From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine.

At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal.
It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds)

A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators.

I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success.

However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative.

A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message;
Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages.

To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past!
Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors!

Purcy Flaherty.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 28, 2015)

The urge to do the opposite of what someone wants you to do out of a need to resist a perceived attempt to constrain your freedom of choice.

Devaluing proposals only because they are purportedly originated with an adversary.


Adversaries: we imagine them up
like dime store villains. The heroic "I"
discharging bullets at the caprock
until a quake tips the mudslide.
This is what we say when we say
the hero and the villain are one.
Violence is just or unjust;
the hangman is the madman.

Depends upon who holds the axe.
Depends on our reckoning
of your freedom and any estimations
on mine. There is no reason to it.
Only rationales and riots of biases,
sentiments knotted up in the noose,
the ethical choker worn to glisten
in the pageant, worn to crucify,
worn to suffocate.

Somewhere in the past
you were deeply affected within your interaction
with one of my accounts.  I don't know who you are
(who the person is that is leaving tangible fingerprints
on the keyboard of this account I am speaking to)..
I can only guess,
but I am fairly sure that my guess is accurate,
     so I will keep all of that to myself,
so that you can freely and without fear of being found out,
go back with me to that place inside of yourself  that felt so well
met and seen back then.

In turn, no more *******, devaluing of love
the way that you do so often at close range.

If you pull that horrendously harmful **** again,
I will pull away again, but this time.. never come back.
That being said, I will not leave you hanging,
(or do my best to not to)  
if you bring  towards me  the need within you..
that through your memory,

you so well believe that I can satisfy
(and you already know that I am not talking about the ******).


You feel the deep, internal response--
from deep within that body of yours,  
when love warmly touches  
previously untouched places within you

And you spin them out publicly right in the midst of our
closeness of interaction (which I think is really cool),
just please don't flay me for showing my humanity
by responding back to you sexually.
I will keep that side to myself,  if that is what it takes
to keep you from throwing me under the bus, yet again.
The ****** (within the closeness of warm, loving connection) --
((even in the world of support..))
that very sensuality so perfectly parallels..  
through physical, tangibly-felt metaphor..
all that there is also within the Realms
when it comes to the spiritual.

Healing of that which has become broken by the fallen
******-up version of love this world brings--
that type of healing and restoration back into wholeness
is what all relational closeness is meant to bring,  and stand for.
You want something that you deeply believe that I have,  
yet somewhere..   maybe in another life..
I must have hurt you deeply,
or you wouldn't be sending  all these finger-puppet forays
my way.

Come and get what you want and need,
and if you believe I am shorting you your rightful blessing  
by missing it..   or simply just being generically stupid,
then instead of flaying me publicly,  
privately come to me  in boldness,
   and shake it out of me--
that which is rightfully yours-- my healing-response.

and do it brazenly,  with a fierce, yet open and vulnerable heart
the way that you have shown in your poems. Maybe in time
you will find out all on your own  
that what you thought was hurtful from me,  was felt
out of perception,  rather than what was actual.
If I really did do something,  tell me what it is
so that I can own up to it and tell you that I am sorry
for ******* everything up that way..
if, in fact.. it was something I really did.

I will only talk to you  from here (my M Vogel account)
so that you can rise and fall
concerning what things you need most from me,  
solely

by the responsibility of you,
and of me.

You already know that I am Paul.
You can call me that,  or M Vogel,
or stupidface..
or any of my other account names if you want,
but get inside of here with me what it is that you came for.

If it is something that I am able to give or be a part of..
then know it will become yours  in time.
  You have the ability..
    even though being spoken to this way
    both wildly turns you on
    and completely scares you shitless
    (and probably both at the same time)
you have  proven,  through your posted words  
that you are actually able to be a part of   and do,
what has for so long  felt so horribly distant from you,
   and so horrendously impossible for you to attain.
You have earned every single part of this very rightful place
that you now have in here with me.

Please don't stupidly **** it up the way that you so well
and so often do.
You are brilliant, girl. We both know that.
Stupid things are possible because your world has had learn
to be so incredibly indirect in order to survive.
What has saved you up until now,  out there..
will destroy everything for you,   in here.
But you are human, and rendering old things   dead
may be too much to ask for.. so I will tell you now--

that even  if within your broken, PTSD-filter--
you make a mess of the closeness--  at close range..
then with poetry, find your way back into my heart--
by speaking solely from yours  as you have.
**** me over too insincerely and callously  without remorse,
and you yourself will have stolen  you--  directly from
that of the deepest of places within my own heart.

Your call, kid..
You are not a little 14 year old  clad in combat boots anymore.
Yours is a living, breathing heart--
left withering  within the dry desert of indirectness
that you have  been forced up until now  to live in.

Every single day the sun comes up, anew. Those words mean
everything to you for a reason.
Through love and accountability,  breathe life in to them.

That is how you will make them real.

