this will make sense in the end, or at least along the way... a modern version of the Ruben's judgement of Paris, although if you watch the debate, the mediator already insinuates the "confusion": to my left or to my right, ha ha, left to right, right to left, 1st 3rd 2nd... that's putting it mildly, if i were Paris i'd have given the apple of knowing to Hera, queen of the goddesses... naomi wolf... beauty is in the eye of the beholder... and your phallus in the hand of... mhmm... softer than the flesh of an oyster at the end of the day... they did say once in times just after Pericles: make my inner as beautiful as my outer, and my outer as beautiful as my inner... then take art as not representing images: or the "shallow" arguments... any man would have given the apple to the intellectual Aphrodite (karen straughan)... we all know that antigone darling is Athena: who speaks so little you start to equate wisdom to be a distant synonym of needing courage to engage with a plebiscite crowd... oh don't give that prize to her: she'll probably tongue-tie herself and will never be able to speak into a microphone, the intellectual Aphrodite knows all too well the conundrum... it's the cougar attired in crimson that fuels the whole debate... she doesn't need to have inner beauty, you phallus is already shouting 'sir! yes sir!' at the drill sergeant anyways... you take Aphrodite as a paradoxical beauty, namely that of long conversations and not long interludes of ******* and baking cookies... you'll leave Aphrodite confused... i once heard an English motto: don't take for a wife a woman that's too attractive... that wasn't intended to be within the bias of intellect, i mean a beautiful woman within the bias of being able to manage a harem of 72 male virgins... well **** yeah, artists leave clues, whether knowing or unknowing... they're working from triangles, poets end up writing from Δ, they obscure textures and antonyms of what appears to be monochromatic, we say: red, crimson, burgundy in x-ray confines... the point being: there's no intellectual debate to be had with someone representative metaphorically or not of Hera... you can't have a Parisian fashion week catwalk where you find dehydrated beauty on the outside and an anorexic ego on the inside... what you find in Hera is a volume (voluptuousness) on the inside, within which there's a leech libido that transgresses all demands for intellect... unless it's pistons-well-oiled orientated... please, read some Marquis... if you get an ******* having read a few of his works: you're qualified - or as i like to call it: neo-classical *******... ever masturbated over Bronzino's Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time? well, if you haven't i guess **** ******* and gang-banging is your outlet: mine are pictures of Aria Giovanni and Chloe Vevraire (googlewhack no. 3!): Chloe Vevrier... but if you're never done the Odysseus pokes fun at Polyphemus... yep: the ghost hand: nobody!


