Despicability is the foundation to their life
For them it is intrinsic
Genetically encoded
Simplistic
Poetically eroded
Reprehensible at best

     Unscrupulously callous
     Secrets and facts, they conveniently
     ingest
     Distorted byproducts, they release to the
     masses
     To aid their campaign; a forked tongue
     fest

Pathetic and unapologetic
A beast armed to the teeth
Imported bypasses to increase the flow of police
A weakness and an act,
They so vehemently attest

     Harvesting greens off the branches of
     the people
     Pockets engorged with wads and folds
     Crushing blue collars at the lower levels
     As they sit atop their pyramids of gold

Today they sip champagne
To celebrate their reign
Tonight we'll skip being humane
To feed them excruciating pain

     You've incited this coup with ill-thought
     deterrents
     Now herald the arrival of the scourge
     Down with lopsided governments
     Tonight... All we would topple! Tonight we purge!

Justin G
ryn

The Unknown Desert
This area has some secrets some are unaware of here is a list first material items black sand apples that contained milk and the same grasses that grows along the coastal highway in California and sea gulls and chipmunks just like those found across the Golden Gate in San Francisco in The great conservationist John Muir’s stand of Redwoods. Then a black desert a jungle a secret pass a tunnel under the railroad right next to the place where it snowed all year round and Miss America undiscovered though.

We will start in order with the black sand this was the purist black crystal regular sand not so much
Ocean beach sand has a lot of powder content this you could scoop up hands full let it do that small
Wonder usually reserved for hour glasses gently cascade out soothing as it escapes whatever had it
Bound not being involved with the Spring Side mine in a professional sense I can only guess but like the
Mighty mountain of slack that stood as a giant discard pile to the mine operation this sand now it comes
To mind it had to be a pulverized cast off type of coal dust. They had a show one time that delved into
The byproducts of coal defiantly not as tasty or wonderus as the finds produced by George Washington Carver
From what he referred to as the lowly Peanut this will lead us into the Black Desert mentioned this was
The far end of the Spring Side mine to the east along the rail road right of way Why an artist never
Painted this I guess as spoken it was unknown Donna even missed it with her camera but it truly was a
Miniature desert with the same vistas but all contained within a quarter mile the long open stretch
Comparable to a large pond bordered at the edges by dunes with these grasses found along the coast I
wonder did someone while traveling harvest some then bring them and transplant them whatever they
Thrived and had the same pleasant effect not only on the eye but the soul it was always filled with the
Quietest hush our smallest land of enchantment Georgia O Keefe would have found it matched the
Dream shapes of New Mexico only thing missing were the flowers and sculls everything else was right
Here in your very own back yard it also was a bird sanctuary and the chipmunks still scurry about on this
Now lost dream land gone just like the native tribes the I lone the Sack, Pawnee, Potawatomie’s and the
Greatest tribe the Kickapoo bet you didn’t know this used to be Black Hawk hunting ground.
The milk apples not too big of a thrill unless your six and you look across the small pasture just out in
Front of homer’s Barn was their house Miss America undiscovered lived there I know beauty she didn’t
Walk around and she wasn’t at black desert but she shimmered just like a desert princess she could have
Been covered in coal dust it wouldn’t have mattered it would have looked liked gold dust if she had an
Native American name it would have been trance maker when she came outside the rest of the world
Stopped all activity except the part of paying her homage she was so humble she killed me if they had
Those portable oxen units back then I most likely would have been dragging one around in one of those
famous little red wagons she left me breathless then like a great devastating storm the news crossed the
Yard and ally she was getting married well what should you do probably not this but this is for everyone
Who has loved a living dream then fate oh blackest fate thy name was Richard comes and steals the
Most precious living one away I just went to say goodbye outside her bedroom window that wasn’t
What the girls that were to make up her wedding party heard a mix between a Irish Banshee and a small
Calf tangled in barb wire in a terrible storm would come close as you can expect someone finally said
What is that the answer the little neighbor boy did she close the window no she sealed my feelings for ever by her action of mercy, I don’t care I passed into the far
Reaches of agonies domain but I looked up from the ground where I was laying soaked in tears there she
Was kneeling beside me these fifty six years I have never laid down this torch that almost consumed
Me that night new tears now join those of long ago she touched my convulsing body and spoke I think
From that carving so deep in my heart when death to innocence was complete the poet in me was born
She even has spoken where does the depth come from don’t you know you looked into the cavernous
Abyss that lost love created I spoke of her in three lost loves and endless rails I told her someday I will
Make her famous I’m still working on that promise the apple with milk was an old green knobby hedge
Apple good descriptor for my heart after leaving her presence that night her earthly name is Eileen I call
Her summer’s night angel.

The pass was the space between the sugar creek creamery and Longwells Pana hotel sorry it was cool to
Cut through there and we lost another young prince when Pat Longwell died he was one of the first to
Color his hair he had the air of a beet nick he just didn’t do the lingo you instantly loved him he was a
True friend he owned the name cool the snow that snowed all year wasn’t cool but it snowed those
White feathers all the way to Wadley’s chicken processing at the end of commercial alley past the
Monument company how apropos for all the chicks that said there final Farwell the tunnel was there too
Under the railroad you walked down through it on stones that kept you out of the small amount of water
That trickled through go in and then pop out on the other side or get the thrill of the train rumbling over
Head. Thats your trip through this unknown hope you enjoyed the trip my only wish is that I could type faster.

It has laid patiently in the recesses of my phone waiting for its day of glory. And 7 months of gestation has finally birthed diligence.
Besides it’s high time I tell this story otherwise I’m just going to (intentionally) forget and never write about it.

   * 11th Feb 2014 - 20th Feb 2014.

This isn’t merely an account of my journey to the beautiful south (my native) but also a personal record of my thoughts during my stay there. If things don’t seem to fit, you’re making the mistake to trying to make sense.

[raw/unedited - start of log]


!) *Getting there: Last night I opened the compartment door to an old man wetting himself with his lungi lying at his feet. Like a busted tap, trickling down his draws, he stood there in a decadent mix of ecstasy and shame.
I held open the door to let him pass.
I can’t say for sure if he saw my disgust seeping from the lines on my face, but I tried my level best to act indifferent. I am good at it.
Incapable of relieving oneself in one’s hour of need? I’d rather be dead. My stupid pride wouldn’t let me live another day.
The next morning we happened to get off closer to our destination than we intended. So did gramps. The stubborn mule, despite his aged regression and insanity wanted to get to the next platform by walking over the tracks. And like a Saturday night drunk he fell and laughed and drooled until he got what he wanted. **** me to hell if I see the day that I walk in those shoes.
There is nothing else I’d hate more.

@) There is where?: Welcome, this is day one. Boredom.
Stuck somewhere in the middle of ignorance and bliss. Con-*******-fused about my place here. It’s slow. Things are slow here. That much I know.

#) Blend: Sleepless smelly nights with the things that should not be. Asleep at last, half past 3. Awake again within 6 hours, no less, to a breakfast late enough to be breaking bad on me. Ants bit me, indigestion ****** me. Noises haunted, I was daunted.
Literally, everything is coconut oil. Last night it felt like a coconut took a crap in my mouth and its byproducts came out my rear end—or did they?

$) Relate: So I have a cousin sister here. Two actually and a handful of brothers too. I finally know something of the other side. I’m strangely liking this. Just knowing is enough it seems. I’m not a good brother.

%) Drift: A dead, calm, quiet night. The silence is almost overwhelming. Even the crickets can’t break through the static. [Sitting under a waxing moon on a lush green lawn surrounded by trees and vibrant silhouettes of the night sky] Such natural beauty freely available without demand. Who wouldn’t be lazy? The mosquitoes.
During the rains, the visual quality of this place reaches heavenly heights. And that should give you a fairly good idea of how stunning this place is the rest of the time. It’s only February.
If I lived here I’d never be the same. Good or bad? I choose not to wonder. But while I’m here, I’m going to soak all that I can in. I suddenly see so many different ways life could go by stepping out of my own comfort zone. It’s Ironic. But then all good wisdom is wasted upon amateur blabber that only soothes the soul momentarily. Nothing profound or earth shattering comes from the realization. Ah, there’s that comfort zone.

^) Halt: I can see why they call Kerala ‘God’s own country’, Because everything stays the same as though that’s how it was meant to be. 40 years or 50, makes no difference. The natural order of things here stays unchanged. It’s the opposite of how Bombay works. You can’t turn a blind eye for two seconds in fear of losing something that won’t alter your life inconsequentially. Yes.
Here, I could leave all my valuables outside the house for a week and no one would even bother. I may have exaggerated but not by much.

&) Eggo: This ‘person’ I’m with is insufferable. Good, great and jolly when HE chooses to be but a first class ******* the rest of the time. Makes me wish I wasn’t born to choke on his arrogance and idiocy. Whoever stuck that tree trunk up his *** must have had reasons I could relate with. This is all the love I can express. It’s hard to admire someone so narrow minded and primitive. I won’t lead, neither will I follow. Ego will meet eggo.

) No excuse: So I can be left at the table alone for as ******* long as it takes for me to finish, but for this man’s tantrums, for the impolicy his *lonely dinner creates (which he prefers, DAILY, back home) I have to oblige and start when he says so, only to have him leave when my plate isn’t even half empty, with a casual, “take your time” mental punch to the back of my head as though there’s nothing wrong with this whole ******* scenario.
Thankfully, all of this was succeeded by a full, beautifully bronze tinted moon floating in a cloudless ocean of sparkling diamonds and weeping crickets still struggling to overpower the silence; failing miserably.
I wouldn’t mind sitting here alone forever but alas, not all things are this easy. And this night will again wilt into day and the sad fight will spoil or be forgotten, conveniently. Eventually you learn, they all fester.

