I used to be wild
Drunk on my own newly discovered sensuality--and on Drink
Lemon Drops, and Pink *****-Droppers, and *** on the Beach,
and any fruity (sickeningly) mixed (sweet) drink anyone would hand me--but "no coconut!"
Laughing at my friends who were settling down
"You're all getting married, I'm just getting more awesome!"
Feeling so supremely alive
Flaunting my youth and vibrance like an obscure merit badge earned in Girl Scouts
(who would never condone by behavior, by the by)
Thin paper-plastic wristbands with Sharpie dates scrawled on them, and a tagline my only reminder of the night's events
"St. Patty's day"
"Brothers' last night"
"Makeout contest"... yeesh
Whole evenings, and weeks are now a blur, fuzzy from the alcohol? or just the passage of time?
Passing a particular apartment "I think I've been there before, once" and I struggle to remember how that night unfolded
A smile alights my face as some of it comes back, but not all of it; "Did that also happen that night, or was that another time...?"

And then a shift, in power, in gaze
Higher status, higher responsibilities
Higher shoes, (less *****)
The nipping and yapping one another, wearing down a trench around me
A Mother hen mantle settles on my shoulders (at least it's feathered)
And a jaded lens clouds my vision, sadly
My words about others, though never heard, would burn
Arrogant, downright Cruel, for a while
sigh
1am, that's enough for tonight
I'm tired
My bones hurt
I open tomorrow
The feathers are soft, yes, and choking
I look around, "What am I doing here?"
Ten percent of the people here make it worth my while
the rest...
Glitter cuts and scrapes my eyeballs, and I will wear the last vestiges to work tomorrow, no matter how hard I try
To rid myself of the testament to my night life

I want to do more
To Dance more, not police more
To allow more to explore more, and not to judge more
Everyone is worthwhile, and has something to offer
No longer compelled to define myself by the things that I do, or shove my newly-acquired identity in someone's face as means of introduction
To root out the real things that make me feel alive
And truth be told
I want to garden
laughs
I've never wanted to garden before
Wine and cheese with close friends, an adventure-date with my beloved
I'm alive because I'm living
Not because I've been going shot-for-shot for two hours with my best friend
But it's time for the next move
Whether you call it getting old, or settling down, or just "settling"
I call it settling in
To a cozy life I love, filled with only the people and things I love
Anything less, that's "settling"

The band plays
Arms in the air while feet stomp the ground
Girls cross the dance floor like a caravan
The music still plays since I said goodbye long ago
It's the same party, different people.

Thick cigarette smoke stands still on the patio.
A glass of white wine swirled in hand with delight
The joy, the laughter, the old friends say hello
One by one with stamps or wristbands on tight
They all come eventually but some will never go

I remember this circus from long ago
With its memories and moments I so dearly hold
If you ever find the door and need a ride home
Just wait until tomorrow's sun gives enough light to see the road
Don't worry about missing the show
The band still plays

Today I saw a girl
She was walking
On a residential street
She looked out of place
But I knew her face
It’s a small town
So, of course, I knew her face
Of course, I know her name
She’s the Jones girl

She’s a teenager
I don’t know what she was doing
Probably doing whatever it is
Teenagers do
On a Sunday afternoon
In a small town

Platinum white hair
Piercings up her ear
Future up in the air
Scene and emo wristbands
And a graphic tee
Probably not from Hot Topic
Because Hot Topic ain’t so hot here

Here’s the thing
She’d be the It Girl
If it weren’t for her acne
If it weren’t for her height
If it weren’t for her weight
If it weren’t for her interests
If it weren’t for her hobbies
If it weren’t for everything about her
But her name
And her age

She deserves better
I don’t like her
Not personally
But she does deserve better
She deserves the city streets
There, and only there,
Can she can be who she wants to be

And if she can’t?
Then there’s no place I want to be
Not one at all
Because I want to be
Where she,
Where we all can be,
Who we want to be

When things were good, they were
weightless.
We could stumble down the streets
at four in the morning,
wearing hickeys like tattoos
we'd be ashamed of at dawn.
Sneaking wristbands from friends
with fake IDs,
or faker ****.
And if we were low on cash,
we might take turns
lifting our shirts, shifting our bras,
until a flash of something sacred
earned a free drink.
I could have been
ashamed
if gravity were working.
But we were all
weightless.
Mistakes just floated away.