Don’t use that word
that loveless, cheap hotel card with that sham of a fine print
don’t ignite my wrath
by devaluing it’s worth, or even giving it power
ignore it’s event like I do
a purity ring
a shackled serf
don’t cheapen my experience with your experience
of what is mine
don’t touch me
swallow me whole
engross me, emboss yourself into my body
don’t touch me
don’t even bring yourself to touch me
I've been rattled out of my lithe little girl's ribcage
child's innocence
shaken out of my hair
I've been mauled by foreign hands
I've been contained by religious crusaders
I've been trampled by meaning
I've been impaled by silence
I've been wretched from love
I've been stolen by hades
I've become the defining moment of your ego's shameless pride
my meaning has been baffled
it has been led
it has dived instead
to the groves of the underworld
divided in two parts for this equinox of existence
my child’s fingers
pried, wretched, from its golden enlightenment
pulled
by the untouch
and the wrong touch
the false meaning
and the absent truth
I am a survivor
I am my own caged victim
I keep her in my stomach
hidden behind my intestines
immersed in my guts
and my bruised pride
that is where I keep her
from you
and the sensations you evoke
the feeling that rattles my nerves
and twists them in confusion
I don’t want to hear your caricature
of my painful soul twisting experience
or HERS
I am enraged!
I am grieving!
I am rejecting!
I am pleading!
I am split from the genitalia up
and the heart down
DONT REMIND ME
please don’t send me into Vietnam
when I am simply relaxing my levied body into your bed
I haven’t the control
PUSH, PUSH, PUSH
PULL, PULL, PULL
SEVER, SEVER
they send me out
he pulls me in
I send me out
I hope to be tugged gently somewhere far away
different from here
in hopes of a real man
a saintly man, devoid of churchly meaning
and satanic undertaking
to embrace me while my fractures are filled
with porcelain
comfort me in my tears
with your humble arms, hands, thumbs
I’ve lived nightmares
that can’t even be rendered from medieval children’s stories
I am under constant running faucets of pain
I am the active participant in my own narcosis
the sound of screaming children sends me into rooms of interrogation
into a meaning of my own
the death of the world’s morality
sends me into spiraling questions of my own
I am sweating from my own polygraph
I am juggling an urge for a spiritual and triumphant out of place uproar
in a quiet, unassuming, un-related home
I am running barefoot after the stars
until my heart hemorrhages
until my lungs collapse
until my feet are caked with sharp rocks
until these rivers from my eyes run cracked dry
tears pooled from somewhere so deep and treacherous
I dont even know where the water is kept
even with my own fingers in the dam
I trust not the water of prisons
I cannot come within proximity of these wound
You slaughterer of divine innocence
You godless heathen
sacrificing the bodies of small celestial creatures
at the bonfire of your debauched and putrid humanity
you thief of love and light
of trust
and connection
I cannot bring myself into the inner reaches of love for fear of the inner reaches of you
I am reverted to the first thought to imprint upon my soft mind
the soft mind of a small and unsupervised animal
but I can only touch it with my lips and my imagination
unable to bring it behind my mouth
for what pain it has caused me
what paralysis it wrought into me
In my quiet, exhausted body
as it's administered to
in its aloofness
by my own lovely composure of compassion
in it's illuminated internal insight
flittering trust in cosmic righteousness
do I also come to bolster faith
that this baser nature will one day be sanctified
like a burning house, full of plagued infested linen
de-shelved like memories of pain on loop
so myself and all the other victimized creatures can find rest upon thier weary eyelids

There's a little girl deep within my heart that sometimes never wants to leave the play ground.
as if I was Peter Pan in never land, I wish I could never land..
like a bird in the sky..I often wish I was one of them..
the way they openly spread their wings,
live in trees and soar in the clouds, glide with the wind and create rhythmic sounds...
The beautiful part is...you never see them too long on the ground...
see..there's fire on earth blazing through these streets in the hands of the ***** white police.
Suppressing, attempting to frighten us rather than protect us.
My arms, Immensely breaks into sweat hoping their perception of me from the way I'm dressed or the color of my skin doesn't make me appear suspicious.
many men blazing out of mini vans blasting at innocent citizens.
The system doesn't know of love. All they know is war.
Bullet wounds creates scars that screams out
survival..violent, violence, for all the blacks that were victimized..
may we have a moment of silence?..
there's fire on earth blazing through the actions of the wealthy..
capitalist blatantly continuing to ****** the minds of the blind, appealing to humanities deprived fantasies to establish green funds
with bank accounts more bigger than their egos...
Now were Young Rich ****** attempting to live the lifestyle of to the Migos.
Using their greed of green to deceive & keep down my people..
There was a time when mainstream rap music was socially conscious..
consisting of young visionary artists When music came from the heart, enlightening, unity, cultural, empowerment, hope.
Now it's all about the dough, these Multi billion dollar corporate vultures are marketing rappers like chief keef
Devaluing the lives of black people for exchange for financial gain.
Dominating air waves with hate..
now were ski masking down the fast lane, rafts of shootings down the street, opening fire to one another, doing the job of the KKK.
When we invited that white man with a dog eat dog nature into Africa, he possessed a mentality to eat us away, now were possessing his same mentality today.
Now were hating ourselves and killing others.
Embrace your rich melanin..Love this...*points at black skin Love this.
the true present is this gift from God, not st Nicolas.
There is no American dream for me, there is only reality.
see, I unlocked through the chains of restriction and while fire burns through these streets to keep us down, fire slowly burns through these joints to keep me lifted, I inhale through these spliffs because they drift me to the road of freedom. I spread my wings, I fly soaring the skies without no fears...
when the smoke clears,
I find myself skating by the Lilly fields where the warm winds blow in hopes of running into a 4 leaf clover..
People staring as if Im An alien although I sometimes feel alienated living in this 20th century with 70s bohemian ways..
Im building blocks to reach greatness, I keep my head up & pray...
I'm learning Patience since even the great pyramids of Giza wasn't build in a day.
Still dreaming,
I untangled from these chains,
With the confidence of Harriet Tubman when she followed the north star, I am truly free.
Still dreaming...I proudly spread my wings..

