
I am afraid we’re in the future – speed of flight.

So, drink the rhymes and verses, breathe the scent.
The planet spins anew, without the mires;
The violets will bloom, to be admired,
And tales are true – of mermaids, love and fire.
So go on and read, my message sent!

Now Earth will spin a little quicker, calmer,
Our world will turn a legend, true and rhyming,
Where bombs will hardly soar – only gryphons,
Where marriages and fruit will ever ripen
And never rot, where dreams are bound to come.

My quill has no choice, except to win.
It’s young and old, instant and eternal,
It’s flippant, ethical, and magical, and ornery.
Remember? – Blessed by every artist’s orders.
It’s meant to father worlds, and so will…

*******. I really love having them,
I have no trouble raving about them
And have categorized them accordingly.
Just a few have ever affected me boringly.
But mostly they were those I did alone.
Still I managed to get into the right zone,
Later, if I didn’t like the outcome of the game
I really only had nobody but myself to blame.

But it is always better when there are two
Then some cuddling and kissing when through
And if there seems more we want to do
We can start it up all over again, anew.
Of course if an ****** is the entire focus
We may not prefer a repeat with the both of us.
Still, it's possibly good to strongly suggest
A another college try turns out the best.

Who can deny that great feeling one has
When the activity changes from waltz to jazz
And two people manage to forget everything
And let the muscles and the juices sing;
Take our minds gratefully to another place
A blissful, mindless, animal kind of space,
Appreciation of what it means to be a beast
And be glad for that moment then, at least.

Those who tell the young kids to beware
And do their well-meaning best to scare
The young from being what they really are
Are following a teaching that is bizarre
When it tells you some crap about god
Thinking *** is something sick and odd.
People should get on with what they need.
The Puritans were wrong, so pay no heed.

I’d rather be wonderfully wicked
And frightfully fascinating
Than be piously perfect
And dreadfully dull

I could be reliably righteous
And boringly bland
But why? when I’m daringly devious
And curiously captivating

To be goodly godly
Or delightfully devilish
How about moaning monotony
To my sensuous ****?

Never curiously kind
Without poorly plain
Always sweetly sinister
And always attractive

To be good, one must
Want to be good

But why be good
When you can be bad?

Just so you know, this is really long.... like reallllyyy long :)
Found this while going through some old word docs on my computer. I took my HP Words Used in order and made them into a poem....

