apologies, but i will not be abstracting people
as mere pronoun users,
i know i should, but i kinda like "painting"
and giving peoeple race, and differences,
i can't really establish what pronoun-bleaching
would do to, oh i don't know,
perhaps i'd be writing this...

back when i still worked as a roofer and was doing
a project in Greenwich,
  nice try, construction industry men don't
go to the gym... what a joy to remember my roots...
anyway...
    what was i saying?
   so i commuted from north east london
this this little village...
and it really has a feel about it that it is a village...
i went into the Greenwich waterstones
bookshop and spotted something interesting...
    a j. k. huysmans trilogy (beginning with la bas)
and ending with *cathedral, or something like that,
if i knew what the internet was saying,
i'd buy all three books...
     but i did the dumb thing of buying
the first book of the trilogy, that's always in print...
anyway, no small loss...
   and there stood sideways joseph roth's
the antichrist...
              i can't compare it to nietzsche work,
even though i should, given roth was jewish...
and i figured: if the concept is not originally
jewish and greek, and anti- is a prefix much
more easily understood these days with
the existence of anti-matter...
            than say... armilus...
    well... so i was commuting day to day,
and over the course of the project probably read
two of three books, roth's was one of them,
alongside nikos kazantzakis' blockbuster...
but something weird happened when i read roth
for the first time...
     sitting in this dockland train heading south
of the thames, a group of muslim "women"
spotted that i was literate,
     they sat, about 10 metres away from me...
but the word antichrist must have prompted them,
one just said out-loud: you're satan's *****...
huh?
   there i am, reading my own book not raving
mad reading it aloud, and there she has the prank
of associating a book to a very mysterious person
who riddles the bible being completed...
      mein gott: two world wars ever since nietzsche
wrote he was the person with the title kept
sorta on a whim for nearly 2000 years...
     and then two days ago my father has a car accident
and this hijab clad woman is driving,
  but she does a Pilate and doesn't take responsibility,
the passenger that's with her jumps out
   and gives my father his details
and the woman is pristine...
     a *******, what do you call it: sacred cow?
most pedestrians in england are treated as such...
  so she phones her son and gives the phone to my father
and her son says to my father: it's against
the law to phone the police, you can't phone them...
well... hey presto! we're in Saudi Arabia!
and this is what's worrying me...
no... nope... this is what pains me...
    i had to take my ego for a walk tonight...
i had to think a lot of ******* out,
how the ego would whimper and whine like a dog...
there's your "janus" / "contronym"...
ego... dog...
   the leash? i'm thinking with it...
and suddenly, clarifty, i can pierce it's *******
narrative and think about it... as any id might...
what i experienced was an ego-dispossesion...
   i lost it, it turned into an automaton,
robotic misery... hardly the angry Frankenstein monster...
i lost the care for an ego-embodiment...
i was dispossessed by it, robbed, thief! thief!
i needed to come back home and read
heidegger's aphorisms 174 through to 178 from
the ponderings (it would help that you read the
ponderings... after reading being & time)...
the pain i felt was very much akin to being British,
even though it's something i assimilated into...
which could mean that's it's the odd bit...
should i, shouldn't i feel some sentiment for my host
culture?
word are flying around the place,
they're calling it cultural marxism...
well... i come from a culture that had stated
marxism, period, i.e. supported by an economic model,
that worked, and would have worked,
had capitalism not done what capitalism does
naturally: compete!
   i'm watching these cultural marxists and, i think,
i'm watching penguins in a zoo...
  i don't know what to make of these marxists,
who aren't even leninists...
            where's the economic model?!
  
that's the problem of going to a catholic school
in england, attempting to stress multi-culturalism,
i even ojected to being confirmed ritually,
with a bishop from Brentwood,
sorry, too much Irish around the place....
i too thought i was about to say something in Gaelic...
outer-east london: a complete ******* jungle
of biodiversity...
     so did i misplace my allegiences?
to the tongue? to faking an ethnicity?
    of course i'm pisssed off, i spent the past 2 hours
walking the most mundane of walks,
bewildered why this woman in a hijab wouldn't
own up to causing a traffic accident...
i helped him will out the police forms,
and there she is, on paper, smug like some ****** mary
because i'm the one that really doesn't think
that Islam got Project Hair wrong,
me? personally? i think that woman's hands ought to
be covered,
     in thinking terms, a woman's hands could
get me more excited than a woman's foot...
but sure... hell... why not hair?!
              the last time i checked, normal people
have an aversion toward hair...
ever see that person almost vomiting when they found
a stranger's hair in their soup?
  that **** that grows on your hair is the only silk
you've got... how about a few toenail clippings
to boot? first thing a sane would think: ****! ****!
oh, we're going to get on... just fine, just fine...
   the next time i think about encouraging
an **** ******* position's worth of prayer
i'll be a ******* cardinal.
   what's wrong with taking responsibility?
why are Islamic women so immune to the tractātus
of law? where's the jurisprudence?
   i'd call it something more than diabolical...
you can really become a vampire when you're told
the lesson: those that thirst for justice...
  lesser leech...
            who gives a **** whether it was: "but a scratch"?
woman! take responsibility!
  pampered little coconut jugglers...
   now to think of it... leave those curtains,
and this one time: she was walking with a buggy
and a small child and she unveiled herself from
a niqab before me...
           the perfect arabian nightmare i could
have ever witnessed...
             i had long hair back then...
what she revealed from under that niqab?
wait... am i writing this in the times
when the French occupied the Holy Land and had
the first thirst / idea of a colony?
  
this is me, imitating punching a brick wall...
this is me... in a boxing ring...
bashing myself...
            this is me thinking about how man
has no capacity to usher in karma,
how man's concept of law is hardly cosmic,
how man is a kniving ******* that
deserves something beyond a heaven and a hell:
rather: a return to his self...
that's what i keep telling myself:
i don't want heaven, i don't want hell...
i, just, want, to, return, to, my, self...
    yes, that's a reflection,
hence the pronoun has no compound, i.e. isn't
a reflexive understanding for the fluidity of language
expressed by the concerning compound: myself.
perhaps that's just the beginning of understanding
the noumenon / thing in itself, or rather to counter
the fluidity of the word itself, since, evidently
it self makes no sense that could ever produce
a concept akin to the noumenon...

why wouldn't this woman care to give an inkling into
her concept of right and wrong...
she's driving the ******* car, she makes a doo doo...
pauper... **** up!
            i still don't know why it was about hair...
you like a stranger's **** in a soup?
   what's with this middle eastern fetish for covering it?
hey! beginning from 1986, am i sorta automatically
involved in a cult that has a vintage of ageing from
a **** of a camel a long time ago?
  no wonder the knighthood ceremony was initiated
by slapping a newly initiated knight across the cheek,
like i said, a woman's hand is more ******
than her hair...
      i'd say: take up ye care to don gloves!
and that, i'm sure, will never happen.

it's probably the most delicate thing a woman can possess...
a hand...
the rest is what darwinism cared to provide us with:
a black widow, a mantis;
and that's talking pure earnest about the matter...

listen, i spent the past two hours having the ordeal of
an ego... which i had to anti-narrate into theory...
yes, the id was helpful, is actually told me, or rather,
interrupted the ego from the narrative
to give me this *******'s worth of profanity
(and yes, with due reason; ever fill out a police form
concerning some accident? do that, then you'll be equipped
to read Tolstoy)...

so it was ego-possessiveness,
      the ego already thinks its eternally subject...
that's one of the implants...
eternity and god are inherent in ego,
   your heart means absolutely nothing when the ego
has been given certainity that it can't shake off...
what the ego isn't given is a unit of reason
that sees past it... the id...
in relation to dualism and the much active dichotomy
as alternative to an equilibrium of dualism
i will outrightly exclude the superego
  as nothing but antithesis to the ubermann theory
of overcoming man...
  and on their shoulder they once had
the epitomes of cartoon conscience, an angel and a demon...
but thanks to the superego: they had mama
on their left shoulder, and papa on their right shoulder...

just the mere act of shutting that thing up
was enough, and it was apparent,
that writing fiction could be to blame,
   writing fiction can be rightly guessed at
for levitating a condition of medical proportion
into the realm of mythology,
    we have already depersonalised the unit
of ego to the extent that it has become polarised,
bipolar, e.g., comes from a depersonalised
gravity of ego,
we're no longer in need to write books,
we're in a dire need to write our own psyches...
and it all stems from making the basic human unit,
bound to the privacy of thought,
as needing a system that outweighs the moral
stratum,
           what can a person actually be or become
to even dream about asserting that there is
a da-sein (i.e. something, somethingness)
          "happening"?
i feel that there's something worse than a second
nakedness emerging,
         it's this incapacity to move on,
it's a mental nakedness, i am more easily prone
to dress my body in clothes
than i am able to dress my ego in thoughts,
than can correlate adequately, and peacefully...
toward something akin to a symbiosis
that can reach a = status, rather than an
   ≠ or an ≈ status... ****! Aquarius!
isn't the ≈ symbol the basis for it?
oh hell, back into the zodiac...
              
     i know my ego can be a downer,
but at least that's who i am talking about...
aphorisms no. 174 through to 178?
i do odd experiments with books,
     this is the first of its kind,
i'm actually going to rattle-******* this book out
till it feels like having wanked it 20 times
in a single day... i'll write what i "feel",
funny word, that word feel...
you never get to use it these days,
man is more about hammering in nails than
saying: ooh... that hurts...
and we all know what happened to Jesus'
teaching... forgive strangers...
     make sure your former friends are
crucified up-side down...
                 that really went far...
                      i can just see him...
an oasis of bullet-proof clauses...
              about how to handle people...
give them l.s.d. unconsciously!
         then wait for actual l.s.d. to arrive
and then worry...
when they took to their Swiss bicycles...
and writing poetry... and eating a soft-boiled
egg... given the concern for cholesterol:
a hard concept to fathom: that runny yoke...
     never ate mine with salt, i always like
that idea of legalised abortion...
                and we can be just that...
so imaginative to consolidate being mammal
that we can fathom eating chicken eggs
as easily as abortions... runny yokes have no basis
for a morality, or a compass...
they just are... runny... yummy...
             i call yokes the male version of
a woman's fascination with chocolate...
  i think egg yokes are the equivalent of cholocate
for men as chocolate is for women...
or so the advert said...

aphorism 174: as language...

          aphorism 175:
              philosophy catching up to science,
akin to theology catching up to philosophy,
both condescending extracts
that end up with both of the extreme parties
dressing up funny.

aphorism 176: such that newspapers are
the natural preservers? i.e. the idea of historical
escapism.