() Sugamano? (how are you?): My bowel movements have yet to reach an agreement with my diet. My cousin is going to teach me Malayalam through mail. Somehow I approve of this despite the several offers that I have declined from my friends in the past. Maybe I’m glad that my family just got bigger. It’s very important that I realize and cherish my ties. Who knows? I might end up being a nobody and moving here when I’m all withered and choked up with regret as a failure in denial.

!)) BAA BAA BOO BOO: My cousin’s kid. He looks a bit like me when I was that age. Wait, he isn’t even of age. He’s freaking 9 months and he’s crawling, rolling, slapping, pulling, strangling, screaming and imitating words people say around him that he can barely pronounce. I want to eat him. He’s cuter than anything I’ve ever seen. He’s gonna be a lady killer if he doesn’t go black (like most mallus do).

!!) Bliss: Classical night sky… Twinkles dance to the grand tune. Fireflies fall like stars, confusing senses to enthrall with exquisite precision. Feel the cosmos swallow thoughts and words as they mean nothing at all. If the sky shifted now, gravity would take a hike. And sooner than it takes for realization to set in, this world would become peaceful again.

!@) Role playing: The elephants are sight seeing on the backs of trucks. Humans are the escorts for these mammoths here. No more show business for these executives. They make sure the men serve as the slaves they own.

!#) Saving memories: I am a man who has forgotten how to smile. Even my tears can throw on a better performance for the mirror that breaks me. I have to force and instant’s glee to burst one out. I cannot hold joy as tightly as I do hatred or sadness. Family photos are the worst. I have to conjure a series of mental comical disasters only to maintain a smile that is fit for a *******. And that is on my best day. Every other day, however, it seems as though I’m constipated.
I spent the most awesome day today with my cousins who I barely knew 5 days ago. Although I haven’t spoken to them freely due to the language barrier it nevertheless feels like home. They’ve been thinking about me all the years we’ve been apart. Now it’s my turn to think about them. And it’s going to take quite a strong blow to the head to erase these wonderful memories I’ve had the pleasure of creating with them in my short stay here.

!$) Reasons: Valappad beach. If there is any place I would love to go to relax, to party, to be lost in thought and marvelous beauty for hours, to ******* OD and die, that would be the place. The beach stretches on forever. Horizon to horizon of clean white sand and foamy water. You could build castles as tall as skyscrapers in this sand. Gorgeous plantations just before on the shore line. Goa fails in comparison. With an enormous sky looming overhead and the ocean that appears to fall off the horizon you can’t help but wonder how such a natural work of art sustains itself. It doesn’t. The locals here do. All the trash from the beach is brought back inland so that there are no compromises with respect to visual ******. The ****** grains hug your feet and as soon as you hit the water you’re done for. It brings back a surge of euphoria that only your first spliff of hash would give you otherwise. I would give up the stash in a heartbeat for this fix. I wouldn’t mind being this high for the rest of my life.

[end of log]

This area has some secrets some are unaware of here is a list first material items black sand apples that contained milk and the same grasses that grows along the coastal highway in California and sea gulls and chipmunks just like those found across the Golden Gate in San Francisco in The great conservationist John Muir’s stand of Redwoods. Then a black desert a jungle a secret pass a tunnel under the railroad right next to the place where it snowed all year round and Miss America undiscovered though.

We will start in order with the black sand this was the purist black crystal regular sand not so much
Ocean beach sand has a lot of powder content this you could scoop up hands full let it do that small
Wonder usually reserved for hour glasses gently cascade out soothing as it escapes whatever had it
Bound not being involved with the Spring Side mine in a professional sense I can only guess but like the
Mighty mountain of slack that stood as a giant discard pile to the mine operation this sand now it comes
To mind it had to be a pulverized cast off type of coal dust. They had a show one time that delved into
The byproducts of coal defiantly not as tasty or wonderus as the finds produced by George Washington Carver
From what he referred to as the lowly Peanut this will lead us into the Black Desert mentioned this was
The far end of the Spring Side mine to the east along the rail road right of way Why an artist never
Painted this I guess as spoken it was unknown Donna even missed it with her camera but it truly was a
Miniature desert with the same vistas but all contained within a quarter mile the long open stretch
Comparable to a large pond bordered at the edges by dunes with these grasses found along the coast I
wonder did someone while traveling harvest some then bring them and transplant them whatever they
Thrived and had the same pleasant effect not only on the eye but the soul it was always filled with the
Quietest hush our smallest land of enchantment Georgia O Keefe would have found it matched the
Dream shapes of New Mexico only thing missing were the flowers and sculls everything else was right
Here in your very own back yard it also was a bird sanctuary and the chipmunks still scurry about on this
Now lost dream land gone just like the native tribes the I lone the Sack, Pawnee, Potawatomie’s and the
Greatest tribe the Kickapoo bet you didn’t know this used to be Black Hawk hunting ground.
The milk apples not too big of a thrill unless your six and you look across the small pasture just out in
Front of homer’s Barn was their house Miss America undiscovered lived there I know beauty she didn’t
Walk around and she wasn’t at black desert but she shimmered just like a desert princess she could have
Been covered in coal dust it wouldn’t have mattered it would have looked liked gold dust if she had an
Native American name it would have been trance maker when she came outside the rest of the world
Stopped all activity except the part of paying her homage she was so humble she killed me if they had
Those portable oxen units back then I most likely would have been dragging one around in one of those
famous little red wagons she left me breathless then like a great devastating storm the news crossed the
Yard and ally she was getting married well what should you do probably not this but this is for everyone
Who has loved a living dream then fate oh blackest fate thy name was Richard comes and steals the
Most precious living one away I just went to say goodbye outside her bedroom window that wasn’t
What the girls that were to make up her wedding party heard a mix between a Irish Banshee and a small
Calf tangled in barb wire in a terrible storm would come close as you can expect someone finally said
What is that the answer the little neighbor boy did she close the window no she sealed my feelings for ever by her action of mercy, I don’t care I passed into the far
Reaches of agonies domain but I looked up from the ground where I was laying soaked in tears there she
Was kneeling beside me these fifty six years I have never laid down this torch that almost consumed
Me that night new tears now join those of long ago she touched my convulsing body and spoke I think
From that carving so deep in my heart when death to innocence was complete the poet in me was born
She even has spoken where does the depth come from don’t you know you looked into the cavernous
Abyss that lost love created I spoke of her in three lost loves and endless rails I told her someday I will
Make her famous I’m still working on that promise the apple with milk was an old green knobby hedge
Apple good descriptor for my heart after leaving her presence that night her earthly name is Eileen I call
Her summer’s night angel.

The pass was the space between the sugar creek creamery and Longwells Pana hotel sorry it was cool to
Cut through there and we lost another young prince when Pat Longwell died he was one of the first to
Color his hair he had the air of a beet nick he just didn’t do the lingo you instantly loved him he was a
True friend he owned the name cool the snow that snowed all year wasn’t cool but it snowed those
White feathers all the way to Wadley’s chicken processing at the end of commercial alley past the
Monument company how apropos for all the chicks that said there final Farwell the tunnel was there too
Under the railroad you walked down through it on stones that kept you out of the small amount of water
That trickled through go in and then pop out on the other side or get the thrill of the train rumbling over
Head. Thats your trip through this unknown hope you enjoyed the trip my only wish is that I could type faster.

There is no such thing as adulting
There is no such thing as growing up
Biological age cannot be an indicator
A source of income cannot be a dictator
The drama that disguises you as a sufferer
is apt for twitter and synonymous with tumblr
You can look like 50 but still behave like a toddler
Age, intellect , experience and memory don’t matter
Clarity of thought , clarity in action
is what everyone wants, just pay attention
Stages of life are only byproducts of imagination

To my weary friends,
Your trials without end,
I wish to send you solace.

Society fails many.
Many die, some by suicide,
And the remnants are muck:
Corrupted and materialistic,
Base and hedonistic.
Yet within the dark bile,
Within its lukewarm core,
Diamonds can form:
Luminescent and pure.
Their bright minds fight for more:
A better world,
"The only thing worth fighting for,"
But they never see it through.
They cannot, I tell you.
The brightest simply shine.
They pray and hope and fight and die,
In their writings, in their art,
You see this coursing vein
Within it all --
In the pages of Karamazov,
In Van Gogh's shining stars.
It is this self-aware entity,
Pondering its own incredulity,
That screams to the sky
On so many sleepless nights:
"Greatness is doomed!
Society is static!
Dreams are but dreams!
Humanity automatic!"

Oh, and how these diamonds form!
Under such pressures and trials.
A life of constant disappointment
Where you only wish to better the world,
Yet the world pays you no mind,
And if you are noticed
It does with you what it wants:
You are slandered and trashed,
They ban your books,
They burn your paintings,
Then teach children about you,
Centuries from your death,
Some skewed version of your vision --
Something they've invented.
And there you were,
Wishing that hunger,
Wishing that war,
Wishing that strife and prejudice,
Were no more.
Oh, and you learned how hopeless this was.
Your infernous, naïve passion folded
Into a glowing ember.
For you have learned,
You wise, weary diamond,
That the ruler of man
Is his own nature:
For every advancement
Someone learns how to exploit it,
And all our theories,
All our lifelong efforts,
Inherited from diamonds before,
Will amount to nothing;
You will die only to pass the torch.