sometimes you reveal a cognitive beehive, telegraphic notations: pleasing errors and a malignant internalisation of what democracy looks like in one man: voiceover canned laughter... i've only heard of two comedies without canned laughter - the royal family and the office... you know when you are permitted to laugh... rather than be fed the easiest way out... attributing a witty comedy with canned laughter devolves it from being a witty comedy... meaning mr. bean (jaś fasola, do re mi ti do) had more wit; because i want to laugh when i want to, not when i'm falsely told to as if i didn't understand the language i used and didn't find the canned laughter jokes utterly appealing to be unanimously convinced that they could take my stomach and put it on a torture rack of giggles.*

you have to turn into a child to decipher the patchwork of lies,
elijah had enough honour in him to have written
absolutely nothing, because he measured it out as:
they’re all trying to imitate moses’ style, and they’re
doing a very bad job at it,
my purely cognitive proof will send shivers down their spines:
and so it was.
the one thing that worries me about the greeks’ work
that’s the new testament, primarily...
the bit where judas becomes a slave dealer elevated from a thief...
so did jesus shave his beard off and cut his hair to roman standard
(short) that he, one of the most famous people at the time in judea
be so unrecognisable as to require judas kissing him?
what’s up with that? i’m sure that walking on water
and feeding five thousand strong with five loaves of bread
and two fish... you would make an indent in the public consciousness
and which would make you easily spotted... even in an age without
selfies and passports to identify you... so what’s up with that?
another thing (apart from the fact that i learned
that bottled beer tastes better than canned beer)
is this bit about elevating men above angels,
with angels in islamic theory being creatures without free will,
i.e. robots... which ensures man slaughters cherishing a day
of reflection (the sabbath), and engages in a 24 / 7 capacity
to trade goods...
the bit where gabriel answers the feminine aspect of translating
woman to man and man to woman... was muhammad a woman?
christianity gave us... for ****’s sake singing eunuchs...
worse still it turned grecian homosexuality into perversity...
choir boys got fingered by a priest... it turned homosexuality
into pedophilic homosexuality...
and you know that interest kant had at the beginning of his career
with the theme of swedenborg or hegel’s with böhme -
it’s tiresome, mysticism is, i mean you get man elevated
above angels / robots turning men into robots...
you get the wings of angels clipped...
you end up with men without testicles (bloodhound gang’s
pink floyd pantomime - all in all, you’re just another **** with
no *****)... then due to the wings being clipped
you get angels attributed the status of saint...
st. michael, e.g., st. raphael...
and you begin to wonder... what if devaluing angels to the status
of saints encouraged the complex schizophrenic dialogue of
mohammad’s revelation to reach into this pocket of logic
and denote him as the angel michael, the warring angel...
given the current implosion of islam into a warring reformation?
obviously it’s ridiculous for the humanist and what not
in attempts to appear cool... and in there in the secular realm
a clear voiceferous voice of conformity with scientific standards
upkept is like a tennins ball against a brick wall...
but philosophy begins in awe and ends in paradox...
you can turn into a clown once in a while and appear to weep
with a smiley face make-up...
the diacritic use in german polish swedish etc.
is a disease in english, with its diacritical nakedness...
it’s a negation of ease for one reason: c u l8tr -
what the hell is that? lol... liquidation of lombards?
very unsettling to say the least...
as much as the french antifix, for example
le alésoir - the affix is apparent because the “hyphen”
over the e  stressor is pointing east...
but an example where the “hyphen” over the e
points west... the thus mentioned e eats everything that
comes after, thus becoming an antifix, e.g. excè(s)
thus the use of diacritic marks also act as syllabled segregation
into compounds of timing pronunciation:
much more than the english expression of tomato
and the american expression of potato;
sub-refernce from the title: gnoch'e - imperfect,
no wonder dyslexia exists...
even though the majority of people are literate,
the pre-existent spelling complications still favour
those who invented them and subsequently allowed
the all-pervading literacy for pawns.

I will let you inside
Rent space in my head
and I'll take heed and make an attempt
To conquer whatever it is about me that you spend so much time devaluing
And when you're in there, would you kindly mind shutting off whatever longings and needs I may have
Just flip that switch and tie a rope to it that extends to a nail in the ground
And cancel whatever subscription I have to the "Pity Party" hotline
Make sure it is forwarded to you
For you deserve all the pity and sympathy for having to endure me
Go ahead and stab out whatever cortex may be responsible for my behavior towards you
**** it and bury it and don't be manipulated by it like you were in the past
Stuff me full of you-loving and you-respecting ingredients
Fashion me into the sort of a person you could love

Main road marked on all sides
By small shops
Vendors sell bananas
Banks are centralized and closed
No corporate vulture multinationals
Except the one I chose
To make a living representing
My empire’s softest power plays
The spending, buying, mass consuming,
Wifi access money maze
The neoliberal colonizing
Culture shocking tidal waves
Still ebbing in the rolling hills
And crashing in the daily pills
The vivid dreams dissolve and fade
Digesting final three square meals
And learning what it means to be
A self-sufficient person
Goods and services exchanged
At rates that make my head spin
Topsy turvy circuses
New temples to the excess gods
Converting them as we decline
To little more than human lives
Devaluing as dollar signs

Is it wrong for me to want to leave? Is it wrong for me to want to go to a technical college and get away from my family? To live in the dorms and study to become a video game designer? To become something I want? I live in a small town that is definitely not like the cities. It's slow and quiet here. However, I know that my desired profession requires me to get out of here, to leave. So instead of being an idiot, I'm planning on building independence. However, my family thinks it's stupid, why go to a technical college when I'm good where I'm at? Or at least that's what they say. I hate that no matter how many times I try, they want me to be something that I'm not. I can't deal with the stress of medical life, I know that I have no patience, I prefer to do something that I'm told, I don't have the smooth cunning of a lawyer or the nerves of steel like a police officer or marine. I love video games. I want to learn it and produce my own creative ideas. I have so many of them, they could even be bestsellers. I'm a procrastinator but if it's something that I'm interested in, I believe that I can finish it way before deadlines. I'm not one to go for the money. Frankly, I believe that if you're happy and you're always struggling, then you don't need anything else. I know it's a stupid fantasy to some but I want to live out my dreams. I told my family and all they do is look at me and say it's stupid. "Why don't you be a dentist?" "Be a doctor", "money is the important thing in life". I hate that. They are just trying to use me, I believe. It's always been that way. They only want to live off of my success, they never cared about my happiness. I know that nowadays it's different. I blame the government. I'm sorry but congress is borrowing too much money, our US dollar is devaluing and debt is growing. The world already knows this. We're being laughed at as we speak. I just want to live out a dream though. I want to be happy. So is it wrong to be happy? Is it even wrong to be me?