Just like day  
life will know  
that time will  
make eyes  
at a heart  
Love will depart
night has left  
Gone away  
You want to  
face a world  
inside words  
I think  
in the end  
head is sorry  
to say  
the hand really  
tried little  
to look pretty  
beneath a soul  
Body is not right  
skin is brittle  
breath is long  
thought is lost  
in a cold way  
touch will lay  
in the light home  
lips cause pain  
he's callous  
in his hold  
Try to be open  
perfect is gone  
I wanted, hated trying  
to still feet at the bed  
Sure, you asked  
with a smile and hope  
going beyond
all things death  
dark voice  
tears live inside
a red place  
darkness makes things
small  
sitting doesn't  
mean walk  
My wish is just waiting  
for a kiss to hide  
easy dreams feel  
it’s been years  
since my friend  
became my man  
I got tired of lying  
You came to the floor  
rain was happy to sit  
but it took to the ground  
and hell has hands that
held sleep longer  
than it took to fall  
a song, perchance?  
We pretend to dance  
for hours before the door  
will be ready to close  
The start of the old sun days  
standing gentle, saw hurt  
today, in the mirrored glass  
she's ready to tell  
the blood moon  
mind the lie  
thinking on a broken  sigh  
Even if the door  
looked broken  
it wasn't  
I won't waste minutes  
to stand outside  
I matter enough  
to leave
on a high  
looking free  
Beyond a black moment  
set in stone  
is the dream from long ago  
indeed, all it will need  
is a girl to slowly remember  
the past  
Leaves that are dead  
are hard to beat  
I knew, I felt  
at the table  
I was naked  
but with a good morning  
talk was easy to stay  
I rest on yesterday  
and wonder turned  
and makes me question
If goodbye takes reason  
I hear it does  
Soft hate in arms  
that blind the eye  
drink from the earth  
for fear comes  
to make me forget  
I sleep beneath a sky  
deep in coming memories  
the word of the new  
silky hair and sharp fingers  
don’t care to fly in the breeze  
far from being beautiful  
it sat boringly  
saying ok  
bring me to the baby  
as tiny antidotes
goes to play  
white in the snow,
Wrong is a thing of beauty  
that would not ask for wings  
Don’t miss the woman  
tomorrow where a line  
is crossed and being afraid  
half I died when dirt  
skidded beneath the car  
understand the bare turn  
are just thoughts and guess  
best is the taste
of a single truth
Die for your god  
the fact can be
different  
It sits I believe  
and is best seen  
on a more secular path  
Sweet entreaties stop  
your simple time in space  
caught softly as you walked  
I whisper to your integrity  
in the middle I remain  
demons  cut   oh  
It’s worth leaving  
without an answer  
Gently emotion  
rounds the corner  
step into my headspace  
it knows , It’s tried  
sad that it died so young  
Street hugs the silence  
silently lies are whispered  
Never a mistake  
been left so hungry  
10w fight against the walls  
I gave eyes to watch  
No question, no touch
Warm people are real  
sound and emotions  
are holding friends true  
begin where the door closed  
an angel on the phone  
choice is not in the looks  
rainbow glitter is spent  
on children at the edge  
of a gaze, their scream  
is big, asking to sing  
angry at snow sheets  
bent listening for escape  
You've wondered  
you couldn't tell  
we've all been listening  
you'll spend seconds  
maybe hot  
wanting forever  
to run from Hell
Room for better hearts
pure agony  
for those that fell  
Able fingertips glow  
heartbeats listen  
and actually loved  
piece of blue mystery*
Precious lullaby of Love  
yes we cry bleeding  
into an ocean of wind  
I was told you stopped  
to stare  
watching all laid bare
while outside roses  
ancient but never picked  
found sin  
in a riot of colour  
You noticed, janet  
what's her name
was a 10  
Lies sense used words
that break bone  
make you wait  
staring accusingly  
but continue needs  
are watched next to the river  
breakfast was bad  
Times lets us all think
everything is fine  
stars burn, decided reality  
is warmth with a mate  
pick one from the universe  
Memory sits beneath a tree  
second to understanding
mist curls in breeze
bright and tight  
the image in the mirror  
walks with eyes closed  
and watches with ears instead  
Crack is bound to break
a road  
captured and cracked  
My dear  
I claim  
I waited  
seven miles away  
Your date with gabriel  
was met with silent curse  
Tonight was fun  
I mouth in anger  
Kisses from the pocket  
breathe laughter  
I just feed apart  
from the burning lonely cry
I heard form short  
of being born  
strong lives taken  
shed simply  
dropped to knees  
trapped in lot  
of empty heat  
Early I ran  
in a body that holds scars  
point at my pants
dry pockets frown  
Quietly over coffee  
summer fed a knife  
with a grace  
that never cared  
if sisters weep  

19/12/2013

Why is it that
the foliage of the trees,
with their multi-faceted
shapes
and multi-coloured
hues,
that mask my bedroom windows
from the doubtless uninterested gaze
of neighbours,
endure for eight months of the year
and are absent for four,
and yet those eight fleet by
while the following four
persist so boringly long?

Is there a parallel
with my own life?
Each day is boringly long,
and yet
the preceding eighty-six years
seem to have vanished in
the blinking of an eye.
And those past boring days
seem also to have
disappeared
without a ripple to disturb
the historical calendar
that preceded them.