So,
How does a truly aware mind
Find solace with its life?
How can you sleep at night
With so much agony in the world?
How can you come to terms
With your own endless futility?
Oh, the timelessness of these questions.
Do not be dismayed, my friend:
I know how it feels to suffer,
To writhe on restless nights,
For decades,
And quietly cry
To the midnight sky.
We diamonds, we must struggle --
That is what makes us.
And imagine:
If there was no pain and hardship,
Our breed wouldn't exist!
We're byproducts, you know.
The world we wish for has no place for us,
So should we wish for it at all?
Should we end the lineage of diamonds,
For a world free of pain?
What sort of people would live there?
Docile, bright, kind,
Yet there must be something lost.
Yes, indeed there is
Within the darkness and suffering,
The abyss that we face,
We gain something --
Something infinitely valuable,
And only we know of it.

It is here that we learn
That even a completely different society
Would be relatively the same.
So tell me, diamonds timeless,
Why should I live?
To fall in love?
To travel the world?
To learn all I can?
I'll tell you,
You must live
So that you can learn
How to enjoy life
In the face of its ceaseless woes.
You must step over it,
And experience something beautiful:
Hold your lover's hand;
Walk barefoot in the snow;
Lie down in the sunshine --
You will find simple pleasures.
You will want to find more.
And all those years of worry,
Spent hurrying about
Trying to fight for something more,
Will fade into obscurity
As you, with your brilliant mind
Live for yourself some lovely life,
And if they come to take you away --
If you are burned at the stake:
Feel your searing skin,
Then swallow the flame,
For the secret is yours.
Laugh at it all
Laugh away

Before he was here
He would have said, "bereft of feeling,"
Now he says TBI

Before he was here,
Overwatch was a game.
Now it keeps him and others alive

Before he was here
He was a conscientious vegan.
Now he's an omnivore,
Devouring vacuum sealed inorganic meat byproducts.
With vigor

Before he was here
Musty was the damp basement smell-- endearing, familiar
Now it's the infection smell -- nauseating, familiar

Before he was here,
There was good and evil,
Now there are only shades of evil

Before he was here
She was there,
Always.
Now she is gone,
Forever.

Before he was here
Death was distant, clinical
Now it's cloying, visceral

He doesn't know if he'll be able
To return to the time before here
He doubts it.

Clouds floating under Moon light of cold night
Just as snow layers accumulating all over land
Make sky and plains pure white as buttermilk!

Milk becomes buttermilk and butter to ghee and
Cheese and yogurt byproducts of milk to enjoy
As children to mother we nourish in life long...!

Milk and honey flow as river if world is prosperous
By honest and true lovers of work for perfection
In all fields not calculating only money and profit!

Churning milky ocean elixir was produced for angels
As buttermilk is churned to produce butter for all
To enjoy and live longer in the world to do better!

As churning in base one another better one is made
Painful pleasure is love to live life in enjoyment ever!

Wispy angel Children embedded with
Sparkling fibers of light
Danseuses blanched
Paper doll trails honeycomb drippings
Shedding casings
Hollow cast offs coiled gaunt carapace loom
Ominously floating in sea of shadows
Byproducts of incessant motion
growing thin
Fading away with the glow of dawning
until moon wakes from its perpetual sleep
Awash in an ocean of night
and luminous constellations of
Twilight gloaming
Elysium

Hearts wrapped up in hope, eyes glazed with fear
Minds entangled in the thought of how did we get here
World so... ****, can't find the word... world so... well, you know
That word so big and so complex, the word that won't let you go
Captured by beauty and sorrow, both always and never guaranteed
Lovely kisses stand the "yin" and the "yang" our own selfish deeds
Who's to say that both must exist? Have we made it so hard
To heal ourselves and clear the book of chapters that leave generations scarred
Or are we too far gone in a world where tomorrow is a letdown
Trying to grow in a once in a while when the rain annually touches the ground
We are here and we are now, so now is the time to see
Arise from what you're wrapped up in and create a memory
Fear is a state of mind and hope is rising to aspiration
Both are here and fluctuate, byproducts of man's creations
So here we stand on the precipice of tomorrow, in a world of an absent word,  in love or strife
Glazed eyes looking for clarity in the yins and yangs of life

three ante-chambers and then the bedroom, a valet rather than my wife sleeping in the same room as me... if this is a will to power, i'd rather see the Sunday menu of: a will to whatever's on offer, other than hereditary genetics... mind you, 20th century anti-hereditary genetics seemed like quite fun, all that eugenic stuff... i love the byproducts that came with that, weaklings to be sure, missing horse and engaged tractor, celeb culture and the next Raphael pickling a hammer-shark sidelined with Warhol's quote: knock knock - ah cheap, i know, but when wasn't sarcasm ever?

the famoud *will to power is a fable, there are too few words
in between will and power, since both are rather antonymous
in application, the argument -
the will to power is a state of anonymity
rather than a dualism,
in Versailles Louis XIV questions himself
as both man and king, and the god appointed;
instead of duality there's an anonymity,
a permanent height outreaching / out-qualifying
the jumper, all pampers and demure,
the mirror circus of poses that Louis XIV
was compared to his brother
gauging out an eye of a laughing man in
a role of a Kafka play the nobles thirsted for
and slyly forgot - there was once a prancing
lady of France, who donned the title
as the king of France, but was overshadowed by
his ****-******* brother; there are indeed
Arabia in the King to quench Africa,
but not enough to go further, with his philandering
******* boyishness to succumb to the womanising
artefact with brotherly jest as with a woman's
care for an up-kept boudoir... of matching stockings
and his matching socks: never mind the places
cut first on the gauges of fear of the guillotine
with the eyes turning all Newtonian searching
for the next cake - the roles we keep are not the
identities we express, keeping the militant
populace ignorant and ourselves kept by
the labyrinth sexed-up, keeping one pronoun
a wall of denoted king and the rest
a scramble which, whoever, we wish to choose -
as ever, preferring a woman...
well i preferred animals, how's that for an argument
from *****? oh wait, that's an argument from Eden...
ooh choo choo the pick-up truck never picked up steam,
the democracy of nobles overtook the notion
of king as the psychiatric, philosophical rigidity
overtook the notion of ego...
well, weeners and winners here and there,
like salt and pepper... mm, push it! push it real
good! wait a minute, i thought that aristocracy kept
Paris and subsequent Parisian a folded model ready for
corruption with adequate vices?
when Communism came about the aristocracy was replaced
with intelligentsia - the urban version of what was once
property owning now replaced with idea owning -
it all gets a bit murky here, i write with a more detached
defacement in mind onto a head of a donkey to reveal
the saintly cranium, but never mind the joke,
there's still the papal yoke to keep us curbed, after all,
the best ****** travel to home to sing: love live papa,
love like papa.
it just got me thinking, this obscure cannibal of
aristocracy could scare the king, no wonder the king
in chess is just an extension of pawns, while the queen
is an extension of rook, knight, bishop -
reductionist Darwinism uncovered more than
Darwinism per se, we were originally reduced to insects,
revolving past that and encouraging us to exhibit
mammalian tendencies made us into being unable to
choose which monkey was worthwhile to have originated from;
but still the black widow, the mantis -
female reductions took her beyond mammals,
into pre-reptiles,
male reductions took him into pure mammal,
we're both running treadmills now though,
we're both rodents, hamsters, ha ha, it's funny how
equilibrium works, there's two opposites, both need
to be pacified, no trans-gender changes will actually
objectify or personify, it'll just the other more even and the
other mode off / left in / left out.
you never ask so much about art, you just say
the magic Sesame words of Ali-Baba 'i don't get it'
and it opens, but then you suddenly want poetry to read like
chemistry, what a ******* oddity, and say the words
'i get it', but all that opens is a can of tuna, wooh!
what a ******* stink. imagine these words unlike what
you'd might use buying a pint of beer at a pub,
grow up, you hit puberty with fifty shades of grey,
bestsellers this century, the last, Don Quixote...
believe me, these words will be around for not that long,
soon ingested by what the already aristocracy isn't,
modern aristocracy are mere inheritors, spongers,
they overslept the mark of complicated phonetic encoding
being exhausted, hence the dissociation with politics,
the apathy of the former lusts for war -
granny can write a tweet, but granny can't write an app.,
never mind if it's Buckingham Palace or
the French Riviera mansion... Party Harry gives less ****
than the red squirrels when the grey Canadian squirrels
were introduced, and the next Prince of Wales
is wondering: did i really need to waste 20 minutes of my
life watching Head & Shoulders' adverts?!

Being here before the bible,
I have learned nothing has ever been planned.
Byproducts avoided bullets,
Because all the bandits all have lost an eye.  

Never can put my finger on it,
Newly **** imagines that I wish I knew,
Fogging up the nightmare's window.
Now evaporate back into your nimbus.

I can see past the eyes,
They all think they are invisible.
Like a heated igloo in a blizzard,
Imploding inevitable but still comforting to look at.  

Everywhere I sense the uneasiness,
That stampede of silent elephants.
Eyeballing the problem might just scare it off,
But everything equal can still tip a scale.
  
Pieces of this puzzle,
Are too interesting not to play with,
Making products through plagiarizing the ideas,
Given to us by our planet.  

But nothing is ever planned.