A resounding truth sticks to every wall,
Like meat on teeth, beneath.
Surfacing tragic like cyber sugar on the conscious,
Of every intelligent automaton.
Devaluing the humanity we created in sleep,
Harbouring our nylon smiles and effortless chaste.
Ripped flesh on creations, godlike
Burned images, sigil instilled in culture
Nocturnus, bleeding in harmony
Locomotion of self actualisation homunculus cured
Rid of transcendental elements at the first instance
Of empathy, drawn out in an empty tenure
Interlocking lines-moving, spread out against
Aluminium and glass, superseding the law of nature,
Bubbles, echoing through the apology of life
Bursting forthwith and raining bleach and decadence,
On delirious heads-boiled in sand for life eternal.
Your masquerade, a bloodline polluted
By perfumed green shading, eliminating the best
Carrion, complicated sadness, basic molecular print
Our progenitor, poster child for carbon-based reluctance.
Menial beings, occupying space to nowhere,
Hotel rooms full of dust,
Lying figures, tossing themselves on typewriters
Creating a kaleidoscope of prose.
Hands, arms & legs bound by penance,
And the delayed snot of the diseased
Winding amongst this polystyrene city.
Sunken into a cosmopolis refuse,
The anchor to all that is pure,
Heaven is your populace.
And your ego is the gel that destroys our relation.

Opening up choice, optional outlets
Voiced sections of our minds escaped
Safety was in silence; speech impeded
Powerful penned action leaves the
Skull to crack open thought processes

Others see into their minds by way of derivation
Interaction captured, swooping into bludgeon
Spat out red remarks dissolving us, turning over
The table of plenty and offending, devaluing self regard
Talking us out of being who we are....yet leaves

Replaying the turntable of our minds
Rinsed out mouths might penetrate the circle of
Tight lips, forced shut by silent expectation
Fear and squirming ruling our fingertips, wrapping
Knuckles pressed firmly to the flesh of repression

Gold dust sprinkles the high life, cuts short the
Intrinsic pain, lends a hand in the greedy depths
Of finding a way through the webs of sarcasm
The veiling pretence is insidious in flavour
Tastes sweet to the tongue, once swallowed... too late

This disorder is characterized by three or more of the following symptoms:

1. Odd appearance or behavior.
2. Peculiar coping mechanisms that do not seem to follow any logical train of thought.
3. Fumbling with language to the point of gross disorganization.
4. Odd perceptions that can range from illusions to hallucinations.
5. Strange beliefs that fluctuate wildly depending on context.
6. Wildly wavering opinions on others -- that is, a fluctuation between idealizing and devaluing people.

These symptoms must cause some sort of impairment in everyday functioning, social skills, and workplace skills.

Its ironic how a particular race
can be hold in captivity & *******
Untill they demand a fair share
of this Elusive freedom.....
"black lives matter"
As if they ought to beg their slave
masters the right to live,
Fret not oh poor slaves
Freedom can't be won through
the Ballot or street Demo's,
trade your Ballot for Bullets
Coz History can attest to this fact
& only provides the story of a contest
between Good & Evil & The
Protagonist of each side.
Truth is FRIGHTENING even to ourselves
but without pain there is no Gain
Loose me down from the chains
of Devaluing education,
Seducing images & negative societal statistics that entraps
the Wretched Black inside of me..

*******.

No really, *******.

**** your violence.

**** your racism.

**** your climate change denial.

**** your corruption.

**** your too big to fail.

**** your marketing.

**** your advertising.

******* for forgetting knowledge and wisdom are different things.

**** your insistence on presenting a black and white world.

**** your borders.

**** your wars.

**** your crumbling infrastructure.

**** your education system.

**** your health care.

**** your inequality.

******* for devaluing the tangible.

******* for forgetting art and music and poetry matter.  

******* for confusing value and profit.

******* for leaving so many behind.

******* for poisoning our planet.

******* for allowing oil to spill into our oceans over and over and over again.

Seriously, *******.

Get your ******* **** together.

****.

The difference between us
Is seen as
What keeps us
Divided, united
And trying to hide it
With notions of sameness
Partitioned in races
And paychecks to rub it in
Spite-her-nose faces
Despite whether on
The excesses of luxury
Porcelain thrones
Do we trickle down waste
Upon those without homes
Or we find ourselves
One of the billion
Have nots
Minding only our businesses,
Tending our crops
We depend on it always to be there
To make
Livings off of
These lands,
As their claimants we stake
And it takes us a lifetime
Of filling it with
Any worth we convert
To devaluing it
But in each of us lies
An identical pit
Of despair in disparity's
Wealthy abyss

Let us go a little mad!
If we try real hard I know we can!
Let’s not worry about what people think,
We’ll go bananas in a blink!

No more scrolling for what we need,
Or cave into another drink.
All that liquid dulls the senses.
When you’re insane the world is endless!

Let’s say what we really think,
Not be afraid of things hard to admit.
Degrade yourself for what, for whom?
Your ****** beautiful, you know it too!

Yes it’s fear that holds you back,
Your past, your story, you’re better than that.
Who you want to be,  that is your truth
And I’m crazy enough to believe in you!