Our dresses were too short, and
our dresses were too tight, and
the boys wore shirts
that were good at hiding stains.
Sometimes we didn't even need words;
we could walk into
a smokey, sticky bar
and fall in love with a boy's arms
while he fell in love
with a too-short dress
and the chance to see underneath it.
And we knew
we'd be waking up
with those hickey-tattoos.
But we didn't care, because
we were all
weightless.
The boys just floated away.

Maybe we wouldn't find any
dance-floor-love,
but that was always okay, because
we were in love
with ourselves.
Our hazy heads
whispered pretty words,
and as we burned our throats
with shots of pure love,
pretty words began to slur
into a pretty song, but we could
never remember the melody
when we awoke.
So the next night
we'd shimmy into our too-tight dresses
and start ******* down
more liquid love
until we began hearing
that pretty song again.
We half-knew our sober hearts
would never be able to recall
the tune,
but it never mattered.
We were all
weightless.
Notes just floated away.

These nights, things are
heavier.
I'll pour myself some love,
but it burns like regret now.
I don't wear any too-tight dresses
because I don't much miss
the dance floor.
I don't miss the hickeys
or the four A.M. walks.
I don't miss the shirts
being lifted and pulled.
I don't miss the smoke
flooding the bars.
But I do miss the song
that I'll never quite know.
For though I am grounded,
that tune is forever
weightless,
and the notes will just float away.

a day in the life: valedictorian at the school of hard knocks,
already committed to humdrum state university--full scholarship
she laces up her shoes, buttons her top, ever so slightly to balance
the constant feeling in the pit of her stomach
like that of a roller coaster moments before the big drop
each car horn and bird chirp plays into a miserable melody
raining down upon her withered teenage face like ashes of anxiety
burn-holes her already tattered clothes until they resemble swiss cheese
she breathes heavily.
each step is a hurdle,
each word a quarrel,
each conversation an uphill battle
every potential relationship another personal waterloo
dimples and straight teeth mask the dread coursing within her skull
just as her long sleeves and wristbands hide the things she shouldn't do
her body lackluster and tired, as if she hadn't slept for days
or maybe just worn from escaping the holes she finds herself in daily
or from her Jackson *******-esque arm motions when she splatters paint
because she thinks she can never paint else anything right
she opens the door with her right hand
her left hand remains in a fist, squeezing tight
her sweaty palms make holding the door a challenge
but it's best that she not let go.

Her wrists were meant for music festival wristbands and scars
At least they weren't wounds anymore
Just memories of a girl who lived there before

Side to side; crooked
As if done carelessly
I knew her movements weren't careless
They were precise

Dancing
Boy, could she dance
Pretending her thoughts were light
Like the skirt flowing out around her

Her wrists were meant for music festival wristbands and scars
Because she knew she needed to heal

This is actually copy pasted from a suicide forum, but it's true.