      (toilet paper does, much much more,
than a newspaper actually provides,
   press freedom is a bit boring to be honest,
beginning with the need for a moral agent
that's less and less moral, and more prone to
darwinism, i.e. selective, which is also said via:
what's natural, in a more and more techno-savvy culture?)

aphorism 177: only as, a rural thinker unto
a rural thinker... a case of describing a perfume
of those thinking about a day after tomorrow,
   but more precisely:
  the day before yesterday that didn't involve them...
say, on the ethnicity basis,
  the talk of being inheriting from the form
of ancestry... how we cultivate cucumbers,
tomatoes, prejudices...
   which is why i'm a slav happily talking a tongue
that's germanic, an off-shoot saxon,
and hopefuly defending it.

aphorism 178:
         "everything great wavers and wobbles,
stands in a storm. the beautiful is difficult."
   Ezra too, with the last, alas.
     but it's true... what happened in england in the second
part of the 20th century was great,
  and it did indeed wobble past the storm into
a desert of retirement...
            a peaceful coming toward terms of
a natural agreement...
   the generation preceding mine enshrined in their
psyche an england they heard over the radio...
king crimson... all such artistic expressions
found a case to take root...
     how parasites never attack a feeble creature
and only take roost in a strong symbiotic partner...
once it was said england could resemble ancient greece,
and it did, from the second part of the 20th century...
but that ended...
               it's gone, i have inherited a communist
past, a marxism with a concept of money,
and economic policy that wasn't inherently competitive,
but it also wasn't a welfare policy of the Marshall Plan,
and all i get is this freakish counter-movement
known as marxism in culture...
   that's worse than marxism in economy!

it should be heartbreaking to say this,
but coming from a monochromatic society,
watching the death of communism...
     i could say it was perfect... but then i can't
given my grandparents have a secure pension plan
that the state provides... i like that joke,
i just said it, and it makes perfect sense...
there is much more of Pilate in the history
of the peoples than there is of Jesus...
washing my hands clean, the companies said,
meaning self-employment...
     unless you have a really hungry libido
you actually do start worrying about keeping up
the numbers...
  companies don't...
      it's a bit of a bollocking...
i come from what could be imagined as a safety
economics of marxism into a marxism of culture
that i simply can't comprehend...
              well: it did give "us" a sense of pride,
and a will to rebuild warsaw without any american
money...
        the russians just said: where's your pride?
do you want to take their money and have it easy?
and when i ask that question:
i just start thinking about arabs without their oily diapers...
oil diaper... not exactly black gold:
oil diapers...
             Ahmed gonna poo poo?
              &nbsp

When everything ends, an angel plays a tune
When evrything ends, there's no flower to bloom
Will everyone then be in gloom ?

But don't lose hope he hasn't blown into the horn
Lose no hope and don't **** the unborn
Gentleness and patience is what we need
So don't be sad, don't fall into greed

Cheer up and take a look at the deep sea coral reefs,
Be impressed by their beauty and their great depths,
Don't be sickened by peoples beliefs,

And remember the man who disappeared without a trail...
He was swallowed by a by a whale...
It was Jonah until he had Prayed!
"My lord is forgiving, O mighty one"
And then there was aid

So don't lose hope my dear children
There is help. So don't fret,
And please also never forget
That mama will be here for you, remembering you the moments you smiled ~

Formed of light and beauty, the angels of the lord
The gratest of the greatest who keeps his word,
Oh God, you are the highest notning can compare to you
You taught me everything I knew.

This one angel who does wait,
Is the one who knows our fate,
On that day, heavens and Hells gate,
Shall be opened for those who are righteous
For those who are trescious

Enjoy every moment of living oh children of earth
Our life could be taken any second...may even at birth
Enjoy the beauty of this world and remember..we're transient

Forgiveness isn't easy, grudges lead astray
Just pray (for them)
And you will find peace
And your hatred then shall cease
Just avoid the devil...please pass this test

I have attained realisation through my incapacity...
My submission and my broken mind
Is it enlightment which I will someday find ?

In pleasure and delight
Don't you see ?
And as long as you are pleased with me..
I cherish your glorious might..

For joy and expansion is my state...
The two things which I will wait (with)
And my motto and my cover

And the words which came from ours messengers mouths,
Have healed my hearts sickness
Has saved me from drouth

Be reminded of our short life
and don't be troubled with other folks strife
Just remember the blessings you have been given
and maybe, hopefully you will be forgiven

And under these drifting clouds even though the ages fade
With this unchanging life I can keep shining for you, and aid

And overcoming even time and space
May my gaze though fraught with sin leads you on to a happy life

Oh you humble soul,
Please do tell me, what might be your prescious goal ?
Is it this world you want to stroll (through!)

Oh you angels with all of your wings,
I would like to be amongst you it would be of the best blessings
With all your beautiful dressings
I would like to be an angel, sweet innocent and pure
That would bring me happiness for sure

I will work to be righteous....until everything ends, and that angel plays a tune


~ Umi

so quick, so quick--
and it's over in appreciation's bloom
i run and kiss her- glad to be alive with you
adrenaline spread across
the slice of time i am
this life affirmed in downward rush
of vision    swallowing the whole
un    worded     awe
'i cannot be a poet now'

from reading on the drive there:
absurd psychology, it marvels at me
similizing downward flight    to that of two rakshasas thrown
from Angada's leap on Lanka
    palace tower kicked, another symbol falling
likened to Ravana's ego doomed,
ordering to **** that messenger
who revealing imminence alights the fate
of endings we all share,
how could i guess
i blindly follow orders--
the ten-headed ego writhes resistance
at the incapacity in me, the failure  
    to speak    meaningfully,
or trounce the message-bearer
routing through the speech
of others only    intoning at ten thousand feet:
om  earth   sky    cosmos
    contemplating that original love
perfect fullness     within and out
    let us realize our unity
om  peace   peace  peace
at the silence    in the noise
eudaimonic under breath as engine climbs
in moments    (i don't know how i got here)
i chant remembrance into time--
the solar warmth    a touch of ease
amid anticipation's quandary--
he has a helmet    unlike me  
    "Don't let those two mess with you,"
the camera-headed lady says to me before she jumps
her finger wagging    some distant familiarity
of jests to lighten fears    or twirl them in the air--
so cold the wind     and thin to singe the lungs--
his body hanging out the door     waiting for
her flight into his falling grasp    the plane rocks into the slamming door
the door...    is closed again for me to kneel beside
and think of next and after what has come before
    inching    'i love you' at the back of the plane
where crouched the one who whisked me here
in mystery to allow unveiling here today
from reading epic only--gazing down--"no signs" to give away
the open spaces felt and bright  treeless    vast
and getting out of car with closed eyes--
"surprise!" and there sits a plane or twenty over there
and "SKYDIVING" written on the door
which i am happy to dismiss as we walk the other way,
she wouldn't have the guts to surprise me with this--
but yes we turn around and here we are
with sky-crazies in pictures    peace and love on palms
strapped tandem     falling    living     back   still far from earth
we sign the papers under those smiles
faintly listen to the video  squawking 'court of law'
and 'choice of your own free will'
paid and signed away  we harness in and search for fear
windex for the goggles  (but how clearly will i see?)
my ***** are safe from straps or so i think
i'm conscious of the need to quip
and John and Paul--our parachutes--
become a double headed meet-your-maker Pope
for me to flatly joke about.
"Pain is good," says the pilot as
we learn the way to fall
and pile seven in a tiny cockpit,
we're off the ground before i know it
i 'woot' to sign my joy.   as much as to assent
conversations of little more than two lines
keep us feeling human as we swallow
popping in our ears,
--she'll have to keep her gum--
smoke stacks, mines, gray grids of residential scapes
seem to **** the green from curve of earth.
faintly i recall ecology, pulled into the sun
stumbling to cage the meaning of it all
a sentence forms into a trailing nonsense.
my breathing tests the press of straps on waist and chest
deafened, chanting. cease to chant.
the meaning overcome with wonderment beyond my mind.
am i missing something?
thank the pilot as a "Sir,"
"Door!!" "How long?!" "When!?!" --i hear the buckles faintly clicking,
the distance imperceptible a rush
of air i am infused with global letting be
the ball of tight electric fear
a nostril flare of otherworldly falsity--
i am here.
and tilting, instructions gibberish, shouting go! go!!
a kneeling fetal hop into the gust of void
so full the eyelash burns horizonal










.

A bird lived its life lonely,
None came for its help,
It kept hunting for fruit pulp,
Considered relations and family unholy.

When its mother lived on difficulty,
Other relative birds, treated it a person of mediocrity,
Refused to follow generosity without partiality,
To keep them safe, pretended their incapacity.

Elder sister of the lonely bird kept threatening,
About the future inabilities and loneliness,
For a family life, kept telling it undeserving,
Told it would face disappointments without liveliness.

Life kept the lonely bird, lonely,
The bird never cared about it,
It had its mother with it,
Life went lively & happily.

Lonely bird had a fear in its thought,
What happens, in loneliness if I am caught?
It felt severe anguish and fear,
On occasions, its heart fell in tear!

Its elder sister, treated it with disrespect,
In spite of it being, an aspiring intellect,
Life of lonely bird remained downward,
It got itself ready for situations untoward.

The lonely bird kept struggling and thriving,
With its ambition and goals put its life driving,
Going remained really impossible & tough
The path to dream remained very rough.

Its fellow birds, remained happily settled,
For lonely bird, things looked to be tangled,
It was skilled, opportunities remained disabled,
With rejections, life continuously growled.

The lonely bird wanted to turn phenomenal,
Didn’t look out to happiness personal,
It did not have family,
In its wealth remained, being hit poorly.