Just so you know, this is really long.... like reallllyyy long :)
Found this while going through some old word docs on my computer. I took my HP Words Used in order and made them into a poem....*

Just like day  
life will know  
that time will  
make eyes  
at a heart  
Love will depart
night has left  
Gone away  
You want to  
face a world  
inside words  
I think  
in the end  
head is sorry  
to say  
the hand really  
tried little  
to look pretty  
beneath a soul  
Body is not right  
skin is brittle  
breath is long  
thought is lost  
in a cold way  
touch will lay  
in the light home  
lips cause pain  
he's callous  
in his hold  
Try to be open  
perfect is gone  
I wanted, hated trying  
to still feet at the bed  
Sure, you asked  
with a smile and hope  
going beyond
all things death  
dark voice  
tears live inside
a red place  
darkness makes things
small  
sitting doesn't  
mean walk  
My wish is just waiting  
for a kiss to hide  
easy dreams feel  
it’s been years  
since my friend  
became my man  
I got tired of lying  
You came to the floor  
rain was happy to sit  
but it took to the ground  
and hell has hands that
held sleep longer  
than it took to fall  
a song, perchance?  
We pretend to dance  
for hours before the door  
will be ready to close  
The start of the old sun days  
standing gentle, saw hurt  
today, in the mirrored glass  
she's ready to tell  
the blood moon  
mind the lie  
thinking on a broken  sigh  
Even if the door  
looked broken  
it wasn't  
I won't waste minutes  
to stand outside  
I matter enough  
to leave
on a high  
looking free  
Beyond a black moment  
set in stone  
is the dream from long ago  
indeed, all it will need  
is a girl to slowly remember  
the past  
Leaves that are dead  
are hard to beat  
I knew, I felt  
at the table  
I was naked  
but with a good morning  
talk was easy to stay  
I rest on yesterday  
and wonder turned  
and makes me question
If goodbye takes reason  
I hear it does  
Soft hate in arms  
that blind the eye  
drink from the earth  
for fear comes  
to make me forget  
I sleep beneath a sky  
deep in coming memories  
the word of the new  
silky hair and sharp fingers  
don’t care to fly in the breeze  
far from being beautiful  
it sat boringly  
saying ok  
bring me to the baby  
as tiny antidotes
goes to play  
white in the snow,
Wrong is a thing of beauty  
that would not ask for wings  
Don’t miss the woman  
tomorrow where a line  
is crossed and being afraid  
half I died when dirt  
skidded beneath the car  
understand the bare turn  
are just thoughts and guess  
best is the taste
of a single truth
Die for your god  
the fact can be
different  
It sits I believe  
and is best seen  
on a more secular path  
Sweet entreaties stop  
your simple time in space  
caught softly as you walked  
I whisper to your integrity  
in the middle I remain  
demons  cut   oh  
It’s worth leaving  
without an answer  
Gently emotion  
rounds the corner  
step into my headspace  
it knows , It’s tried  
sad that it died so young  
Street hugs the silence  
silently lies are whispered  
Never a mistake  
been left so hungry  
10w fight against the walls  
I gave eyes to watch  
No question, no touch
Warm people are real  
sound and emotions  
are holding friends true  
begin where the door closed  
an angel on the phone  
choice is not in the looks  
rainbow glitter is spent  
on children at the edge  
of a gaze, their scream  
is big, asking to sing  
angry at snow sheets  
bent listening for escape  
You've wondered  
you couldn't tell  
we've all been listening  
you'll spend seconds  
maybe hot  
wanting forever  
to run from Hell
Room for better hearts
pure agony  
for those that fell  
Able fingertips glow  
heartbeats listen  
and actually loved  
piece of blue mystery
Precious lullaby of Love  
yes we cry bleeding  
into an ocean of wind  
I was told you stopped  
to stare  
watching all laid bare
while outside roses  
ancient but never picked  
found sin  
in a riot of colour  
You noticed, janet  
what's her name
was a 10  
Lies sense used words
that break bone  
make you wait  
staring accusingly  
but continue needs  
are watched next to the river  
breakfast was bad  
Times lets us all think
everything is fine  
stars burn, decided reality  
is warmth with a mate  
pick one from the universe  
Memory sits beneath a tree  
second to understanding
mist curls in breeze
bright and tight  
the image in the mirror  
walks with eyes closed  
and watches with ears instead  
Crack is bound to break
a road  
captured and cracked  
My dear  
I claim  
I waited  
seven miles away  
Your date with gabriel  
was met with silent curse  
Tonight was fun  
I mouth in anger  
Kisses from the pocket  
breathe laughter  
I just feed apart  
from the burning lonely cry
I heard form short  
of being born  
strong lives taken  
shed simply  
dropped to knees  
trapped in lot  
of empty heat  
Early I ran  
in a body that holds scars  
point at my pants
dry pockets frown  
Quietly over coffee  
summer fed a knife  
with a grace  
that never cared  
if sisters weep  