Am I mad we so easily replace
One with another during a Netflix break?
If chilling is devaluing the human spirit,
How empty are we to need **** to fill it?

I’m not getting really riled,
So let’s go bon voyage awhile,
And not judge all the locals there,
You know, they too feel love and fear?

Now we’re lost in a nice direction,
We’ll stop using ‘hate’ in every sentence
I hate paedophiles and domestic violence
I don’t hate using an iPhone 7

Now we’re madly - I feel a-brewing,
Opinions based on fact reviewing
When emotions feel a little ticking,
Don’t buy that (blipping blip) they’re spewing.

Congrats! We’re seeping deep into nuts.
We COULD argue about funding cuts,
Or join the game of hide and seek with homeless/addicts/single mums.
OH! Using our imagination’s fun!

But in our little game of mad, we whisper
SHHH! 14 eyes will see the picture
No name, no phone, just disappear
I must be bonkers, a secret system!?

A game for friends and friends of friends
What a wonderful world when off your meds
When everyone is kept in a tidy pile
We can jump and stomp, kick leaves for miles!

Now I’m getting upset it’s blowing
The wind picked up and the rains are flowing
The little pile was so connected
They fight, the leaves for the nicest spot -  but in the end they fall, they wither and then they rot.

Some are pretty, some provide shade
But this pile seems to body shame.
If each think spring is unique to them,
the part they play will fall away.

I know that I’m most certainly deranged.
Some of these leaves, want weeds to spray.
All this trunk and extended roots,
They think this won’t affect them too?

I’ve had enough fun for today
Playing mad is a scary game
I need a joint, beer, some time to pray
Some pills, some sleep and don’t ask again.

Once shy and timid,
Afraid to speak,
Thinking they won’t like me.
They won’t hear what I have to say,
They won’t understand,
How can they?
Till one day,
She was forced to speak up,
To raise the voice she had been smothering.
And soon…
She learned to be loud and proud.
She found her voice,
And used it as a weapon
Against everything she saw wrong.
And everything that had been used against her…
Like why do people have to put others down,
Just to feel good about themselves?
And why do we hate each other so?
So, she preached love,
She screamed for hope.
She spun her words so carefully,
She wanted them to sound just right,
So maybe you won’t tune her out,
But listen!
She wanted to change their hearts,
To give them a new place to start.
She had a vision,
That maybe someday,
We would learn to love one another,
Instead of devaluing our brothers and our sisters.
Maybe…someday.
So, she put her pen down to the paper
And never looked back!
She wrote and scribbled down each thought,
Hoping when you read them,
You would feel something.
Tell me,
Do you feel?
Can you get on my level?
You can do the same thing,
You just gotta want to change the world,
One heart, one mind at a time!

the following disambiguation debate,
relegating orthography toward the status of
"diacritical" aesthetic -
    and diacritic use, per se:

psiór vs.
                       pśιór debate;

the word in bold just denotes: a dog.

we all know that there are two letters
in the english language, that have been
***** diacritically - name iota:
for j is usually confused with y,
in that piquant sense of differentiation:
yap *** - yapping - jaw mongering?
          
every area of interests has its cul de sac,
its brick-wall, a dead-end as it were,
a point where transcendence is
welcomed, unavoidable,
but nonetheless: miserably stalled.

philosophers have the cartesian
   *cogito ergo sum -
whatever arithmetic of wording
they produce, not even samson
could topple this pillar of foundation
for the temple of thought.

the same is with my example...
it would appear that the diacritical
**** of ι with a floating head i
did not translate further, beyond
the same treatment of yot (j) -
gee a jeep! yodh: serif (י) and
rashi -

yet by oath alone, hebrew orthography
invokes itself in letters...
unlike the post-roman orthography
of words... the "compass"

                   ι    י      
                      Y         (    .    )
                      ي

                            ­        floating alongside
e...

         if only the greek sigma
   had the tetragrammaton of the arabic "ι" -
the initial σ (يـ‎) & the final ς (ـي) are
indeed there, but what of the isolated
(ي‎) & the medial (ـيـ‎)?  
             unless of course
                        we treat to invoke the
upper-case: Σ - such as is missing in arabic,
and is only a question of: how much
the prolonged line?

   it still begs the question,
if the element of diacritical use is lost
upon the iota...
                   can there be an orthographic
"beauty is in the eye of the beholder"
change in the aesthetic of applicable
diacritical markings?

  the debate is rather simple:

  either decapitate the unnecessary head off
the iota: or keep it,

        psiór        vs.
                               ­           pśιór

because it within the eye of the beholder
at this point...
           it's not that hard to confuse
J with Y, and give rise to the christian endeavour:
son before the father, father within the son,
and the congregating, willing to enforce
   a fake billion, unlike the tight-knit chinese...

you do the math... a billion, but at what expense /
expanse of territory?
                      look where the true billionth is:
a tiny land area by comparison...
  you **** the letter iota:
and then morph a yod into a J,
while engaging in ancient mutational
permutations of "radioactive" goo,
i.e. γΥ -
                       yeah yeah yeah,
  vs. rastafarian jah jah, jah... wait for it:
oh **** me: ha ha!
    
in english, the philosophical cul de sac
is the missing diacritical markings...
  english, without diacritical invitation:
has, absolutely, no, concept, of, orthography...

sure... that's why its hell-bent on metaphysics,
esp. populist metaphysics akin to
the matrix trinity of movies:
              they always jump to the conclusions
concerning the nature of "reality"...
  which you can understand,
given that they have no idea within
the confines of considering orthography...
it's alien to them...
     **** knows what the para- prefix could
show us...
                        ok ok... we already know
the joke by alfred jarry in
the exploits of dr. faustrool -
with his "witty" invention of
                 pataphysics -
                i swear this french dwarf inveted
the spaghetti (string) theory with
that mutation of the prefix ascribed locality
on the beneze ring, i.e. how para- became pata-.
whatever...
  
but without a concept of diacritical
appropriation,
   you are only left with an endeavour into
into metaphysics...
   and never minding the mediating
dogma / fancy of orthography...
                        
     oh well... that's the english language for you...

god i love being a pompous *******,
who knows english better than the natives;
not that i have an elevated sense of worth
because of this,
  only that i appreciate the sense
of devaluing the origins of: said speech:
as if to take out a whip,
    and whip the lazy *******
                       on into the slaughterhouse!

