THE PROLOGUE.

WHEN folk had laughed all at this nice case
Of Absolon and Hendy Nicholas,
Diverse folk diversely they said,
But for the more part they laugh'd and play'd;           *were diverted
And at this tale I saw no man him grieve,
But it were only Osewold the Reeve.
Because he was of carpenteres craft,
A little ire is in his hearte laft;                               left
He gan to grudge and blamed it a lite.              murmur *little.
"So the* I,"  quoth he, "full well could I him quite   thrive match
With blearing of a proude miller's eye,                    dimming
If that me list to speak of ribaldry.
But I am old; me list not play for age;
Grass time is done, my fodder is now forage.
This white top writeth mine olde years;                           head
Mine heart is also moulded as mine hairs;                 grown mouldy
And I do fare as doth an open-erse;                         medlar
That ilke fruit is ever longer werse,                             same
Till it be rotten *in mullok or in stre.    on the ground or in straw
We olde men, I dread, so fare we;
Till we be rotten, can we not be ripe;
We hop* away, while that the world will pipe;                     dance
For in our will there sticketh aye a nail,
To have an hoary head and a green tail,
As hath a leek; for though our might be gone,
Our will desireth folly ever-in-one:                       continually
For when we may not do, then will we speak,
Yet in our ashes cold does fire reek.                         smoke
Four gledes have we, which I shall devise,         coals * describe
Vaunting, and lying, anger, covetise.                     *covetousness
These foure sparks belongen unto eld.
Our olde limbes well may be unweld,                           unwieldy
But will shall never fail us, that is sooth.
And yet have I alway a coltes tooth,
As many a year as it is passed and gone
Since that my tap of life began to run;
For sickerly, when I was born, anon                          certainly
Death drew the tap of life, and let it gon:
And ever since hath so the tap y-run,
Till that almost all empty is the tun.
The stream of life now droppeth on the chimb.
The silly tongue well may ring and chime
Of wretchedness, that passed is full yore:                        long
With olde folk, save dotage, is no more.

When that our Host had heard this sermoning,
He gan to speak as lordly as a king,
And said; "To what amounteth all this wit?
What? shall we speak all day of holy writ?
The devil made a Reeve for to preach,
As of a souter a shipman, or a leach.                    cobbler
Say forth thy tale, and tarry not the time:                surgeon
Lo here is Deptford, and 'tis half past prime:
Lo Greenwich, where many a shrew is in.
It were high time thy tale to begin."

"Now, sirs," quoth then this Osewold the Reeve,
I pray you all that none of you do grieve,
Though I answer, and somewhat set his hove,                  hood
For lawful is *force off with force to shove.           to repel force
This drunken miller hath y-told us here                        by force
How that beguiled was a carpentere,
Paraventure* in scorn, for I am one:                            perhaps
And, by your leave, I shall him quite anon.
Right in his churlish termes will I speak,
I pray to God his necke might to-break.
He can well in mine eye see a stalk,
But in his own he cannot see a balk."

Notes to the Prologue to the Reeves Tale.

1. "With blearing of a proude miller's eye": dimming his eye;
playing off a joke on him.

2. "Me list not play for age": age takes away my zest for
drollery.

3. The medlar, the fruit of the mespilus tree, is only edible when
rotten.

4. Yet in our ashes cold does fire reek: "ev'n in our ashes live
their wonted fires."

5. A colt's tooth; a wanton humour, a relish for pleasure.

6. Chimb: The rim of a barrel where the staves project beyond
the head.

7. With olde folk, save dotage, is no more: Dotage is all that is
left them; that is, they can only dwell fondly, dote, on the past.

8. Souter: cobbler; Scottice, "sutor;"' from Latin, "suere," to
sew.

9. "Ex sutore medicus"  (a surgeon from a cobbler) and "ex
sutore nauclerus" (a  ****** or pilot from a cobbler) were both
proverbial expressions in the Middle Ages.

10. Half past prime: half-way between prime and tierce; about
half-past seven in the morning.

11. Set his hove; like "set their caps;" as in the description of
the Manciple in the Prologue, who "set their aller cap".  "Hove"
or "houfe," means "hood;" and the phrase signifies to be even
with, outwit.

12. The illustration of the mote and the beam, from Matthew.

THE TALE.

At Trompington, not far from Cantebrig,                      Cambridge
There goes a brook, and over that a brig,
Upon the whiche brook there stands a mill:
And this is *very sooth that I you tell.               complete truth
A miller was there dwelling many a day,
As any peacock he was proud and gay:
Pipen he could, and fish, and nettes bete,                     *prepare
And turne cups, and wrestle well, and shete.                     shoot
Aye by his belt he bare a long pavade,                         poniard
And of his sword full trenchant was the blade.
A jolly popper bare he in his pouch;                            dagger
There was no man for peril durst him touch.
A Sheffield whittle bare he in his hose.                   small knife
Round was his face, and camuse was his nose.                  flat
As pilled as an ape's was his skull.                     peeled, bald.
He was a market-beter at the full.                             brawler
There durste no wight hand upon him legge,                         lay
That he ne swore anon he should abegge.             suffer the penalty

A thief he was, for sooth, of corn and meal,
And that a sly, and used well to steal.
His name was *hoten deinous Simekin        called "Disdainful Simkin"
A wife he hadde, come of noble kin:
The parson of the town her father was.
With her he gave full many a pan of brass,
For that Simkin should in his blood ally.
She was y-foster'd in a nunnery:
For Simkin woulde no wife, as he said,
But she were well y-nourish'd, and a maid,
To saven his estate and yeomanry:
And she was proud, and pert as is a pie.                        magpie
A full fair sight it was to see them two;
On holy days before her would he go
With his tippet* y-bound about his head;                           hood
And she came after in a gite of red,                          gown
And Simkin hadde hosen of the same.
There durste no wight call her aught but Dame:
None was so hardy, walking by that way,
That with her either durste *rage or play,                use freedom
But if he would be slain by Simekin                            unless
With pavade, or with knife, or bodekin.
For jealous folk be per'lous evermo':
Algate they would their wives wende so.           unless *so behave
And eke for she was somewhat smutterlich,                        *****
She was as dign* as water in a ditch,                             nasty
And all so full of hoker, and bismare*.   *ill-nature *abusive speech
Her thoughte that a lady should her spare,        not judge her hardly
What for her kindred, and her nortelrie           *nurturing, education
That she had learned in the nunnery.

One daughter hadde they betwixt them two
Of twenty year, withouten any mo,
Saving a child that was of half year age,
In cradle it lay, and was a proper page.                           boy
This wenche thick and well y-growen was,
With camuse nose, and eyen gray as glass;                         flat
With buttocks broad, and breastes round and high;
But right fair was her hair, I will not lie.
The parson of the town, for she was fair,
In purpose was to make of her his heir
Both of his chattels and his messuage,
And *strange he made it of her marriage.           he made it a matter
His purpose was for to bestow her high                    of difficulty
Into some worthy blood of ancestry.
For holy Church's good may be dispended                          spent
On holy Church's blood that is descended.
Therefore he would his holy blood honour
Though that he holy Churche should devour.