19/12/2013

it's just that, you have a fine evening drinking
beer, watching cats and foxes,
and the frenzy of foxes on a monday night,
and these bin-bags,
  scattered once finely bound...
      it only begins with an aphorism,
and states: you ought to throw stone...
       thaat it would be safe enough to do such a thing...
you want to throw it, you're actually one
of the "herd",
  and how it will all make sense,
if you do throw the stone...
and join the riots...
     it would make sense,
it would actually make a lot of sense,
but, frankly, it doesn't...
             father crux, mind my son dangling
son... lo! behold! we're in business...
   how god chose the tribe of jews
and how jesus made judaism pop,
and how pop-judaism paid back a status of
pop culture, created a pop culture,
and was like huh? donning sunglasses...
and how it ended jn ash... and enforced cremation...
and Auschwitz holidays...
  yeah, sure, i'm the sick one...
who hold account of holocaust deniers
when i live in the 21st century with
existential deniers, that cat food tinned
speaks more to your, ******* *******?!
you want to vox? i'll vox... i'll ******* vox
the **** out of you,
i'll give you plums for eyes and human
rights for children you'll never, ever, have!
isn't that what we do, pretend to
eavesdrop on people?
pretend they don't exist, and if they do
they are involved in ghost media of fictions
and writing books for profit?
i just read heidegger's aphorism no. 195
and i just, think, of throwig stones...
  gladness be, a memory, that i share
with nobody...
   it's easier to abuse drinking...
i'm waiting for the blood skull and bits
to make testament...
   i think that if you get struck my lightning and die...
you won the lottery...
aphorism 195 is all about the will,
throwing, or scalping,
     something that is into: which is:
that conjunction word muddle,
beginning with that, and supposedly ending
with ergo...
           what moses felt,
and if ever: held account to have a heart...
just about as apathetic in tone
as an english-woman can be...
                 i heard prostitutes talk sweeter
things in my life...
      prostitutes... bulgar women,
ukranian women...
            british women talked the talk,
walked the walk...
   and then it was all or nothing...
that i am, a boor predicting a reality...
              but i can't help giving grace
to numbers, that they somehow have to be
coerced...
  of man, thus said, to complicate
the matters further...
   aphorism 195 is nothing but the modern
case of otherwise not throwing stones
at authority... a fortiori through Christianity...
i just look at it and see:
a bunch of kids throwing stones,
how's that going to work,
where's a justification of an "argument"?
it's that demand for Greece,
ancient, and so boringly quasi-kleptomaniac
in keeping it, and the yellow-brick road...
i already said a-, before saying
a priori; i meant to say: a-h (hence the hyphen
and a subsequent loss of ha),
so a beginning without a beginning...
like i will also state with a fortiori...
and i will also say: from a strength to a weakness...
or some would say: as foretold...
   it seems the strong are weaker than the weak...
just like the original case of aristocracy,
you need healthy people to rummage,
to make things work, and you need
a sickness at the top,
you always will provide the sick to rule the strong,
that's how humanity works, the sick rule
the strong... because the sick can
and the strong are ladden with a guilty plea of
stating empathy... it's just plain sad,
since they didn't encourage us waiting in line
to meet the guillotine... so who's who's Stockholm
syndrome bargain? the times i met death,
i'm surprised i didn't write a harry potter novel!
it's breaking my heart, and its almost numbing
my *****... i will recover having read
heidegger's aphorism 195 from ponderings ii - vi...
but it will take a while...
   it's going to be as hard as an actual
break-up... but i'll manage...
   real break-ups attract too many
bothersome gnats, known as fiction writers
and i don't won't these...
those ugly ******* can disperse and earn their money
and never return; or in Hindustan
as parasites, their worthy form to be repeated
and immersed in; guess what?
my **** is tickling, how about you **** it?
******.
and yes, punctuation is a different sort of
arithmetic... it's scenery, it's danish,
it's not custard thought, more of a mood setting,
but then again, the english,
bankers of the world; they don't really get
not needing to sell a twig,
when they can't appreciate a carpenter's effort
in having made a front-door...
   pragmatism doesn't really leave you
all sparkles like it's new year's eve... does it?
  neither does 1 + 1 = 2,
  or                 wait... nope, it isn't you.
language per se is no basis for being equipped with
a dichotomy to mathematics...
      rhetoric or rubric, it doesn't matter,
you spend so much time, complicating
the mathematical pucntuation marks,
that you leave actual punctuation marks to ducks,
that gobble them, as niave as they are,
glutton on mushy-pond-soaked-bread
as you do reminding us that politics is real...
    + is as complex as a comma...
                 hyphen is more than mere minus...
it's apparently called acting...
but you know, being a "poet" you sort of realise
you're not giving "adequate" prompt...
if ever, that's what the 20th century existentialists
did, they tried to reinvent punctuation,
to give punctuation the status of arithmetic...
after all... **** acting on stage gets a cabbage thrown
at it, yes? the times when theatre was no merely
and solely applause, when people threw rotten
fruit and veg and those emotional scumbags with
the audacity to fake it.