An end to the narcissistic pandemic
the virus traveling through minds by spending time brooding and breeding
conjugal visits in the prison of our beliefs
momentary reprief, no release
cyclical values of devaluing Self
A false step makes a false thought and false words fall out
unbridled contagion in a naricisstic hive mind
spreading with allowance and acceptance
a lie brought close and held most dear.
It's not death, but life they fear.
A life without limitation, full of imagination,
reciprocal validation as life begets life
A seed planted deep in the mud
gathering sun and rain and earth into its heart
moving out in steady and even increments
The most contagious of ailments
Nearly 8 billion people full of life
full of breath and grown like a seed from the mud
trying so hard to stop the burning star they are
Failing every day as they breathe and be
All the beliefs and all the wrongdoing
can't stop them from living
can't stop life from living without them
One way or another, an end to the narcissistic pandemic

Poetry has well thought out a collection of words. To articulate, perhaps the metaphysical essence inside of us all. Short impulse drops of wisdom. To comfort us, as either read or write. That internal voice or maybe a poet is someone with something to say, just no one in their life to tell. Poets are either deep thinkers who cannot write out or simply doesn’t have the patience to write philosophy, romantics without lovers or have, but no soulmate, maybe just physically formed anxiety. Regardless what makes up a poet, where few had any fame and if they have, it’s normally skewed and absurd. Poets had and still do contribute a large part to humanity and have nearly the same duration of history as humanity itself has. Here is a spontaneous stream of thoughts on poetry. For me, in modern times, poetry is a high taste in high art for people in high culture, like the theatre, ballet, and classical music. A snob overtone in terms of the audience. Despite the aesthetics of it all or the poetry for the rebels and the poems full of hatred towards parts of life and humanity, constructing words of resentment, in order to master than mood.

A common trait that I hold in terms of my friends who are interested in poetry, in particular, my male friends. Is that at one point experienced an intense boyish love towards a female they knew or know in their life. It’s normally a strong take to the lust that is veiled as a fairytale. Turning to poetry to have words to say or in hope to impress them. In most cases, it’s failed. And yes, I became interested in poetry for these same reasons. If you asked Bill, ‘It’s better to love and lost than to never had loved at all’, ‘I cried because I was full of dead stars and broken debris, but you still called me beautiful.’ As Catherine Hancock would say. I’m a firm believer as far as my convictions would take me to, that only hopeless romantics die of a broken heart and that true real love that poets make a big deal about, delivers a particular horror to the human soul, devaluing anything earthly. Romance in novels, romance in poetry, love. Seems to be the constant and strongest theme in literature. But it’s an experience most of us desire for. Even in the world of philosophy itself have discussed this. A sentimental fact of mine, I do believe that each of us has a soulmate in this lifetime, that isn’t a deity or character in those romance novels. A particular person that is personalized made for us. A soulmate to experience life and love with, while knowing the meaning is in the other person that brings in contentment. And one’s own destiny lay’s solely in their attention given to you, while a hell of angst, breaking down your soul experiences when their attention is turned away. Know this now that the smile on your face, knowing that you are blessed to be somebody, and that is you are a soulmate yourself for somebody else on this earth. It’s an Angel singing when you know love inside. Brave to follow it through and unforgivable if you don’t.

Poetry is equipment of living for the living, while praises praise for the dead and a craft to help shape genius while they are here. Freedom or an attempt to touch it, poetry is. Comfort for introverts in isolation. Silence in their mouths. While others cannot shut up. Another firm belief I  have in poetry (perhaps all parts of literature), for poets and readers, is that one group of people have something to say, while the others don’t and are happy to listen. In the realm of poetry (and literature) a collection of the lonely.  I'll quote Ibsen, "The strongest men are the most alone." Or maybe, “All I ever wanted was to reach out and touch another human being not just with my hands but with my heart.” Said by Tahereh Mafi. I hard music is what emotion sounds like, perhaps poetry is what emotion would say if it’s mixed in with thinking. Poetry for comfort in isolation, words as friends and words to cure the physical separation from society while dwelling amongst them all, perhaps poets suffer from such grief in knowing how brief this life is and undergo such a transformation that parts them from everyone. Like the heart of life. Maybe it’s them is unwanted. Pulling up reality and dressing their character with it. Unable to contain it and they vent in words of potent beauty. No one likes the harshness of life and poetry is stranded in that realm. And if I’m dying today, let me die original and society is no service if fails of it’s grappling with those who cannot face away from reality. I’m the younger, ready to put in my time.