you know, you can cram a lot into a 30 hour "day",
which results in the complete erosion
for the capacity to dream afterwards,
to actually work from the unconscious and create
a subconscious medium vector that connects
to points of consciousness: 30+ hours awake,
however many hours asleep, and then awake again
for another 30+ "day" to digest...
the classical definition of the subconscious, in theory,
is that you get plenty of sleep,
and it's a bit like that schematic A x B (algebraic)
A knows x     and B knows x...
   something mutual acknowledgment
via the same schematic but
A knows x, B knows x,
A knows that B knows x,
A knows that B knows that A knows x,
   which is all very Aristotelian to be frank,
it's this hyperlogic of having to acquire
great technological feats and reduce such
complexities to cat-videos on the internet as
the Egyptian partake in the genius that actually
made it possible... the slogan goes
Moses, you fool! said Nefertiti...
    so B knows x and knows that A knows x
and knows that A knows that B knows x
and B knows it's not necessarily anywhere
alphabetically less, even though the French said
a, b, c... which was very imperial of them,
that's the imperial version of what the mathematical
imperialism proved with the English inches, miles
and furlongs... but in this French case of imperialism
it wasn't a e i o u, b c d f g h j...
            that's what 30 hours awake does to you,
you wouldn't think of alcohol as a party drink,
a social barrier deconstruct... after 30 hours
you're hoping to meet Vladimir Klitschko on your
way to bed... aye pleasing Cossack, give us a
smacker goodnight... one glove it filled with
whiskey, the other with naproxen and amitriptyline...
boom! k.o. snooze, baby:
you gotta love buddhist honesty...
at least you get to see the bright side of life...
  and if people start thinking that Kant was the harbinger
of ill fate... you obviously haven't met a necromancer...
it was only von Kleist for ****'s sake!
       and he had the American option of a suicide
pact with a terminally ill woman and a bullet from
a pistol in a ditch... you can't get more romantic than that...
and there i was, mid-afternoon, having done a few of
the household chores: the washing, the ironing and
cooking a two-course meal while my mother did
the taxes (seems only mothers understand their sons
these days... women my age?
   ever see David Attenborough describe Emperor
penguins? money was invented for women,
because it brokered the end of the brotherhood of man,
we became famished by feminine needs
and have reduced inherent sports in us (hunting)
to sledgehammer bashing entertainment...
i'm the "drunk" that would rather watch ten hours
worth of ping-pong that tennis...
    i don't know why they resurrect the Olympics
every four years, have a **** coverage of it anyway
and then go back to that Glaswegian diet
of deep-fried pizza and haggis... and i hope to never know,
maybe Sepp Blatter knows...
but that's 30 hours of being awake, and only not
able to relax, by writing...
                 you wouldn't see this sort of "abuse" of
alcohol anywhere in the world...
the Soviet sleep experiment is actually not that silly...
too much sleep can also make you feel the minutes
upon your wake as if you've been stung by a bee...
three of my all time favourite songs?
the stone roses'* i wanna be adored,
    chromatics' cherry,
and finally: i can be forgiven for having missed this,
i got into them seriously with the album aufheben
and didn't really move anywhere else,
the dandy warhol effect got me...
but this song out of obscurity, 20th century technology
translated into mp3 and then onto c.d. and then
back into mp3... a song from an album that doesn't
even appear on their discography...
the brian jonestown massacre's pol ***'s pleasure penthouse,
the song in question? fingertips.
so there's that three...
      but **** on me, i half expected android (2015)
to be like ex_machina (whatever year that was)...
same topic... what the difference between android
cyborg and robot?
                                  aren't robots the proper a.i.?
as in: in production, the thing that's not hand-crafted
is artificially crafted, because it is crafted to a large yield
of a product? isn't that so? i can't distinguish (as of yet)
the difference between android and cyborg, i guess
as a Latin man (a - z user) i have to condescend the Grecian
pompousness of demeaning Hebrews (original anti-semitism
originated in Greece, not Rome, the Romans gave
the Jews not elaborate architectural schemes to abide by
in honour of Octavian, but the supposed pride in Greek
thought, undermined what later science would provide
a Latin man with, given the translation of יחֵוָחֵ,
indeed variables... i once wrote a piece about
the two Adams... namely how אָ (alef)
and עַ (ayin) are prominent letters among consonants,
but no vowel kindred of Eve is equal...
or how Eve is covered in both mainstream Islam
and orthodox Judaism... and Christianity is
a Rastafarian dream for more jerky reggae reggae...
they never sing down with Rome, judgement upon
Rome... they always sing about Babylon...
well, polytheistic or poly-schismatic,
it's all Hindu from hereon in - apart from that
here's a very tiny heresy... is that yod he vav he
or is it yod he vav het?
         there is a difference, afterall:
he (ה)        and het (חֵ) obviously differ... oh!
xet!                   god this garden is a mess,
               i guess the fruit of knowing good from evil
was intended to say: till the land, deforest,
learn agriculture... that's good, the **** you do to each
other... well: that's hardly a tonne of grain...
but they so alike though, even when you apply a noun
to these two symbols!
  could have said he xet but instead it's known as he het:
no wonder the Hittites came along for a curious look...
mind you, had not a prominent Roman, a centurion,
asked for help... we'd be prudish in runic from the northern
invaders... so thankfully no one within the Roman confines
of encoding sounds didn't have the bright spark idea
of looking at the very tiny little island of Israel and that
four lettered word and how it became known
to say o = omicron, ε = epsilon and γ = gamma,
   and cutting those things apart leaving only letter
having done plastic surgery on the noun that denotes the
letter that's denoted by the symbol, rearranged it
and got the idea of εγo: ****** marvellous!
- this is not brian pallenberg's story about the pleasure
penthouse album...
but you know what really got me in those 30 hours:
day, night, day, night: a NHLF debate between
naomi wolf, karen straughan & antigone darling,
the part where karen makes the point that
once upon a time men who beat their wives
in Scotland were publicly whipped (dhaal,
straugan), and if they were beaten-up instead by
their wives, a plebiscite of good-wishers would turn up
at the house and apply the Freudian theory of
a castration to the man, bang pots and pans,
and then in public display him having to ride on a
donkey backwards, having to hold the donkey's tail
for stability...
     see that woman in red in that debate? a true political
man-eating beast of ***** readied in atom bomb
explosions... the one next to her isn't wearing any tights...
unconsciously you're thinking: i like her french freestyle
of not having shaved her legs... the smart one is wearing
jeans and she looks oh so desperate to get out...
    the discussion doesn't even enter the realm of ideas...
hen-picking is discussed... all poetry ascribed to language
is gone... is it politically correct to ascribe the sexuality
of female chickens with the word hen to women?
behind me in Blackpool stag-dos (dos? no does...
there isn't even a ******* spelling for that phrase...
hen-nights and the inflatable Juan)...
well obviously your mind is working out why you'd
**** the middle 'un right away... she doesn't say divorcee
which is so "unsexy" but say she's a mum twice,
a mum, a single mum... polly wants a *******...
her address is new york city? ******! i'm heading there,
right now! can a white guy use urban colloquial
in the suburbs on a piece of pixel paper, which he claims
is mere the cartesian extension of his thought
and disinterest in rhetorical skills? i hope so...
it's not like herr adolf wrote a disclaimer saying:
read this or a thousand volts up your ****!
that really was a constipated debate, plus the red was all
provocateur and peppered with "you know",
   and "i know absolutely nothing": there were no ideas
in the debate! whenever there was a chance to debate
ideas, the debate turned into a debated about words,
and what words to use: to simply brush aside any clinching
to a idea-debate... perhaps because feminism is
an ideology without any coherency of ideas, as stated
from the debate: a coherency of wording: and that better
be hen = an asexual chicken, rooster = an asexual chicken...
it's still a chicken kiev at the end of the day.
now? i might squeeze in another poem...
     but it would still be great to get any kind of analysis
comparing the movie android and ex_machina...
the only problem would be: both creators are men...
so that's gender-stereotyping already...
but hell! she gets to build a buggie that she directs with
a laser pen... so that's nice...
but i'd love a discussion on these two films,
given that the music in both films is very oomph!
thriller genre always had better music than horror...
horror music is too romantic... thriller music?
***** back-stabbing you whenever you think you're
going to get a comfortable 10 minute slot...
but it's there... aside from both robotic creators being male...
woman: ex_machina - out of the machinery of man
          ergo? deus, or woman as...
i actually have a problem with the word android...
the woman is a factor of playing the two men against
each other... the android actually find a mechanical
part of himself in the way the "human" talks to the woman,
while the "android" is prejudiced against the rigidity
of his ****** movement: unlike the "human" having
an intellectual rigidity... the woman plays the two against
each other... well, 30 hours no sleep...
  i'm doing the helter-skelter trying to throw ideas
by way of remembering the actual plot of the film...
this obviously adds nothing to the discussion:
meaning i probably gave away a "spoiler" -
but more the point, i need a refill and some fresh air
to breath, having farted into a leather chair for the past
hour.