Life went downward with pause,
It was on long term ambition and cause,
The bird turned itself a hungry beast,
To put it away from loneliness, at least.

If none is there, to take care,
I would die! I would die!
For a worldly mission, if I dare!
Of loneliness, I would never cry!

Elder sister of lonely bird threatened,
You were born a layman
Will die an orphan!
Because you are a madman!

The lonely bird, responded for it in life,
I was born a layman,
Will fight for my mission like a madman,
Will die always fighting world evils as a spearman.

There was ring! There was a ring!
It was named Bhagat Singh!
It told me life is lived on its own,
Others shoulders are used at time of funeral.

There was an alarm! There was an alarm!
The name was Abdul Kalam,
It told me Always be the unique you,
Even if world wants to change you everybody else.

Loneliness sometimes hit it like thorn,
Nothing could make it torn,
Through difficulties it was born,
It lived life to make this world adorn.

Loneliness turns out ubique,
I am not alone! I am not alone!
I am an unshakable stone,
I am unique! I am unique!

It occurs to me that I cannot move forward while existing in the hellscape that is the absence of love.

I’ve never received love. I’ve always been a stranger to it. Very rarely have I received the smaller parts that make up the whole that is love: things like justice, recognition, trust and commitment are things that have always been absent in my relationships with others and myself. My mother kept me isolated from the world because she lacked the empathy to understand that I was a being separate from her. I was, in some quiet, unconscious way, a burden to her. From her I knew care, but little more. I was fed, given a room with a bed, even video games and a computer. I was kept alive. But I knew nothing of emotional connection; there was no recognition in what she would call her loving. I was never seen, only kept. When the cruelties of the world outside our home beat my body and mind until something cracked, and they reached inside of me to find my innocence and steal it, there was no justice. Justice, which is a necessary component of love. She would punish me instead, by making it clear how disgusting I was to her- I, who was six, and eight, and thirteen- for seeking out things I was being taught were love, or she would remain quiet in her words and actions. Adults all around me abused me. My only parent, teachers and relatives were all abusing me in a world where children my age were told adults were protectors, and teachers “second parents”, like my mother would tell me.

I don’t think it’s possible to heal without knowing love.
I’ve worked to “improve” myself- a word I’m now beginning to think should have been “heal”- for years. Obsessively, to a fault. Multiple times a day, I would write something new, a new note, something I’d realized I was doing wrong and needed “fixing”- a dangerous word when referring to the modification of the self.
This could be called care. But nothing else. Similar to how my mother cared for me but didn’t know (or would often refuse) to offer me the rest of the parts needed to form the whole that is love, I gave myself only parts of it. I didn’t love myself because I didn’t know how to. My definition of love had its foundations in the actions of my abusers. The love I gave myself was rendered unkind by the lack of my protectors’ understanding of love, their abuse, and what they taught me love was.

I worked so ******* trying to “fix” myself that this care became a kind of torture. I wouldn’t punish myself so much as I would work myself into exhaustion. It’s a subject too complex and full to delve into right now, but this, and every stressor in my life, was exacerbated by the fact that I am autistic. This is a definition I don’t entirely agree with but for the sake of conciseness I’ll say it– If you can imagine being born without a single tool to navigate the world, that is what autism is. I had to build much of what others know instinctively. This makes for an extremely confusing and terrifying childhood, even without abuse from an outside source. Due to the nature of autism, it can in itself be a kind of trauma. There are no known solutions to the issues it presents. In my rigorous self-studying (and observation of other autistic people I’ve known over the years), I’ve understood the core issues of autism and how to correctly- that is, naturally- arrive at the peace we so desperately need. I’ll write about it some day.

Autism made my life in isolation harder than it would be for those who aren’t autistic. Understanding the world without some kind of guidance was virtually  impossible for me. For a lot of autistic people, it remains impossible until death. I still need guidance in certain situations, mainly when in public or when feelings of stress cause regression, stripping me of my learned skills and pushing me into confusion and purely logic-based solutions (which only serve to offer relief in a short-term manner).

Only recently, within the last month, did I learn to approach self growth in better ways. Negativity is something I can now sit with, without fear of it. I listen to it, observe it. I always knew this is what should be done with feelings of negativity, but I wasn’t capable of it. I want to say that the only reason I became able to do this was because I was shown parts of love I had been refused all my life.
Recognition, justice, and a little bit of affection were all that I needed to move forward in my journey of becoming.
It was as if I had been waiting eagerly for years to know these fragments of love, so that I could finally work to modify the parts of me that needed modifying. The second I was shown this kindness, I felt I knew exactly how to use it. The gates had opened and I was sprinting, because finally, finally I could move forward. It was admittedly chaotic at first; I was overflowing with love in an overactive, confused state. The change for me was great and sudden, and difficult to manage. It was overwhelming, but I mostly settled into it after. Suddenly I was capable of accepting love, and was excited to give it. The kind words of strangers finally felt true; little positive messages left for anyone to read online were now a love I could accept and use. I looked through them and held their love in my arms, carrying it to my bed that day I remember feeling so sad and lonely. For the first time in years I wasn’t afraid of my sadness, of my loneliness, of my fear- of the results of my loveless life. I simply sat and cared for myself, and there was nothing lacking in my loving. I loved myself fully for one day.

The positive change in me that came from being given the fragments of love that had been absent all my life- justice, recognition and affection- lasted a month. Some part of me tells me that I should wait more to write about this, because right now is the end of that month.

The love has stopped, and I find myself in need of it again, and I’m wondering if I can survive by learning to give it to myself. Every time I wonder this, I think it’s impossible. That I’ll eventually reach that gate again, that my journey of becoming will inevitably stop. Self-love is made possible when we know what it is to be loved. I think this. I think this now.
Love cannot be built in isolation. I will need to be loved in order to continue loving myself. I’m too eager to continue my journey, I think. This is natural, but it leads to unpleasant things that might repel others and keep me from being loved. I’ve begged- an unbecoming, often disrespectful act. I’m desperate, but also unwilling to hurt anyone with my suffering.
It’s hard to know how to ask for kindness. It’s harder yet, as an autistic person. I want to ask for it, but something in me tells me doing this is rude. And the tension I feel from thinking this creates an unbearable stress as it grows into an unsolvable doubt: What about asking for something I need is rude? Is it possible to ask for fragments of love tactfully, without this rudeness? Is there something my autism isn’t letting me see?
There often is. The problem here then becomes, “I need a guidance most people do not need, and I know that asking for it is undesirable to others. I will be punished for needing.” Sometimes I don’t need this guidance. When I’m happy and safe, I can function independently more often. But happiness and safety are things one feels when loved. My dilemma is a paradox.

I’m tired of my loveless life. I wish for nothing more than to be able to love and be loved, because I am tired of lovelessness, because I am eager to know the terror of loving, eager to learn with someone to hold and be held, to commit love. I want to love and be loved because I am human, and because I think that at the end of lovelessness, there must be a kind of death, and I want so badly to live.
Perhaps if I weren’t autistic, my search would be less difficult and painful. I feel as if I am punished for needing, because most people do not need the things I need, and needing them is seen as a sign of rudeness, an inconsiderate nature or just plain incapacity, which are all undesirable traits.

My fear is to be undesirable for who I am. I can’t write it without crying. My fear is to be told I shouldn’t be touched because I can’t touch, that I shouldn’t be trusted because I can’t stop masking, that I shouldn’t be loved because I can’t love.
And I feel that all I can say is that I swear I can learn, if only you’ll give me the chance. I am willing to. And I’m sorry to beg, because I know it isn’t very good or beautiful, but please stay a while, so that I may allow myself to be defenseless and bare, like love requires one to be, like I long to be. If you must leave then go, but if you have the patience to spare, please use it on me. Because if at the bottom of lovelessness, there is only some death, I don’t want to ever know it. I don’t want to get any closer to it.

Devil's Dream

3/4 ounces of madness
1/4 ounce of insanity
1/4 ounce of delusion
1/2 ounce of darkness
1/4 ounce of incapacity
1/4 ounce of  violence
6 ounces of nightmares

Combine all ingredients into a shaker,
Shake intensely for 10 minutes until  thoroughly mixed up,  strain into a high ball asylum unbreakable glass, top with gasoline, light on fire and serve.

This should make one hell of a drink.

Thank you for visiting Satan's Pub, please come back any time.

Drawing upon the core of my being, I muster up the strength to survive.
Stepping into another plane of existence; one in which I have no capacity to resist toxicity; I am vulnerable.
A juggernaut lies at the end of the daylight hours; soft in temper and yet scourging in it’s pronouncements.
This is a being with no malicious intent; a sentinel guarding the sacred caliber of a spirit under divine instruction.

Darkness pervades in the form of light; I can sense a façade of purity within the confines of my bones.
This fortress that I have traversed into is infected with a murky haze looming just above the skies.
Escape is my only option; if I remain here it will be my demise.
When the juggernaut arrives, trepidation will electrify my soul; it will animate me.

Fear consumes me with every waking second I’m in it’s midst.
-This gargantuan being understands-
Empathy cannot save me however, once the utterances of ancient spirit inflict scathing wounds upon me in the name of humanity.
Attempting to rescue me from the tumult of the planet does not obscure the pain and heartache of compassionate words.

Wisdom lies within this walking tome; statue-esque maiden.
I have used my discernment as a bulwark; protection from wounds of sensitivity lies in detachment from myself.
I have come to realize that supplication does have a purpose.
-To plea with the remnants of a long forgotten world-

I am overwhelmed with euphoria when I realize that my fears have been nothing but stymie.
Fleeting in nature; they whispered to me of my incapacity to reach the heart of a relic growing wiser by the minute.
There is no judgment to be passed and I have been emancipated from the shackles of a foreshadowing past.
It leads to my genesis; the day when I shall be lifted up past all my iniquity.

Until that day, I await the metamorphosis of an ailing planet.
The Juggernaut does have a purpose.
This maiden shall be a beacon amongst the tumult of the seasons.
I shall look to her as a guide and honesty is what shall pervade from her lips.

In trueness she shall bestow her utterances upon me.
Like the sweetest honey, her words will befall my eardrums.
Internalization spurs a chemical reaction within me.
I am changing.

