Does nothing matter?
Is matter nothing but dancing shattered galaxies pushing and shoving each other?

And on Earth, is it worth thinking?
That I'm just a piece of eternal dirt thinking that I'm just a piece of dirt thinking?

We're all just stars, tasting humanity for an instant.
In all its fallacies, we're systems of suns that love murder without resistance.

With the assistance of Christian values and armed pistols.
Harmful as ignorance is blissful, we're still missing the deal.

We're still pissing away the real position to feel. We're still wishing down the same ol' wishing wells
and hoping to Christ they're real.

Worse than guns, it's the waste of freedom -- It's unequal -- to kill the hungry from a distance is still evil.

I fly atomically and everything else is informal.
What's normal? Where's God when things get so awful?

He's epidermal - like an antigermal lotion. A magic potion to nurture the thought that we're important.

We're all just stars, answering a call to be Human.
Let the cold bars that hold the others down remain open till my life is dormant.

And our heads are still cluttered and cloth covered.
Filled with an age-old confusion straight from ol' Mohammed's cupboard.

They fool us with cooked messages from book passages that preach love.
Scare us into being apparatuses of a God above.

That's why society is shattered. It's what's wrong with the world.
The perennial infancy of thought that's forced unto our boys and girls.

Such unclarity, that's baked into our childrens' recipe. It's insanity to think that we don't just turn back into energy.

I'm not religiously inspired to forgive,
nor have the insidious desire to live to inspire religious permittance.

I prefer a future purpose undiscovered.
A death dimension still covered from religions' crazy buffer.

Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
Bastard infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic perversion
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the cocaine kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet hooker and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream

Fukiko had woken before her accustomed time. She was alone and would have prefered to sleep, and sleep on until Narumi had lit the brazier in her room and brought tea. But she had woken, and was aware that outside the world had changed. The world, her world of Yukiguni, where the mulberry fibres for paper-making were laid out in the snow-bleached fields. Her world where men from the cities sought the kind of woman she was, a woman uncultured in the ways of geisha, but possessing a freedom no city-bred geisha could possess. She had been schooled by an aunt, was accomplished as a performer on the samisen and though her voice was thin, it held a quality of understanding, it had a fine texture, though thin. And yes, this morning a change had come over the world outside her small house that looked over Hikachi Lake, that looked towards the southern flank of the Central Mountains where during the previous day and night the snows from across the seas had fallen on the landscape. She imagined the roofs of the monastery across the lake were heavily white, and as she sought the image in her mind’s eye so the large brass bell of the temple sounded, no, it throbbed across what she knew would now be hard-frozen water.

I am floating she thought, like the snowflakes I glimpsed in the reflected lamplight when last night I opened the shutters for a moment before bed, before sleep and descent into my dreams. For days now she had been dreaming like never before. She seemed to enter a dreamstate; she would then wake purposefully; she would then fall instantly into quite a different world; over and over this seemed to happen until she found herself wondering if she was dreaming within a dream; she would become aroused, her skin glowing with the ministrations of hidden hands and fingers; she would feel that presence on her upper thighs, a kind of perspiration born of that bodily sensation that, when awake, would sometimes steel upon her.

The coming of the deep snows before spring was always a delight, an excitement carried her from childhood. The way its coming turned daily life upside down. She would enjoy choosing her very warmest garments, the bringing together of layers, her rabbit-skin mantle perhaps, a bright warm scarf over her hair, which she would not today ‘put up’ but allow to flow comfortably next to and down her back, then the hood only if the snow and the wind persisted. She could tell from the warmth of her bed that this was not so, that outside there was a stillness. Even the birds were subdued. Only the brass bell broke the stillness born of this deep snow of spring.