Great soken* hath this miller, out of doubt,    toll taken for grinding
With wheat and malt, of all the land about;
And namely there was a great college                        especially
Men call the Soler Hall at Cantebrege,
There was their wheat and eke their malt y-ground.
And on a day it happed in a stound,                           suddenly
Sick lay the manciple of a malady,                         steward
Men *weened wisly that he shoulde die.              thought certainly
For which this miller stole both meal and corn
An hundred times more than beforn.
For theretofore he stole but courteously,
But now he was a thief outrageously.
For which the warden chid and made fare,                          fuss
But thereof set the miller not a tare;           he cared not a rush
He crack'd his boast, and swore it was not so.            talked big

Then were there younge poore scholars two,
That dwelled in the hall of which I say;
Testif* they were, and ***** for to play;                headstrong
And only for their mirth and revelry
Upon the warden busily they cry,
To give them leave for but a *little stound,               short time
To go to mill, and see their corn y-ground:
And hardily* they durste lay their neck,                         boldly
The miller should not steal them half a peck
Of corn by sleight, nor them by force bereave                *take away
And at the last the warden give them leave:
John hight the one, and Alein hight the other,
Of one town were they born, that highte Strother,
Far in the North, I cannot tell you where.
This Alein he made ready all his gear,
And on a horse the sack he cast anon:
Forth went Alein the clerk, and also John,
With good sword and with buckler by their side.
John knew the way, him needed not no guide,
And at the mill the sack adown he lay'th.

Alein spake f

Money makes the world go round
if you don't have enough, debt gets pilled on
if you have too much, your spending goes crazy
just the right amount and your stable
but it seems more and more people don't have enough
money makes the world go round
but will there ever be peace?
When will everyone have food on their table?
When will everyone be able to support their families?
When will the world finally learn the money can't possibly make the world go round?
Such an unstable business, money is
yet we all need it to survive.
It drives people mad
People get greedy
people get needy
people don't need money
they need love
they need to work hard
they need to eat
they need to survive

This is to all those misfits

To the Romeo car-washing in Inglewood inlets
To the Hippy selling crystals on the Venice boardwalk
The Magician swallowing 8-***** at the Huntington Beach peer
The Rapper selling CDs in the Ranch Market parking lot
The **** tatting in a makeshift garage
The Poet slinging chapbooks at cafes and rec centers…


Not androids pontificating from lecterns
But grimy roots burrowing deep
Seismic rumblings toppling down
Insured ivory towers
Smashing pilled-paradigms beneath Docs
Hustling and slinging
In the forbidden outshacks of civilization
In tents, over barbed-wire, beside shards
Desperate and burning
For neither Truth or Beauty
But for LIFE

They do not tap wrists
No,  they thump chests
To feel it beat
To feel it rage
For fugitive fugues
For new eternities

They embrace
******* romance
Graveyard necromance
The holy hunger for change
Defying commercials and charts
Shivering and howling on streets
Waging guerrilla war
Liberating cubicled-hearts

I'm obsessed with the vision's edge
How we look straight but there's always a sideview
Looking right through
The glass of a picture frame
The image splattered my name
On every newspaper, a cheap kind of fame
The sideview shows the real me
The kind of person who I'd be
If I'd sent this body out to sea
In that funeral pyre blazing to the sky
Mom and Dad think that I'm too young to die
But you're never too young to be that one guy
Your friends see on the tv with a nice little snippet
Of how you hated your thread so you got up and clipped it
But your parents will talk to the reporters and flip it
Say you were so great, so happy and nice
Always the one to give the good advice
The one crossing the street as you looked both ways twice
And the truth is you were already cold as ice
You tried to cry out but they nodded with grins
And they looked at you pondering and stroking their chins
And in this situation there's no one that wins
Because there's always a bridge or a cliff to jump off
When the stress level rises set off by a cough
Or you just up and choose to dive into the trough
And get eaten by pigs, digit by digit
And since you don't give a ****, you don't even fidget
When they bite off your legs and leave you a ******
But size doesn't matter, you're dead in a few
And it's not as if you have to choose what to do
In the end your fate is just pay per view
Because you'll be there, it's you that is dying
But the life negation requires none of your trying
So you can sit back relax and just watch it
There's more than one way so it's hard to botch it
Your death is the end, because there's nothing else to it
You once had a life but you up and you blew it
There was **** to be done but you just said "***** it"
And it's true, it's your life, and you have control
But before you eat lead, put the thought on parole
Give yourself minutes or days to rethink
A miscalculation of that size would stink
Set up some goals, some silly, some not
Of things to accomplish before you hit the black cot
Where they stick all the toe-tagged
The black-bagged
The life-gagged
The death-filled
The over-pilled
All those singing from their throats
Bleeding like goats
From the knife wounds like Abraham
Would've done in just seconds, ****
But the voiceless have no spokesman saying
"Hey world, there was no point in staying!"
There's always a point, and you've just got to find it
Once you do, wrap your mind and bind it
Obsess yourself with the point of staying
Remember the steepest price you'll be paying
Sometime in the future, but now be braying
The call of the stubborn, those that won't leave
The ******* with something in which to believe
I'm one of those ******* and we need more members
To warm up the cold of Depression Decembers
Obsessing about the vision's edge
The only thing that kept me on the safe side of the ledge
When I was seconds from falling down
The sideview turned my *** around
Gotta find the source of the curious periphery
Curiousity killed the cat, but the sideview saved me

keeping warm by that old stove
kicking back shots and
always a beer in hand
we lived as if nothing could
ever matter for nothing ever
changed the same man sleeping
at six or seven having passed out
from half-a-days work
and a hard days drinking
sitting around there for warmth
some kind of something men
don't often talk about much
women there were hard to
find, not for lack of trying
they just always seemed so
out of place when they
did actually appear
extending the night was
the main concern making
the most out of the ample
time given to us
trying desperately to squeeze
out juice from every instant
with anything free at hand
retreating back to sofas
for sleep waking up with
head aches intolerable beer cans
all around going hard because
there was no where to go
debasing our minds with the nights
succulent spoils tabbed pilled or
powder madness feels like sanity
at the right moment
knowing full well it can't
be caught as it slips
through your fingers only
to be inhaled the following
friday then blown away
once again at day break
a perpetual mind ****
was the goal with actual
******* just secondary reasoning
living to forget what it
means to be alive in
this world where identity
has been distilled to mere
pages in an infinite book
that doesn't really exist
what  else to expect from
shattered youth abused mainly
by design but also by choice
you could class it all up
increase the age and ornament
add black books, black dresses
black ties champagne & chandeliers
still dormant at its core
as time passes and falls apart
the fire still there burns
even in museums at midnight
Dionysus consumes Apollo
so warm your hands for as
long as you can it
only grows more insipid
increasingly cold and bitter
both the truth and the liquor
till everything’s but a pause and black

It's 3 P.M, Sitting, staring at the reruns of Jeopardy and Seinfield
a microwave steak and some potatoes
sit gingerly on the tray, crunchy and frozen....