I have been enveloped by blinding rays of light.
The darkness is no match for the spiritual sinew that I possess.
I am growing by the second… I am growing prayer by prayer.
-Amen-

By Iridescently Efflorescent

The particular clinical word "psychotic" is commonly helpful to reference one who proceeded to go upset and also insane. This psychotic state will be described as your dysfunction involving opinion or maybe smell issues that aren't in reality generally there (hallucinations); as well as disturbance involving contemplating and also having philosophy that aren't according to fact (delusions). Psychotic men and women also have challenges within believing evidently (disordered considering), and also have minimized power to realize when anything is inappropriate using actions and thoughts (deficit of knowledge). Psychosis is usually a injury in which a man or woman possesses shed touching by using simple fact which results in a good handicap involving view. In the words of psychology, psychosis may be known as much more like a symptoms instead of a condition for the reason that analysis will be based upon a statement of a list of symptoms and never around the identity with the cause of the particular subconscious problem. Good Commence involving Intellectual Overall health, chances are you'll exhibit quite a few abnormal habits while in pre-psychotic period which may incorporate: ?Perceptual agitations including inner thoughts which factors about have evolved;

?Disposition trouble such as anxiety, major depression, moodiness, depression along with fury;

?Mental trouble like very poor awareness plus awareness, issues in pondering, suspiciousness, and strange values; and

?Behavioral disturbances which include difference in slumber and also desire for foods behaviour, societal revulsion, diminished involvement in issues, decline with job as well as school working.

Some people may perhaps most likely think of these kinds of disturbing manners since the signs of worry specifically variations tend to be regarding several nerve-racking everyday living occasions. People may perhaps think about these folks as being the an opposing side of the human being style. In most societies, intellectual as well as emotive ailment is owned by supernatural causes rather then about the existence of ****** as well as psychological troubles. You need to have a personal comprehension of these kind of disorders to figure out the aid trying to find habits. Occasionally, for even individuals that believe that it could be described as a mind health, the particular preconception regarding searching for psychological enable might stop these individuals through asking a new professional. Not surprising, it will take such a long time prior to any person makes the decision to search for specialist help. With psychiatry, there are a selection regarding diseases that come within the general subject of your psychosis. They each reveal unique symptoms however all have perhaps the most common denominator: the psychotic individual is no more in contact with certainty. A few of the signs and also manifestations on the psychosis involve:

?Schizophrenia ?******-Affective Condition ?Manic-Depression (Bpd) ?Mania ?Delusional (Weird) Issues ?Psychotic Despression symptoms

Commonly, your family or man or woman involved in the beginning seek the guidance of general practitioners plus consultants regarding the sufferer's difference in conduct as well as incapacity to usually be somebody. It really is very important that you've a higher directory connected with mistrust so as to acquire instances of attainable psychosis. Additionally it is a must to refer these people first for you to medical professionals for even more evaluation as well as treatment. It's been handed down in the event the person that is definitely demonstrating pre-psychotic signs and symptoms provides the adhering to risk factors:

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Drawing upon the core of my being, I muster up the strength to survive.
Stepping into another plane of existence; one in which I have no capacity to resist toxicity; I am vulnerable.
A juggernaut lies at the end of the daylight hours; soft in temper and yet scourging in it’s pronouncements.
This is a being with no malicious intent; a sentinel guarding the sacred caliber of a spirit under divine instruction.

Darkness pervades in the form of light; I can sense a façade of purity within the confines of my bones.
This fortress that I have traversed into is infected with a murky haze looming just above the skies.
Escape is my only option; if I remain here it will be my demise.
When the juggernaut arrives, trepidation will electrify my soul; it will animate me.

Fear consumes me with every waking second I’m in it’s midst.
-This gargantuan being understands-
Empathy cannot save me however, once the utterances of ancient spirit inflict scathing wounds upon me in the name of humanity.
Attempting to rescue me from the tumult of the planet does not obscure the pain and heartache of compassionate words.

Wisdom lies within this walking tome; statue-esque maiden.
I have used my discernment as a bulwark; protection from wounds of sensitivity lies in detachment from myself.
I have come to realize that supplication does have a purpose.
-To plea with the remnants of a long forgotten world-

I am overwhelmed with euphoria when I realize that my fears have been nothing but stymie.
Fleeting in nature; they whispered to me of my incapacity to reach the heart of a relic growing wiser by the minute.
There is no judgment to be passed and I have been emancipated from the shackles of a foreshadowing past.
It leads to my genesis; the day when I shall be lifted up past all my iniquity.

Until that day, I await the metamorphosis of an ailing planet.
The Juggernaut does have a purpose.
This maiden shall be a beacon amongst the tumult of the seasons.
I shall look to her as a guide and honesty is what shall pervade from her lips.

In trueness she shall bestow her utterances upon me.
Like the sweetest honey, her words will befall my eardrums.
Internalization spurs a chemical reaction within me.
I am changing.

I have been enveloped by blinding rays of light.
The darkness is no match for the spiritual sinew that I possess.
I am growing by the second… I am growing prayer by prayer.
-Amen-

By Iridescently Efflorescent

“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)

objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our
daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground,
we, pounding it, for the word void appears,
the frustration of incapacity incarcerating,
accompanied by the loudest silenced scream,
of no poetry available, try again later!

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or
the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked,
in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband,
a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor
of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an
inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration,
a seam undone,
a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending,
a notice of arrival,
all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared,
but none to no avail

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows,
the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates
in I-phone photos,
the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool,
the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of
an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will
fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever
in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life,
are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory,
the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order,
kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders,
in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes,
graying with follicles of past pluperfect,
recalling not just the when’s, but the more important,  now, the
wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions,
recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes

“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)

<>

Saturday
September
21st
2019

"I've been told that to fix the problem, you must first find its root... But you can't fix something that's not broken. I am not broken, just slightly damaged. My mind is like a thousand year old oak tree, and my facade as fragile as porcelain. My emotions act as a wrecking ball and when the night hits I'm nothing but a decaying mask. I fear pain, so I don't welcome love. I turn it away; a ruthless rejection, and send it back to where it came from. It haunts me, and in the night my own demons become insomnia. To fix the problem, I must first find its root." 
Or perhaps I mustn't focus on finding the root, I think the real issue might be that I am conscious that there are monsters in my head and my insomnia is result to the ongoing battle I have with myself and those monsters. Weather to love them or hate them, I do not know.  They save me and protect me, yet they seclude me from the rush of risk and beauty of bewilderment. When I lay in my bed my body feels great fatigue but my mind and my eyes are wide awake; ready to run circles around the world if they could. I no longer think that the solution would be to find a root or a specific turning point, but to end the battle of contradiction with the monsters that have taken over my thoughts and stolen my sleep. So do I love them because they protect me and have made me a smarter person? Or Do I hate them because they are the bricks that make up the walls I have built and they are the guards holding the riffles at the top of the walls shooting every single beautiful daring soul in their attempt to reach the real me? I will hate them. Yes the souls that have hurt me right after gaining my trust are the reason to my hurt and the nutrition to the growth of my monsters, but the very own monsters themselves are the ones responsible for my inability to recover from the inevitable hurt. They have Inprisoned me in this constant dark and uttermost thick desolation. It is because of how overpowered I am by them that I fail every single time in my attempt to breath. They are suffocating me and burying me in a state so dark I fear the incapacity to  get myself out. It is a journey of endless work, the wounds i have will eventually heal, but there will always be scars. It's like an addiction, even after being clean and sober the want of the drug will always be as great as it was the first time. So the fragility of my scars is so great it is completely capable to revert me back into the dark whole if i get hurt or scared again. i need to realize and accept that these things are inevitable and not close myself but open myself even more for the next person. The final solution will be to accept that the mosters?they are their, acknowledge them, deal with them, and never let them take over and do what they want with me. Then and only then will I be able to sleep.

You cannot resurrect
Memories
That
Have wedged themselves between
The future and the past,
Yet are too fragile to
Exist within the present—
You cannot
Resurrect
The way you felt
(The way you felt invincible)
In remembering mannerisms that outlive
The moment.
You cannot reconcile
The heart's defiance,
Deliberately giving yourself to
A void not of your own,
Gathering gathering gathering
Sentiment and stitching it into
The fabric of your narrative,
When you should have
Gathered your senses in a pail
And lowered them down into a wishing well...
You cannot resurrect what never
Wholly, entirely, unconditionally
Existed without
Your warm breath
Encompassing it in meaning,
Feeding an emptiness not of your own making.
Yet,
You cannot escape it either;
So it lingers:
Your regrets, your self loathing, your incapacity
To accept that
There is no way to breathe life back into
Something that was dead before you
Pressed its surface with your fingers,
As if you, yourself could
Impose a pulse upon what you could not
Understand.

Understand this,
Time will not resurrect
That which you long for in the night,
It will not reconcile
The incongruent nature
Of desire:
To feel
To be numb
To hold on to
To understand
To forget
To destroy
To save

Save like a wilted flower pressed between
Two aged, yellowed pages: present only in its allusion to the past.
You do not wish the flower a different fate,
To fill its dried up veins with green, pulsating life,
To have it become what it once was.
You cannot reconcile the purpose of its carefully preserved petals.
You do not question its existence,
Question why it has been uprooted from the ground,
Why it has changed shapes while remaining a flower.
It was never meant to remain the way it was.
And so, it exists
As an indicator of what it once was,
As a reminder that it will never be again,
As memories do
When we press them down
Between the past and the future,
Until like the dried up flower,
They cease to change,
As we continue.

1.

Doing violence to enemies,
opposing forces, fighting friends
beloved antagonists, ag me on, indeed.
Let me be angry and you be awesome, as we
presume to make reasonable temptations.
Cure violence, make your mind a peace.

Solitary you,
with nothing but you influencing you, alone.

No enemy is in here with me, and my books
hold mere words. And what are words but thought?

2.

Exhalent dancing in sunshine,

sighing unsignifying beautiful curves,
nothings being said,
shown for the seeing, as art at the moment.

in some sense system,
an old and common one I met while
measuring my culpability, a point

is the finest imaginable mark to make in eternity.