LOVE, HATE, WISDOM, FEAR, WEALTH… KEYS MANY ARE TO LIFE IT’S SAID
NONE IN BIRTH IS AFRAID,WISE,HATEFUL,GREEDY,NONE SHALL BE SO IN DEATH.
LIFE! ITS A NOW,A PRESENT CONTINUOUS,DIES HERE THE PAST,A FUTURE BORN
NOW,A SUM TOTAL OF PAST,FUTURE AN EQUATION INEXORABLE FROM HEREON.
FUTILE IS FUTURE MIRRORING PAST, AWARENESS MY PRIMER FOR A CHANGE FAST.  
WHEN ALIVE ARE HEARTS PUMPING,WHY ARE MINDS AND SOULS DEAD BARREN?
ISN'T HEART THE GOOD EARTH ALWAYS AND MIND THE TREE WISE OF BANYAN?
I RID THE DISCONNECT, BY GRACE, HAVE A MINDFUL HEART, A HEARTFELT MIND!
LIVING THE STAID REALITY OF LIFE, LOVING, HATING, THINKING, BEING WISE,FOOLISH
KILLING, FORGIVING, PHILOSOPHICAL IN A CRUELLY KIND WORLD OF PARADOX.
IS THERE A REALITY DEVOID, OF LIFE AND DEATH, LOVE AND HATE, GOD AND RELIGION,
OR TRUTHS,LIES, TIME-SPACE,SOUNDS AND SILENCE,EQUANIMOUS PEACE AT WAR?
IS IT JUST A PLAY, OF THE MIND AND HEART, DESIRE AND POWER,******* UNREAL?
GOOD VERSUS EVIL?
I LIVE BY THE HEART,IT DOES STOP AND THE MIND,OH DOES IT ROT!
UNFEELING HEARTS AND UNTHINKING MINDS, THESE BARRIERS SLOWLY I CROSS,
BEYOND IS THE BEING, THE EXISTING, INCAPABLE OF THE UNREAL, DIVINELY AFAR,
A VOID SURREAL,UNFEELING YET KIND SOMEHOW, UNLOVING YET CARING SOMEHOW
UNSAD, UNJOYOUS, UNAFRAID, UNWORLDLY...ATTRIBUTES NONE AT ALL! UNBEING??
I KNOW NOT IF IT’S GOOD OR EVIL, IS JUST UNBEING,UNAFFECTED BETTER SOMEHOW?
IS THE FREE UNBEING THERE,JUST TOTALLY BEING HERE?! BACK TO A REALITY RELATIVE!
GREYS ARE MANY, IF DARK BE HATE AND BE LIGHT LOVE, MID-GREY IS THE WORLD, HOPE CAN MOVE!
FROM THE MOUNTAINS DOWN I CLIMB, JUST, WITH PRECIOUS BAGGAGE, UNPACKED TO MAKE SENSE,
OF THE REAL IN THE UNREAL,THIS ONE WORLD IN INFINITY, WITH  ITS ANGELS AND DEMONS,
I CHOOSE TO LIVE WITH REALITY; AND UNRAVEL JUSTLY; ELSE IT COMES LIVES WITH ME ANYWAYS!
OR IS IT ALL JUST INEVITABLY INEXORABLE, JUST A HERMITS DESTINY?!