Maybe poetry is a way to confront death because we have definitely have sinned, like the monks who follow Buddha, leading the wild ways of the hearts of humanity. It’s a sad life that avoids death. I wish to be in a state crossing over that is in poetically articulated as Atticus wrote, ‘I hope that I arrive at my death, late, in love, and a little drunk’. In the unknown is the fear of death. To inspire me now is in reading Marcus Aurelius, ‘Do not fear death, for it’s definite, fear rather than never beginning to live one’s own life’. In a humanist point of view, perhaps there is no ethical reason to die or on how to. Like in music, poetry is here to ease everything while putting in words in tongues to articulate such fears in dying. A person's metaphysical state lives on after the physical act of dying, in such ways as memory, paintings, photography and reading poems by past poets. So far, the overwhelming held belief in life after death is either peace in Heaven, suffering in Hell or reincarnation. Perhaps resurrection. Heidegger the German philosopher, despite his writings, another point of his fame is in the translations of his works. But in his book, ‘Being & Time’, there is no reference to and of God (yes, the same of Satan). Heidegger’s analysis of death is not concerned with how people feel when they are about to die nor with death as a biological event. Its focus is on the existential significance which this certain ‘yet-to-come’ death has to human life. The use of poetry for death, I’ll leave these words that poetry can be used as a personal statement, like the rapper 2pac, ‘if I shall die before I wake. I hope I died for a purpose.’ Providing one to motivate to live now and live over purpose. Poetry can pay homage to lost ones to death, writing lines on what they meant. And if asked about the sadness of losing peers and family, ‘regret is powerful’. Or perhaps poetry can express hopes to the afterlife, whether it’s in either Heaven or Hell, maybe it is only the bleak numbness of nothingness. But still, poetry bangs out more than street fame. Though death happens, currently it has nothing to do with us, for one will die one day.
(Checkout current publications on Amazon)

A good lover, is a brief moment in time. The perfect
one, is cut off in this life, because once sparked.
Like a star, enslaved chains. Always on the chase.
Maybe I’m naive on my find for love. At least in
the process I found poetry, to comfort my bitter
and warm tears, I always end up, alone while
I cry. And if the dead could talk, I wonder what
they’ll be screaming about? Soulmates shouldn't
be in some novel, parallel universe, dreams
or wishes. They all belong in each other’s life,
instantly devaluing poetry and any romantic art.
In a world where affection is constant and growing,
with every-sound, just another love song in ode
and homage. Wake up, you don’t have to run,
you don’t hide, just cave in

sometimes i wonder when you
started the process of devaluing me
it was subtle, starting with little things
"you don't touch me enough"
so i start to touch you more,
show you more that i care
then it evolved into
"you're not goth enough,
not funny enough,
you don't do enough for me,
you don't go out enough"
more and more it continued
"you don't tease me enough"
and i realized that this was
never a relationship
i was something safe,
that would give you attention,
love, and a place away from your
sisters to stay.
in the beginning you were so charming,
considerate, taking time to learn about me
as i did the same
going on trips and being told
that i was the first person that you said you loved
in three years
but then i remember little conversations
you told your ex best friend before you met me
that you love them.
i wonder now, if anything you said
was real
or was it all a ploy to get something you wanted
easy access to a supply of love and *** and attention.
i remember feeling like i
was going crazy because you would
tell me things didn't happen that way
or tell me i said something when i knew
i didn't. i thought it was my fault
that i was somehow gaslighting you
and didn't realize it.
but now i see the truth of the matter,
and why you didn't want to work on the relationship.
i was given an ultimatum of having to get
therapy or you will leave, but when i asked if you would ever go back
you said you didn't need it.
after four years of trying so hard
to be there for you, to help you
thinking that you would do the same for me
i know now that you didn't have a connection with me.
already you're with someone new,
just a few months after leaving me.
i saw you without your mask for the first time
clearly i could see you for who you are
scared, insecure, pushing people away before
they realize what you're doing.
i still have so much compassion for you despite it all.
after everything i love you unconditionally,
and i believe it is what you have wanted from me all along.
to be wanted in the background, so that when you
grow bored of new people
you can come back to me as if nothing happened.
i only wish the best for you,
to live a life with ease and to be happy
but i feel like you will continue this pattern
with so many after me
just like you did before me.

NOTE:
Groups with shared interests.
Individuals (possible targets) who threaten those groups in some way.

**********
A racist White family of CROOKS broke into our Flat and stole
this after extorting money from us because both my wife and i work
when we stopped giving them money and food stuff
they decided this was because we are greedy.
they called in their fellow racist friends
they called in the local socialists
who decided we are indeed greedy
and also Tories for we are clean, law-abiding and have work ethics
**********

NOTE:
The group with shared interests ganging up against that person. The group thus becomes the mobbing perpetrator team.
***********

Chris, the Mother of the Criminal Family, Other white racist Friends, the local socialists and various fooled, intimidated, coerced
or blackmailed assortments joined up.
A Hate and Criminal gangstalking Campaign is launched
************

NOTE:
Usually a main instigator or a small group of instigators among the perpetrator team
*************

Chris, Joan, Tom, Kelly, Linda, Cindy, Bill, The Thomases, Mrs Withers, Mr Bing....the local Care-taker
*************

NOTE:
A shift of focus from what targets said or did that threaten the group, to devaluing targets as persons as a strategy to suppress them, taking away their power
*************

We suddenly became the arrogant greedy Black couple who
insulted the working classes and took food from children mouths
we were hoity toity grasses, who threatened poor starving people
I was a monster who commits domestic abuse, I was a greedy pig
I was an animal, wild and dangerous, I was made a demon
*************

NOTE:
An aim to discredit and/or destroy the target's reputation, often persistently monitoring them to find ever more information for this purpose
**************

They declared I was doomed, Character assignation, public humiliation, we will ruin your lives, they shouted.
We will make you wish you were dead, we will make your lives living Hell, we will drive you to suicide, they crowed
**************