3.

Ordinarily, as the hammer falls,
to meet the anvil on the second beat.
T' know.
Violence cures nothing,
knowledge does the opposite.

Is this good and evil fruit from one tree?

Is addiction mental?
Is mental cognate with spiritual?
How do habits work in co-inhabitation?
Yes and how,
I may tell you it is, if I am right
in my thinking, or if I am wrong
to the point of evil, taking

away the given life of solitary grace.
Spirit and truth in thought,
then words, repeated
to remember, recall

all we need, in oppositional states,
is a sense of order,
to be out of
in the court, where poets practice
homophily and strive to fit peace

upon the time whence all true tellings
spin off old threads across New Mexico.
- what if your dad gave Feynman a ride
- down to Santa Fe, in that old Chevrolet?
and Feynman told him the significance of chance.
In spun quark analogies of natural liberty
in order.

No yoke is lighter, less loathsome to behr,
mere thought we got in our kit, PIE old
as born again, anew, to day it until

the freshets all run dry. {Day as a verb.}

5.

Propose a purpose,
as when one fits a pattern, plaid
or paisley, vertical or horizontal plain

visionary wistful solitary man, thick fake,
feeling like Neal Diamond, and not knowing,

any why for these crumbs I cast into the sea.

Young sterile men, young bulls and studs,
suffer reality, as the act of living, as can be done,

under these same weight circumstances,
nitrogen and oxygen and all the other bits

of informed knowledge, fit for use, good or evil.

6.

Artisans and Partisans,
always feel some same pains, it's natural.

A hundred years ago,
my uncle, Malcolm, who represented…

the ancient clan's offering to the king,
who kept his own tamed dragon chained
to his priest's performance of the auspices.

Today is perfect.
The sun has also risen.

We may imagine poetry effecting ever,
after a day such as this shall be said to have been.

A hundred years ago,
my uncle, Malcolm, who represented…
the patriarchy of my mother's people in war…
pledged pawns in the hegemonies conservation,

in order to attract prosperity, pure form good luck,
the homogeneity of any wedom demands hands,
good hands, to do the work,
aligning religamental tendings to common pivotal

points. Precisely between one instant and another.

Cardinal quarks, six ways to someday,
the bottom quark.

No yoke.

7.

Nothing.
I'd have said Hadrons can't collide,
but I'd have never known if I was wrong.

I could have taught it as life's finest point.
The law of grave digging.

Initially, due to stink.
Miasmas, demanding, shreeking -
crawling with feeding biting flies, help

help, help us recall the survivors of that time.

Is it once in every other while, and this time
ours to examine, was our wedom's destination

now, or later?

Were there innovations emitting invitations,
to word plays with only elementals performing

haps as hap can, haps as haps may, haps in per-
fection of patience so sublime,

a teacher learns the old saw still cuts,

„Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
And things unknown propos'd as things forgot.“
\critical mass, Christmas carol - this is not the end/

Alexander Pope as quoted to Franklin by himself.

'men ought be taught naught as well. I said.

8.

From what I can recall of how
theories of everything stack upon a given point.

What.

Out acting what you verbalize, what you say you are,
homophonizing with the health of your countenance,

that sameness known best for it's use in stripping lipid
chains into sticky tiny pore clogging pus.

Certain madness is not anger, actually rage is madness,
not anger at its most useful
swat
at a pestilent misfolded truth contained
in a fly by POV.

9.

Listen, is that Earl? No, no
though he holds a certain Magnificent Obsession.
--- sweet Tuscan Nightingale song, from noble soul,
cursing ignorance and incapacity and
useless rules.

Ah, grammarized code of proper speech,

prompt my response to statistical chance,
best of luck,
that's their secret.

What were the odds, before the odds were
determined with existing data deterging the

inner and outer fields over lapping,
as might bubbles used as
Venn Diagrams, messaged meaning sensible

commonly, at this point in time.

Justice yet alluding us, nah nanna nah,
you can't catch me,

I'm not your disease.

10.

What true stories do, is teach.
Lying stories do that, too.

What we are, as human augments,
after thoughts in other words,
arguing augmentally in mind,
learning ai tested for facts,
repairing quarkish inner sense of knowing,
no one of us only spins one way when dancing
in the dark,

no one of us recalls another never met, as foe,
we all come in to fill the empty vessles, not a few,
as a swarm of wills let go to make honey in slain lions.

11.

Nature, reality, the universe, first song

makes life abide
by rules in timing ordered information
to eventually sink
to the top part of the bottom line.

Florence Nightingalian wisdom, amima-y-me,
she sweetly suggests
you take a bath,

and rethink the oddity of your being me, imagined.

Ignorance, incapacity and useless rules.
Interesting times, statistically not so long infected.

Manufactured consent among the governed,
housed in a single all enclosing story, a compleat
fisherman's guide to phishing in the future after all.

12.

So, and so, and so what… if I persuade
with sweets as all dangerous strangers do,

how might we feed our offspring milk and honey?

O, read another's mail in the spirit, eh, Galatian?

If any other come with another enhancement,
trust not that wicked messenger,
driving hex-head screws too deep to unscrew,

to hide links to the Pirates of the Macintosh,
not the face of the money, the spirit behind it.

People who can imagine the message Hello,
is enough, to make the magic pens manifest,

at the behest of the generational groaning,
howling for peace under the actual economy
of greed and pride.

And subsidized gambling links to stray hopes.


13.

These holy traditional non-private interpretations,
mine, for which I must be judged, I know, I said

I did, and I did, but you did not see, so
what
am I
sup-posed, under? Atlas and I, we shrug.

Anything is believable. Once we get the idea in verb.

Thirteen is culturally an odd number everywhere
cardinality spins on dimes novels mixes of messages,
left in print burned ages ago.
Impressions after Pulp Fiction.
'Zeke 17:1 is the real riddle under it all.

Lingering aroma is immediately different.
Stench.
Rotting corpses on some never buried battlefield washed
with raging water when the weather retakes time,

this is the time when Greenland greens,
and peace is sung, where no peace was,
and we were manifested as sons, wombed and un,
in the self same spirit of truth manifested as salve,
to a dry land.

