you petty people should thank me
for all the work i've done.
what work, may you ask?
why, have you not read a classic?
have you not heard beautiful orchestral music?
don't tell me i'm worthless!
for from my invisible loins have sprung
millions of brilliant works
admired by humans on a daily basis.
why do humans seek love
when the route to me is less ragged?
what did love ever bring to the table?
artwork? literature? no!
the novels you read about passionate lovers
springs from the very emotion that i behold!
love never typed or scripted
or sang or acted
for it is me--sadness!--who spins the earth.
he's crazed! you may gasp
but when my influence finds you
it'll seep from the music notes
and drip from printed words
like the blood of a slit vein
(which, may i humbly add,
i have also given rise to)
and overcome your mind likewise
to the countless others
doubtful of my solitary strength.
but nonetheless my beautiful wrath is here to stay
in the form of human emotion and creation
but i will never succumb to my own nature
i enjoy my work.
almost five in the
morning and i can't seem
the moon outside is shining
and smiling and dancing
in the night sky
are the chirping birds outside
disturbing my sleeping pattern?
is it because i have too many words
dancing carelessly in my mind, strung
together from twenty-six letters?
are the fast vehicles outside
pressing on their brakes too frequently?
or is it all of the factors above
that influence my mind to
keep on running its motor?
(4.46am | j.g.)
I remember you
Best friends we were
In spirit we still are
Although time and distance and life have taken their toll
For one summer, it was true
Inseperable, like birds of a feather
Our fun would go very far
To this day, I still feel your role
The memories still feel new
Your influence, it does not falter
Although we are currently far
Let us, for memories sake, take a stroll
This is a poem to warn you of the licentiousness,
the lewdness, the lasciviousness and downright
wickedness of language, especially,
the evil consonants.
Consider, for example, the subtle sibilant 's', seemingly innocuous,
but the consonant first heard in sex.
And take the letter 'l', standing up erect,
the stiff one in this lustful alphabet.
All boys know about the upright 'l',
as in blind, which they'll go if they play with it
too much, double 'l', well, they'll end up in hell.
The consonant 'b' stands for bum, of course,
everyone knows 'b' for bum,
the bold, barefaced, brazen one,
or, on all fours, raised up, the buttocks form an 'm',
with an inverted 'v' between the legs.
And 'c'! 'C' stands for - for, no, no. I can't.
Let's just say 'c' is curled up, crafty, by the coccyx, where it lurks,
cramped and damp, hopefully curtailed.
And 'p'. Well, 'p' is 'p', just as bad as 's' 'h' with a 't'.
And what about 'f'? Don't worry, I'll give that one the flick, dead quick.
'f' starts a word that's totally perverted.
If you think I'll use the 'f' and add the 'c' 'k',
you'll have to wait another day.
Then contemplate spreadeagled 'x',
the final letter in the word of sex!
These consonants are wanton.
'W' has its legs up in the air. 'w' is wild and wet. Wicked, wicked.
'n' is bent over. Naughty, naughty!
And 'y', why, 'y's the legs together and the pubic area.
Also, be wary of people who like the 'g' spot in there a lot,
also those who roll their 'r's too much
and others who lash out with s and m.
'r' and 'g' and 's' and 'm' end up in orgasm!
I believe the higher incidence of sexual offence is due to the influence
of consonants. It's no coincidence. The evidence is that intercourse
is social as well as sexual, of course,
and there's a preponderance of consonants in intercourse.
Such coitus should be interruptus
before these consonants totally corrupt us.
Now, the only course for moral rectitude
against such a sinful attitude with the grossest moral turpitude
is vigilance. With discipline and diligence,
we must become the moral militants
in the fight against the sibilants,
the awful incidence of decadence,
and the absence of innocence,
that's the evil consequence
of all the cunning consonants.
Otherwise incontinence with consonants
will be forever on our conscience!