Today you were waiting for Serendipity
out on the corner of some street
which shall remain nameless hereon
because it doesn’t matter.
that’s not the point.

the point is, you waited there
all day.

the point is
at dusk you called me
to ask
if I’d roll by
to make it happen.

but

I am not Serendipity
that woman you so longed for,
with breezy golden hair
and charmed green eyes and
her arms dangling gracefully
with no thought given
and no ***** wasted.

I am not Serendipity
with her good fortune
and sunny days.

I am not Serendipity.

I am a planned vacation
with a hiking backpack
full of good intentions
and good will
and good humour

and when it rains
(and it will rain)
let’s go out and dance
and call this our fortune.

"It has been weeks, since our last discourse,
The sound of muttered sketch;
Rain-burnt,stained, and course... They are,
So lively, so weighed, and rich...
 
These pale yellow long faces,
‘fore lamp lit well traces,
seem rigid...Unlike my fingertips...
How the days still pass, so right here on course,
Like a steady pool in stream,
Of all our thoughts; our solemn oughts’,
of what might, and should have been.
 
And do you know?
O' what do you know?
of when darkness settles in...
There are from the edges of a turning page,
A distant woe and dew,
Of the mornings when, our nights grew thin,
And my thoughts would be of you!
 
O' dare I how, do dare I speak,
of songs that sound of you...
From far away, O' dare I say,
these times were so but few...
 
I'd linger in rhyme,
In meadows of chime,
In Arts, in words,and songs,
 
Of revolt and freedom..
Of satire and reason,
On dance, on tempo and cue..
But none of them dear,
I solemnly hear,
Do sing my old nightmares adieu ...
But O' do they pry,
My heart for goodbye,
And for parting hereon forgo,
Where there is no reason,
For heartache or treason,
To devil with hearts on in on toe..
So 'wards them sea chamber,
To see mine own paper,
Wet soaked to marrow and stone...
How waters would carry,
The heartaches we'd bury,
To surface, when all else is gone.."