Self Harm: Before you self harm, Read this
....before you make that first cut remember:
You will enjoy this.
You will find the blood and pain release addictive.
Even though you think you can make a few tiny cuts that aren't deep,
And will heal easily ...
They will get deeper.
They will scar.
They will sometimes take months to heal.
And years for the scars to fade.
If you think you can limit the cutting to one area of your body,
Think again...
It will spread when you run out of skin.
Be prepared to withdraw from others and live in a constant state of shame.
Even if you are the most honest person ever to live ....
You will find yourself lying to the people you love.
You will **** back from your friends when they touch you as if their hands were dipped in poison.
You will be terrified that they will feel something under the cloth
of your shirt, or because it just plain hurts so much to be touched.
Be prepared to get so out of control you fear your next cut because you don't know how bad it will be.
Just wait for 10 cuts to turn into 100....Be prepared for your
entire life to revolve around thinking about cutting ..cutting and
covering up cutting.
And just wait till that first time you cut "too deep."
And you freak out because the blood won't stop...
And you are gasping....
And you feel yourself shaking all over.
You are having a panic attack and you are terrified but you can't
tell anyone.
So you sit there alone...
Praying it will be ok swearing you'll never let it go this far
again...
But you will, and further.
Don't worry, you will learn how to take care of your cuts so that
you can go deeper and deeper and avoid the ER.
And the better you get at treating your cuts the deeper they get.
You will lie to yourself and justify it when you find youself
spending 20, 30 or 50 dollars every time you go the pharmacy.
You will feel the flutter of your heartbeat everytime you go to the
counter to ring up your order.
Butterfly strips...
3 or four different kinds of dressings...
Betadine....
Antibiotic cream..
Medical tape..
Scar reducers.....
You will tap your foot impatiently hoping the line will just move
and no one will stare at you or wonder why you need all these things.
And at the same time secretly hope someone will notice...
Someone who is standing in line with an armful of the same
supplies...
Someone who understands but of course that never happens.
Medical supplies won't be the only thing you spend all your money on.
Be prepared to buy a new wardrobe...
Longsleeve shirts in summer colors, bracelets, wristbands, boots... gloves.. the list goes on and on.
You will start looking at everyone in a different way...
Scanning their bodies for any signs of SI...
Just hoping that you might meet someone like you so you don't feel so terribly alone.
You wont even think about it ..
As your eyes scan their wrists + arms...
Hoping just hoping they will be like you....
But they are not.
You will see their clean arms and feel terribly ashamed and alone.
You will start doing a lot of things alone.
You will always have to wash your laundry in private so know one sees the blood stains on your clothes and towels.
You will always be cleaning up the blood..
Scrubbing your bathroom floor...
Wiping the blood of your keyboard...
You won't be able to make it through a day without cutting....
Next thing you know you are in a public bathroom somewhere breaking open a scab with a sewing needle that you keep in your wallet for emergencies.
When you get really desperate anything will be a cutting
tool ...scissors...a car key...a needle ... a paperclip..even a pen.
Doesn't matter what it is if you need to cut bad enough you will
find something.
Say goodbye to things you took for granted.
Like wearing shorts or sandals...pedicures...sleeveless tops. A
normal summer day at the beach or in a swimming pool will become a far off memory for you.
Get ready to itch.
Because you will itch and itch ..."so much you will look like you
have fleas or a skin disease."
You will become an expert on your body as you destroy it carefully..
You will dream about cutting...
you will dream about being exposed.
It will haunt you day and night and take over your life. You will
wish you never made that first cut because while you absolutely hate cutting...
At the same time, you love it and can't live with out it...
Note: I'm hypocritical to send this, but it still needs to be sent. It actually got really far for me before I told someone and was told to stop and I finally did.

The flavor of my youth
was skateboards and punk rock
heavy metal and mischief
walking through Cary town
with pockets full of change
and crushed singles
sodas in hand
and skateboards under the other arm
in the gated community we lived in
we would find the houses
where we knew the owners were away on vacation
and we took to the stairs on four wheels
to glide through the air like arrows shot from some towering bow
made of concrete and asphalt
and we went to shows in the city
dressed in the armor of wristbands, ripped jeans, and faded band shirts
drunk on our parents’ beer and skunk ****
drunk on the promise of a night open to any footfall we chose
and we jumped up and down in mosh pits
just trying to feel anything real
anything which tasted like living
we stalked from house to house cloaked in the witching hour
and pillaged our knick knacks from the garages of neighbors we never knew
padded fingertips pressing against doorbells
1...2...3…
now run
we didn’t have time for school
or the teachers trying to bring us down
but we always had time to trek through the woods with a bowl
smoking **** until we got to the mall
where we ******* around until mall security chased us out
we did not always make the greatest decisions
but I am **** glad I made them

A blood donor clinic.

The smell of all the blood in the air makes me sick.
It brings me back to the time,
where blood flowed freely down my arms;
when blood stained the wristbands that I wore,
to try to hide my pain from the rest of the world,
because I told myself I would never be as stupid as any of them.

But I was.

The smell makes me so dizzy,
the floor comes up to swallow me whole,
but I have the common sense to run.

Far away.

I run to the bathroom,
and all I can feel is the shuddering of my body
as I'm huddled in a corner;
being bombarded by images of a darker time;
images of my Crimson Decision.

I will never forget that day.
I thought I was going to give up on everything,
because everything had given up on me.
I'm glad it didn't turn out that way,
I'm glad I had the common sense to stop.

There's no way I'm letting the world have the satisfaction of seeing me like this.

But every once in a while,
I fall back into my crimson state;
where my body shudders and shakes,
and my mind falls inwards,
dragging my feelings to one central point,
where hell is begging for my soul.

A blood donor clinic.

The smell of all the blood in the air makes me sick.
I could bleed you a pint faster than that puny needle could get,
but I have the common sense,
to re-think my Crimson Decision.

We are in a taxicab with a drink hidden in the space between our legs. We are skipping through the night. We are in the line wearing wristbands. We are laughing loudly with beautiful people. We are dancing all night under electric lights with electric music and electricity in our hair. We are slipping out of dresses and into blood-warm pools. We are being kissed, we are getting high, we are getting in for free, we don't pay a thing. We have stayed up all night into the dawn, we watch the sunrise, we stand on the balcony and watch the world pass under us. We are celestial. We are goddesses. Today the city is ours. The light sparkles on our skin.