September 29th 2022 Philosophy

The spavined strumpets of aleatory nimonics stranded in the dimpled pelargic mythos of the nebelwerfers of scansorial elitism burroling the stokehold of pragmatic lurch useful for the progeny of powellisation interned by potichomania for balefires against the throbbing thremmatology of the strickle of jabirus vexed by stunsail argumentation of sumpter sidelong in oblique ginglymus to such a grave extent the thalwegs of contemplation daver in marauded orbit around ceraceous and cespitous thaumaturgy manacled by subservience in sequacious filagersion honing upon stereopsis for nomenclators of high squarson brigadoon fidelity to finessed wheals brackling away at tattermedalion squalor in squirmish facade of brockfaced brockens of wasserman to infiltrate against banjolins the pedigree of berceuse mendaciloquence that the branchiform sedigitation of all sesquiplicated sondage in the barnstorm of whelky during the subterfuge of wallfish cofferdams entrenched in boskets of the deepest regard of bathmism that we might fetch the canicular and cannular talents of susceptible bonhomie to retrace the elemental supralunar chrysopoetics of the transubstantiation of all stellions beyond provincial jansky and above fracklings of disrepute to array never a protervity of loimic stiction but always a sovenance of the highest fidelity to bellarmine briquets that can be sustained by mediagenic diffusion of volplanes of vulpecular vasotribes thereby careworn of future plight by preterition and chronobiology superfused for sporrans calculated for bonanza rather than retching with carpology. In the sustainable calculus of stanhopes and standpipes against the nivellated carnage of many a nivial hotspot grandiose with bruxomania rarely plodged by the subsultus of virgation nor flummoxed into glochidate barbs against the cephaligation of turmoil subduplicated by the gnomics of rebarbative betise flagrant upon caballine taunts of persiflage of percocted vexililogy curmudgeons of companionway spurtle upon cibophobias yearning for yeeps trouncing yaffs in a suitable mascon that trounces the pentapolis for its misfire of finicky stoichometry gradate in the traipse of ginglymus rotated succinctly by a minor machinule degradation of venostastis that the wens of wanchancy never vex or vitiate the providence of prattle of umbrageous stultification whelkied by the patriolatry of foreign observers of the brocade of balbriggan springhares reticulated by grimgribbers of jaunty jabberwocky levying murage with murengers against the trident spodium of overwrought negotiosity spinescent in capacity to deturpate never with a carnassial intent the tribuloid fictions vaccimulgent by reedbucks who learn from stockinette harbingers the calculus of specular redintegration and redhibition that fewer in number are those scollardical taunts of poststructuralism and many more rancorous attempts at chrematistic nurture above camouflets of the vees of vecordy singulting melancholy upon the canzone of cadrans mobilized by motile wafture into cavernous applause that we might witness the secundine generation waft rather than wamble through its throes of goatish goliardy deposed by gonfaloniers of stridor rather than brackle over truculent developments of the lurch of wainage and wantage burroling the constative prisoptometers of tritanopia leveraged by finifugal finesse of stricklers of sifflation that the saffron glow of refulgence is contingent upon the biotaxy and biocenosis of evolved human trust in the stirpiculture of many fascinated disciplines into a chaptalized chapbook of enlightenment above the murky morass of snallygasters of casemate. With an improvident regisseur domineering by the labile fears of neuropynology that understates the mainlined efforts of the nervure against the nesh nessberries of overindulgent popinjays straggling through the stench of sprag winzing in fumatoriums of maieutic latency bored by the tedium of the laveers of the propriety of neolagnium restive because of plumeopicean nidor frowning upon the badigeon of baedekers becoming centripetal to all harmonized gambados seeking the same terminus against the vexatious simultagnosia of the graft between crevices of paltripolitan wrox and the bailivated society we govern better by the rhombos of rhizogenic answers to papaverous problems of chaetophorous vengeance wagered by the groundlings of kyphosis in their idiosyncratic bascules of stentorian elocution that the taxidermy of selenodesic traipses through barnstorms of plurrennial wastelots of cachalots suborned only by the betise and bezique of portentous diestrus fledgling in its inadequacies of torment to roodge any subservience to carpology or any allegiance to the miscegenation of the political yaffingales of plemyrameters overcapacitated by misyoked fears meeting inclement rhigosis that the fortunes of cimelia rather than the boggarts of cimex might enchant future generations to supplant history with a calculated cecutiency that never avoids the boygs of boskets carping by cymaphens of the semaphores of all wheelhouses of wheaten inventions that we might witness the historicity never of sesquiplicated subduplicated biocenosis gorging on the gorgonization of internecine ignorance of varsal velocious cynegetics that the stranded victims of spathspey only in ceremony rather than in supernumerary contemplation that the vigorish vagantes and newels among the badigeons might thrive despite turmoil and the jugodi of broadcloth happenstance devolved upon popular cynography rather than annealed by the ballicatter of avenged samara and samarra that find requital in the wedeln modality rather than nodality of propriety in purpresture rather than crassified demassification of the slore of poltophagous crimogenic procrypsis simileter to all shortsighted gambits of a farsighted batrachian fidelity to nektons suspended among the stunsails of the wager of man to better himself. Because of the motile capacity of thaumaturgy of the wafting baedekers circulated with superfusion incidental to its warped dimensions against thalwegs of strigine configuration that boltropes of emacity swindle from the registry of the coffles of bailivated marivaudage scanscorial in its own moulin capable of entombing the cenote of even the most strident efforts of the nembutsu of gonfaloniers to issue cheer instead of malinger with precipitogenic intimidations of spinescent spiraculated pickelhaubes of porbeagle insights collated from sublime authority because the world awaits not a faineant corpse of morigeration upon the shend of sheol crepitating in heavenly judicature rather than the juggins of notoriety of crambos and crampons that cadge licentiousness that we might all marvel at synechdocial capacities against baryecoia weaponized by a modern bacillicide by blesboks whose candent semaphores of whittled stepneys of swank picaresque by degrees of leverage and largesse taxed by stenometers of pycnostyle elevated because of pyretology that the eventual harbinger of piscary reconnaissance is worth the awaited junctition of all sociogenesis captivated by the selfsame rapture of the chaptalized discovery of a greater biocenosis brockened to rejoice upon decisive conquest rather than backfire in mekometers of coquelicot carnage. The vees of veepstakes admonished by prevenience in vitrail that the fewer casualties of macropicide slangwhanging the brocade of the insular rhotacism of the cannular heist of springald necrologues deposed by cardophagous lies about necrophages so immunized in their stanjant stolinicity boltroped by annealed wheals of endeavor cavorted with portfires of yuzbashi above the petty pedestrian concerns of the spavineds of vauriens of varietism that they can jolt even the jolterheads and surprise with rudenture even the most poikilothermic negotiosities to truckle with a hint of truculence to spare the world from starvelings on the outskirts of spirketti that the scarfskin of the collective endeavors of the ventrad vanguard might resemble the coalition of forbearance for the broadest bronteum of ptarmic awakening ever enjoyed by the vigilance of men and the simity of women against the phallocrats twinged with meritodespotism. When we steeve our way past the mazut of balkanized mazopathia in mercedary wainage rarely taxed by the forefront of  considerate myopia we might celebrate the kalamkari spathspeys in their inordinate caution developed into a nympholepsy splendor of refulgent thrills demassified for the curglaff of generosity upon the crumpled brannigans of wizened applause upon the heyday of saturnalia that the whittawers of willowish repute might barnstorm yet again past the precipice of indecency naively wagered never by the sageships of conciliabule capacity to wheedle their way through their attempts at bacillicide regardant always of the caudles of the past commiseration of privileged cribbles of bathmism rather than repugnant spathodea of retorted pelargic barbarism congealed in oppositive valor to enchant only a regelation of nightjars vigilant in sciatheric darkness that the sondage of siffilated barnstorm might jar the very foundations of heaven and earth that the welkins of those whelking might find the couveuse of attempted blatternophones of past decorum the stridor of many taunted nightmares rather than the precipice of the most copulated acclaim ever registered in the foundries of men above the carcasses of subternatural plebeian mythos that stagnates the world rather than ameliorates it into congenial harmony of concordat against interregnum. The suretyship of so many strictions that the sprahl of sprachgefuhl intermittent with janitrices of stanjant jansky beblubbered by the maudlin sentiments of the many recklings ignorant of stockinette despite the nephroliths against nervifolious demise pregnant with absolution rather than replete with gullywashers of metaplasm in the exposure of ragmatical soteriology jaunty only to elective privilege rather than preserved by the conformed chapbooks of catechumen that our fears incumbent on catastrophism always brackle against the truculence of truckling masses of corpses of infirmity that gimcracks of the pentapolis exalt above the treasury of life itself inviolable. The caverniloquys of the jobbernowls of jolterhead infamy regardless of the purpresture of imperious strigrine secrecy embossed upon the pogroms of caudles rarely commiserating with any enchantment of wanchancy brockfaced in its geopolitical fanfire of the portfire of perendination that swashbuckles with the freebooter flarmeys of past coquelicot catalfalque notoriety always a kilmarge to the boondoggles of syndicalism arrayed in satnav ratomorphism that we might storge our present culture with the heyday of glamour intransigent to the chronobiology of preterition always glozing with glottogonic piecemeal dashpots against catastrophism even when done with metaplasm against metapolitics we can fight together with a unified brigade and sodality against the carping objectionable trends of a momentary amnesia so refulgent it overpowers every other inclination that the solfatara of weatherboards of wethers might convene upon the sumter of clochards becoming vagarish rather than prurience becoming simileter to a popular culture ****** of cisvestism upon the scarpetti of crambazzled crampons of senicide rather than the registries of seismotic impetus roundhousing through jobbled configurations of nimonic harbinger to etch themselves indelibly upon the sociogenesis of bellarmine among men and eutrapely among every other facet of attention never too calcimine with calvous calvers that the bolar of our existence depends on the synclastic momentum of the cynegetic valor rather than porlecking insecurities of babirusa of baboonery. The silkaline improvidence of the many boondoggles of lacking stolonicity or a casemate lockjaw jawhole internment of castrametation created by the pourparler of powellisation entombed in the liturgy that laments the past rather than accelerates the amelioration of the future might wilt because of wilding accidia rather than bonzoline acrasia because those people of nevosity that barnstorm against the nivial haunts of the lionized precipitogenic groundprox of naivety derived never from svedberg of swag of gromatic completion that alleviates all wambling grognards of desperation that we might fetch a new epoch superior to the one we have inherited by our callous poikilothermic poivrades of carnage and carnassial deprivations created by stagnant recession rather than optimized reflation because it behooves us all collectively to inseminate the future for the nitids of troilism rather than argue and pander to the bifids of blackmasters nidificating suboptimal steeves of the bobbinet to storge the inoculated beerocracy davering against the best interests of principality rather than the mainline of bayaderes of bargemasters locked into combat with stevedores from other dimensions of cordial conduct and contact that we no longer cower out of polyphiloprogenitive goals or teleonomic insufficiencies but that we brook and embraced age of praxeology above ragtaggers of retchination that the brassage of squamation can supervise into fluency rather than lurch into internecine schmeggegy that remains and always will be the cynosure of schwerpunkt in domestic manifestation of regal impetus above the detritus of defenestration. We should muster an assault against the plodges of kistvaens and the carnassial carnifician yeltings of wights of widgeons that the wicket of campanile shortsightedness might recoil upon its very foundations of ineptitude to become sempervirent in the sashays of surahs contemplated by the magnality of both mahouts and sansculottes to together forge ahead in commonplace articles of enchantment rather than the reliction of ideation in the swamp menaced by vinegaroons rather than elevated by picaroons who thrive even against snallygasters of importunate jawholes that crave a schoenabatic portfire to distract people from the rudenture of rubefaction in such a finicky way as to alleviate the coacervation of cespitous and cepivorous disdain. The faineant world orbiting around cynosures enjoying sinecures that the balbriggan springhares of reticulose pleonexia designed by veilleuses of brachet serectrium asterongue popularity designated with crass balizes of only bakelite answers of echopraxia to every dented quidlibertarian fascination with their quisquilous periergia floundering because the bathmism of elite pedigree imposes the steepest murage against avenged cachalots that their beziques of betise immolated by the discernment of the capable against the brazen incompetence of hortatory disdain that the thermolysis of sacrilege becomes a better portfire than protective jaundice designated by gamidolatry to perform intorted gambados to soothe the idiosyncratic jobbernowls whose incapacity to subduplicate societal quandaries and correctly weigh the subreption of jannock provides a paralytic inertia to fasten schadenfreude above the tympany of macarism because the catastrophism against the metaplasm correctly brazen rather than cordial only to inauthenticity always bristles at the perendination of evil skullduggery that it might eventually fade from the brocades of supercilious elitism that uses pundonors against mercedary enrichments. Many a time ago already elapsed by the portfire of skalds of jimswingers of sarangousty predicating their vehemence on axiomatic psyiurgic morkins the casualties of many a conflict witnessed by the depredation of morale even when sustained by the puckery of whipstaffs that the fewterers of modern taste deranged by their ginglymus constrained by their thalwegs that sejugate raltention from comprehension might find it incumbent to celebrate never a saiga that berates the many nightjars of saki but rather to entomb novelty because of the pickelhaubes of portbeagles flummoxed by their evaporating fortunes always avenge those who stand in the way of nivial and nivellated securiform and scalariform dementia that is the senicide of many a monocular cause witnessed by barbaric cyclops so intorted in the most pedestrian of antics that his incapacity to even see single borts from the boschveldt and singular leaps among the varsal capacity of proselytism that his ineptitude staggers the stenometers of the most dismal apprehension of his wagered capacity for any kind of stamina in any discipline. These poltophagous idiosyncrasies enjoyed by the oppositive acclaim of those pourparlers of castrametation designed by jabirus preventing stirpiculture of chrysopoetics for cachalots guarded by the blackguard of the ventrad camarilla rather than spayed by the cespitous vinegaroons of poikilothermic aims to plumeopicean ragtaggers entrapped by vapulation rather than informed of bonanza that we might starkly refrain from endorsing majoritarian lewdness as the new credo of a reborn republic constituted around the mahouts of idealism and the magnalities of those who posture in support of the noosphere rather than entangle themselves in the wase of imposture only because catalfalques angry of coquelicot politics might find the calcariferous disdain of pollarchy too much of an enormity to stomach with a stomacher. In the secundine revival of riveted artifacts of sometimes galeanthropic velleity that the skalds of scavons always maraud around to deprive of vehemence the maladroit malaise of the junctition of clitter and clinkstone because of a widespread malcontent that the sedigitated sidestep by every careful lurch on the bobbinet common to resourceless bodaches that we might witness the dying wish of the stellions to become the hamparthia of entire nations cribbling with propriety the bathmism centripetal to the public morale rather than the vacillation of internecine political balkanization in the barnstorm against the security of gonfaloniers to thrive without synsematic declension because of misappropriated vilipended ignorance widespread among those that clamber insistently and with insolence against the gravity and gravitas of the pundonors of cadastre rather than a sublime lackaday morose regret of saturnism waged by sideration in thick boschveldt to depose and derange many. Many tarry because of the umbrage of ultrageous litigation enthusiastically brought with coemption of the celebrated vanguard baldric retinue jolting the enthusiastic boltrope wegotists into the braxy of their shakuhachi of shantung bucentaurs and shenangos emboldened by the vicissitude of the collective remnants of the shambles of sottoportico to assemble with the borts in their possession the wilding zalkengur of absolution rather than the faltering groundprox of phugoid and mugient demands of bolar that laveer silently in the slithers of a puckery night scaffolded by the dashpots of insular providence against termagants of negaholic deprivations of lifestyle and pedigree because of the bradyseismic subsultus against the moya of carpology that is axiomatic in its retched mistetches of ceratoid configuration around the ballaster of schadenfreude enthusiastic in its moribund capacity to disembrangle the better soldiers from the recklings of morose enchantment with lugubrious toil flummoxing all propriety in regard for the sanctiloquence of the present never to result in a future martyrdom of saturnism that would assuredly wipe out the blemishes of portfire from the memory of a disheveled Earth into a shambolic configuration that would result in a nivial morigeration to nivellated conditions of egestuous sejugated cephaligation of nebelwerfers rather than primiparas always lachrymose in regret now pregnant with reactionary desires to coerce change rather than wamble in the ginglymus of sesquiplicated triage around petty boundaries of shakuhachi inviting balbriggan disgrace. In the trismus of crackjaw siderism ennobled by baldric syntalities elective of belletrist in their formative cadges of procatalepsis and jarvey of the intorted blunge of degenerative capacities for meharis combustible only in camouflets of prestige that skirpettis contain by the skinters of springhares of denouement carefully managing larithmics to optimize the mantissa never of a vagarish vagantes venostasis of mottled pternology megacerine because of meleagrine despots of sedigitated attempts to provoke casualties of corbels in the neorama of many sinecures of simultagnosia extorted endlessly by vaccimulgent reedbucks of sinister racemation that the phugoid eutrapely and bellarmine capacity to trounce the sudd that creates the rebarbative bosket of embattled retrenchment in survival ethos because of the macropicide and yirds of many a poikilothermic wretchock of morality to denounce as a denizen of unholy chaptalization that the chaomancies of chabouks between the pleiromorphy of convictions and the moulin of lickerish fascinations of beerocracy of beeskeps of yaraks a commonplace deturpation that finally the pomace of regalia might sustain the mainsail cardimelech and cardiognost capacity of piscary urbacity finicky of any desultory castrametation wagered by sinturong of piscifauna negligent of agapism that their fortuitist regard for humane sanctiloquence that already perished from the Earth might be revived by the vasotribes of the whipstaff of declared decorum vanquishing all tantrels of gambados of gamidolatry so pickelhaube in their dereliction of picaroons that vinegaroons capable like jerboas disguised in the thickets of the night will depose their serendipity and revoke their citizenship from the habitations of the woubits of hell rather than the brevets of widgeons of animadversion propining in every saccadic misyoke of endeavor to find a commonplace destination agreeable beyond the bifids of internecine thalwegs of sejugation rather than assimilation.