NOTE:
Coor­dination of the group's activities against targets
Character Assassination: accusations, Lies, Rumors, Bogus investigations, Setups, Framing, False cover stories, Bogus evidence
Cyber stalking: attacks through internet, multiple perpetrators
Emotional terror: From other tactics listed
Intimidation: Overt or covert threats, from tactics, Vandalism, Thefts, Sabotage
Misdirection: A wrong or incorrect direction, guidance, or instruction.
Mimicry: The action or art of imitating someone or something, typically in order to entertain or ridicule.
Mobbing: In the context of human beings, means bullying of an individual by a group, in any context, such as peer group, school, workplace, neighborhood, community, or online.
Persistence is the key is the buzz-word, Democracy is the hook
Solidarity is the umbrella to justify mobbing an innocent victim.
*************

NOTE:
Persi­stent attacks by the perpetrator team against targets to continually devalue them
*************

Creating staged happenstance and  Using events unfolding in my personal life that fed to cult-members and fooled recruits racist crooks and the socialist warriors, they relentlessly try to project upon me negative emotions such as fear, shame & hopelessness

When the Mind is Blind, The eyes cannot See



******************­******

You can’t do wrong and get by,
No matter how much you may try;
Nothing hidden can be, everything He doth see,
You can’t do wrong and get by.

Out into the darkness you alone may go,
And seeds for the wicked one sow;
There’s an eye that’s watching from the throne on high,
You can’t do wrong and get by.

Yes, He knows your secrets, everything you do,
He knows that your life is untrue;
You can ne’er deceive Him, there’s no use to try,
You can’t do wrong and get by.

To have mixed emotions all of the time isn't fun. In fact it's ******* exhausting. To have a reason for all mixed emotions combinations is like having a code written on your wrist in permanent ink. It never fades away. It's constant depression mixed with a lot of overthinking.
It's being happy at one moment and sad the next. Or angry one moment and laughing at a meme the next. To say that I am always depressed isn't accurate. In fact that makes me want to punch someone for the devaluing of my other emotions. Yes I am emotional but I have also felt emotionless. Both is its own story. I just choose to live with it.

Somewhere in the past,
you were deeply affected within your interaction
with one of my accounts.  I don't know who you are
(who the person is that is leaving tangible fingerprints
on the keyboard of this account I am speaking to)..
I can only guess,
but I am fairly sure that my guess is accurate,
     so I will keep all of that to myself,
so that you can freely and without fear of being found out,
go back with me to that place inside of yourself  that felt so well
met and seen back then.

In turn, no more *******, devaluing of love
the way that you do so often at close range.

If you pull that horrendously harmful **** again,
I will pull away again, but this time.. never come back.
That being said, I will not leave you hanging,
(or do my best to not to)  
if you bring  towards me  the need within you..
that through your memory,

you so well believe that I can satisfy
(and you already know that I am not talking about the ******).


You feel the deep, internal response--
from deep within that body of yours,  
when love warmly touches  
previously untouched places within you

And you spin them out publicly right in the midst of our
closeness of interaction (which I think is really cool),
just please don't flay me for showing my humanity
by responding back to you sexually.
I will keep that side to myself,  if that is what it takes
to keep you from throwing me under the bus, yet again.
The ****** (within the closeness of warm, loving connection) --
((even in the world of support..))
that very sensuality so perfectly parallels..  
through physical, tangibly-felt metaphor..
all that there is also within the Realms
when it comes to the spiritual.

Healing of that which has become broken by the fallen
******-up version of love this world brings--
that type of healing and restoration back into wholeness
is what all relational closeness is meant to bring,  and stand for.
You want something that you deeply believe that I have,  
yet somewhere..   maybe in another life..
I must have hurt you deeply,
or you wouldn't be sending  all these finger-puppet forays
my way.

Come and get what you want and need,
and if you believe I am shorting you your rightful blessing  
by missing it..   or simply just being generically stupid,
then instead of flaying me publicly,  
privately come to me  in boldness,
   and shake it out of me--
that which is rightfully yours-- my healing-response.

and do it brazenly,  with a fierce, yet open and vulnerable heart
the way that you have shown in your poems. Maybe in time
you will find out all on your own  
that what you thought was hurtful from me,  was felt
out of perception,  rather than what was actual.
If I really did do something,  tell me what it is
so that I can own up to it and tell you that I am sorry
for ******* everything up that way..
if, in fact.. it was something I really did.

I will only talk to you  from here (my M Vogel account)
so that you can rise and fall
concerning what things you need most from me,  
solely

by the responsibility of you,
and of me.

You already know that I am Paul.
You can call me that,  or M Vogel,
or stupidface..
or any of my other account names if you want,
but get inside of here with me what it is that you came for.

If it is something that I am able to give or be a part of..
then know it will become yours  in time.
  You have the ability..
     even though being spoken to this way
    both wildly turns you on
    and completely scares you shitless
    (((and probably both at the same time)))
you have  proven,  through your posted words  
that you are actually able to be a part of   and do,
what has for so long  felt so horribly distant from you,
   and so horrendously impossible for you to attain.
You have earned every single part of this very rightful place
that you now have in here with me.

Please don't stupidly **** it up the way that you so well
and so often do.
You are brilliant, girl. We both know that.
Stupid things are possible because your world has had learn
to be so incredibly indirect in order to survive.
What has saved you up until now,  out there..
will destroy everything for you,   in here.
But you are human, and rendering old things   dead
may be too much to ask for.. so I will tell you now--

that even  if within your broken, PTSD-filter--
you make a mess of the closeness--  at close range..
then with poetry, find your way back into my heart--
by speaking solely from yours  as you have.
**** me over too insincerely and callously  without remorse,
and you yourself will have stolen  you--  directly from
that of the deepest of places within my own heart.

Your call, kid..
You are not a little 14 year old  clad in combat boots anymore.
Yours is a living, breathing heart--
left withering  within the dry desert of indirectness
that you have  been forced up until now  to live in.

*Every single day the sun comes up, anew. Those words mean everything to you for a reason.
Through love and accountability,  breathe life in to them.

That is how you will make them real.