A.r. Bazian
*May 18th, 2014

Time is nothing new, knowing knots will never be undone
Evil crawls in the minds of man, manifesting itself to be beautiful
Accepting and acknowledging all aristocrats who abuse their power
The world is bland, where a woman loses her womanly flower
Covering each other up, taking out the surface not the root, it’s wrongful
Uncommon is the book, imagination in the individual’s ideal of no fun I sit pondering upon these problems, probing a way into fixing all
When a crumpling crucial crumping sound, roared through the skies TV’s turned on, radios turned up, the Television speaks of trumpets
Couples, church-goers, children cry to the camera “Ready your Caskets” Fire and hail trail to the ground, blood blaze behind, Earth in her demise
People jab and judge each other, nobody understanding the Trumpets first call.
As the people panic in passionate rage and fear Everything is going, diminishing, dying, covered in dirt, grass and trees burning
A second trumpets serenades through savage yells
Mountains begin to burn and fall, along with the church bells
The seas slowly from within spoils into blood curling
Every child glances up joyfully as staircases appear. A ten horned beast raises out of the sea, mouth maliciously open with intent
Scrambling and screaming sub-beasts crawl into an unhinged jaw
It rages and shakes the ten kings hoarding on each horn. Three kings crumble, crash to cultivated grounds, their bodies torn. Blood bathed, entitled; enraged the beast takes earth as its thrall. The people scared, scratched, scraped and tortured bent. Blackened beasts bash past the saints
Looking for sin, sinister civil devils
Trumpet three blows, while sitting upon universal long ledges
The demons demonstrating patience beyond the ages
Hells helpful and hazy corruption seen at different levels
Through mans lounging, Wormwood falls to decide fates. The world is weeping through wasted weaves of wind
Disgusting smell of dead rides the tormented tasteless air
Swallowed by the fourth trumpet, bravely bashing through gusts
To find safe haven upon the throne of tusks
No animal though that tasted the tenacious disease will be accepted in care
They will be banished into the cold forever dark air, where they will shiver and cringe. The world is silent waiting, wallowing for the fifth When it comes Angels, breath beneath the blacken clouds
There striking wings linger as they blow three cornets In the sky, seeping through the soundless sky sails comets
A sight for the still faithful all watch in a crowd
As the comets releases Locusts from beneath. Laying lusciously low in a most lucid state, The ***** Her words wager, weave, win through the minds, falling for false prophecy
Ripping right by the remonstration of being The ***** of Babylon
Woman and Man fall for the words, seeking haven from hell hereon
Adult to child, wishing away her whims, she is the spiritual adultery
No newly made Neanderthal seeing her for the devils zany zealotist abhor. With The ****** lies, breaches the Mother of abominations
The one obtuse and first woman to walk in the Garden of Eden
Human at first, ripped apart, away from innocence; Lilith Haste to Hate, Revenge against the rotting earth, taking away human health
The goal stupendous, shaking sorrowfully, any good is forbidden
For killing is her passion, her art, her own Revelations. The sixth trumpet signals the release of the most dangerous Soldiers
The four enticing beings of end that are released from Euphrates the great water
Their massive army mounting at two hundred million minimizes us
Useless and hopeless everyone allows plagues in their bodies with lust
All people want is death, decaying, disembodied from the soul, without a bother
The ***** still preaching, but not a single being is listening to her false words of a philosopher. In the mix of mist and swamps I continue to sit and scrutinize
Every evil endorsing embassy of hell-spawn
Floating and coating, demoting every satchel of thought
As every defecate of remorse leave me in distraught
My mind is distilled where my initial thoughts are withdrawn I empower the sour cowering stare of the devil’s eyes. I cannot look away, the steady statue stare Embracing escalated enmity, fighting for it not to invade my mind
Never knew cruelness existed and brought beings such delight It covers itself in kindness and caring as it wishes me good night
When wrathful vengeance I awake, to aspire, to find
A torture most terrifying, tossed into twisted tarred souls, my religion I forswear. A game of chess, played between each, no physical state
Dictating the defence, drawing out, hitting, harassing and hackling
Pawn for a pawn, the pound of flesh taken from the absence of attack
Everything twists and twines around each feeble thimble of thoughtless comeback
Devil sends soulless soldiers, crashing crazily through bones a crackling. Finding flirtatious moments to pass the queen into the kingly gate. I have lost; no match made on earth can win with the Devil
Although I lost, I still hold onto faith that in the everlasting end I will be acknowledge by my God, I’ll will be shown care
I sit, sore, scarred, seared of my dignity, I pray
In my mind the Lord’s Prayer is the only way I can defend
I know beyond my brave but bashed thoughts that I kept away from evil. The loudest, most holy, mind clearing trumpet rings
The seventh and ending of the biblical war
A hole rips the sky, rendering useless, entirely beautiful though
Angels dash rescuing the ravaged by faithful souls, protection from beasts below I am avenged, my mind repaired from the unprotected un-releasing pain that I can now ignore
I praise to the Lord, lavishing, laying beside his council of twenty-four of forgiving beings.

Live, love, day to day
Dreams come, never fade
Wishes seem to say
I will find you soon

Hereon and herein
Never gone, never been
Devout to find you in
Silver hued, shining moon

Each touch thus wished for
Loving you all the more
Toujours rechercher l'amour
Jusqu'à ce qu'un bonjour, comment allez-vous

All social commentary (warning)
   from this author from now on
is sent without any commentary from
the editors
here at me.
All, from hereon out, are not to be the editor's responsibility,
and the entire staff here at me, comment, his are not my words or meanings.
The words of word are his and since the editors
are drunk as me and ****** up as I (if not more)
I am including this, and
as you see,
this is
the result.

Words are auspiciously chargeable, and none more so than dynamic.
One ought never find oneself to be compromising the feeling of seeing something
for the first time, the ambitions of a romantic imagination,
for the overtures of adulthood austerity. Nothing is as void, or
irredeemably defeated, as a desire to open oneself to holidays by the hour, open
only three times a year to the feeling of rich, warm neurological
flow of these feelings. But when you see it in someone, how do you let that someone
know what you think of them, and still be adult? Of course,
in repertory galleries and leafy city-outdoor sculpture museums,
at the bustling dinner tables of locomotive-speed European restaurants
and at times when liquid-crystal green glowing playlists
of sombre jiving guitars, drenched in wine, are most appropriate.
Thankfully, this way looks like a panel of canvas, broken up with obliques
of red. If not yet adult, I hope its playfulness will be enough; if poems are to be
dynamic like Juliette, then they need to learn to play, excitedly and secured.
  