He'd be twenty today.
Unfortunately, that truck had other plans.
Instead, he'll always be fifteen,
thirteen days away from turning sixteen.
T-***** on the corner from our town to the interstate.
A turn everyone has made one thousand times.
For his memory, only one time will ever be remembered.
A classmate, a friend, a teammate, a brother.
The list goes on and on.
None of these can ever truly capture his fire, life, joy.
There still isn't a day that I do not think of him,
and how unfair it all was.
For a small town of 2000,
we still feel the effects of that tragic day.
When everyone knows everyone else,
and you flip on the news to see things like
"teen killed in crash",
phones light up like wildfire,
everyone calling everyone to check in.
To think,
all that pain, misery, grief
could've been avoided,
if I took the time that day,
staying at the school,
and lifted with him.
Maybe then,
he wouldn't have gone home,
or at least,
not that early.

That night, everyone met at the football field,
and wept.
and wept.
and wept.
Taking styrofoam cups, interlocking them in the fence
to spell out a final message.
"WE <3 U  T-BAIN #11 2013".
You see, 11 was his jersey number for everything, and I mean everything.
He played basketball, football, baseball.
You name it, that dude could play it.
Because he was our Superman.
And 2013 was supposed to be his graduating year.
Instead, a vacant chair with a cap placed ever so neatly
and a gown draped over was all we got.

The service was held in the gym,
there was just no where else to go that would fit enough people.
As people littered the gym,
a giant projector ran clips, showed pictures, played music
but it just wasn't good enough.
I wanted the authentic guy, not just his image ran on a big screen.
I wanted Tanner back.
We all did.
Instead we had the service.
Where there wasn't a single dry eye in the entire O-zone*,
even the sternest of faces softened up.

Two weeks ago,
which was four years and two days after the accident,
we held a charity two and one mile race event.
Wristbands, shirts, glowsticks.
I can promise with one-hundred percent certainty,
that my community has not, cannot, and will not
ever
forget.
"Always remember, never forget" pasted over and over,
on the sports team's shoes, football sideline, wherever.
Instead, this trauma has brought our tight-knit town
closer together than ever before.
We rallied behind his family,
and together we were able to overcome
this melancholic fog
that gripped our town at the throats.
Instead of being glum about his passing,
we celebrate his life,
cherish his memory.
I'm sure
he wouldn't have it any other way.

By the canal in British summer rays
Talking a lot to waste away the days
In your black leather reigns
Adolescent growing pains
You exist too loudly today, pull away from the sun
Tight starry wristbands, and you've only just begun
You've read Proust so many times, you believe it all
From the adjacent garden, you hear your Mother call
There's insects caught on the updraft
Floating away, you see the life-raft
With heavenly swans on board
Some alabaster hooting hoard
And the boys in tight vests
Run away from your pert *******
You would give chase too
Only if you caught them,
what on Earth could you do?

Hot breath, fog on the window.
Hands on the glass frame
Holding on,
Pain, shame!
A silent tear slides down rounded cheek
Leaked down from a clear blue pool of
Innocence and sincerity and strength.
Questions flying throughc clouded mind,
Emotion held with in a sigh.
Smile brightly, laugh out loud.
Sleeves pulled down, wristbands wary
Waiting for the shock and dismay
For the rejection and harsh words.
Bring on the hurt...
Emotional pain is ten times worse
Than anything else.
Muscles tense and waiting,
Yearning for redemption.
Back tight, jaws clamped.
Eyes piercing against the bland mask
That hides all.
Lips ready to quiver or
Fake words of comforting empathy.
Voice waiting for its cue
To laugh and chase away any type of doubt.
Hands, clenching and unclenching,
Showing more emotion than anything.
Finger nails digging into palms
Leaving bright red crescent marks.
Feet sluggishly sliding from destination to destination.
Will it ever stop raining?
Will the sun ever shine?