"Its just a room."
She scribbles her secrets on the walls  
And piles up her whinings on the floor

"Its off limits."
But somehow he always finds a way in
Every **** time

"Nothing much to see here."
But he doesn't leave
No matter how boringly stuffed it gets

"Its not even real."
But with the two of them in there
It feels more real than reality itself.

I can't stop writing, maybe I shouldn't
I hope the words won't cease to flow
Many thoughts spilling out in an endless flood
Maybe this is the real Noah's arc
Perhaps the flood was god never ending words and the animals were Noah's feelings he wanted to keep concealed in the arc of his mind
Perhaps like god my words are water and are cleansing
After I spill what I need to maybe I'll be fresh, reborn
I never did read the bible though
Church sermons made me feel boringly proper

I find myself wishing for your lips touched with the scent of honey and anise - flavored with sweet citrus and worn laugh-lines. There are times when I feel snow settle across my cheeks that I remember how it felt when I gripped your thigh and let each finger slide and tumble across your skin. It seemed tender and soft, but never in my life have I felt so desperate. Your lips gliding down my neck, following my arteries that seemed to wrap and wind like the smoky smell of cinnamon. Eyes closed, but all seeing, even without sight we found our way along one another's topography. Your wrist ice and cool slate. Your back red and weeping, bruised red and purple like stone-fruit. I still find myself brushing off the trails left by your quivering fingertips as they slid down my sides, your chin resting across my shoulder and your leg intertwined with mine. Sheets scattered and spread like drops splattered by rain-boots in fresh puddles. Heart beating like the flutter of an eyelash being blown by a finger-tip wish. Blood pumping like shady sunlight scraping across a tiled back porch, snapping against arched feet hoping to reach cool, summer grass - freshly cut.

I find myself wishing for these moments, yet the call of phones ringing and the gargle of co-workers commenting on the boringly interesting, coupled by coffee breaks and water-cooler talk. It brings me back to where I am now. Post-it notes and paperclip reality.

I believe happiness lives in Blood.
Whether our own, or that of others is the question.
I remember when I first realized it;
You were the reason I was unhappy.
The shattered vase recognizing the hammer that destroyed it.
The broken heart spotting the surgeon who haphazardly carved it from its home.

I remember realizing that my happiness was stolen and by none other than you,
And that if I wanted to be happy once again, I had to free my happiness from your blood.
But what's the fun in ******, when it's so easily accomplished?