She heard Narumi rise, heard her piss in her chamber pot, heard her roll her bedding away, heard her bring the stove into life and fill her mistress’ brazier with the few precious coals brought across the mountains. There would be tea soon, and this young girl, appointed by her aunt to her charge, would appear to kneel beside Fukiko and give the morning blessing her mother had given Narumi since infancy. Then, she would say, ‘Madam, the snow is deep this morning. We are bound in snow today. Our path has disappeared.’ Still a child’s voice, and still a child at thirteen winters, such a slight girl. And she would retire to the warmth of the kitchen and Fukiko’s cat who was not allowed into her mistress’ presence unless requested.

Fukiko could feel the warmth from the brazier. It was as comforting as the thought of the silent snowscape outside. Gathering her cloak around her, kneeling on the covers of her bed, she held the bowl of tea in her hands, letting its warmth caress her fingers. Standing up, she stroked herself as though to bring her body awake - her flanks, the front of her thighs, her stomach, her slight breasts, the long curve of her bottom and then the back of her thighs, her right hand stroking her left arm, her left arm stroking her right arm from shoulder to fingers. She was awake, and placing her feet on the cold matting found her night cloak of deepest blue with the ornamental sash of red and white. She would open the shutter and gaze out into this fresh world of snow and light.

It seemed quite miraculous that a covering of snow could so change this view across the lake to the monastery and its attendant village and then to the mountains beyond. She had once seen a woodcut of this scene, in snow, and had been mesmerised by what it revealed. Despite her status, her profession, such as it was, any ambition she might have harboured to dwell in a city, evaporated at this vista, this snow country scene. It was as though she was living in a story book where she could imagine herself as a concubine of some favoured lord, even better, a princess groomed for a fine marriage, a marriage she knew she would be unlikely to experience. There was one, a land-owner beyond Huchin whose business brought him past her domain, who, widowed and childless, had been advised to seek her presence. And she had been charmed by his shyness, his lack of experience with such as the woman she was, or thought she had to be. And it was often that she would find herself thinking of his presence, and imagining her body melting to his careful touch.

Suddenly, out on the lake figures moved. Was the hard frost of the last week really able to sustain figures on the ice? The brothers from the monastery were tentatively moving too and fro, they were suketo, skating. She would summon Narumi. Her girl should see this sight. The brothers in their crimson robes moving to and fro across the ice, their robes flowing. ‘Narumi’, Fukiko said, ‘a sight so rare. Come and look, the monks are skating.’

So Fukiko and Narumi opened wide the shutters and let in the whole landscape, the lake, the monastery, the snow-roofed village, the mountains beyond into the room. The snowlight dazzled, the hard cold air rushed into the warm room filling its very corners with an enervating freshness. Narumi knelt beside the brazier in her best purple cloak, her hair already pinned for the day, her eyes wide at the sight of these figures dancing with movement on the ice. Although cold, Fukiko would not pull herself away from this play of forms, this wholly pleasurable sight. Just below her window her camellia bushes were in bud, almost budding, their dark redness, bloodlike, enhanced by the vivid snow white. And then the bamboo, snow on the bamboo, as though carefully layered on the fragile stems and branches. This morning no wind and a period of snow falling that had laid flake upon flake upon flake giving the bamboo a wholly different form and weight and body. Its stems bent as though in supplication, as though in prayer to bless the landscape of this snow country.

One must bend
In the floating world -
Snow on bamboo

Kaga no Chivo (1701-55)

Defeat me,
carry death-born
infancy to my
shaking hands, take my
fingers and pull them
closer to my palms, let me
practice, hear the
bang in my ears as I
pull the trigger, but it’s
fake. Embed me in
gunfire, I’m tall enough to
hold the whole rifle now,
but it still shakes in my hands
and I can’t catch my breath and
my eyes won’t stay still and I
feel bullets grazing past my skin
and feel the air as they pass
and I’m so absolutely afraid,
I hide. Let seven rifles
sound, scream into the empty air
that there was a soul here
before it was let go. I’m old enough
to be let go now, lower the
time I spent on earth into the
ground, let my memory be
engraved in marble, and let my
heroism go
unfound.