It's 5 P.M., a bottle of room temperature beer
cuddles itself around my hands
some potato chips spread across my lap.....
the television remote and I sit inches apart
yet, the separation feels like miles

It's 7 P.M., cold, rusty water pelts my naked flesh
the bath towels feel like steel wool
every little fiber, scratching and tearing at my skin
the soap is as tough as rubber......

It's 9 P.M, bed bugs have swarmed my mattress
scratching and biting, I smash one and a million more follow
some are flat and dry and some explode with leaking blood....

It's 11 P.M. I slip into my dungarees, there's a ***** spot
in the middle of the seams.... my shovel is rusty....
the van leaks exhaust and it bleeds gasoline

It's 1 A.M., I gaze at the tombstones and they gaze back
a foggy midst looms from the hills, it's raining....
a flash of lighting strikes, bright as the sun itself
thunder rumbles the earth.....

It's 3 A.M., strolling by the red light district
a back alley *******, no condoms....
ten dollars for one hour, twenty for two
I only have five.....

It's 5 A.M. the sun begins to rise
beer bottles pilled at my door
saliva, drying at the seams of my mouth....
back into my bug infested abode.....

at what point wasn't it a way to bypass
the editorial scrutiny...
to directly engage with a reading
public...
why did i think this might be: any good?
i guess i only thought:
i need this out and i can't stash it
like a corpse...
into some damp cellar... like a morally
relativistic monstrosity of a sociopaths'
analogy of: "feels"...
   well, no **** Sherlock!
how i made the following reply...
is beyond me:

- believe me... i had more to write but i felt a sense of restraint... i'd like to see what a terse reply would make you focus on... so i'm scrapping the concept of handicap: heads up... now it all depends what you'll be choosey about... or not... because there's plenty in you reply i could quip about... well... then again: is being witty synonymous with being satirical? i'm not for intelligent / condescending humour on my part... personally i love the dryness of sarcasm... but then again: what's to like about the bluntness of nail-heads? just my take on... what exactly not to like about schadenfreude (what's not to like about schadenfreude)... i'd much prefer a humiliation of a leather gimp suit... so it seems: honesty is the best joke in play... there are too many stereotypes in England too... the best one i heard was by my Glaswegian english teacher in school... ahem... how was copper wire invented? two Scots arguing over a penny... like the stereotypical arsenal of deciphering the Jewry run wild in the realm of the gentiles... with the Scots... being our prized asset of: reverse stereotyping... i guess because knowledge of poor Hebrews is either a mystery or taboo... worse still... a mythology... and here i promised myself restraint... yet i'm experiencing something of a writing block and i... most probably found the most surprising alternative outlet... the eroteme lady - ms. query... so there must be nothing concrete about you... well... i too remember being a teenager prior to 2000 on those hotmail chatrooms where the acronym ASL could get you... all hot & bothered... don't take this the wrong way but i've heard that most writers, poet (i'm a chicken scratching doodler at best) reverted to the medium of correspodence... lucky you, "lucky" that i'm testing the waters on you... but don't worry... i've tested the medium with other people and wondered about their stamina... you are starting to gravitate toward psychiatrist status...  it's so strange though... not writing on abstract... blank... rather: inform sender... it's to them... all that *******, romantic or not... about writing for that one person... sure... **** it... write 'em a letter... don't mind about that trippy-*** poem of yours... you know? apologies if you come across as something of a punching bag for sounds... i hope no typos... well typos can be excused... ah these ****** articles about... wait wait... momentary lucidity... i was going to use some of this in my way of combating my writing block... the troubles in the english language... spelling... "approximation" drop the vowels realise: that's how the Hebrews wrote all along... treating their vowels like diacritical markers... the ****?! i feel like i'm being robbed in plain sight... because Copernicus didn't ******* realise jack-****... they pile it up with their Pope and the execution of ******* Galileo...  ugh... it takes some ******* nerve for these days to allow for this ****-centred kindergarten of events in man's... non-evolving history to continue like some: no ******* dodo exctinction ever took place... (agreed... the following are all faux pas... "invigorations") honey? babe? ms. anonymous gender fluid pronoun neutral... what's the informal, best? ms. avatar ms. harleyquinn the world's stupid? what are american stereotypes of europeans? come to think of it... that cookies is too big to take a bite from... you can't exactly base stereotypes having only seen tourists... since a tourist is a stereotype per se... i'd have to go to california... to get a californian stereotype... to georgia for the georgian stereotype...  wait a minute... Costa Rica... "hint hint"? Latino? that wasn't exactly... it was a fork in the road... the Sephardi... you're working from an avatar canvas... you're making allusions to... what i look like and it's like i'm a mesmerising doppelganger of al pacino... is there a chicago accent? i heard a lot of the ****** diaspora was lodged in that *******... i was terrible at accents... almost always a chamaleon... people still ask me where i'm from... so like this one-stand-up comedian in Edinburgh said... when he was quizzed about the geography of his accent... 'you might recognise my accent... it's... educated'... now that's that... isn't it? i could fake you an indian accent if i wanted to... perhaps a german accent too... but i could fake it... by the way... in these parts... biligualism can be treated as schizophrenia... just saying... somehow integration is not fully deserving the status that: not integrating decides... because... not integrating is... "safety first"... the dodo project alliance...  least of all... i've been dying to by a baseball cap with the Cleveland Indians old logo with chief wahoo... so stereotyping americans... it's beyond hard... it's like stereotyping Russian that are not in the vicinity of Moscow... some are probably Mongol remnants... their own idiosyncratic solipsists to their own... i'll take up my bicycle tomorrow and this drunken tirade will most probably fizzle out... i truly couldn't make up giving a toss about what's internalized americana stereotyping... not that i don't care... i just don't know... the currency of the nation sends me years and years of Ed Gein reinterpretations... what am i supposed to "say"? tomorrow i'll be up early and bothered about my bicycle as if it were a horse... but i'll still want to retain gravity with leaving you with this frankness of a reply... lobster-red probably implies if not simply implores: ginger and freckles... i like to think of suntans as serpents shedding skin... i suntan i'm a copperneck... i like the german sound on this... plus... it's readily available as compounded: kupfernacken... what's better? auburn-tease? kastanienbraunecken? i like the joy you feel with what you already prescribed me with.. that i know so little about you... that while i'm prodding you withhold giving me concreteness.... concreteness would allow me... disadvantage me to focus on "things" that are absolutely not necessary... so: i can focus on whether i'm not being pedantic enough and: misspelling...so... what's the stereotype surrounding Alaskan gurls?!

- thanks for being ascribed in getting my "mojo" back...for now...

- What do you mean? I'm surprised this is the shortest message you've sent. I was getting used to your drunk musings. [I say this with a smile but I know you don't like emojis or silly acronyms, and writing out "laugh out loud" sounds ridiculous... after all, you know how important sounds are to me].