I decided to destroy you.
To make you regret being born just as I had;
To make you taste the saltiness of your own sweat and tears
As you sat in a pile of ash you once called your beloved and cherished sanctuary
Was my idea of "salvation".

I dismantled you, and your family's life.
I disrupted the dismal peace you all so boringly accepted as your lives
And by stirring the waters, I brought out the worst in all.
The pestilence grew within your home
And quickly leaped from your family
Onto mine.

Suddenly, the plan backfired.
You steered into the chasm of life that I spent years mapping,
And all I had to do was whisper in your ear and sew doubt into your skull.

And yet,
This backfire;
This single moment of social dissonance,
Reshaped the earth we both stood on.
The dark corners I once knew became twisted and corrupt copies.
My mind became a new place to explore and learn about.

I just wish the last image to bless my genesis
Had been of you
Swinging gracefully, and peacefully
From your neck.

am i boring or boringly cliche in the things i find exciting

tired..
.......
..
...
breathe, they say
"breathe"
"just breathe"
'breathe'........
...
what if i can't?
what if there's something in my throat that blocks the air
what if it's a growth that takes over the voice box
and sinks its roots and organs into the cores of speech
or what if it's a chunk of metal that weighs on my flesh
the mucus coating the tube of pathway making the lump sink further
and further
into my stomach, eventually
and the mercury that melts into the acids shores
foams and coats everything inside
everything
what if that poison infects everything?
i think it already has.

there, the period
you were waiting for it, weren't you?
there were questions, but questions lead to answers
and don't really end
and there were ellipsis but those suggest thought
a period of waiting
waiting for something
the period, a single dot
is so definite
somehow
one dot can stop us all
stop all thought, all words
one
little
dot.
...
it makes no sense.

digression
it happens a lot
especially when trying to focus
focus on the thing that it is
that we want to get out and deal with
but we don't want to
no, we don't
we like to hide our things
because things become real when they're said out loud
maybe if we don't speak
if we talk about something else
the thing won't be real
and we can pretend everything is okay
and i speak of this concept
because i don't wish to speak
about the thing that is
not yet
i must
but i don't
right now, it isn't real
but it is.
it is real.

i have a thought
that anything that can be thought is real
it exists
because it exists in our minds
our minds are a space in another dimension
a pocket dimension
and there, the things exist
even if they don't exist in this shared dimension on earth
in our minds, it exists
so god exists
( and no i will not capitalize his name
he is just like everyone else
we were made out of his image, so he is just like us
who all love to judge each other in the name of god
or ala
or whoever
even though the point of religion is that it is not our place to judge
or we will go to hell
but no one listens, and everyone equates themselves to god
because they judge in his place
despite his teachings
or her, god could be her
him or her, doesn't matter
he is the only one to judge
and yet
we all judge
so i will equate us to god, since you all do anyway
i'm just more blunt )
god exists, because we think him up
we think up other things too, and they all exist
the voices in the head of a ****** exist
in their pocket dimension
those voices that haunt and taunt
and command and demand
yes, they exist
not in your pocket dimension, but in their's
and so does god.
not in your pocket dimension, but in another's
he does.
in mine? maybe
maybe
i'm undecided
if he does, he's not all he's chalked up to be
for i have prayed to him
i prayed very hard
and because he loves all his children i'm sure he heard the pleas of a blubbering child
i prayed so hard to god to fix my mom
and my mom broke even more
so i wondered if he was real
because god would surely do a good thing and fix my mom
unless she was beyond repair and out of his reach
so either he is not there
or he is, and his power is not very great
unless you all think he just didn't care?
maybe he didn't.

i believe in the spirit.