Now. Think of every dirty word you can. This sin will be absolved in heaven!
Yes, clitoris has five consonants, testicles has six and masturbation seven!
Gynecological has eight, fresh spermatozoa ten and prosthetic devices eleven!
Repent! Repent! Redemption lies with you.
It's true! Think of it! If you eschew the consonants in all evil or ugly,
you'll be left with the purity of 'a', 'e', 'i' 'o' 'u'.
A touch of hell would have been more delicate,
Than the pain you caused today.
Could this have been avoided,
If I had kept myself celibate?
Wonder why I felt complete just to be with you,
Killing time so slowly, learning stuff I thought I knew.
I'm restless, I'm abused, but hey, I'm still okay.
I know its wrong but I still go on, you are my worst influence.
I'd love to see you and your shadow go on separate ways,
But this is the price I have to pay for trying to change what's permanent.
I hope its nothing serious but can you tell that I am sick?
Three days straight, and I am still awake,
Damn white smoke burned my guilt.
My lover, would you tell me, will this passion ever end?
Won't it work with us detoxified, and finally thinking straight?
Is it because I am a sinner, looking for a sinner friend?
Get your intoxication on;
Night falls after dusk dawns.
I can't justify it,
It's on my mind,
Less than three,
More than words,
Under the influence
and high on her.
Tears shed over a voice
that belongs to a person
you've never met.
She understands how you feel
and her words you will never forget.
Regret falling in love with
the voice of a stranger.
You share qualities in common
like the abilities to spill ink
over paper. Minds that are so alike
and considered neighbors.
Qualities that qualify us as a writer.
Where did she acquire
the skills that have made her famous?
Where did I discover the ability
to publish pages?
Every piano key she strokes
chokes the life of another note
and her talent produces something
See her perform live at Joe's Pub
by my lonesome. Appreciate her art from a distance.
Hear her voice echo off the walls inside the venue.
Hear her pour something into a microphone
as it translates her emotions into sounds.
Watch as ears react and eyes water.
Streaming river of tears that I decide
Voice travels through my head.
Disturbs something along the way.
Triggers emotions to begin
and memories replayed.
Rip the veins of my pen and watch the ink spill onto this page.
Don't regret the murder because I'm making art.
Display it to the world and watch them pick it apart.
You are my biggest influence and this session is here to show it.
Thank you for the music and the songs that you've recorded.
I really hope to meet you. Work with you surely.
You are the definition of talent. Thank you, Birdy.
Designs and Equations
Was it the Virgin Void filling
or Pandora's box opening?
Was it Victoria's secret
or was it the intellect of victors?
Was it the prowess of Hector/Hercules was it?
Was it the influence of Arthur or Har-Thor was it?
What shapes this world?
Ancient Egypt, Pyramids and the Sphinx?
Stonhenge and oblelisks?
Mystery Schools and occultism scrolls?
Crystal technology shifting poles?
Perhaps the hips and curves of a voluptuous African Queen
Perhaps the fall of Atlantis
or the secrets of the Bermuda Triangle
Perhaps the enthralling dynamics of the Photon Belt
Perhaps the mystery of Shamballa
or maybe underground bases where vortex points are
Perhaps the missing Eyepods
Maybe ancient and present advanced civilizations
Maybe it was the fall of Mars or the destruction of Maldek
Maybe the hope of Terra par DOMA
Or a design from distant super universes
or the amphibian watchers of myths
Maybe you, maybe me, maybe we
The I I I I I's of this world
however our eyes blind for we ruin this world
If we looked long enough at the light would we burn out?
If we truly listened could we hear the music of the verses unison - universes created by the Divine Creator?
would we join it/him/ness? Would we hear then Sophia being played as a harp and worlds conceived
Would we see a billion pictures as the cosmos are breathed?
and Karma come to be...
Would we learn of all life forms? Would we learn that there is more structural design than form? Would we learn that there are other mediums of activity apart from life?
