mesa rises
a ship
sans sails

the moon
strips
the creosote
to blond
bone

it's errosion
causes
the desert to
ripple

beaches
hidden

tides
going
out
sea

nyctinastic
sirius flowers
open their
lazy eyes

the moon may
croon to
waves
dashing
on the
shipwreck

but

even the moon
makes
things


grow


SoulSurvivor
(c) 7/9/2016

You're the queen of the earth
Pristine person of dirt
I am the king of the sea
Suppose I have thoughts that are salty

i crafted an exquisite note
to be sent along
to the exquisite woman that no longer deserved it.

i sat down in a wildflower patch
with an empty bottle
which gave me the courage
to roll the parchment

the ants in all their fury
held no charge against me
and the strategically buried daggers
left nothing more than an impression
on my bare feet

nor did the canals
formed by tears' errosion on the cheek
the largest tree now long dead
a landmark lost to time
a love
a partner

had man more ambition, he'd feed his hunger to be devoid of attaining a god-status... after all: why bother feeding a plagiarism of a plagiarism, of one man's invention being passed down for another man's itemisation of lost artefacts, that can't paraphrase: an urn's equivalence toward the monetary due or shared regrets, remains... or profits.

i can't tell you what you want to know,
well, "know" - that
all it takes is a male cat tidy in
his sleeping pose,
and his female equivlanet,
stirred, jolting, angry, scared,
itchy...
     in my arms, as without my
arms holding her,
stirred, jolting, angry, scared,
itchy, ready to jump
out of the canvas
and make still-life a joke.
writing this she pretends
the austitic stare...
as all cats do...
her *evil eyes peer into me,
and i see the shards of
the omni-mirror
that chords man into being
god...
   and how belittling the "repose",
oh the agony
of the multitude in the all
encompassing request...
what sordid ambition
for man to equate himself
as god...
how follow that knock must
feel, asking
for a full bodied burden
of oak laboured over by man
to be made into a door,
with a million toothpicks:
sentenced into a doorknock:
regarding?
  good day...
what audacious claim you make!
three tier question
you ask... that is, what will be,
or what is?
well...
     a waiting bed,
the male cat fast asleep,
the female cat in figgit mode -
how i dream of the pillow,
how i dream wide awake
of placing my head onto it,
and erasing all previous dreams
from memory...
i'm sure memory can be allowed
this function:
forget the last dream,
than attaining autistic
memorisation errosion of
the alphabet...
   did i mention that i think
that feline bonsais are autistic?
i will die claiming that cats
are autistic....
i guess that's why autistic children
can comprehend a cat
akin to the cat being
able to comprehend an autistic
child.

Never have I carried a violent mind,
Still I take your words, a travesty on my character
Still I receive punishment for acts I failed to commit
Or that are buried so deep in the past
Even the tides have forgotten
But like the shore is broken by the wave, these too have subjected me to errosion
Parts of my whole, broken
And you may not now regret the thoughts you project
Until they replace the air in your opinions and the people in the room
Until you are left alone with them
As they suffocate you.

genesis: it could have been dinosaur jr.,
or blind melon,
or for that matter: nirvana...
punk: whoosh!
scalped me...
                to the point where i wasn't
able to tell the difference between
a skin-head or a mohawk...
i'd still watch the back to the future
trilogy many more times
thanstar wars...
   because that's just what you did...
prog. rock revision?
a bit hard to revise the king crimson
debute...
but tool managed it...
   forever and through to this day,
and a tomorrow,
i will keep my respects to bands
than respect the bass guitar...
      metallica?
i must be tone-deaf...
sure, you sometimes hear the bass
guitar, but most of the time?
no, nope, can't hear ****...
        did drums and rhythm guitar
just gobble down the bass guitar?
late punk, pop even,
akin to early offspring?
or, rubric grunge,
   starting ground?
   pearl jam, vs. or vitalogy?
your pick...
                            yield...
and memories of 1998...
a year... or just a year prior...
fiddling with a daewoo
t.v.,
fidgeting, while getting reception
of a news channel,
that broadcasted the death
of boris yeltsin...
   it's not exactly nostalgia...
if the years you're making references
of, you were alive in...
how's that nostalgia...
         nostalgia is either
nietzsche or hölderlin referencing
ancient greece...
   **** me and **** all
that ancient theatre...
               polite society my ***...
more like:
of those who would later
encourage dyslexia...
   maybe i was never gen X...
punk hard-on
    cut-off the phallus,
replace it with a gyrating *****...
   of my youth?
   well... inclinations
surrounding depeche mode...
vs. the cure...
the earliest fathomable example
of precursor-goth...
but, me? mostly grunge...
red mosquisto by pearl jam...
   subsequently:
- nothingman
- indifference
    - rats
- red mosquito (****, i already mentioned
that song)
      - and some other,
out of the oeuvre...
   stray dogs, strangest tribe...