- you just asked one of those questions that... is aligned with asking... 'what are you thinking'? the moral 'ought compass waved me a goodbye and if i haven't broken any laws to pursue the sort of freedom of though i currently enjoy... bypassing the need so stress a "freedom" of speech... writing is an extension of thought: not a prompt / invitation to speak... i'm surprised that you scrutinise the length of my replies... and were we to begin with? in the "easily offended" pile-up? well i'm still getting drunk... you're still an avatar mystery... but at least i'm waging a war on prosaic sobriety to boot... i guess i had to come clean at some point... i never write sober... i don't see the point of being: disengaged from the genuine (a longer version of a one word would have sufficed... but i'm lazy about the spelling... while at the same time... there's this critical theory approach done in some of the newspapers about english spelling... let's see if i get it right... dis-in-genius... for starters... disengenous.. horrid... aaah so terrible... dis-less-advantageous... disadvantageous... oh **** me... i wriggled into that one: all sound and proper...why ask me: what do i "mean"? - it's not that i don't like emojis (well, i don't) but... what the hell... there are better hieroglyphs to focus on than chiseled into pyramid stone: own... happy face... the Chinese were doing ******* x-ray gizmo **** at almost the same time... it's a focus loss... don't even get me started that *** = a Parisian hello with tendering the cheeks with... a labyrinth of smooches... my lips are my pouches blah blah blah... you seem to be enjoying my rants... i gather? i don't even know why to bother with an ask (question doesn't even do justice to how i'm framing this)...  you want to write as little as possible to properly excavate me... well no surprise... if light can't bend around corners... i'll have a look: none-the-less... emphasis on the hyphens... this poor down-trodden word could be helped with some "breathing space"; no? i "mean": 霜... shoo-aang... frost... i have dancing skeletons throwing toothpicks at chopsticks pilled up in an area of pine wood... look at this sort of *******... and here we are... cradling one of the old languages with "holes in letters"... to peer through... O now i see... B: otherwise: ha, ha ha ha... what's **** in Chinese? the Greek prized π... but what P & I look like for a farting, mandarin? hey presto: "@"... not even a western concern for "patriarchy" could have complicated: what's already too complicated... a billion people... a wall... that didn't keep out the Mongols from invading... yet a phonetic encoding system that... would topple each and every pyramid... from Giza to the cleaving of South America from Africa that can be staged at some Aztec "miracle"... i am writing (to) you like a bewildered person... because: why wouldn't i otherwise not be? so what do i mean? hmm... what's that holy trinity of statistical terms... mean... meridian... mode? i think i remember correctly... thank god i'm not going to apologise for being drunk... i've heard the stereotypes of drunkards with no future for thirst... the other thirst... the thirst for something beside their own handicap... i'd also duly convert to Islam too... i was cycling past a mosque and heard the most impossible sound of praise that will never escape me... but by the bottle i did: closer to the Jewry i am... contradictory how that is... don't want to stop drinking... uncircumcised... it's a really magical juggling act that's littered with self-deprecating humour interludes... aligned with norse mythologies... grr... **** me... now i'm attempting to "sell" you a makeshift tinder profile sketch... don't know... never will... never used: don't ask...  but i forgive you... for asking me: what does "it" all mean? it means we're for the thrill of it... it makes sense if we're still gagging for it... and we're not exposed to old-age closure cinematic scripts of solo cinema of memory... i like typing because i have itchy fingers... you'd probably like to hear me speak... no? it's exactly 20 minutes past midnight and i have a date with a bagel at 9am tomorrow morning... i still want another injection of truth in me before i do the  lady nox some justice and sleeping with her fiendish daughters... i mean... who does that... wake you up with a hard-on? never mind... i don't even know how to end this "convo": it can't be with a farewell... or an adieu... or a サヨナラ... oh wait... that's "goodbye, forever"... how does one end a half-way between a musing and a real person on the replying end of "things"... i guess like this: NARA... ナラ... short for narazie...  translated from my mutterzunge as: perhaps loosely... for the time being... for now... how else... to end my tirade?!

- So let me get this a bit straight (as straight as a stray arrow, that is): you only write when you're drunk (I'm the luckiest one to be at the listener - or reader in this case - end of your tirades as you call them... I call them musings); you have a fixation with words, even the ones that you don't know how to spell correctly (except maybe in a language I don't know so I can't really tell), you didn't answer why I'm ascribed to getting your mojo back (where did it go?), and you wake up with a hard-on. Got it!

- i've been lodged into a backlog: ******-town sort of: stalling... give me a few hours... although: ever wonder what: giggles sounds like... in the deafness of the night? i do... i want to reply you like so... like now... like this... maybe i will... maybe i will not... i'm gaging to buy one of those cleveland chiefs baseball caps...the grinning siouxsie chieftan....perhaps i want to relearn "how to": take the GRIN... a little bit more... seriously... no? **** it... i'm drinking as it is... i want to reply you in full throttle... straight arrows... and the welsh V of the longbow-men too to boot... chopsticks straighter... "straighter"... i tend to only write when i'm drunk... i abhor sober prosaic intimidation and... all the lies, subsequently...sober people don't get "drunk" on moral relativism of white lies? and i'm born yesterday, no? you openly venture into... a quest of question within the regards... of being... this only.... i almost wanted you to feel this sort of... an alienating increment... of... how i might pile on more detail... they are musings... i don't take them seriously... about as much relax as is a required: necessary.... i have a fixation with words... jurisprudence to me is merely a game of thesaurus ploy-tow... i spell i don't spell... i'm overtly pedantic... i also felt queasy when testing my eyes at an authentic testimony of the "law"  being "exaggerated"... "tested"... "proved"..i must have: lying eyes... no other eyes do see... no? i have a fixation with "things" beside the usage of ***** and strobe lighting...

you have my attention... don't you? you know... the last time i attempted having a conversation... i was too naive...too young... everything "everything" applied itself to being too predictable... i want to love again: but being in love is almost a weakness... i don't feel like being weak... i guess this is where the rekindling of my "mojo" ends... hello cul de sac...

new paragraph... ever hear(d) of the alpha and the omega "man"? i'm pretty sure you heardf of mr. beta... for all the worth of a totality of... man... i'm last... i'd forever be... last... i don't want to be first... i also don't want to be 2bd sniffing **** and crab-meat-... either...

give me the totality... i'll be satisfied with a "question" of
last... hence the expression: omega man...
didn't hey-zeus say?
i'm the alpha and the omega?

i don't write sober, i'n afraid i might lie...
you're not lucky,..
but you're also not... godzilla....

i "somehow" haven't ascribed you with the sort of details of: explanation that would allow you... to satiate yourself with answers... as to how... why... yllu managed to "mojo" probe me back to life? you.. the Faroe Islands to begin with? you know... they have this gimmick... on the Faroe Isles... it's not a gimmick... it's called// i don't know what's it called... skúvoy? but i'm happy to tease when the whales are slaughtered... the the blood comes a running: the lions also... apparently tease with a yawn... look at this word, though: grindadráp....

ever catch the giggle im der nacht? nein? too italian... no? ******* borrowed pollack: the self-depreciating... loan... not load... of bollocking...

don't believe yourself as being the sole recepient of a reply...

you're not lucky... you're just... available...

terribly botherome... isn't, it?