In a fluorescent coffee cream glow of walls, in a Parisian
photography gallery I can’t say the name of— let alone
write—we are trapezing into Plossu’s dichromatic
vistas, leaning on the curb, the sand dune, and the rock.
You ask if I can hear the cicadas, the hum of Italian country in the heat;
when in this gallery, I could only hear the ultra incandescence of lights
percolating in the mezzanines, new clarity espousing with the knowledge
that Paris, and you, are both wonderful.

Yes it was when later, under a dousing of amber lamplight,
lying legs bent at the knee with poise, and their flurries we settled on a bedspread,
you stroking at the plexus curved round my libido, the cream top of two palettes,
me imaging brisk black leggings strolling gently over the tarmacadam,
the delta central to your collarbone and the breath from the valve in
your throat during a Latinate vowel.

Somewhere in this is included a constant sexuality and tempo, film reeled,
jazz drumming us on the back row of the theatre, touching for an instant,
noses, the distillation of character, and the glee with which
I can remember that Sheffield was good for an amble.
Somehow, lightly, we slept off modicums of speech platitudinising my fears;
and instead had pulses of an unfelt issue, which encouraged my
seeking of mythical and tautened realisations hereon.
The sound of your voice weaving reason was so nice, even the flyers
for life alterations didn’t turn up. (And they commonly do.)
Invariably first was your witticism and the red baubled trees,
hanging as the art lesson adventures of January children,
I was duly counselled on the court. And dually were your eyes,
obliquely there: sublime, looped, your irises were round, hypnotic,
like the bold city distilled in a noetic, emulsifying some trodden
exquisite foreground in the mind, the faint pathway of a childhood walk
wrapping me happy, and certainly pledging me warmth,
easily running a finger down the apex of my face in profile,
and pedalling breast stroke into expanses of memory pools,
dark hair tucked into a pink cap.

Should the memory continue to dive, meander and keep,
I would have it that it will usefully pacify me when I sleep.

Someone once told me that I am a slow song starting to accelerate.  
At Larghissio, I have a calm demeanor.
Not the calm of a warm sunny day.
But a somber calm where I slowly slit a person's throat whilst listening to classical music.
Grave is where things gets mixed with feelings but where I refused to acknowledge it.
The trend today is dead inside.
But hey, the shade my mother threw at me about my grades during dinner is at the back of my head.
Largo is a little dangerous.
My father is trying to communicate to the four-year-old little girl that was swallowed down along with his drugs.
I am no longer dead inside when I acknowledge that it's wrong.
Adagietto is a fancy word.
So is dementia.  
Now, it's harder to stand in front of the grandfather who can't remember me.
Hurt is an emotion.
Andante means I am hurt.
With hurt, I think one loses rationale.
Moderato is for moderate.
But, at moderato, hurt has led me to my anxiety cabin.
Hereon, the walls I have created around me becomes a physical embodiment when all I do is stay in my room.
I want to slow down the pace.
But now, I am starting to hear more than one song.
Some of it, I am singing on my own.
All of it, at Allegro.
My blanket was my hero at Allegro.
I named it 'Depression' and I wore it all the time to cover my ears.
As for rationale, there being none, I found myself and all my songs at Vivace.
The most vivid was my mothers'.
She'd often peek through my walls.
Sing a heavy metal song about my disobedience of wearing depression.
When she got tired, she'd stop singing.
Now, I am left with my songs at Allegro and the distant voice of my grandfather who sings for himself at Larghissio.
The more I try to grasp the lullaby of my grandfather, the faster my songs rise to Vivace.
I am strong but not strong enough to sing multiple songs at Vivace.
Respectively, often these days, I fear that all of my songs would abruptly stop at Presto.
But, on most days, I think about falling back to the next song on your playlist, and it doesn't matter at what tempo.

All alone, thy soul shall this accept, 'mid gloomy concepts of the tombs of the dead -none, of many, to meddle in thy secret hour in depth: be silent in such aloneness which is not quite a loneliness -for then the phantoms of the perished who walked in pilgrimage near to thee are nearer to thee in death; and the will of these, the inheritors of this mass, shall thine own will surpass.