It is the jovial, gentle gradient of your first love
Transcending from the kind of blue that swims under a blanket of flesh on the topmost part of her wrist
Into an orange so pale it could just be pink;
Reminiscent of the peach of her cheeks
Dampered by the dreariness of a stormy Sunday noon
Light shrouded in the mysticism of "what if's" and "why"
It is the turbulence of heartbreak
Escaping with the breath you held in too long
Sighing a song of failed attempts and discarded hope
Dressed in the melancholy of grey-blue, exasperatingly clouding over in surrender;
The kind of dark that makes you wonder if it is pathetic fallacy
Or maybe just a coincidence that the sky can seem so sad.
All at once placid
Milky and cold and fresh as the first glass of Bessie's byproducts
It is the clarity accompanying self assurance
The comfort in the knowledge that blue is just a shade away from blue-grey
Cotton ***** on a sheet of glassy water
Just enough to get you through midday
Until scorching it sets, and your cat nap is marked with a rigid back and stood-up hairs
It is a blaze of passionate glory
The first crimson drop from the blood orange
Only to dilute before you into a tangerine so vivid you have to question if maybe your eyes are just over-dramatizing its hue.

me? im a whole lotta broken. i wanna get fixed. dont know how tho - OR if its even possible. is it? i mean, the only antidote to the blah and blek and ugh and err is, for me at least, a blank page with a waiting blinking cursor. ahh, pure potential. infinite vistas of what-if. a path not taken is a beinglessness that feeds the imagination with pure uncut raw light extending back into the original whothefuckknowswhereitcamefrom wick that bore its birth... BUT i always manage to mess that up with words words words. so, what then? where from here? i dunno. and i am upsettingly ok w the the idunno, which, sadly is most likely going to lead to me being on the street. my ambition is err not good, at all... its way bad.. i swear to eff i once had a waking vision while nestled deep in meditation of all my previous incarnations - i was a sloth with a lazy eye for, like, ten thousand and ten generations. mmm, now THAT was the life. it was a comfy series of infinite expressions, till that **** ape-turned-human decided to exist and in doing so somehow managed to motivate my precisely calibrated aeon-long string of slothness into idk maybe not sleeping for 20 hours a day?? cutting it down to ohidunno 18 hours.. that was the first initial step. now, im a sentient ambling bipedal brain-heavy avatar that is oh so aware of itself, aka human, and tries to distract itself from the deep abiding blankness that pulses and pumps jus below the left-center breastbone by writing meh poems to pass the time. or maybe there is something there.. i dunno. maybe there is a wholeness. maybe the feeling i get when i can be weird in front of somebody else, and that feeling i get when i stare into the eyes of another person and know that they like me just as much as i like them, and that feeling of community, that yay burning sensation within that drums together like a kirtan, stoking stoking, stoked till all our very molecules begin to budge and shake and evaporate, rising like a riproaring pyre enlightening the nite sky, a light going on forever and ever, reaching past the final last outstretched fingertip of cosmos itself, back into the womb of Her.. and in doing so dimming the fake fluorescent light of ego which usually hangs over my brain's goings on, making me feel like i am not so small, not so insignificant, but central, mandalaing the the youme that burns burns burns onto the canvas of the abyss, creating life itself.... or i jus have a silly overactive imagination that ive never matured. idk. again, i seem to be ok with the idunno. indeed, i may even worship at the alter of idunno that doesnt even exist... "mental *******." that is what ive been charged with as doing by a shaman i consulted with at my mom's wedding. well, she didnt say it directly, but you know, hinted at it with that less-than-royal We - i had been talking about the difference between thought and language, and jus where in the hell thoughts come from anyway - a god? purely biological random shimmering byproducts of frontal lobes? some unifying infinite force? that spicy curry you ate? .. and she interrupted me ".. --- im gonna stop you right there" she intoned  ".. im getting something coming in right now from the Christ Mind, its telling me something.." dramatic pause. "... sometimes we tend to jus get stuck doing mental *******, instead of jus being appreciative of what we have, here and now, in the present - that is why it is called "the present" right??" i dunno, maybe she was right. but i hate that cliche.. the present is totally overrated imho... i hate my ego sometimes. or at least i hate not knowing if it is ego or not.. i hate feeling that feeling like somebody is trying to control me through indirect ways, because i dont know if they are actually trying to control me or if i am just inaccurately perceiving it. i think a lot of times we unconsciously try to control people, not even aware of it. i am sure i do this as well. we all have angles right? .. but anyway, speaking of self *** metaphors for describing the thinking process, i am tired of short skirt blonde bombshell anchors that have been under more knives that hannibal lecter's vics tell me about how scary isis is and how they are gonna take muh white and male murica from me, jerking off my leftover overactive monkey fear gland in my amygdala... its time to turn off the media and look outside. the sky is not falling and the birds are chirping. aright im done writing now. end. of. rant.

if it’s so successful why so much apathy surrounding the justifiably argued vote? is it the bureaucratic 110m with obstacles and hefty organisers of a to b and b to a pink on yellow paper with or without folding or licking a stamp as a dire requirement of a pension in conservative congratulatory applause aided by a flying red carpet that simply spells out: career? we all love the new zealander rugby haka - there’s no democracy in that! it’s a triangle!*

as my grandmother and grandfather said
and i swear it with an oath of death
to give flowers to an american girl:
a. girls will weep... but that’s a girl’s point of view
second....
b. keep you heart small, small enough
to construct nations into agglomerates of empires.
and hence little augustus arose from the people,
since the people felt indulged into being apathetic concerning democracy,
in the numerous they vetoed instead of voted,
and so their party officiate ransacked the crowds into a singular voice, his own,
and disposed of the people like a whirlwind of communist protesters
not willing to assassinate.
cowardly essentials were provided for the toothless lion,
who slurped the meat up like a fly,
and i watched, and watched, while tourist professionals dittoed,
while the belittled men asked men of sheered honour for a judge and jury,
i watched, i watched dearly for my life be spared:
i watched democracy walk in protest to get no sparing or guarantee or success,
i watched it march and watched it fail,
but at the same time i watched no wise man emerge from the tilling of shrunken heads,
so the jokes of aged erections aren’t true?
well that makes up one republic less of what encompasses a democracy
of a single vote.
i watched democracy plagiarise itself into apostasy - but not criminalisation
in secular terms like in the leftist tongue of someone who votes but is taken
in vanus - regression i say! democracy failed a long time ago,
now i’m holding democracy’s economics in a stranglehold to ******* cut off
operas for a point of castrato argued: spoon the moon and dance on water!
i did watch it decide upon a deathbed of the march how the old died with thought of
youth, how eager horned socrates allowed it, how the young then feared
and were unable to cajole with age a mirroring effect to think that too -
having to eat the scribbles of once firm architectures and *** **** a nuance of
the bean turned into a balloon or kidney!
yes, i watched democracy crumble, and i watched it with good stead,
i saw “democracy” craft a war against its people wish,
i watched “democracy” hide the french & russian revolution and the english one,
i saw democracy institutionalise poets as academic byproducts of semantic dirges
concerning life rather than death -
i saw it crumble with syria, and i applauded with alexander’s libido hushed into monogamy,
and since then i have aged, vetoed rather than voted, and articulated
what was to become the segregation of scot from brit looking at two pence worth’s of copper.

Lost souls in the desert
In parched lands so dry
Raise hands in delight
As heavens open wide
Rain comes crashing down
Pouring from a heavy sky
Drenching the world
In echoing mournful cries
Of ocean's lament:

You pollute me

But why?

Do I not
Please your eyes?
Do I not also
Nurture
Provide?

I teem with life
Of infinite worth
I team with the wind
Sustain the earth

Yet you trash me
Without second thought
With countless byproducts
Of industrial rot
You don't relish my beauty
You don't savor my taste
You don't bask in my fragrance
No, you send me your waste

And still I give

As long as you live
I'll love you the same
I'll carry your boats
I'll feed you my fish
I'll send you the rain

So when the skies darken
Precipitation pours forth
Let it remind
Of how much you use me
Oh, please don't abuse me
No, please be kind
And treasure my worth

It seems as though
I can only write
whilst in the possession
of angst and fright.
I weep and moan,
fret and fidget...
The words come so easily.
Rhyming schemes,
haunting themes.
My byproducts of wounds
and worries.

However, currently,
no such struggles writhe within,
tricking
        and torturing
                         my mind.

Hence, here cometh
my semi-decent work.
Pathetic ploys, amorphous attempts.
Flagrant failures, endless endeavors.