- i thought i'd make this a two tier reply... it would be a shame to reread what i wrote on one of my "escapades"... perhaps this... hanging-over... ha'h... more like hung, drawn & quartered some time to time... but believably sane, pleasantly morose - at evens with masochism... so reclining into a moral trip-up... i probably mentioned grindadráp - since i still have the window open on the phrase i'm familiar with... Sámal Joensen-Mikines... i most probably ended up giggling in the night... god... i'm just skim reading what i wrote... well good to know that i can only the best thing and sober up: simultaneously returning to a more rigid, conventional... formal use of language: that i might suppose i'm in a confessional booth... a welcome mirage for the time being... while i decide to wither away watching the old firm (a derby soccer match between celtic & rangers)... of note... i had this argument with the natives so time ago... the... Celts... but it's the Boston / Glasgow Çeltics... no? you're a girl that likes sounds... i've been following this current discussion that has reached the heights of printed newspapers... citation, sian griffths (gwif-if-if-ififs) education editor: new spelling ROOLS to make english more predictable for pupils... "we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the feelds..." see... i really admired Charlie Bukowski for a while... until he came out as a lazy slob who would require an editor to correct his spelling... there's dyslexia and there's just plain: hash-browns... for all my worth of idiosyncrasy that i wriggle in as i go along, most of which will not find common ground and a cosmopolitan outlet of users... for me, as someone who acquired this tong'u: i've grown fond of how aesthetically messy this toong can become and how readily available this messiness is... even London can become a ****-joke: Loon'dune... in my mutterzunge sounds are more distinct... apart from the graphemes sz, ch, cz, rz (ż) - i'd have to borrow from a Czech a caron to hide a letter or two: š (sz / the equivalent SHarp in english) and č (cz / CHatter respectively)... all these unique sounds... ą, ę, ć, ń, ó, ś, ź - Wombat ł... anyway... i just thought, sobering up... that you'd like to have a certain bulging volume of fudge to return to... before i take another dive into ms. amber and pass another night as w. h. auden wrote: only the hitlers of this world write at night... sure... herr auden... because the day is for watching football and / or cycling.

- à propos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-L5iefl2QtA

- If you share music can I? I'm sorry that I didn't reply sooner. It's been a **** last week and this week isn't any better yet. I like reading your messages, drunk and sober. When I write in my native language I use the accent over the vowels to emphasize the second-to-last vowel of a word. I love speaking, reading and writing in my native language, though I'm sure that I know much less than you would about languages. Shall we continue talking about sounds? How about sounds in my language? Of course, you have to guess if you haven't already.

- mind you: i had second thoughts about writing this reply... perhaps you can judge for yourself... i'm just not into having double-mystery encounters with an "avatar"... plus i made an emphasis on the point... what music were you not going to share?

sure... but first share your music... i have this thirst for Nick Hornby's high fidelity and being a teenager again... a teenager in love, again...i was probably the most happy-go-anywhere sort of person when i found a vinyl copy of Wardruna's kvitravn in my local HMV... which is: sunrise records and entertainment ltd trading as hmv & fopp.... given i already have the other chapters on cd - copied into mp3... (runaljod - yggdrasil & gap var ginnnunga)...  and given it's so rare to fnd a vinyl of this calibre... that some vinyls comes with an mp3 link... i thought: hell... i'll give this record the proper 3D aura treatment and not listen to it on headphones... or utilise it to "conquer" space... & just walking with it across a market sq. without a plastic bag to stash it in... i might as well have walked with a cat on my shoulder... because... who the hell still buys... well... invests in vinyl? now... coming to the language...second-to-last vowels of  word... you know... you can keep me interested without overplaying this "mystery" game... isn't the use of an avatar enough? i really can't comprehend a language that focuses on second to last vowels... without focusing on vowels: per se... just to reiterate... you didn't share a link to some music... you pitted yourself as American... i can continue being interest without having too many enigmas to sort... i have yet to find a language that only applies accents to, e.g. suppOsE... or maybe i'm just too ignorant to have come across a language that behaves in such a way: unless it's some idiosyncratic variation (of it)... you don't have to remain a complete mystery to me for me to keep engaging... there can be some sort of rooting in reality... otherwise i'll just return to my original purpose of writing: staging myself against a blank canvas and a barrage of sounds that i'll need to "un-spaghetti" into linear streaks.... i'm not going to guess: you'll either tell me or not... i'm currently listening to snake-pit poetry: einar selvik... any one can have a ****** week... for a while i was anticipating you testing whether or not i'd reply not getting a reply from you... and that, somehow, miraculously... i'd continue to creep-up to teasing you again... perhaps that's me dabbling in misnomers... no... you'll need to give me something concrete... i'm already starting to itch with a sensation that i better return to the canvas than keep this conversation... no offence... it's just draining me when something abstract could also be doing: likewise... but it wouldn't end up being a ****-tease... i could possibly create something out of it... not just so more: oh... oh? ** **: what's next?! i know when it becomes a brain-drain... a side project... it has to come with an excuse whereby you'll probably recoil with: but i had a ****** week... granted... but who hasn't...  you could have waited another week until participating in the timeframe of the passing of weeks started to feel good once more... if you only dropped a music suggestion... otherwise... thanks... but... no... this conversation is going nowhere... i think i'm just relocating my writing block elsewhere... all the best: in keeping an aura of mystery... within the realm of avatars and non-accountability... come to think of it... no... this is as fair as i could be.

this supposed "unique" specimen... not really...
i want to focus on what allows me to belong:
beside the unfathomable landmarks
of trees and mountains:
roaming stars that even my demented
grandfather corrected himself on...
satellites... no... roaming stars?!
well... i didn't conjure this **** out of my own
*** for pleasure, either...

back towards... falling asleep while listening
to the Hellraiser soundtrack:
hellbound...
because eerie is how:
i how how: "things"...
i'm so alone at times that it's beyond making
sense: it's about infringing on a god-stature...
status... this omniscient
contradiction that some Elijah bundled up
into... two crows croaked...
the tower of London can entertain 6:
so the king's ******* and the queen's
jewels are left intact...
for the successor to worry about...

we have these conversations but too bad
the girl is playing timid...
and i'm... gargantuan...
the length of a tongue that turns into an eel...
hands like octopus extension...
i could wrap her up in... bubblewrap
and start the puncture pinch-pinch ceremony
of not seeing the bubble float: up-up...

i have a sense of ego like...
a bad l.s.d. trip?!
****-guage-abuse? gauge? sort the ones
for the snoozing zero-toasts
and you have yourself
a new jersey smart: bite-off... not bit... though...

i could never have children:
not because i could never be a good father:
but i'd be a terrible husband...
how do i "know"?
i would never allow myself
to earn the amount:
she'd want to spend...
via solo: i'll spend on ms. cojack amber
and some ******* liquorice vinyl...
and a bicycle...
rubber-teasing: ****-teet-****....
when using the brakes...
when minding my ******* "luck"
on a roundabout with a massive twuck...

plus i'd love to **** more...
i'd love to **** as much more as
the thought-"taboos" discourage me
from doing... so it's a nice adventure: thinking
the next: moral antagonist, antithesis
of "could i"?
central theme? Lo-li-t'ah...
and i'm the second from third removed
uncle of the marquis de sade...
you want... you need... you have to orientate
yourself around the last taboo...
the one that's not associated with...
crispy clean antics of those *******
in their savvy leather gimp suits etc.