Close some doors today, not because of pride, incapacity, or arrogance, but simply because they lead nowhere - Paulo Coelho

Nowhere hurts more than nothing.

i guess it was always this cold every
winter but i never fully realized 366 days
later this is exactly where i'd be again

i say goodbye to it every year and i
take whatever veil everyone makes for me
to throw it over

we all want to start over

but it's here that january starts to cry on my shoulder
i liked this shirt, and i liked to keep my heart on its sleeves
but i let her cry until i feel each shoulder freeze

knowing this year was a bad one and
that she's lost a lot

(this entire time i think: ***** you. ***** you for hurting her)
(but i also want her to forgive)

the entire time wishing i could have her back
and soon i'm having a panic attack

my hand over her now
under my breath i'm praying
i wish i could take the weight off her
i wish i had plainly had more
to offer
i wish i had it in me to say i could stop her

from everything but mostly from her own suffering
even months away i'm so ****** cursed
to already see the sadness buffering
her software overload

switching her hardware up thinking it would do us any good
when the world will still spin and the events planned
will still happen as they should

all i do is hold her and hold her fists
away from her eye
stop rubbing them while you cry
she said she'd have worried about wrinkles too
if she didn't plan to die

i'm getting too old to ask her to justify why

every year i get asked
  please won't you please
  keep this boulder?
i need it to stop me from getting older
please won't you please?     i want to stay on your shoulder

and every year she says:
don't **** my dream don't **** my hope don't **** my illusion
unless you want me dead too

i said this year i want this and i want you
but
keep that february away from me
if you want it gone i want
all of it gone

she said
i might not be right but i can tell that
that is wrong

(and she adds
i wish instead i was
left
cause i need you going and i need you gone)

but i'm
hanging tight
hoping my heavy burns down to your light

no , light
lightest lit light
stop me turning everything into
a fight

no light
isn't that winter?
yes
wake up
it's winter it's march

you know what i want to say?
i'm waiting for sweet april days
roll around fast paced craze
and all her showers i'm waiting for
i'm itching at stories because i can't wait for more
and thank april for the showers for the flowers for the
bloom for the
run around turn around
find yourself hanging on her
every move

till May said May
till May said
you may May
you may stay you may be mine
you, may,
be mine

you maybe
mine

you, maybe mine

just for a few days more

till june comes around to hack and **** up my door

unsturdy but there
one against the problems door against the thought door against
the dizzy door against the rot

so  hinges slipped and hinges slid
and nothing felt heavier than
my eyes, right shut close they did

i was holding in the only way i knew
i was keeping up before i blew

i was keeping in as much as i could
i was holding on more than i should

and tell july she was ugly

and tell her if i hadn't been too busy crying
and too busy sad
i would've been mad

dare she
did anyways
and poked me in the eye

she said

they have to be open

i said

you're the one trying to **** me now

she said august is here and
you missed it fighting

i said i missed myself
more than i could ever imagine
and i feel myself
on seven clouds
at once

she said i know who you're talking about and give her four days
she's going go away

i nodded
but i knew it couldn't be true
this was a form of me as much as it was all i cared to say i knew

till friend my friend called her friend to call my friend friend to call around and say that i found myself
at the edge of myself and i realized much of the ******* up and i realized more than sorry
and i remembered big guilt filling up pools of myself and
incapacity to swim and
overcrowding
means drowning

in august i remembered how ugly
i could be in the rawest form of myself

and i spent 2 weeks with my hands on a blade wondering
when the day would be that i'd ditch
the body

i was possessing feeling and thought and i was
something more than that

i was surprised to read in my journal that this was something i thought consistently about

so if i were to let go it'd be the body it'd be
the mind and i'd let them die
the only way my spirit could ever learn to fly

and body got weaker call me
weakest on the plane
but september came here right back and
she came back quite like the best
hug attack

no hack no more she said
no need for
a door

she came back to say i'm here! she came back to say i missed you!
and i missed her too i missed you so much i love
you so much i love myself i am superwoman i am
superwoman today

she said you are superwoman everyday jesus
christ you have no idea what you've missed

i said i love you i love you i love you don't you
dare go away

and friend called friend and friend called friend
till the sad came around to finally
shove me again

locker of myself i thought
bullies were insecure

but she looked me straight in the eyes with words
and a voice that made me know she was sure

i didn't even say hi to her this time
so don't give me crap
i hate her
as much as you do


and i was thinking out loud to my best friend to
please just make her go away make her go away

but stupid idea because i stayed for months
in a bed
with her
in my head

so month beat month till month turned month
happy birthday month happy
anniversary month
marking days
i knew what it
was for

and in october i swore i
was feeling it come on this year mild

but november was so cold and december
looks at me in that way that january felt
and i knew it wasn't innocent enough to leave me alone

i can't defend you january i am so sorry this is
so much bigger than both of us

i'm just so sorry to have not kept my promise to you

The New York City skyline
from across the water;
sunsets at sea;
the shadows of clouds
shifting over treetops;
my sisters wishing on
a shooting star;
the sunrise over the desert
from a hot air balloon;
the warmth and light of a
campfire as the voices rise
into the sky with the embers.

And I have tallied up these
beautiful things and kept
tabs on them, memories like
index cards in my mind, labeled,
categorized, logical, the way
I like my things to be:
landscape, cityscape, skyline,
harmony, melody, warmth,
friendship

and then somewhere in the back
of the drawer is a folder, a
category that is not a category
and it is spilling into the
other categories and it
is disorder and the absence
of order, the incapacity to
categorize beautiful things

overflowing, not logically

and then, there's *you

Suffocating in this state of mind

Like a grain of soil

On the wall of a

perpetually filling

Bottomless pit.

All stale

and collapsing mud.



I can’t breathe

And it is dark in here

In this silence

In this wet and stifling

***** blanket

Of thin smiles

That veil

filth and dirt.



Gritty, I can taste discontent

( restlessness stirred, agitated, weeping)

Like a thorn in the side

Of this torn and invisibly stitched mouth.