To my father
I'm sure I have written this poem so many times before
But this time, I just want you to listen.
See, I keep writing and rewriting
Examining and analyzing which way will be the most effective to tell you
You ****** me up, man
But I don't hold it against you
Just against myself.
I press it to my chest every second I live
Like the hot metal pan I burned myself with last Friday
It brands my skin so tightly to form a label
One that tells me I am too fat to be pretty
Too promiscuous to be loved
Too awkward to be worth anything more than an insult.
You make me feel like such a bad person, dad
And I am screaming for you to just accept it
For the first time in your life
How anxiety and bulimia are byproducts of my chemistry as well as my childhood
How I am so hellbent on staying silent about my assault
Because you told me to keep it in the family when I was molested
And while you were supportive
You did not let me thrive by telling my story
As I could have with you by my side.
You claimed to be protecting from scrutiny
But I can take care of myself because I know what I'm up against.
How my dysfunctional relationships
In which I expect to be told I am a failure
Because that is all you have ever expected me to be
Have to do with how you brought me up.
I say I will seek to do everything better for my family
For my future
And yet, I already find the fingerprints of what you have done to me
Everywhere in my life
And my body and soul cry out
They say
"Don't be like your father!"
And yet, whenever I act in any way that even slightly resembles you
I want to tear my skin off
Bang my head against a wall so hard that my memory pours out my ears
So I don't have to hear your vicious comments about
My weight, my social skills or how I embarrass you
Is that the legacy you want to leave?
Daddy, I really don't mean to incriminate you
I just don't want you to wonder why I never came home
Or why I ran away with some man who doesn't really love me
But makes me feel human.
My heart is like a sword fight
And the scars run deep
Like train tracks, they trace every place I've been
But they don't lay out where I plan to go.
I can only hope that place is far away from here.

as you held me,
your hands moved across me,
your fingertips tracing
every curve of my body.

your hands wandered
until they found my scars.
every muscle in my body tensed up,
waiting for you to comment on them.

they weren’t new.
by this time, I had dealt
with all types of reactions.

there were the people
who were disgusted
and didn’t try to hide it,

the people who were made so
uncomfortable that
they didn’t know what to say,

the people who
insisted they understood
when it was obvious that they didn’t.

you were hard to read.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from you.
you pulled me closer to you
and held me tighter,
and I felt myself relax.

you didn’t tell me you were fine with them, you didn’t tell me you were sorry,
and you didn’t tell me they were beautiful.

you were honest,
and I loved that.

you weren’t fine with them,
but neither was I,
and that didn’t stop you
from caring about me.
you weren’t sorry,
you didn’t pity me,
and you didn’t change
the way you acted around me
like most people do.

but most importantly,
you did not call them beautiful.
they aren’t.

there is nothing beautiful
about self-hatred,
and these scars
are nothing more
than its byproducts.

self-harm is not pretty.
my past is not pretty.
my scars are not pretty.
I told you all of this.

you didn’t disagree with me,
you didn’t try to argue.
you simply held me.
you didn’t look at my scars,
you looked at me.
you didn’t say much.
you didn’t have to.

when you did finally speak,
you told me,

“you’re right.
your past isn’t pretty.
but that doesn’t mean
your future can’t be.”

(Dedicated to my Father, who was totally paralyzed
for 7 years before he died.)

I awake in the early morning darkness
Frozen, motionless, immobilized.
My eyes straining to see into the black void
Looking for any sign of my keepers
Listening for any kind of movement
Phantom images dart around me slowly at first,
Then multiple images spring from every direction
My heart racing, my breathing rapid and shallow,
Byproducts of fear and imagination
Running amok in the dark

My eyes focus on tiny lights incessantly blinking,
Reassuring my heart as the phantoms vanish
My ears register the intermittent beeps
And steady, determined droning
Of contraptions that populate my space,
Their sole purpose to prevent the outcome I crave

My nose catches whiffs of iodoform odor,
Penetrating, pungent, overpowering my sense of smell.
A cruel replacement for what once was
A weekly parade of fragrant flowers
That excited what few senses remain
The brightly colored blossoms
The sweet, fragrant smells
The delightful sizes and shapes
But the beautiful flowers have withered,
As concern for my plight has waned

I watch as the determined, dynamic sun
Deliberately dilutes the darkness,
Revealing the magical birth of a new day.
Is that delightful birdsong I hear?
The beeping and droning are maddening,
But I know there’s birdsong outside my window
I can’t wait until the moment arrives!

As if on cue my keeper appears
Busily going about her assigned tasks
My eyes following her every move
“And how are you doing today?” she asks,
Staring at me as if I could answer.
But I lie frozen, motionless, immobilized
In my mind I replay my daily reply:

"My existence is a never-ending cycle of
Penetrating. . . pungent. . . whiffs
Beep. . . blink. . . drone. . . beep
Blink. . . drone. . . beep, . . . blink
Drone. . . beep. . . blink. . . drone
Penetrating. . . pungent. . . whiffs
Dawn. . . daylight. . . twilight. . . night
Daylight. . . twilight. . . night. . . dawn
Twilight. . . night. . . dawn. . . daylight
Night. . . dawn. . . daylight. . .twilight
Penetrating. . . pungent. . . whiffs
Each boring minute an hour.
Each hateful hour a day.
Each wretched day a year.
Each torturous year a lifetime.
Ad nauseum. . .ad infinitum. . .ad mortem?"

Offering no response to my unspoken thoughts,
My keeper dutifully takes my vital signs,
Temperature, pulse, respiration, blood pressure,
Records the results, then walks to the window
My favorite time of day has arrived!
“We must open the window to freshen up your room.”
As the window opens my spirit soars, and my ears capture
The lovely birdsong, as well as other living sounds,
Along with a veritable potpourri of smells.
I can only imagine what is happening outside,
And I do imagine it as best I can

I close my eyes and try to make out each note,
Visualizing the source of each incredible sound,
Be it bird, animal, human, or otherwise
Who they are, what they look like,
What they’re doing, what they’re thinking,
The blinking, beeping, droning is finally drowned out!
With every breath, I savor each smell
And, with eyes closed, as I visualize
What’s happening in my mind’s eye,
A wonderful peace envelops me. . . comforts me

But, alas, this day will be crueler than most
Another keeper, a newer keeper, enters my room
“Oh, she’s fallen asleep” he whispers,
He closes the window, shuts the shades,
Then quietly leaves, shutting the door
I SCREAM A LOUD, LONG, PRIMAL SCREAM!
... in my mind
As I lie frozen, motionless, immobilized—   
Paralyzed

NO NO NO BUT YOU SEE THEY COULDN'T SCRATCH BENEATH THE SURFACE 'CAUSE OF THEIR FRESHLY PAID FOR MANICURES. AND EXPENSIVE HAND LOTIONS THAT NEVER CHANGED THE ROUGH TEXTURE OF THEIR TOUCH.
I TRIED TO REACH THEIR MINDS BY RUNNING MY FINGERS THROUGH THEIR HAIR. BUT IT WAS COATED IN ARTIFICIAL BYPRODUCTS MANUFACTURED BY THOSE WHO PROCLAIM THAT WE AREN'T GOOD ENOUGH WITHOUT IT.
SO I COULDN'T FIND IT.
I COULDN'T FIND THEIR ROOTS.
I BEGGED THEM TO BREAK A NAIL FOR ME.
THEY NEVER LISTENED WHEN I SAID I DON'T MIND DRY HANDS.
WE'VE NEVER HAD OUR HAIR WASHED.

i knew i wasn't going to give the experience enough justice
by writing about it: immediately after having just...
experienced it.. i was already tired from the shift
and i only managed to come home around 2am,
but i wrote something preliminary to keep the "bank
account" of memory intact, below an overdraft
of forgetfulness - i had to write something telegraphically...
i woke up today around 11am after staying up
until 4am... i truly didn't do the event enough justice...

after all... it's not everyday that a man gets to write
about having a *******...
   i passed the Rubicon (as it were)...
                  i needed to quench all my jealousies...
this one was a big one...
   massive...
                    that's how you quench jealousies...
this one friend of mine started: fwend...
bragging that he was in a ******* once...
i believed him... my downfall... i became jealous...
i know him: sickly sprout of a guy...
  did he? didn't he? it didn't matter by then... or now...
that's the thing with the spirit of man:
whether true or not...
i had to find a way to compete with
                        the claim...

so i was coming back from a shift... slightly tired...
but not too tired...
   i was actually going after just one girl...
i took about enough money for an hour...
     circled round the brothel in my usual way...
since i quit smoking i was only drinking brandy
and pepsi... thinking about the Firth of Forth
geographic bearings and how it's impossible
to reach the same distinct: east is east...
west is west... north... south in London...
even if you're standing before the Thames...
don't know... Edinburgh is that much different
to London: probably because of the Firth of Forth
or perhaps that's a southerner talking about
living in the north... that's what i really loved
about living in Edinburgh... i knew where east was...
i knew where the north was...

London is confusing: geographically...
   it's a ******* Behemoth of a city...
           i find that... i have this Bermuda Triangle
compass in my head when i'm in London...
the world seems to implode...
   i'm standing in the 9th circle of Hell and everything's
spinning out of control...
because there's so much momentum concerning
London: the whole world is here...
no wonder i don't know where east is...
      at least in Edinburgh you have pointers...
the Firth of Forth... Glasgow to your "left"
when walking toward Prince's Street...
          so many bridges: but no river...
   i.e. bridges because during the black plague
the ingenious architects built on top of the infested
quarters... so the city rose up... hence the bridges...

of course i became jealous...
   there's no better remedy for jealousy other than to...
imitate... let's see... what the hell this "badge of honour"
is all about...
i.e. to sleep with two women at the same time...
i wasn't planning... walking around the brothel
i was actually thinking: will i be too tired to get
a hard-on? i'm not taking any ******* pills...
i knew a guy from high-school once...
troubled... but lovely... Ryan... he could have been
the next big footballer...
  but he succumbed to ingesting ****** early on...
all that teenage lust from the girls got to him...
last time i saw him: he had that aura of being
hyped up about nothing...
   precursor of being: left-over... disused...
dropping ****** pills... probably doing some other
drugs because... outside of the school environment...
he wasn't pulling his weight along...
the environment became open and there
was no access to freely available pedestrian looking
girls in school uniforms...
i'm not doing that ****: i thought...
            no... *** is an act of reciprocation...
i don't have a ***** for a *****...
   this doesn't work on automatic foundations
of... see a naked body: get aroused...
no! if i had a switch, say: squeeze my testicles hard enough
and i get an *******...
**** me... women talk about moods...
i have moods too... i'm either aroused or i'm not...
depends on the totality of a woman...