"power to the people": *******...
power to who owns what...
i'm starting to conjure up
profanities akin to:
but at least when they owned slaves...
they took care of their slaves...
they wouldn't want a slave to be rotten...
to be despondent...
trouble with freedom is...
my own, self-made... man...
if i were a slave...
i'd learn to bend the rules...
i'd entertain the fantasy of freedom...
while being constrained with...
all the benefactor securities...
i'd be owned but i'd also be:
obligated to a social contract of some sort...

so freely as to nothing be:
so averaging assumptions...
presumptions... so by nothing i unfree myself:
to... sort of quest to: "be"...
while the priestly class held back literacy...
within the timeframe of when
a new literacy emerged... of coding...
so double-up-on-surds... no?

herr gizmo l:)(}{
the realm of the three brackets... )}]...
one literacy replaced the old literacy
but in terms of retaining the old type...
the new type is... not exactly allowing
for movement of... hearts? is, it?
i still have to retain punctuation...
i still need need to perfect it...

but this is not conversational linguinie,
is it?
i stand firm in, stressing:
writing is an extension of thought...
writing is an extension of thought:
it's hardly an invitation to speak...
the past centuries haven't taught us
that literacy is a constraining beast of priests'
fancy?
let me... detail my limbs for you
in stressing this point further:
what good came from the project
of literacy en masse?
graffiti scribbling on brick walls?
out of what beside desperation?

such constraints were employed as
to: the person exercised in completely body:
usage... wouldn't feel like
a ******* hamster of a ******* ferris wheel
when push came to shove...
somehow everything physical became
lesser class: demeaning...
somehow we all turned into *******
fluorescent
      telepathic / telekinetic Chernobyll
monkey sorts...
and the fat "stigmata" is a what?
                  
  this world is gagging for something tragic...
this world is gagging for a world war III...
but... it probably will not...
"advise" itself to experience such a disatrous take
on prospect...
nuance in language can go **** itself...
application of misnomers for added fluidity can:
go **** itself...
you ever come across a choir...
and a great wind...
see a ******* shrink...

don't look at me for inspiration:
perhaps some jokes...
i've been more honest these past two minutes than
i ever was in the passing of a decade...

death the limbo of "sanity"...
esp. when someone memorable has taken off...
who am i left with? "perspectivelly accountable"?
grey-matter fiddle-through middle-man
*******... no?
i'm not sifting through that, murk?
perhaps i'm sieving... sifting... sieving...
sifting... sieving... get a dog! she says, mother, dear...
i tell her: it's legal in Belgium...
her father already cited his complaints...
i'm tired of the ******* optimism...
i'm tired of this "adventure" some cling to when
deciphering "life"...
an overrated statement of too many facts:
that's life...
it's not a ******* frank sinatra:
come as we are... would be: mea culpa...

troublesome sufferings of a tired brain...
too many pop ref. points worth of closure...
i bought a vinyl today...
i walked it down a market place
like it was a puppy...
in a rucksack...

that there's a hope... my mother is crying
this silent agony of truth...
i tell her: it's sensibly legal in the Benelux...
England is ****** by all accounts...
a dog will save me?
i'm becoming rigid... brick-esque...
tide-prone...
moon is the mother of my skies...
i might might what?
fall in love: to fall in love is to allow
oneself to be weak; to be... dependent on
someone: the concept of "other"... no?
recurrrency is pricing on how many times
that's... sensible to try out?
before it fails?

i fall asleep listening to horror movie music...
i'm best coupled to a ******* hyena than
i am to a woman...
to live under a false sense of hope
is a: welcome bypass to otherwisse living
under a truancy of truth...
as the life around me shrinks...
the abounding shadow of me grows...
and not as a patriarch...

oh ****... "i simply, somehow...
just so it happens... fowgot to... encapsulate this
offload whiff a wyme".

electric wheel chairs and electric wires in your brain,
blood filled clouds shower on the insane.

unfinished projects pilled in your garage,
the pain in your spine could use a massage.

ribbons glue head to neck,
they connect like a child's
cheek and a mothers' peck.
tiny hands
full of life
and unstructured strokes
soon to be a house
full of unknown smokes.

these lights are painful,
                                                 like cold sores
and it hurts to kiss,
                                                  and it tastes like dirt.

I've read your books and I know your worth,
but now you're discolored, and your heart lost its beat.
and you're freezing, slowly, and becoming a piece of this earth.

I feel so alone, and I miss those beats.

Is it sad
that I can still smell you in the sheets?

watching her deep water,
pilled sleeping,
her chest congest,
her cough, orange,
clockwork regular,

watching tv,
an old Law & Order fav,
major crimes gets an
innocent man freed from jail

watching me
in the tv screen reflection,
write bad poetry,
and laughing at his own hair,
rebelling in sticking up shapes
that would make Einstein jealous

occurs that this mot not
multitasking, that multi-inaccurating

Nope

multi-sensing, multi-asking
for
moments of quiet crumbs,
of seconds of satisfactory,
merely passing unpadded grades
would be sufficient

life needs no cogent reasoning,
no over arching philosophy,

but if Sheldon were to
find the unifying string theory
that could tie and string these moments
together,
that would be most excellent

cause "whatever"
just don't quite cut it
as a way,
a purpose to exist,
but moments like this
do

Oh I think it was a Tuesday
You were sleeping
In almost the highest spot in the building
Your ghosts never disturbing
The seams of your dreams
Oh what a day to ignore the mourning

I awake since Monday
Stitch my jeans for they keep
Falling apart by the knees
I try to hide the pink and purples
Of each thing pretend I don’t need

Then out of something I can’t dream
I see this red all around me
maybe I should gather my things
But instead I throw them out on the street

I burn in the building
Just to slip out of sighting you
So I start to
Transform in my dorm
Catch the flame and let it
Cool me
Oh how I used to be boiling
Steaming I see the leaves and grass
Oh I think you would call this crass

Now you are just so worried
That all this ash might
Color your back
So you speak your to forest of agrees
Until you see the fire of me

I so welted so red
So sore so losing
So much breath
I think you cheated
But you just took the steps

So I let the piece of me be last
thing you feel of me
I make you choke
then you speak
About how I
Hurt you

But somewhere
maybe a kitchen maybe the stairs
There were pages written by you
Pilled up but there’s only one
You wrote it mostly for fun

See it was so late
So late
That I would calll it Mourning
you were writing
By the light of the candle
Because electricity is just so boring

So at 4:49am on Tuesday
Maybe morning
You
Left the stair
Left the light and the pages there
Then when to sleep
Without a single worry

I tried to describe you to someone
The other day
At a loss for affectionate nouns that
Would string together adjactives
Of how much I miss you.

Words sat deep in my lungs
And puffed out squeaky and small
Smoke-tainted coughs
Laced with conversations we had
When I first put that smoke there.