you know how long it took
me to find a radio station
that i finally bound myself
to not mind?
  20 ******* years...
go figure...

             but all the bands who
recongnised the bass guitar,
didn't fall foul with the rhythm
guitar,
  and the jerking off of
the solo: ***-ar?
         nice verberation...
the over-layer of the subtle rhythm
to the otherwise crass
expression of drums...
it's like some of these rock
bands, never bothered to listen
to the famous five of the jazz quintet
standard...

    you need bass man,
you can't over-compensate
with rhythm guitars, solos,
and vocals...
drums is not some background
noise,
and bass?
        bass smooths over
the drums...
rhythm guitar, solo,
and vocals are just additions,
to what desires a common
thread architecture of
substance...

        perfect example, again,
metallica:
you know how hard it is...
to pick up a bass guitar presence
in that band?
you'd have top, topping
being the deaf Beethoven...

now you can ask:
why would i write, something akin
to this?
   i've seen enough of masks,
to know what's genuine,
and what is merely façade...
   perfect, me? b'ah ha ha ha!
   yeah... like, maybe tomorrow,
in a decade's passing,
but not really...

             pristine people,
are only pristine,
depending on how they use
cutlery, or are able to fold
a napkin...
      flying a ******* kite is not
going to cut the basics of:
deviating from said *******...

any pervading allowance
of i.q. leaves you with one option,
to trust, always, and everyone,
until the one incident,
which makes you, subsequently,
trusting no one,
                   and never again...

i can only reason with honesty,
on an unsuspecting crowd...
the rest...
    settle for comment sections,
for sycophantic measures
of debate...
   i'm not better...
              only that...
              i know there's something
better to be had,
from this, allocated
meagre experience,
                     to begin with...
for one...
i do not understand the concept
of stray cats...
stray dogs: that, i can underatand
as a paradox, given their ontological
aherence...
but cats?
        cats are not exactly adherent
creatures...
       you must have seriously
treated a cat like ****,
                if they "became", stray.

i sometimes wish i could lie,
but then i wouldn't be drinking,
and if i weren't drinking...
wasting, so much time,
on a lie...
                 while succumbing
to an errosion of imagination,
for fakery?
personally? i rather drink...
and blah blah my way through
to the next day.

December, a vision,
A most wise decision,
I believe a derision
Left us all alone,
Nothing between us,
No one could have seen us,
This event completes us
And leads us along,
My mind was so clouded
And as we were shrouded,
The rest left confounded
And sent to atone,
To seek willing penance,
To break their dependence
To find our ascendance
An encompassing throne,
I seek, we yet make it,
Deciding to break it,
Knowing not what’s at stake yet,
We sought a true home.
But finding revulsion
Furthered compulsion
Our hearts’ errosion
A broken gramaphone.
No memory corrected,
No statue erected
We became infected
With our words in tone,
I looked o'er shoulder,
No longer could hold her,
Or either composure,
Left a haunting moan.
Seeing not corrected,
My soul now indebted,
Forever inspected,
Silencing a groan,
I walked as if courted,
My love, I aborted,
To see you contorted,
My dear, so distorted,
I find self remorseless
Morbid, forsworn it,
Disgusting discourses,
All else but abhor it,
It seems so alluring,
Though mildly incurring,
All but securing
A life worth enduring,
I’d say it was the last thing that I said in this world,
But that’s just a paradox, and a lie beyond that.

i really don't remember buying
ice cubes...
i really don't remember;
there's nothing mysterious
about it,
it's not mysterious...
it's hardly memorable...
         it's hardly the taj mahal worth
of memory sacrifice,
well **** me: with the acid errosion
to boot...
             can i be the lucky one?
what's that, ****, indi or
bangladeshi?
   what do you call these people?
what's the sanskrit for ******?
i stress:
a fetish for finnnish?
   you know, i don't mind,
not with's coming...
   i can't be bothered with
wind farms and solar panels...
i seriously can't be bothered...
    for some reason people think
i might cry with the dodo scenario....
no, not really...
copper skins? i hope you enjoy you
mecha world...
  i can't be bothered reducing myself
into a jewish affair of
a minority...
        i'm not really bothered...
whoever is bothered about
the tactful retreat of the white race
and is agonised by it:
it probably jewish;
only jews, a minority
ethnicity,
with a majority vote or
opinion leverage
might care...
  esp. what they did to spinoza...
i really don't give two squat
quacks' worth of ****
whether it's finnish
or english... no, *******...
take you barmitzva and
sell you kippahs elsewhere!
what?!
    anti-semite what?!
what?!
      me glorifying the tetragrammaton
better than any jew?
what? anti-semite what?
3 quarters of jews don't know
what i'm talking about in the first place...
so take your quack's worth of a tongue:
and imitate licking mt. sinai.