Do you ever feel as if you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, with one foot over the edge, waiting for someone to push you?

Or maybe the things you want in your life aren’t really plausible?  That they’re just dreams you’ve held onto from the time of infancy? That you’re just clinging to them, because you’re too afraid of joining the world humans have created?

Do you ever feel those you’ve surrounded yourself with don’t really give two shits about? Whether you live or die, because either they’re too selfish, you’re too selfish, or neither? Maybe you’ve just outgrown the other, but can’t dream of leaving them behind? Maybe you were close at one time, but the years have worn away, and it feels as if a stranger is staring you both in the face?

Do you ever feel as if you see the world as this beautiful, sensual, dream like setting you’ve been blessed with? But then you realize people are the fucked up, cruel reason why the world’s considered cold? Do you ever feel relaxed sitting in a field; watching, observing, and perplexed by the world outside your own? Do you ever realize your own life causes more damage to the world than of use?

Do you ever wonder why millions of particles, of atoms, of molecules molded together to create what is now considered you?

Do you ever feel a sense of dread so heavy, it paralyzes you? Traps you to the bed, holds you down, and smothers you?

Do you ever wonder at all?

variegated dreams
overturning the ashened night
wake, wake
branch and twist
to the music
of the tide
escapism of this world engulfed
with itineraries and haste
leaving fragments of vivacity in its wake
like riding a comet through life
stop, stop
smell the roses
make shapes out of clouds
within the starry night
rest, rest
blooming minds
drudging through the snow
whilst in drought
turning page after page
within this infancy
of human kind
sleep
and read but a line

I will pass you on some popular street
some popular place I never planned on being
like Chicago
can’t keep the wind off my chapped cheeks
you’ll be outside on an Indian summer afternoon
soaking up the heat before the assault of brutal February
eating a chocolate chip muffin & sipping a soy latte
like all the guys that catch my interest
their choice in effeminate beverages
too dressed up for my liking
I like things naked, simplified in their presentation
you’ll be laughing
chuckling at something she hinted at
your eyelashes wet from joyous tears
you look like a porcelain doll to fancy to pick at
I’ll put my head down but it’s too late
we’ll exchange that look
that look that says
I’ve been there before
I’m not sure when or how long
but I wore that hope on my sleeve for  you to rip at
until I could wear it no more
I’ll smile
you’ll smile
bare no teeth

I’ll be happy for you
I prayed for this
you’ll be happy & I’ll be free
all we really wanted
free of the magnetism of
something never known
but released in its infancy
before we had a chance to destroy
everything

And now this Purse-Seine Friend identify
Responsible for such so-called un-Friend
For your own Shakes; My Trust un-qualify
Tampered my Meanings to Reach and Amend
Why? Will such Actors breached under the Hood
Infest and Assault your Just Normalcy?
Which Tweens are Apt; As apt Growth understood
Express their Wild Fluids since Infancy
If from Nursery was I employed since
Then Trained to butter these Rant Bullies forth
That Bully called LIFE; His Sluggers which mince
Make retail and reform his own True Worth.
A Planker he be; And Boarder discover
Pray his Soft Career; And Good Points recover.

I despise this melancholy
that gathers in a hot lump
at the back of my throat,
scorching my forehead
burnt like violet.
A spotted, brown bird
spirals upward, until there
is only shining.
I ache to disappear in a
grandmother's braids,
wrapped up tight like
infancy and shaken loose
in the night, or to fall into
the valley's sunset breeze
climbing like summer dust
towards immensity
to paint brilliant
the horizon.

I despise this melancholy
that gathers in a hot lump
at the back of my throat,
scorching my forehead
burnt like violet.
A spotted, brown bird
spirals upward, until there
is only shining.
I ache to disappear in a
grandmother's braids,
wrapped up tight like
infancy and shaken loose
in the night, or to fall into
the valley's sunset breeze
climbing like summer dust
towards immensity
to paint brilliant
the horizon.