the thing, is a thing
we all know
we all know it, we all feel it
it is a thing and it is hard to say
because no one likes admitting they need help
really and truly
no one likes to think they're ****** up,
no one likes to admit it
no one likes any of that
but
no one can fathom knowing they're ****** up.
it ***** them up even more
and they panic
we panic
i panic
because we're supposed to have it all together
we're supposed to be just fine
and accomplished
we have to do all these things and be so perfect
not actually perfect but perfectly content
perfectly balanced, perfectly normal
do we even know what normal is anymore?
is normal being boringly complacent?
or is normal being ****** up?
i think it's a bit of both, and i hate it
i would never, have never, will never
never
want to be normal
because i hate boring
and complacent
and quiet
i hate it all
i need to speak to people
i need my voice to be heard
so if there's a growth in there i'm ripping it out
i know i could get a surgeon to remove it but
i hate help
i hate this
and i hate you
but i need it
we all need it
we hate it, but we need it
like we need to shower
we hate the idea of stripping down naked
seeing our ugly bodies with all that fat and all the moles and all the hair and the wrinkles and the blemishes and the crusts that dry up like dry skin and flake off
we hate staring at ourselves so bare and raw
and we hate getting the water going and waiting for the right temperature of water
only to step under the stream and still be dissatisfied by how lukewarm the water is
so we turn it up
and only when we're scalding and cooking from the inside out like some insignificant slab of food
being prepared only to be **** out later
a temporary purpose
only then do we enjoy the actual shower
only then do we enjoy the help
and the talking
and the ranting
when we're burning
and feeling
and letting it all go
standing there and accepting everything
whether it feels good or bad, we enjoy it
it's a burning hug of comfort
and we never want to leave
but we have to
and when we do, we don't want to go back
we put it off, we avoid
we do what we can to pretend we don't need the cooking, scalding, burning water again
even though we need it.

in the shower the rest of the world is gone
i find
it's like nothing else exists
but i imagine someone is with me
this is how i know i suffer.
i hate my body
my naked, ugly body
i have never liked it
and i don't want others to see it, ever
so when i stand there in the shower
scalding and burning
and i imagine someone is with me
i imagine and desire someone to see me in all my bare ugliness
i know i truly suffer
because insecurity is the most powerful dictator in the world
and it commands all actions and decisions
all words spoken
everything must go through our glorious dictator's instated filter
before ever reaching the shared dimension of the world
sometimes it likes to dictate the pocket dimension too
if it's feeling particularly prickish
so when the insecurity is overruled
by a dire need for someone there in front of me at my ugliest
i know i'm far gone
and i'm struggling
and need the help of another who might understand
who might help.

i hate myself.

i love parts of myself
i love that i speak
i love that i approach
i love that i am outgoing
i love that i know how to laugh and mean it
i love that i have great eyes and vision
i love that i will try anything once
i love that i am intellectual
i love that i am witty
i love that i draw people in
i love that i can be admired
i love that i come off confident
i love that i am intimidating
i love that i am good at things i love to do
i love that i am willing to help myself
i love that i hate admitting i need help from others
i love that i am independent
i love that i don't know how to be dependent
but i hate it too.

i love writing.

writing is my everything.
i haven't written in so long, not like this
and perhaps that is why things have gotten so bad
but writing allowed me to wallow
poetry allowed me to wallow in all of the darkness and the tar and the gunk and the oil
that i've tried to dry out and wash away
but i like my gunk
i don't love it, but i like it
this long lost love of mine, and ex-lover that i left in the past
is my most comfortable lover
it knows me, and it loves me too
and i cannot understand why i haven't reached out sooner
i adore poetry
in a way that no one else really understands
along with theatre and music
poetry is my family
my true, loving family
and i have abandoned that family until now
and i have received a warm welcome
a glorious return
to the thing we all know
and to the thing that i know
and as i sit here, writing this
listening to a psychoanalysis of amy lowell
i know this is my help
and i know language is enough
more than enough
these words on this page are a thing we all know
a beauty of a trueness that gives us hope for a better day
not a sunny day, for sunny days are the saddest
at least in the overcast we get a dark hug of a sky trying to reach us
and sometimes it does, when it rains
the sun is just an ******* who likes to brag about its constant brightness
digression
language is my band-aid
my suture
my medicine
my surgery
my herbs and my tea
my bed and my pillow
my scalding shower
you may analyze this
with your structure and your feminism
your deconstruction and your new criticism
the meaning will always be the same.

it is a thing we all know.