My fingers bleed

And doubt seeds

Vicious weeds inside

An already

sick and nauseated mind.



There is hurt in here

And pain

And the bittersweet unspoken

refrain

Of one lost in their

Own directionless

Domain.



These walls I built, alone.

That stare back careless

And greet me daily with their

Cold embrace.



In this darkness, alone,

I, us, we,

cry.

Small children,

Whimpering in this feeling

of self chafed friction.

Whining,

each whine followed by

Gutteral, viscous, primal mutterings

These madman

Me, myself and i

Locked in a tunnel

Without light

It is cold and we want so badly

To relight the fire



I

claw at the fortification

I have erected

Around myself

Then bleed some more

Until the walls in front of me turn from

la mort noire to

rouge de sang



Sitting here

In this

Abyss.

Blinded by the inability to see

The incapacity to feel

Anything but the feeling of failure.

This powerlessness to heal,

All sealed up and drowning

in my private pool of mud.



Still it is dark in here,

And wet,

And bloodied

And brooding.

The cold walls are soothing

And the veil still acts

To conceal

The extent of filth

Scourging up the walls

Of this inaudible and bidding cave.

Why am I crushing myself
to death and beyond?
Feeling bereft
for that which I haven't
touched in years.

Leadening my heart,
and dragging my feet
because each step
is a step further
from lightness and youth.

I bore myself with this weight.
Loathe the tyranny,
and mighty pressure
inside my head
which threatens incapacity
of reason every ten seconds.

Why did he come back at all?
If only to suffuse me
with the promise of nothing,
and the intangibility
of all ****** lovers?

And, forgive me,
for ****** is how I feel.
Self-pity, you old devil!
I shall have this out of me,
or pick over it
'til my heart lays waste
all good intent.

I wish to be suspended,
as the crystallised air,
inside the strange house.
Where, this morning,
I chanced upon myself in mercury,
and tumbled through the ages.

As rose-heads wither on the stem,
my head shall fall
upon my chest with piquant,
silent longing.
And so, unto history
a dream shall die.

Should I die with it?
Or resurrect a steely charm?
Neither, sweet prince,
for your fleeting
and unseen visit
has taken my soul.

And, thus protected
from the whimsy of flattery
I stand, without notion,
of which way to turn
upon a once-clear pathway.

Should I chance you in my dreams,
I would but falter at your beauty,
though fail to recognise you -
for I no longer trust
what my eyes alight upon.  

I am torn -
lamenting and tidal -
with hands that were always empty.
So what have I lost?
Nothing, that is all.
Nothing at all.

Splints are beginning to break,
wounds are seeping through the bandage,
sores have become infected,
scabs picked and pulsating--

Aspirin won't take away the throbbing pain,
nor will morphine numb the brain--
the leg below the ****** turniquet
grows gangrenous.

Maggots inching closer,
flies eagerly buzzing overhead,
divebombing into ruptured flesh
oozing blood and pus--

the body bag lingers menacingly
sporting its gaping maw,
hungry for mangled flesh
and broken bones.

Bloodshot eyes pleading,
crooked mouth on a broken jaw begging,
a sick contortion of a once beautiful body
****** forlornly on busy streets--
writhing in the weak mortal vessel that damns them.

---

How long?

How long has it been lying there?

Trying hopelessly to stand stumbling like an old dog
in its final moments of consciousness
before the impending ejection--
how many have passed it by
with a blind salute
and a knowing fake smile?

How long must this poor soul drudge through time
slowly draining its insides
and flesh feasted by the flies,
dragged along by marionette strings--

when will we see this creature,
in need of its good samaritan--
when will we stop the transient fix,
peel off the blood-soaked bandages,
and ultimately stare into the fissures
for a final, effective prognosis?

Look this ******* in the eye,
peruse its peeling sallow skin
hanging loose off cadaverous limbs--

lying,
gasping cries rendered soft moans,
lying in a cesspool of ****** fluids--
**** and **** and blood and pus
drowning within itself--

trace your fingers along the scars and wounds,
inhale the stink of death,
accept your incapacity to understand the weight of its history--
a great anguish heralded by generations afore.

Do not, then,
think it wise to abandon the poor wretch,
as your forefathers had done--
The Poison lies within you.

To heal, then--

is not a matter of medicine,
is not a matter of science,
is not a matter of faith--
it is a matter of action.

It is sick.
It is dying.
And it will take us all with it.

Would you die for its sins?

Your bouts of literary thoughts spewing all over do not make sense.
Your incapacity to formulate a whole and worthy thought has gotten the best of you fooling you into thinking that someone, somewhere is listening.

Stop.
Stop. you must stop.

Your insensitive belief that everyone is falling head over heels for your talent, popularity and deep sense is proving to be a lie. I say all this sincerely with hatred, love and everything in between because I won't be good enough for you.

So stop.
Stop. Stop existing in my world.

She did this.

She always does.

Sending me into the dark,

Just when everything seems to be falling into place,

She has a break down.

Swiftly falling out of grace.

Gratifying a taste for violence,

And gratuitous self medication.

It makes the reckless danger,

Enough to satisfy her impulsive nature.

She’s so emotional,

Empty and vulnerable.

Afraid of every wandering thought.

A picturesque noir,

I know it’s all her fault.

She isn’t real.

I’ll say in repetition.

Paranoid and anxious,

She persuaded separation.

Attempting to restore,

Something that was tainted.

Polluted by self hatred,

She suddenly falls prey.

To her own incapacity,

To love and be loved.

This impossibility,

Seemed like everything.

Regret is useless.

She did this.

Nothing scares me more than the thought
That I can become lesser
To someone who once loved me in entirety

What if my insecurity that she always helps to quell
Becomes a burden in her every day
What if the creativity
That she once saw in my every song
And poem
Becomes nothing more than another word
Carelessly placed

What if my once compelling conversational topics
Become but an obligation to reply
What if the things that hold us together
Right now
Are made nonexistent
And my words don't flow like they used to,
That my voice doesn't sing as well as it should do

Nothing scares me more

My inability to take a step back and stay calm
My perpetual insecurity and need for assurance
My incapacity to overlook the things that don't matter

I'm being pessimistic because I know she loves me
But I can't shake off the thought that
Everything she now knows about me
Has already begun to seem unappealing

The thought that the spark we set alight
Could have already begun to burn out
Because people fall out of love
For the same reasons they fell in it

it has always baffled me across age and time how parents can sacrifice there children happiness on the altar of love to protect there own self centered ego. to protect there ideal ideology of themselves. God help anyone that dare to scratch that image for hell had no fury than a content-less character being unveiled as a fraud. God gives gifts called children for reasons known to him alone this does not excuse anyone from honoring this decision after all we call our selves Christians translated into followers of Christ who loved and honored his father. instead there is endless failures fueled by incapacity to accept and love without agenda's. not love believed but love experienced one rain drop into a bucket meant to over flow.

my elders consider my punishment like prison
separated from my phone but linked to a chain in my home
for 7 days any kid my age wouldn't survive but suffer
what's for supper?
wait, last night double pound
McStuffer burger?!
but dad...
mother!
I'm trying a new diet tonight and am in immediate incapacity
of filling my bottomless pit's wildest delights
perhaps an offer...(?)
every night I must survive
we can all share a nice family supper

Sometimes it's hard
to admit who we are
unapologetically.

Nothing hits me harder to the core
than not feeling heard.

That moment suspended in time
in which I try
to explain just how I feel
and they don't understand
they can't comprehend.

It's not a fault or a point to blame
it's not my lack of ability to explain
it's because they are not me
and she is not he
and we will never be
each other.

I can say who I am,
but from where they stand
a mile, a yard, or enough to touch hands
the distance is too far to for them to see
no matter how eloquently I speak

So I set myself free.

Instead of beating myself up
and saying I didn't try hard enough
it could just be
their own incapacity
to understand just who I am.

It could just be
they can't see me
because they haven't found
their identity.

A lack of foresight with
A limitation of imagination.
An aptitude for apathy and
An inability to emote.
An incapacity for chat as well as
An impatience for punchlines.
A distrust of discordance shackled with
A flair for unforeseen offence.

Alone
And a knack for nothing else.
Here I can relax.

With a broken wrist
on my right hand
due to a  fall at a litfest in city
I staggered  back on a Sunday noon
swelling, pain  and fear ,
helpless to do anything...
then consultation, x’ray, surgery,
implant inside with a stout bandage,
a sling  to announce my incapacity
as   my bank balance drained.
dependency  for  every small thing....
shattered and desperate i sit .
not used  for a such  a state
my  mind  raising to tempers
whole personality changed
to irritation  seeking  loneliness.
and  as  mind  was  calm once
my left is fine it dawned...
my  memory clicked  pictures
of children and others , with no hands
at birth or mutated  due to  mishap ;
browsing  the internet on laptop
got inspired;  my left hand fingers  started  
typing on keyboard  slowly and  wrongly
determination helped speed with no mistakes  
and  after sixty days my first  left handed poem
I dedicate to   all those with various disabilities;
and  surgeons, assistants and nurses,
others  who helped  to cope up in hospital bed
and  family and friends kind enough to care
with constant  dos and donts  as i move around -
now with an arm band and a  smile on my face!
...........................................................­.................

Having left paradise some time back,
and watching tint fade, rose sky
goes lavender, washes into deep blue.
These ultra violet filters, pandemonical,
fly googley-eyed and I am stuck
in hard realization of incapacity
to adapt to current color scheme.
Can grey go further black
until soot is creosote?
Tar now tumbles and bubbles
in nostrils, blindness leaving only
sense of smell, an oil field carnage.
Green by any means,
flags with dollar signs,
majestically waving and when
complete soul is sold out,
I disperse upon a riptide
of foamy grey matter.
Silicon Valley earthquake
sends forth satanical tsunami,
washing away World Wide Web
and your pretend paradise too.

The knife scalps it,
The chaplain advised them to watch and pray,
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse,
Once or twice this side of death,
He will just do nothing at all.

Yes- I feel like tearing my

Distracted brain

To pieces

And peaces

Will scatter

Like prisms of light

When it shines straight through
      
              *My Incapacity
                              to move