otherwise unexplored territory;
     what's  stable among
the eixstentialists?
  the freud-jung complex,
                 i guess: "to begin with"...
but as such, there is
no beginning...
                   "as such"...
                       only the interplay
of authentic metaphor,
   and the brushing aside
a stand on making coherency,
partly aggravated,
                    partly workable....
coherent context,
  and the consistency of content:
one of those worded quadratic
equations that fall into one's lap,
like the sight of the moon,
             during daylight hours...
because what element has
the capacity to reflect light...
               if on close-up...
         there's but shadow and dust
to be found on the surface?
             what element allows
sunlight to be reflected,
                in order for the moon
to be visible, at night,
when it's                  Hesiod
orb...  a dull emblem
                of coal... requiring agitation,
compared to the luminosity of
Virgil?
                  point being...
    what can stem from meta-phor?

                        phren
                      /
            meta

                             and with the current
state of physics?
    the heart knows no physics...
the sole love for women
was always bound to their
timid-irrationality...
          which is a compliment,
since it: allows something
  to take place, should nothing
have ever happened...

              beauty?! just a bypass
                              circumstance      
akin to a circle
   showing its undergarments of
                               a circumference...

no, i want to understand
the existentialist with metaphor,
or do as they do,
              nuance the paragraph...

and continue along the miscarriage
of vocabulary with
      a persistent interjection
of "black" and "not" black,
              "black", and black,
           black and not "black"...
how many tiers are there
in the dimension of telling, but, one, lie?!
                        
       nuance is the new metaphor...

but it's little wonder,
   that language and its usage had
to be propped up,
to exclude all forms of naïveté
from its ranking order of:
a mere capacity for the errosion
of memory in strapping words
into a bundle we'd like
                     to call a lexicon...

i can only suggest that
there's an impeding lack, to grasp
a "necessary" acute A in
the italic styled word...
               syllables as custard,
awry....
                third limb "phenomenon"...

am i the only person to
not have under-appreciated
a rendition of Kant?

  beside the point,
          meta-physics and
the meta-phor...

                       why then the "para"-norms
of suggested society?
              paranormal, isn't that
just a word suggesting:
           sure as ****, that shouldn't happen!
eh?
            
      and what of the ortho- avenue?
             the most assuring standard
within the grasp of orthography...
given that the english language
is a blank slate without any diacritical
application...

             i'll leave the ****... stanis to
**** their women... i'll do the "mis"-handling
of the tongue myself...
  and how will i do it?
     speaking it better than the natives!
        
       and by the time i'm through:
                i'll have petted leviathan...
or: nathan... as i like to call him...
           clear syllables:
      na-θ-an...
                         given the hyphen
interjection, you don't even require
upper-case punctuation
         of pseudo-apostrophes...
i.e.: náθàn
                     intra-verbum
punctuation...
                    shy F zenith...
                     na-              f'              -an,
hence the dislodging apostrophe...
                       but if there is a case for
metaphysics, the ortho- and para-
avenues need to be acquired in
in a discussion,
                we already possess
orthography,
                   and the paranormal...
                  hence the retraction into
the meta-phren...
                     allowed by metaphor...
hence the nuance...
                              in the name of the father,
and of the son, and of the zeitgeist...

in that the third party was always
regarded as nameless...
          free as a ******* dove!
festered by a flutter of dove wings
imitating clapping!
  petulent call for prayer my ***...

for whatever mortal framework
is being given allowance:
i have this...
                         funnily enough:
i don't have a heaving
  burden of a heart to play
        a smothering gargamel...

but how can you not be ruthless
with a blank piece of pixel?!
           the only way to pet a cat
is to ignore them...
         the only way to authentically
**** a ******* is
to steal a kiss from their lips...
        
   by then it's not exactly:
to own the knees and petulantly embraced:
hand with hand...
             peering into the heart
and owning it with
                   a reciprocated kiss?
sunbathing on the beach
of consciousness,
   surmounted by the sea
of unconscious...
  bypassing the faculty of dreaming
in fear of drowning in disillusionment:
   but sure as hell ready to die;
when there's
an ultimate peace, being
                                        assured.

           tod ist statisch;
                     sohle permanenz.