Words pilled up at the base of my gut
Twisting my insides the way you said
Yours did when you thought of planets.
Words that if formulated in my mouth
Would tell you I would ****
Just to be a moon circling in your orbit
Picking up rocks of you
You thought had fallen off forever
And were meteored through the universe.

Words that you once spoke to me
At night on a bench
Carried in my moon-hard
Lungs as smoke
That when I speak of you
Heat me thaw.

I tried to describe you to someone
The other day
At a loss for affectionate nouns that
Would string together adjactives
Of how much I miss you.

Words sat deep in my lungs
And puffed out squeaky and small
Smoke-tainted coughs
Laced with conversations we had
When I first put that smoke there.

Words pilled up at the base of my gut
Twisting my insides the way you said
Yours did when you thought of planets.
Words that if formulated in my mouth
Would tell you I would ****
Just to be a moon circling in your orbit
Picking up rocks of you
You thought had fallen off forever
And were meteored through the universe.

Words that you once spoke to me
At night on a bench
Carried in my moon-hard
Lungs as smoke
That when I speak of you
Heat me thaw.

Paperworks and junks pilled into mountains
on top of my ruined desk
“I wonder what had went wrong
for me to stack up such a mess?”

Indolent, Oh! so petulant!...
But still I digress
Saying I didn’t have time
To sort out the cluttering hefty mess

Jesting around with the things that avert my gaze,
Such a child I was,
I paid no mind to it all day

But...
Night came too soon,
and instantly I say...
“When will I ever sort out this mess?”

Perhaps never, but still I say
“Someday, okay?”

It had the smell of love
It had the hot sticky sweat of love
It had the urgency and reckless
  passion of love
It had that god awful feel of love
It had the perfect illusion of love
But the madness was missing
And without the madness
  there was no music for their
   demons to dance to
No moon for their monsters
  to howl at
It was just flesh pilled on top
  of flesh
Loneliness dressed up in the
  guise of love
Imitating love, moving like love
But never falling like love
Never tempting that danger
Never tempting  madness
Never tempting the promises
  of forever
Never tempting true love

Through thick and thin, through loss and sin
You held my hand and encouraged me to look within
You're the one that knows me as I've always been
You've kept me together throughout every weather, acting as my safety pin

We've had out ups and definitely our downs
Needed more than books as pick me ups to turn around our frowns

When I pilled high molehills into mountains
You helped me knock them down to size again

You're the smile behind this ongoing uphill mile
You're the laugh that revives my hang on for a while
You're the encouraging words behind every verse
You're my compass for every course.

You are most importantly my mom
Who is approaching an age where the years are not as long
You're turning an unspeakable age
Finishing an ancient chapter, turning a desolate page

There is one last thing to say
An obvious, over used cliche,
So here, without anymore delay, is your...

Happy Birthday

The backseat driver's lips began to chap
And his jaw locked
Thank you Based God

The people pleasers asked to hitch a ride
They had no mode of transportation
And the lack of communication coming from the backseat driver was concerning them even more

I thought I was about to be bamboozled when they started to clean the interior

I decided to pull over and check out an antique store on the side of the highway

They had used toothpicks used by President Eisenhower
The word "Anagram" in all upper case letters made of lacquered balsa wood

While we were there I tossed out all my unpaid speeding tickets  

Then I saw a sign the said "Continental breakfast $2.50!! 3 miles thata way!!"

I zoomed to the diner and ordered that continental breakfast for the backseat driver, the people pleasers and myself

We each received one coffee, one buttered roll and one danish

We all had the same irritated, sour look on our faces

We flipped the table in disbelief

Attacked the waiter and held the innocent patrons hostage with a fully loaded sling shot
And demanded the cook whip us up a gross of spinach horderves

As we left the back seat driver called shot gun
So we all pilled in with our horderves
And I gunned it to 95
The backseat driver held on to the "oh **** handle" for dear life as the people pleasers cheered me on with their mouths full

On to Massapequa

They ****,
They Mame,
They steal,
They play,
They laugh,
They covet,
They test
Hell as an oven!!!

They backstab,
They backbite,
You pulleth and grab,
They moan in delight,
They cheat,
They lust,
They thrive,
Of bones and of dust!!!

Their uncharitable,
They murmer,
Their a narcotic using world,
Their explorers,
Their punks,
Their freaks,
Their madmen,
Their geeks!!!

Their warlords,
Their pacifists,
Their hatred,
Is all nonchalant!!!!!

They get high to get what they want,
Their complainers,
Their lazied!!!
Their pilled out,
Junkies,
Crazy!!!!

Their low,
In disguist,
They use perfumes of sixty dollars of more!!
A delightful expensive musk!!!

Their cheap,
Penny pinchers
Their losers,
Their winners

Their warriors,
Their jocks,
Taking selfies of shame,
Of perverted stuff!!!

Their tounges are asps,
Their hands are weapons,
They'll meet you in hell,
I looketh forward to heaven!!!!

Their babies,
Scaby infested,
Some get off on ***,
Others love molestation!!

Their racists,
Their rapists to!!!
Of mother earth,
And mankind's tombs...

They turn on each other,
Sister and thy brother,
They gaze in mothers purse,
As with dad arguments stay cursed!!!

They are disobedient,
Disloyal in their love!!
No god do they worship,
Just Shaitan's to Satan's club!!!

They eat on organics,
They eat pesticide!!
Some live on freely,
Others seek thy easy way out(suicide)

The have no one to turn to,
Except their vain imaginations,
Their nonhumble,
Proudfully tumbled!!!!
Their fall is bound to occur!!!!

These are the humans!!!!

Welcome to earth!!!!

You know my faded legacies.
You know my long forgotten glories.
You know all my tall tales and never ending stories.
You know me and the air I breath
The I's from which eye see.
The warm heart from which I bleed.

But you see only the image I let you see.
You can't see that the air is choking me.
That my stories lack a silver lining.
You've forgotten that my eyes are no longer shining.

You don't know that this heart is the reason that I'm always denying.
You recognize my voice but you don't hear the words I'm saying.
You won't hear the words I'm praying, the words that keep me lying.

You see my smile but not how broken it's become.
You'll never see the seems threatening to come undone.

I'm bursting, bursting with secrets,
Secrets screaming my truths with all the proof of my weakness.
I'm pilled high with tears I refuse to cry,
All I've ever done is turn a blind eye.

palpable tension
in the bank
tellers rolling eyes
and rank and file
of stinking
value
pilled high

the sighing why?
and a mile of road before us

getting to the point
is a round about way
of feeling something

It Would Be a Cold Day in Hell
by Mutasem Amayreh

You heard my story
Tongue-tied
My crowning glory
In a World-wide
Eye-folded
Yet in a cottage
tied
One day
The owner scolded
The bushy eyebrows
Frowned
On the scent of treason
Yelped the hound
During the peak season
Different colored Inks spilled
One iota of sound reason
The Mantle it pilled
What follow that I
detest
While sight-blinded
Began the Rorschach test
The process, long-winded
I didn’t hesitate
That one-sided picture
Of the issue
Started to imitate
Composed a tissue
of lies
Didn’t freak
Cut my ties
Promised Ink won’t leak
Believed the wiseacre
That talent spotter
Never become a risk-taker
But a life-long voter.