if it were as simple as seeing a naked body...
in the flesh... well... it's different when you're doing a solo
project to ease a **** out of your ****
on the throne of thrones...
but in real life interaction... you can't just expect
a naked body... coupled with Picasso's cubism et al.
brigade to give you a runner...
plus... i needed to take a ****...

  some Asians were playing supermarket car park
cricket late into the night...
how happy they must have been...
while i was... prowling... gearing up...

i knew that if i had a ****-issues... i'd be having
******* issue... ****! little Richard:
where on god's almighty earth did you leave
your hard-on batteries?!
why can't you be more: switch-on / switch-off?
why will you not succumb to
the easy-pathway of ingesting some chemicals:
fear of repercussions for "under-performing"?
to hell with that...

it works both ways... i might be in the mood...
the moon is almost full...
i feel a werewolf sitting on my shoulder...
nibbling it... i was expecting a crow biting my ear...
but i need to be in a "mood"...
  i can't do: it's raining therefore i'm thinking
of the many hues of blue mingling with
purple and green...

    i didn't ask for a *******...
     there were two prostitutes sitting gauging
their eyes out... i chose one...
but this other one... this party girl was gearing up...
and she was like: he said to me twice now...
thrice i can't take... i only chose one...
but she was not having any of it...
can i just have this one?
    apparently no... i had to take both of them...
because the one that was pretending to
be this bleached blonde wanted to be in on
the "action"...

            i thought about the jihadis...
yeah... you and those 72 virgins...
how about 72 prostitutes...
               boyo... you have another thing
coming...
                  it's hard... i'm not saying it's easy...
******* two women at once...
it's confusing... getting a blow-job while
at the same time ******* on some *******...
you try your hardest to keep a hard-on...
******* on *******... pretending to be a toddler...
while... all the while... you're getting ****** off...
it makes no sense...
   why? well... when you're getting ****** off
you want to communicate eye-contact...
but... you're disengaged from it by *******
a 2nd girl's *******...
so it's like...   x = z but y ≠ z...
    
       that's why i hate *******...
                what society sells...
my best resolve concerning a *******?
it's not what people who have perfected it
have imagined... reality is a tender little *****...
what's best about a *******?

you snuggle up to one girl, the one you like...
she performs a hand-job on you...
you kiss her face, her neck...
you sometimes interlude her with eye-contact...
she knows you're digging her...
she's pretty... tameable...
        
she's jerking your off... while the other girl?
she's cameo... she was the one instigating this
interaction... she's the party girl...
she's the one tickling your *******...
she's the one you're about to use her cleavage
for imitation of ****..
   she's the one about to take a shower
after you ******* full sprout...
******* duck-lips... botox etc.,

                 she's the one who initiated the *******...
i was only after the one i fancied...
how do i know? after we finished...
the one i ******* onto...
and myself... she took a shower...
i also took a shower... she sprayed me with her
perfumes...
i took a shower... dressed up...
the one i fancied... while i was dressing...
she
stood behind me... like a vampire...
body-size-difference...
she started massaging my back and shoulders...

two girls... self-evident competition...
the one i liked gave me the most ingenious
hand-job... i smoke a cigarette and managed
a hard-on...
             i liked her eyes... her eyes told me everything...
i was the supposed good-mad-man...
party girl wanted a piece...
duck-lips unattractive...

i was put off by their song choices...
i was thinking:
kid loco - rattlesnake rattle (she's my lover)
wax tailor - ungodly fruit
boozoo bajau - keep going...

    if i had a harem of women i'd first have to
educate them in what music is best
ingested when having ***..

   of the two? the part girl that suggested
we have a *******? competing interests...
again: wrong choice of music...
after *** she started rummaging through my rucksack...
like a teenager...
   she found... a few things... most notably
Ovid's ****** Poems...
she asked me... oh, **** me... not this again:
are you German?!

what is it with people having this skewed
physiognomy of entertaining me as
a ******* Deutsche?!
i don't mind... i find it kind of beneficial...
but... if there's this superstition about whites
being unable to tell the difference
between Somalis and Kenyans...
like **** we can't... imbeciles... like **** we can't!

in an interlude between ******* on *******
and getting a a *******... sorry...
threesomes might be a zenith...
but... there are no third person involvement...
i can't accommodate two women at once...
if i'm getting ****** off i'd like
a blinding eye-contact...

   i smoked a cigarette and got an immediate
hard-on on... readied for a hand-job
and a tickling of the *******...
however threesomes go...
i found the best "position"...
no... it's not about what ******* sells...
first time... find yourself best served...
one of the women is more willing than the other...
best scenario?
you cuddle up to the girl giving you a hand-job...
you kiss her *******... you kiss her cheeks...
her neck...
while the other girl looks on... as you hide your
face into the face of the girl doing the deed...
you get to implode voyeurism...
one's doing X...
the other is looking at you:

          O)

                    or )O...

   because you're cuddling up to the one
that's jerking you off... half of your face is "missing"...
but you're looking at her...
while she's tickling your *****...
half of your face lost in the girl you like...
you wanted to be alone... pristine *******...
but she was the one who wanted a party and a *******...

you wait before asking her to provide her *******
for a makeshift ******...
the girl jerking you off is still her most
tender self... eyes of doe...
the ******?
              i wasn't asking for a *******...
good... that i spend my hard earned money
on this... to hell with spending it on material:
immaterial byproducts of hush... oops...

a ******* only makes sense when
one of the girls is jerking you off while the second
girl is watching you being ****** off...
teasing your *****... then come the ****** providing
her ***** as a substitute ******...
eye-contact... i don't believe one can have
a persuasive ******* being
occupied by... a duality of oral ***...
receiving oral *** while giving oral ***...

it's so much better to find a balance of...
voyeurism...
one girl is jerking you off while the other is watching you...
eyes eat eyes...

oculus edo oculus - eye eat eye...
that's how eroticism works... at least...
that's what i've fathomed from finding Ovid...

mind you: ******* oversells certain theatrics...
no... it's not true... reality is a different game
to what's practised in this kind of theatre...
i've already mentioned it...
sometimes i want to please others...
but sometimes i want to please myself...
it's "fluid"...
                  to hell with the precursor needs of
outliers that homosexuals are...
                        if they are to be proud and i'm
to be shamed, no wonder my sometimes stretching
the hard-on "problem"...
but... no little wonder: how a little bit of cognac
and a drag of a cigarette can make due resolves...

threesomes... best scenario?
the one that you liked... the one you wanted to ****
solo... is giving you a hand-job...
while you're snuggling up to her
like some Norman Bates...
****'s freaky anyway... since there are three in a room...
and the one that instigated the *******
is peering into your eyes
like Aetos Kaukasios... the eagle eating Prometheus'
liver... she's the one rummaging through
your rucksack looking for...
sure as **** she wasn't looking for a book
by Ovid... she's the teenage girl that's unable
to find meaningful eye-contact during ***...
she has the fun-girl-sour look in her face...
   she can't be serious during ***... she has done too much
botox implants into her already duck-duck lips...

the one i wanted already knew that the one
who instigated this profanity just wanted...
she was the one so desperate to get ******...
i mean: becoming intimate is one thing...
couldn't we just have fooled around?
rather than stressing a belt and notches?!

i sometimes feel like a woman when i'm *******...
i just want to ease into oozing
with... when a spider ****** an octopus...

if that could happen to you, or me...
nothing was ever left as a reminder to be unlike
any prior man...
all we have are reminder of how it is: to be a man...
are we not to inherit what
it is, that all that is: is to allow ousrelves
to be human?

i tease... i watch these men coupled within
their subordinate selves...
shackled... oh too trying...
  rings on their ringers...
               tiresome, tired-breeds...
men who have never managed to range
into a reach of galloping on a horses' hind!
my god... men who have never had a *******...
it's a bit like relocating a voyeurism...
one jerks you off while another looks on...
and what is she good for?
tickling your *****...
   using her cleavage as a makeshift ******...
she's not welcome...

because the one you want to be with is
already: gauging your eyes out...
Solomon's harem: Autumn...
          the envy of Muhammad...
                                
prior: disorientating getting a blow-job
while ******* on *******...

Jonathan.

Wir sind Beiprodukten unserer Umwelt;

wenn man ein bisschen Änderung will,
so oft muss die Umwelt geändert werden.

-

We are byproducts of our Environment;

when One wants a bit of change,
so often must the Environment be changed.

Take me back to the days
Where the feel of texture and distinguishing colors among Africans didn't matter
Where the only word was black, and not pale or darker
Where the only weapon was loyalty upto royalty actually smarter
Where mother tongue superiority excelled the rest was after.
Where rituals and ceremonies were significant in culture
Where oral traditions activities was a preservation of history.
Where inclusivity wasn't done based on tribe, status or age
Where inspiration and education was passed from generation to generation through storytelling.
Where people performed rather than spoke
Where the media was the speaker's tone, volume, and cadence

Take me back to the days
Where people did not blame nationality, ethnicity,
culture, economics and education
Where there was no colonial *******
Where there was no concept of slavery, racism or discrimination.
Where Africa was rich in culture and not the fallacy of primitive and a backward jungle
Where Africa was peaceful and not a race with guns and violent.
Where shouting am black and proud wasn't important because color didn't matter.
Where respect for elders remained an unbroken cornerstone in african culture
Where birth, marriage and burial rites was honored.