The nighttide-tho cloudless-shall scowl, and the eyne of the sky shalt not look down, from the great heaven's with a beacon like Desire to mortals upon the ground: but their red pyre with ire, to thy fatigue shall seem more than some blazing fire, a delirium, which could adhere to thee hereon and forever -an enigma to confound.

Disparate and disturbed,
Spectre ******* remains perturbed,
Suiting shadows for whom it serves,
Mannerisms and gestures well-rehearsed,
Reading off of scripted words,
Scratch at it to only make it worse

Drinking dreams so undeserved,
Thirst for you became submerged,
Breathing deeply breathes you cursed,
Now you are all my worldly worth,
I do no justice and I’m not the first,
Your King of nothing continually usurped

Wildly weeping on howling stairs,
Beasts snipe and snap with scowling stares,
Paws and claws clasp until you’re theirs,
Spurned by burning glares,
Wounded walk back into nowhere,
Stuck nowhere and I will meet you there

Falling fast past faces purged,
Passions passing with every urge,
Diverge from deviance coerced,
Facing forward in reverse,
Extrovert implodes many deaths traversed,
***** voices miming truths well-versed

Just a regular spanner in the works,
Those that have never really ever worked,
Who I was, if only who I still were,
Scrawling all these rambling words,
A many a sorry but just one please in manner,
How I loved her and then lost her does not matter,
Nor the madness that steadily got madder,
Not the sadness that plunged to depths only getting sadder,
Whereon one constructed such a depressing manor,
Thereon lived with my now imaginary lover,,
Hereon to break apart and slowly gather,
Myself together to make my white flag banner,
My long lost apology to Anna

I've seen us at our best.
We've been through what I know is our worst.

We've seen the best of each other,
and got hurt by the worst of each of us.

Yet after this all,
I am still in love. :)
Even more than ever.

And I know that from hereon,
there have been lessons learned
which we can use
to deepen our connection more.

It's beautiful, waking up everyday with this realization.

You are always loved, Anne.

Always here,
Your Mims

My dream was to ship my relation to the mark on the map.
Unimaginable when my treasure; Cleo, marked our love as Anthony.

A relationship of lush, love and power.
Heavy drinkers just for fun, we called ourselves "livers".

Your liver collapsed by the poison caused by our lavish lifestyle.

Our power together was unbeatable but failed miserable when you made my heart stop beating.

But our love was forever so you decided to meet me in the life hereon after.

Whilst in a dark night cemetery
A strange feeling did come over me
Was it illness,a summer chill ?
Or the undead who won't lie still?
An eerie creak,a sudden breeze
Brought a tremor to my knees
I turned and at once did see
A spectral figure come towards me
A body like that of smoke-filled glass
The head a terrifying vision from my past
A man to whom I once did wrong
When my heart was full and strong
I lied and stole his true love away
And left him slowly to decay
With her affections I did you
Until she did herself destroy
One year later, he died too
Of a broken heart, aged 22
And he now mysteriously glides towards me
At midnight in a cemetery
Beside his ignored, unruly plot
What horrifying plan has he got ?
My knees they shake, my eyes do leak
As the phantom began to speak
" Oh you who stole my love away
And mistreated her most every day
Now is your turn to pay the price
And feel your heart turn into ice
I will not drive you to your​ grave
It is your cold heart that I crave "
His icy hand plunged into my chest
I saw my heart depart from my breast
" You will forever live from hereon
But feelings you will have none "
With that the spectre disappeared
Along with him went my fear
As longer and longer I roam the earth
I realise the phantom's curse
Intolerably my life goes on
But feelings, emotions, I have none
As time goes on, all that I crave
Is the comfort of the grave

An incomprehensible comprehensive change of fortune it would take, amongst all flora & fauna, to realize Darwin's jigsaw puzzle. These pant-legs drag the floors; the waistband of my underpants is clearly visible; I have 32 tattoos; my English is poor; I have had success with women, although the figures are impossible. From hereon in, & from now on: it's unsalted cashews for me! Concern yourself not with my inconsequential injuries. My mind, body & soul remain unified. Do my enlighten'd steps mystify you? Does my “pick-up-&-go-attitude” befuddle you? Am I unrecognizable to all who would belittle Hermann Goering? Should we goose-step in lock-step to please our modern socialists? There's more information: more information in Japanese...than China would have you know...Friday is roast beef & pudding night at K.F.C. Millions of Moslems will be playing grab-*** while babies drown in swimming pools. Bring on $30-worth of gaiety!!!

Wake up
get up
wash and brush up
make tea and drink up
dress up
and it's downhill
from hereon in.