While you sleep
Counting sheep
The dreams you keep
Pilled up in a heep
I will let the tea steep
As you creep
Still breathing deep

I know what it is
All the *******
Pilled  up inside
Cramer in to a bottle
And shoved down my throat
But I did it to myself
I put it in the bottle
I shoved it down my throat
I caused it all
The bottles cracking
But I seal the cracks
Because I don't want to hurt anyone
Some of it leaked through the cracks
I say things
Things I would never say
To my brother
To my sister
To my mother
To my friends and family
I seclude myself from them
I stay away
I lock myself in my room
And I sit there
I could **** myself
But I can't put that guilt on her
Her, the love of my life
The one I might lose
The one I want to keep
The one I can't lose
My insides burn
And my heart
What's left of it
Is falling apart
I'll do anything to keep her
I'll do anything for her
But I've said that
A million times before
I'll let her choose
I can promise her anything
But it's her choice

It's hard,
and I know none of you deserve it
I should probably send a card
its not that I am pilled up in a ton of ****

Life is fine,
my only problem are parents that I don't deserve.
Hopefully, the sun will shine,
and maybe there is some love between us I can preserve.
The greatest parents on Earth are mine,
they are just trying to show me the best was to traverse.
To bad I've been taking wrong turns since two thousand and nine.

Unfortunately, I do not feel bad,
it has given me time to think...
all about what I have had,
the strong loving link
between me, ma, and dad.
Beginning to believe I belong in a room walled with pads.

I do love you,
that is true.
Who knows if we will ever work out issues,
if I cried about it I would waste a box of tissues.
Problem is when we talk all of our lines are reused.

We fight all the time,
not sure if it is a crime.
I don't need someone's two sense, I need advice worth at least a dime.
Not sure if I can think of any more rhymes.

Haze covers her eyes.
Masks her from seeing anything that is too bright.
Weight pilled on her chest, so much that she is barely breathing.
Barely moving..
She wishes to scream but the pressures to much
and no one would hear her anyway.
She feels like she's drowning...
and although she knows how to swim
the water has the upper hand...
Even though she's barely living
and there are hundreds of people around... no one seems to see
and she likes it better that way.
If no one knows they won't treat her like a freak
if no one knows she has the upper hand
As long as no one knows she's free to pretend.
She's not okay, but she hasn't stopped breathing yet.

Some where between the perpetual isolation
that we created in the name of personal space.
The wounds that were never healed,
Because they never received the ointment of attention.
The misunderstandings
That pilled up into a giant rumpus,
And ignited the dubious disposition,
turning the intimate conversations into constant fights.
The love that we lost,
To the demonic darkness of our egoistic nature,
Still exists,
But only in the fragments
Of some moth-eaten memories.

I am sitting here, the sun spilling through the window, blinding me.
My back pressed to the couch,
My neck twisted in pain, staring at the rows of books
Pilled high on one another
Feeling sober.
My eyes quickly roam the books,
taking in the authors' names  
I eagerly search the name
Impatiently anticipating it
Four times I come across it,
Micheal, Michael, Michael, Michael!
My eyes brimming with tears that spill each time.
What's in a name? As Shakespeare's Juliet explained:
If a rose should be called another name, would it not smell just as sweet?
If you were called any other name Michael, I guess I'll be just as bitter over you.

Bonds of paper pressed and folded
Bringing with it such paper planes accurate
Dipped quills, ink splattered across the white ream
Lanterns lighting, defeaning silence of the whispers of the wind's realm.

Entrusting aflame candles, flewn for enlightenment,
Trembling with the breeze's whistling accompaniment,
White as newborn clouds, creased lines across it's edges,
Books pilled up with history and insights, torn pages.

Storms swirling ever so swiftly,
Drifting folding paper dancing to the wind gracefully,
Following the rhythm of the hurricane,
Remaining resilientㅡ free from stabbing pain.

Tint overflowing each ream precisely,
Tainted with dreams crafted so idly,
A little push, realising grip,
A wish fleeting away, once one to keep.

If you've never tasted my tears as they stream across my lips
Don't tell me you've understood my pain
Tears lips and eyes tell stories words cannot
The stories deeply hidden in someones heart of hearts
The aching pain that stirs in them on the coldest days and warmest nights
The stinging in their throat and they lose all sense of up and down
When they clench their fist and squeeze their eye lids shut
And gently shake
When they don't understand why the tears chose to fall this day
But every pain is revealed to them at once and pilled upon another
Before you vanish out of this world and existence
Taste someones tears as they stream across their lips
Understand their pain as they cry for the world that has broken them

I felt restless, anxious, stressed, & weak
My body felt stiff & held up a guard to protect me
I always looked out for myself; from one particular enemy
I tried chasing it away, but then it returned
I had frequent visits; inside the mirror, during the day, & in my sleep
Insomnia always striked me
I wanted peace, but I always feared the darkness
The darkness inside
The darkness in my nightmares
The darkness all around
I was looking for a solution to make myself leave; to make my mind get squeezed; to make my body at ease
So then I tried to replace these hallucinations with alcohol, then I drowned
Tried to replace this depression with a razor, then I bled out
Tried to replace this anxiety by constantly staying up all night, then my body gave out
I tried to replace this mind by looking for a cure from myself,
Then when I saw that it was too late; I was already broken,
Nothing was able to save me; my last resort was the milligrams from a fake candy
It was supposed to tranquilize this mind,
Freeze this brain,
& calm these nerves
But not even a pill was strong enough to fight against my invisible twin

Those among us rise and shout
I've got the virus please get it out
Pray for it to be untrue
Life has changed for me and you
Let no stones go unturned
The bodies pilled as they burn
Misfortune overturned
Life on pause .hopelessly concerned

Never planned to get up n get the *** out
Sit on the porch and watch the sky fall down
Poor man's fitting end .gonna go out like I came in. nowhere to run they won't you go hide. please don't get to close as you walk by

I stand corrected. never seen no **** like this. thought I'd seen it all until the pandemic set in

Those among us rise and shout
I've got the virus please get it out
Pray for it to be untrue
Life has changed for me and you
Let no stones go unturnd
The bodies pilled as they burn
Misfortune overturned
Life on pause .hopelessly concerned

I am a sock
My cotton exterior pilled and frayed
insides as soft and warm as down feathers

i lie in the drawer
without warmth or company
for one day
my match
the sock who has always suited me
my soft, silver striped soulmate
left my life forever
we were forced to go our separate ways
by some cruel sleight of paw
mi amigo was taken away from me
and brutely dragged down the hallway

life without my match is a gravel road
rocks dig into the uncovered feet
with a missing sock
life is incomplete

Take me back to the old days.
The days of eight people squeezing into one booth.
The days of random free food.
The days of pilling people into a car and blaring music.
Having silently parties while my parents were asleep.
Random night walks.
Random night drives.
Unplanned trips to the mall.
Spending hours just sitting in a room.
All of us pilled in to one apartment.
Getting the text from mom telling us she's making dinner and everyone comes running.
Take me back to the old days.
I miss it.