Welcome to today's Africa
Where exporting and importing of cultures have become the trend
Where cultures travel through deserts, cross trade routes and through immigration borders
Where exchange disregards our notions of geography and race.
Where virtues such as hospitality, empathy, courtesy and respect is long gone
Where the only thing left are byproducts of culture.
Where multiculturalism has faded and everone hails on becoming one
The richness is not in Africa looking like Europe
What makes the world beautiful is in the diverse contributions

Welcome to today's Africa
Where culture is paraded on an image of drum beating
Where media's notion is dancing naked or eating bush meat
Where in the midst of it all culture lost its definition
Where there is no importance in defending a territory with no boundaries.
Where technology dominated our land and mind
The struggle lies in reclaiming what is rightfully ours
I refuse to fall and cramble because I'm for the idea of sameness.
In the mind is where it all starts
I put no blame on culture, not my affliction.

In the most precise terms accessible to the vast repository of considered lexicon, this passage describes the finifugal destiny of infectious myopia that, when dredged through the rabble and bugaboo of sensationalism that outmodes the modular gravity of vogue chicaneries belonging to the catchpole of the watchtowers that sink into a hibernal abyss by the crafty subversive elegance of the magnetic pull predicated on the prolific disposition of the serenity of nature to overpower the lust for civilization and thereby provide the calm equipoise of the confident desert,even when famished, to overtake those inclined to urbane bustle with the eventual drought of a ****** kitsch world inured to pollution reverting because of an exaggerated hubris embalmed by a composite nurture into the freedom of a leveled compass of moral dignity found in nature, ultimately astounds itself because of peremptory pulchritude. This prophesies a tip-toed dance with extravagance that ultimately humbles even upright civilizations with the magnetism of the elementally pristine to bequeath a licentious freedom of extravagation that philanders on maidan territory--beyond the ******* of the reprisal of peevish cavils of recalcitrant cognomens and the despotic inclinations of civilized but brutish incursion upon the warped reversion of priorities that enthrones serenity above bustle of latitude over the prerogative to jostle the crowded quagmire of inventive but abortive spectacles of tributary happenstances of the newfangled ochlocracy--because the immediate convenience of civilization is destined to crumple by clockwork flaws inherent in machination what nature can carve effortlessly through inseminated rejuvenation.
    It is not because of the rantipole revelry of the noisy cacophony that we are starkly indifferent to the hum of the melliferous agency that leads to ecocentric governance, it is rather because the conflagrations of the crowded humdingers of our times have lapsed into the crevasse of unbounded lewdness of wretched ambsace that purports alienation more fundamental than civilization and thereby provokes a cutthroat collapse predicated on the creamy pettifoggery of saccharine sentiment that creates the rot of urbanity and goads participation in the renewal of the bionomic imperative to cherish the serenity and peace and freedom granted by nature that always conquers nurture by axiomatic consequence because to prepone filigrees of cosmopolitan bravery is contrary to the crass nature of the demur of deferred gravitas accorded not just by ceremony but by rehearsed gallantry that outlasts the sardonic reprisals of flayed anticipation.
      To the reader less lettered than enamored, I intend to remark as a pivotal linchpin of my rudimentary model of the universe that the epigenetic configuration of disorder inherent to the entelechy of physically mandated entropy is an overriding force that, through permutations of our sanitized history ,we discover as the direct autarky of the innate to trounce the willful volition of the artificial because the precedence of nature undermines the imperatives of a filipendulous swing of nurture to destroy itself because the clockwork upbraided thorns of society are more evident and incumbent than the circular irony of the circuitous wiredrawn windlass of feral proclivity to overwhelm the devices of one tragically supererogatory species that undercuts its own virility by sterilizing the future with the noisy cacophony of the epiphenomenal excess of profligate carnality accorded by Original Sin and later expounded and exploited into a titanic hubris that might eventually sink the prerogatives of the metropolis and favor the malingering peace of the remote frontier. I wonder often why aliens congregate in insular proximity to Native American tribes and propinquity to their shibboleths rather than abide by an enigmatic skullduggery to infiltrate lucrative metropolitan tracts and, with delicate entryism, seek to propitiate the inane aspects of population with the delicate poise of interposition and, when I ponder this deeply lugubrious question, I realize it is probably because the aliens themselves are byproducts of an overpolluted society famished eventually by its own adolescent excesses that eventually redound in the fulminations of subsequent dearth and therefore it cherishes the arid propinquity between the natural balance of nature with the composite symmetry of the evolved soluble valence of recycled treasuries of provincial benedictions rather than a global ploy of takeover and turnover because they fear the ultimate destiny of the thronging clangor and obviously prefer the surreptitious entrenchment in tribal allegiance rather than pushful attempts to proselytize an imperious solidarity geared for heroic redhibitions of human defect for ulterior conquest that vouchsafes a degree of ineradicable dominion. Ironically, in the fitful throes of sickness I have convalesced into a singular desultory equipoise with the serenity of pause rather than the drygulch of overmilked tactless celerity that taxes the limitations of even the petty simplicity of the most rudimentary concepts and, through deliberative subroutines, I conquer the articles of subaudition that lurk in remote corridors waiting for the marauding curiosity of unique proclivity to traverse a bypass of directional contingency and summit the immeasurable lengths of the incalculable by measured and sly blettonisms of profound wealth but dramatic appraisal of the rudimentary vineyard for both a pronounced variegation of hypostasized supersolid vagrancies and a selectively culled culinary harvest of slow piggybacks upon even the simplest countenance of endeavor rather than the unkempt rigid sustenance of the formal inculcation and the liberated bailiwick of how an unsung sorrow can elevate the fanfare of the loudest enchantments above the pother of kitsch debauchery.
  On a more relevant note, instinct is often the realm of finicky depredation and libidinous tabanids to oleaginous gimcracks exerted primarily by the geotaxis of regnant pedigree but fathomed more by imperative glorified brawn rather than a self-aware truculence of unalloyed volition exerted by the primitive kinship to violent boorish self-advancement that debases us because of the lurid savagery inherent to many evolved chicaneries ,that remains hidden to even the most glorified ommateum distorted by the glare of distant tantalization, distorts the invictive goals of the ergasia of intrepid lollops of the enantiodromia of entropy. And, because ambition convolutes and flanges the instinctual into importunate articulations that bypass necessity by gouging consequence into redoubled countenance--upon which we all abide to some degree in the maintenance of labile stature that often gets dredged by external impediments to pushful accomplishment to grace--is the stagecraft by histrionic leverage that is a direct byproduct of the ulterior composite of circumstance and precarious fluctuations of character. Essentially, genius manifests when the gluttony of metaphorical siderism that is sejungible from the seismic jostle of the ordinary outweighs the restraint of the ******* to immediacy to traipse above bamboozled tripwires and surmount the restive jealousy of common noemas of subtle verbigerations to heave from a recessive slumber of foothot dreams into the alchemy of inconspicuous levity beyond the admittedly aggrandized and glazed angular momentum of rhetoric to simmer with radiant efflorescence to pay homage to sedimentary notions rather than truckle to the imperial ambitions of predictable leaps to the great fanfare of the proper sabbatical from celerity for the conventicle of the extraordinary plane of the supersensible entelechy of all creation.
        In profound contemplation, what manifests relatively clearly is that the ruinous hesitation provoked by the incumbent din of uproar leads to the whiplash of warbled subliminal tilts in the axis of the chryselephantine machinations--even of the inquisitive--into the free-for-all of the acerbic displacement of the acquisitive to a scalding shipwreck that defies the cordial gravity of demarches of extenuation and further incites a dislodged frenzy of exacerbated priorities becoming jumbled to such a quizzical extent that the dash for jewels becomes the hegira from either afflicted incarcerations of panic or the conflagration of malignant opportunism. In these uncertain financial times, we henpeck—sometimes with extraordinary dalliance and otherwise with bodged exercises in profane self-sabotage—the surface endeavor by the agitprop that congeals, even in the most strident resourcefulness waged against it, to the folly of fulgurant pride in the fruitful bets against prosperity or the ennobled forbearance of the slumbered toil and toll of the taxation of capitalism upon itself that overhangs every specter or prospect for mammon without the overweening clarity of the disclaimer of labile liability because of lapsed conscientiousness. The spread of wizened ripples of the Jehus that dart with provident alacrity towards the myth of catalyzed proliferation without incidental pollution, endanger themselves by the fumes of their own arrogation of mercantile swoopstakes rather than by the contrary coexistence of debased timidity of the rigid priggishness of reluctance which is by far a greater enemy to the financial ecosystem than the outrecuidance of financial temerity because toxicity through accident leads to windfall by precedent because it is a primary mover rather than a flagitious inertia and therefore we should dwell on the immanent accessible treasury of the composite good for invictive truth. Returning to Isaiah, it is proclaimed that justice will dwell in the desert while the fruits of prosperity lurk both in vineyards of conquest and foreign forests of the unknown fertility of grace..because in a sense the vapid lifeless drawl of the beazed comportment of the husbandry of complacent but arid contentment is fashioned in a manner that relies on provident self-containment rather than the industrious bulldozer of calamity that besets dominions of heralded opportunity even when ripe times are precluded by the zeal of the epicurean demands of harvest that eventually famish rather than appease the diet of profane luxuriousness rather than a balance that leans on the notion of balance itself to predicate sustainability that laments its own dearth but never foments the outrage of volatile fortunes won or lost in the casino of opportunism.
    On a highly irrelevant note, the checkered figments of otosis are the ironic endearment of the expected to their expectancy and yet because of wrinkles of iterative doubts roaming the widely spelunked cavern of redoubled demerits subsuming self-contempt, the dregs of the self-important eventually sour into a cynicism that barks loudly at the locked corridor of pride but eventually trespass into the coherence of the incidental that spark the volitions of a self-gaslighted endeavor that creeps incumbent upon most scrutiny but less salient to the otiose obtuseness of the rankled hamshackle of perseverance in sublunary clarity.
   In the etiology of reiterative and normative catastrophe, the morale that severs the parturition of spunky audacity in favor of complacent staples of buoyant regimented alacrity vitiate the trim slaver of the luxuriant grovel into the alcoves of restive libido into the hegiras that hurdle over the conflations between necessity and want and transmute the furor of fitful windlass into a transcendent indelible ethos of ineradicable and endangered regalia of the swamp that, with bricolages of vigor, resorts to lopsided scrutiny of outcroppings of the profane rather than the self-aware poise of scacchic prevenance of ulterior action to the proper congruence of action to the composite reaction of the synectically impaired. In this vein, we must concede that a foundering vessel is often scuttled by self-infliction but ultimately salvaged by the modesty of resistance to plenipotentiary fictions of noisome crotaline tabanids and the recognition of the ramshackle facts of tentative triage in a wilderness vitiated by the alarming abundance of careworn exercises in hubris and overstated alacrity to the dimples of regress ultimately scars the geopolitics of specter and prospect to the extent that pernicious anomalies dart into prominence without castigation or that tremendous serendipities sink beneath the RADAR of the otherwise sturdy panopticon
   Thus, the polity of interwoven statesmanship by prospectus leads eventually to a culminated crux that is retrofugal more than finifugal and, in the absenteeism to the precedent that eventually provokes the unprecedented, we witness the folly of irrevocable design that, when sufficiently abridged by compendium, leads to a swift clarity that ponders vague traces of the superficially coherent into a suboptimal engrenage with contingent stipulations that often backfire because of the crude boorishness of statesmanship ratcheting into a vertiginous dance with instinctual donnism rather than appointing dignified salience the proctor of uncertain but sizable dubiety acknowledged and commanded into clairvoyant action rather than resigned acatalepsy.
  In the resulting vacuum of moral conundrum, it is not enough to predicate our bedrock on flourishing jackals in the wild nor the often lambasted sematic entrenchment of fixated designs of the impending perfidy inherent to every quagmire of bugaboo or foofaraw livid by smoldering embers of combustible and often deliberate begrudgement because the thriving industry of constative vacillations of pandered controversy are in itself ribald albatrosses of coarse conformity that derelicts the penumbra of consensus because of the firebrands of invictive bulldozing vigor to solve rather than to acknowledge the unsolvable to the extent that gridlock becomes an ayurnamat. This is why we witness a floundered perspective of slugabed deliberation contending with peremptory decisiveness verging on a saturnalia of syntax of cotqueans borrowing odium from plucky viragos because the snailed uncial crackjaw dynamics of the unfettered cyanotype for the dashpots of brittle absolution of the slowpoke substance of elevated debate provoke the ornery miscegenation of a hyped fluidity that stagnates rather than prolongs the integral linchpins of the maieutic capacity rather than the redress of incontinence only valorous by the ommateum of the owners of folly. So if outpaced by the cyprian flourish of cursory rhetoric carping on melodies of transparent rapture personified in an intellectual composite, I retain the art of flayed delamination clavigerous--only because of the heist of smoldered efflorescence—because the centered pivot of demegorics is a travesty of monument men relaying variable scaldabancos against modish artifice itself (often without even realizing the circular irony of such endeavors) because the fervor of snappy sizzle disembrangles the intorted ego from reckoning the drollery of the obtuse only to the mutiny of superlative acuity by surgical strokes to convalesce on dittology to reprove even the deftest articulations because of the prerogatives of the uncharted game that is never the behest of lifeless taxidermies of regelation.
    Ultimately the summit of the calculus of all human endeavor is outfoxed by the rapacity of erratic successive spurts of upheaval which can be forestalled by degrees of institutional prescience formed by cryptodynamic enigmas lurking in the troves of myth but the financial calamities we are witnessing are but the byproduct  of rabid scavengers feasting on restive panic rather than the inevitable degringolade of swollen tribunes steamy with an upbeat verve becoming vitiated by programmed incontinence. So what should we do with this crafty rejoinder to a variety of modern checkered quandaries and the skeumorphs of speculation? We should inquire to the utmost capacity to outlast the overhang of aleatory vicissitude and await optimal conditions stipulated by the constellation of veridical information rather than lean on inclement windlass of instinctive gambles predicated on specious fatalism or the contingent backfire of the ruinous roulette of exotic fanfare that shepherds the purblind into mundane degrees of perdition while the chary parlay their Ten Minas into a bonanza by decisive grit.