Would we learn that structure is part of a larger paradigm of concentrated design?
Would we learn that universes are gardens and that there are worlds beyond the multiverse based on a hill and mountain orientation not dependant on planes?
Who shapes the world?
Our Souls from the ocean of love reincarnating?
The keepers of sacred knowledge at the temples of Golden Wisdom?
Walk-ins and starseeds? Cryptids and hybrids?
Wars or the Sun? The Peoples of the Moon or the base in Venus? The underground bases of Mars or The Order of The Phoenix?
Maybe royal and mob families?
Maybe government with all its true lies
Maybe the networks sustained by the simple minds of you and I
Whoever or whatever is responsible, either through sonic beams and energy manipulation, it is not so much the power of the Empire but rather the power we surrender.
When we talked the other day at lunch
we were standing in the hallway
you holding my hands tightly
and a piece of paper crumpled in the
sweaty palms of mine
told me that your identity was
And I've been thinking about identity a lot lately.
How, for so long, I've felt like I had none.
I was a piece of college-ruled paper
ripped, torn, taped to a back alley wall
with names and dates and places
all written in a rainbow of Sharpies
from people who's faces will never escape my memory
my handwriting with the cursive "f"s
nowhere to be seen
words I'd written so long ago
buried beneath the influence of everyone else.
I believed that, if I had a word at all
my word would be something like
And, in a way, I guess it is.
But I think it's more than that, too.
I think that my word isn't just
It's the past, it's the future
it's what I have, and what I'll never possess
it's what I need, and what I crave
it's what makes me feel so much, yet feel nothing at all
it's what I'd do anything for, yet what I fear the most
it's safe, and it's dangerous
it's beautiful, and it's ugly
it's small, but so magnificent.
It's how I feel when my daddy holds me tight after a long day.
It's when my mom says she doesn't want to see me hurt.
It's why I always hold on a little too long when you wrap your arms around me.
It's an excuse for hurting myself in an effort to protect those around me.
It's what I say when there are no other words.
It's why I push people away
but long for them to come closer.
It's why I run away, keep my distance
but, when you're not looking, lean in a little further.
It's why I text girls 300 miles away
but feel like she's right there beside me.
It's why I kiss boys in the rain at their parent's house
but, somehow, still doubt myself.
It's why I make promises I can't keep
but wish you wouldn't do the same.
It's why I laugh with you and cry without
It's why I hold your hand with my left and take pills with my right
It's why I read stupid books and write shitty poetry
It's why I believe in nothing but wish for something.
It's me, telling myself that if Mom really loved me
she'd put me before the glass of wine.
And it's me, convincing myself that it's my fault
and that I'm not that important, anyway.
It's me, telling myself that if I had friends
they wouldn't leave me alone on a Friday night.
And it's me, telling myself that no one
would want to hang out with me, anyway.
It's stupid things
it's serious things.
It's stupid things taken too seriously
and serious things mistaken for stupidity.
It's the past
it's the present
it's the future.
It's what I want
what I need
what you give me.
It is lost
it is suffocating
it's shattered into a million pieces.
But it's also found
it's messily put back together with a 6'3'' hot glue gun.
My word is perpetual
but so fleeting.
because I am
forgettable, only wishing to be remembered by someone, someday
sad, looking for joy in things big and small
a hypocrite, begging for proximity then crawling far, far away.
I am miserable, but so happy
I am identical, but somehow completely different
I am what-ifs, maybes, and might-have-beens.
I am quoting Jethro Tull songs in my confessions.
I am words in my head that will never escape my lips
I am words on my lips that should never have escaped my head
I am things I'll never say and stories I'll never write
I am singing in the shower, dancing in the halls
I am running across busy streets and standing on freshly painted front porches.
And so is my word.
but it's not
but it is.
I was convinced
that the English language
was too small
But then I realized
You told me who you were
and one day, it'll be my turn.