If life is like a grand piano,
Make me up a melody
With keys both white and black;
Strike notes that play on heart strings,
With joyful rifts that send me souring,
And broken chords that pull me back.

And if life is like a grand piano,
I'll stand below and watch it sway;
Winched out a tenth story window;
The wire begins to thin and fray.

I want that grand piano of life
To answer gravity's beckoning call,
In all it's cartoon-dramatics;
Let it tip, then let it fall.

I want every high and every low;
I want moonlit passions
And morning coffees;
I want screaming matches
And baby scans;
I want passport stamps
And phone calls home;
I want celebrations
And hospital visits.
I want blood;
I want cuddles in the kitchen;
I want sweat;
I want kisses in the rain;
I want tears;
I want lighting strikes and sunrises;
I want scars, stories and tax returns;
I want lies, love and mortgages;
I want to be scared.
I want broken promises met with ''I'm sorry''s;
I want drunken phone-call serenades at 3am,
And slurred ''I love you''s I only half believe;
I want forehead kisses before driving to work;
I want heartbreak.
I want to say ''I love you'' and mean it.
I want to say ''I hate you'' and mean it.
I want to speak at my bestfriend's wedding and ***** it up;
I want to hold my sister's hand when she gives birth;
I want to watch my brother strum guitar on stage;
And then file for a messy divorce as my children finish school.
I want to grow old and wrinkle in whichever way this path has planned.

When I'm ready for it all,
I want life to be boringly brilliant,
And beautifully broken,
And painfully unplanned.
I want to live this life until I'm full and my bones crack.

So when that straining wire does snap -
Just let that grand piano fall;
I'll stand below and won't move a step,
Because in this life I want it all.

In some point of your life,
Which has been pain of your living.
It can be at any point of your life...

A sudden refresh of all yoursef,
Pops up as a regular coincidence.

Suddenly, all the weight of painful
Memories, thoughts, feelings are gone.
As well as potent satistafaction,
Becomes the field of your experience.

You feel like you are returned to
First home of humans, Garden of Eden.
Even you are looking to the
Boringly plains of detesting
White walls of your home
Or in the middle of the tedious lesson.

You feel like you are in the heaven.
Vast skies of azure,
Vast plains of shamrock.
Or the forest of complex Red pine...

Between the leaves a light ball shines.

It feels like a dream,
But concentration to atmosphere is
So high that it is
More factual than a dream.

Purple azure skies,
Candy red sun sets as a single god,
In rainbow of oranges and yellows.

Or you may be in the space,
Gazing thousands of
Little glittering color
In the vast darkness.

A nearby yellow star shines
As well as reveals thousands of
Spheres in vast colors,
Each of them an infinite heaven
With infinite liveliness.

Than you realize that all pain is gone.
You are refreshed, calm, in pleasure
In the highest forms.

Than you also realize that,
All of these is just a dream.
Imagined stuff being creation of you.

Even you attempt to leave
Beacuse of its fakeness,
You find the hardship in leaving.
Because it is the music
You are dying for hearing it.

Know that it doesn't come form
Your cushiony headphones.

Remember, that's the thing
You are striving for.
The complete well being of
All yourself, all your senses!

But the case is
We have big flows of energy
In our complex pathways of
Neural circuits and spiritual fields,
Avoiding the strenght of good
To hold us in good.

Because we laboured ourselves to
Live painful and weak lives
Just sake of survival.
So our brains are more able to
Suffer than satistfy,
More capable to experience and be
Bad rather than good.

What's avoiding this is the
Unconditional stabilization of
The experience of the good.

Owingly,
Even when the whole world is hellish;
You are the shine of the heaven,
Refreshing heights of elegance, content

Than you ask, how to do this.
I say; become that wholly,
Unconditionally,
Without any negative and bad.

If you still ask the same question,
Follow me! Just follow me!
Continuously, unconditionally!
This is all you need.

As the result, you will feel the
Depths of positive flow of love,
Heights of infinite continuous pleasure,
Taste of sweetest sweet without sweet.
In all of your life, unconditionally.
Even when everything is
Going painfully, badly, wrongly.

I call it the nectar!