You've got to play to
be in with a chance to win
or so they say
I'd sooner take a flyer
not buy a
ticket
tell them to stick it
where the sun
don't shine.

I think they manufactured me
in a factory
somewhere in little Italy
and put the wrong language
box in
See
no way on gods earth to win
when you can't even speak
the lingo
and so
wake up
get up
get ready to roll or
be rolled
work until you're old
and die

You've been told
don't ask why

rock bottom isn't so hard
rising above it is
a lot tougher.

i saw you
and pretended like i didn't
went on as if I forgot about you
i haven't
you said that's what you wanted
so you could move on
we don't know each other from hereon
it hurts this is what we've come to
deep down,
we both know we'll always remember
knowing we could have gone further
the same feelings of our goodbye
every time i get another glimpse
of your eyes

When I saw you there,
After so much time,
Standing tall and strong,
Nothing short of divine.
I knew that was it,
I knew I was gone.
I'd fallen so hard,
You have me hereon.

In your arms,
It just feels so right,
When I meet your gaze,
I get lost in that light.
There's something about,
The way that you look,
The way that you smile,
It leaves me shook.

Freedom from the fear of shadows upon the horizon
Allows an otherwise troubled heart solace;
Indeed, a notion worthy of my honors,
She who sings her ballad in the Hall of the Divine
Thence welcomes souls beyond wayward pines home.

Hereupon we **** our sorrows in anticipation of a new day;
Only upon the distant morrow do our dreams lie;
Even if only to pray, I'd say it is a time for hearts to cry;
Peace in the face of adversity gives way to iron wills,
Eloquently expressed in the eyes of the young, the restless,
The willful and the doleful, clarity upon which its seeds are sown;

Lamentingly difficult to understand, He sits in a quiet little room,
Onward marching and flying faceless banners within the flume
Voraciously embraces the sun and all her glory;
Evidently he is a needful thing, and as such, a never-ending story.

Hereon I carry myself in the way of the Gods
Giving unto thee without notion of you giving unto me.
Hear my words, for they come from a Divine charge;
Walk beside the still rivers and know that the reward is naught but a sliver,
That a thousand Amen is a thousand times more gratifying.
Here She teaches us to reach for the horizon to see how far beyond we shall go;
Indeed the stars above illuminate a dark world below.
Lay yourself down in the eyes of the Light,
For the Throne sits ready for your proclamations;
Years of this will indubitably become effortless,
For all in all it is the truest test.

Faith brings it all together
Whilst hope breathes fire into the beating heart.
Love forges the steel wills of all that live,
That Charity may display her beauty for all that desire to see.
We live for the dreams we weave and weep for what we must leave,
Yet here we bear witness to the tenets that bind us.
Here we see a Truth of Humanity seldom ever known;
All these are but seeds that need only be sown,
Watered for growth, pruned for posterity;
Fullest clarity could not be more welcome.

Perchance I loved thee half as much
         (not as much as you wished)
as I loved the worldlings.
'Tis curious to think-- I love those who art
not fair nor bright (compared to thee).

But never meant, thou and I, share the same
          Weltanschauung (never will we).
I, forsooth, believed in eternity
and thou in our certain demise.

For thou spake of ice and fire (in your dreams
          they often appear)-- that potent
elements-- wilt end our world,
wherein we once loved.

Shall thy dreams ordained to foretell our end,
          (that the world and all within--
perish between extremities)
then my love for thee hereon, forever suspends

UNSPEAKABLE BOREDOM.
BORUS. BORING. BORDEN. BOREALIS MAXORISUUZZZUSSS.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZNOOOOOOOOZZZZZZZZZZZZE
EARTH,
G­    A    P   E   !!!!!!!!!

I am on the point of completing my estimated taxes for the first quarter of 2017.
Or bursting all the leptons in my body by Willpower
I burrow in Wonderbread.
Time has stuck….the last tick was in January…
my phone calendar offers views by Aeon, Age, Era, and Epoch only
(in the late Devouring Period, fish became obnoxious)

this is very profound stuff youre looking at
the best people still figure things out by thinking hard about the words to popular songs
you too should abandon all attention to the so- called “real world” (feh) and from hereon act only based on cues and secret messages from your fellow bloggers

I can only foresee the final result of complete nullity is complete chaos
a semantic plasma in which associational speed reaches infinity and transmittability finally touches down at zero
GERONIMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

you fell from. When you came
crashing down you crumbled
as you broke your crown. I stumbled
on your broken piece and fell

beneath. It laid over me
like a canopy blocking the light. I grew
pale overnight. I’m still trying
to get out from under

this rubble. Never again will I
place my head
where my feet should be. I’ll greet
you face to face hereon - equally