Wretched insects crawl across my frail skin,
Though the sensation proves to be phantom.
I lacerate my sanity, worn thin,
And gaze in horror at what I've become.

I ferociously claw at the slightest
Hint of a pest gnawing adamantly
At my many sensitive nerve endings--
I know I'm not thinking rationally.

Usually, I lead myself to believe
That outside sources are the root of these
Unsettling woes and disturbances,
But I plainly see the true circumstance--

It's only cruel trickery I create,
Fretful byproducts of my mind's poor state.

My Mind stuck in an infinite paradox
    Zen like nothingness
An endless duality of beauty and death
Anger fills the voids between ***** of energy resonating love

Strikes of lightning fly past; fleeting passions of my life ride with them into the unknown results of future and past.

Im recognizing these thoughts as not my own.
Byproducts from chemical initiation and social engagement.

The only thing is that these thoughts are parts of me, past and future.
I keep wanting to live in the here and now but
my own here and now has to be so concerned with
the tomorrow and yesterday that he doesnt know where he is in time.

dont buy vaginal products made with vaginal byproducts

if only it were a presupposition,
chicken and the egg,
i before the thought...
some say art and squiggly wriggly,
some say philosophy and crosswords
and establishing a rigid,
unmoveable vocabulary,
contending with: what if
the toils of Sisyphus were marred
by a ultra static boulder?
the toils of thought are hardly
the joys of rest, with authentic earning,
from physical labour,
but since the persistence of
slavery, the butterfly and the tornado...
i have to concede to the notion
of a vanity project...
         the proposition rests though
on cogito pre sum, non ergo...
not from a drop of rain
ever came a hurricane...
    wishful thinking...
    cogitatio est non ad continuum...
organic chemistry,
and the zenith of gastronomy...
because what is Roman bulimia?
men aside, boys and tiger moms...
came the leash an the gorilla
doubled-up on ape **** bonkers...
no Ottoman barber: nothing but
a mohican for: moi!
the comforts of a pension,
the doubled comforts of
the ***** and zizzy tele viz.
shtatwick 5pm Sunday bollocking
of: finally! the Everest of all things
                 mundane!
but it's not art when I say
that the proposition:
       I think, I doubt... I am...
counter?
   I think, I deny... others are...
    i "love"...
mizaru, kikazaru... iwazaru...
came a rigid vocabulary,
     strict and bite whipping
off of a cane...
                     yet the hot air balloon
terminology...
liberal this, conservative that...
hello my name if Bob...
  how did the world suddenly become
focused on a footnote
from the introduction
to Nietzsche's: human, all too human?
i. e.:
             the excavating proposition
aligns a precursor (thought)
with a cursor (probesein... statischsein),
yet the libra of extricates
lays foundation on:
    a cursor, without an authenticity
of a pre-cursor...
or rather, th cursor curates
stasis, rather than vehemence
of a said, definition ascribed to its
propagation...
potocznie:
when people say they are liberals,
or conservatives,
they do not express a thought
designated to satisfying an observable
liberal / conservative...
a mistrust in political agents
has become translated into
a mistrust of media agents...
and as such, both are byproducts
of a thespian over-saturation,
a mob-pop mono-kultur...
               sentences become like crosswords
when a rigid vocabulary is found...
the dust already settles,
on the rigidity of:
not the nostalgia of a time,
but that,  of a... naive idea...
counter to the delusion...
that the ontology of man...
is trans stasis...
                  as a proposition, within
the framework of the collected
arithmetic of ergo....
   cogito comes prior to sum...
         ergo, id est: subsequently....
but as a preposition...
      ▪cogito *** sum...
      thought comes *with being,
in that the simultaneousness is
intra-changeable...
    mutually exclusive...
                  rather than inter-dependent...
mutually inclusive...
   for all the artists...
and why would I suddenly
write you a Slaughterhouse 5...
   had I not stuck to the complexity
of chemistry, allowing myself
the remnant of humanity in me,
to say: and this is how you think
about stupid ****,
rather than do, even more, stupid ****?
and to think,
close proximity wording,
Heidegger, german existentialism
above the french,
and... whatever the hell
the anglo-impetus implies...
          chiselling at Chiswick
a prefix battling over milimetres
of meaning...
     told apart...
                luckily with
hard copies of books...
  people don't have the audacity
to leave comments...
      unless other the phone,
and not anonymous...
perhaps as members of a book club...
   the best introduction to philosophy
still resides with Bertrand Russell's...
let's face it...
   the man died with
the sort of schoolboy stamina
to regurgitate.