How do I explain

that sometimes, the night sky stops existing above my head and instead opens up like a gaping chasm in the bottom of my rib cage scraping my skin from the inside / i press my hand to my chest and for a flicker of a moment imagine ripping it open, watching inky black and Scarlett red pour out

that fear has found lodging in my larynx, trapping my words in a steel safe, my mind desperately works to puzzle out the code but it changes faster than I can input it / i raise my finger to my lips and imagine for a second what my words would look like if given physical form. blood blocks my airways and spills between the gaps of my teeth

that sadness circles around my wrists and fashions itself into a bracelet, locked and chafing, itching when the sadness grows and calling for relief/ i rub my wrists together and wear wristbands to distract the phantom feelings from the real ones.  It’s doesn’t take as much imagination as it should to picture how sadness looks when I pull it out of my skin

that exhaustion sits so heavily on my mind that it’s seeped down my spine and coated every vertibre with its tar-like embrace/ for a heartbeat i picture my gasoline-covered-bones burning like a sick science project

- How can I explain that oblivion lives in my chest and fear in my throat, sadness keeps me in cuffs and exhaustion cements my skeleton

Now I beat my brow, and how.
She wrote this on her arm in the poetry workshop.
Poetry? That will never amount to apple crumble- a mumble, from a passer by.
Whose eye twinkled. Answer me. Whose eye twinkled?
It spake of the forlorn and well worn wristbands from picnics with wistful bands.
Coherent thoughts in liquorice all sorts
Amount
In the end
To noughts.
And crosses
on hot buns in the local bakery.
That one's spelt bread, b-r-e-a-d.
A whole army fed,
On the pep of a rally to charms,
Sound the warning alarms.
******* alert.
On the winding country roads,
Squishing toads
***** nilly.

What's that?
Too tired to think?
Two-tyred, so blink
“And you're there in a jiffy”
Said the giraffe,
For the laugh.

There are children there
And also, every which and where,
Boy do they stare
Unaware,
Without the slightest inkling of the remorse
That we learn to impinge in our gaze
An apology for existence,
“Just coincidence”

a pair of headphones with the mufflers missing
the wire that goes from said headphones to the computer
a ceramic pug in a red scarf containing tubes of paint
an ocarina that i picked up in a ghost town/tourist trap in california
a red cup for water during painting
a book called the artist's mentor
an adjustable lamp
wristbands a lover made for me
a book for savannah college of art and design featuring someone holding a large inflatable red ball on the cover
an incomplete abstract painting on canvas paper, slightly crumbled,
a box for the savannah college of art and design VR kit that they sent me
a book on writing
a book about color line and form in the visual arts
a red squishy ball inside a a fishnet containment, creating organic bulbous abscesses when squeezed
a book of poetry with a red cloth on the cover
a small packet of konpeito, a japanese sugar-based hard candy
a novelty necklace designed to resemble christmas lights, complete with glowing LEDs
a red colored pencil
a red marker
a red mechanical pencil
a gigantic anthology of american poetry i have yet to dive into
a packet of cherry jello

Candy's always first in line whatever the cause is
Doesn't much matter what it's all about
Feels it's her place to counter balance the losses
Until the truth is known or a cure is found

Candy wakes early scanning the papers
While the bluelight in the background plays local news
Finding what park or office to picket
Because all the causes gives her something to do

Wears wristbands of colors supporting others
Red, yellow, pink, green, orange, blue
Even has one that swirls like a rainbow
That she proudly wears for a gay friend or two

She likes to think that she's socially conscious
And with nature and life she is in tune
Proud of herself cause she knows she has got this
Though without a cause she'd have nothing to do

One thing Candy's learned is it's never ending
As ones taken down another is found
The way the world is we're just beginning
Lucky for Candy there will always be causes around

we are nothing.
there is no we in this world
only remnants of nothing
created by our thoughts
with the help our peers
and the substances they bring us.

the ashes on the sidewalk
the scattered bottles
the ripped off wristbands
varying in color representing
the multiple stops along the way

what we were for one moment
disappears as quickly as it appeared
only existing in our memory
we are nothing.

it was truly a most wonderful day... i would have never thought
that Coldplay were such a grand band live...
it's not that i love them: it's that i just don't hate them...
work started at 3pm... we were supposed to sign in at 2pm...
i was 15 minutes early...
a £1.99 coupon from the Metro meant i could eat
a Big Mac and some fries before the shift...
a father and his little daughter sat down next to me
while a man talked to himself about perverts...
while being underdressed...
the heat was unbearable....
                      ****... i had to take 8 newbies to their shift
locations... i was on turnstiles... giving out wristbands...
i talked a minimum of any possible talk...
thanks you this thank you that became mere
nodding and smiling...
i don't think i touched so many female wrists in one
go... i was working for a hard-on of:
i'm not wearing a hat... or a kippah...
i really felt like ending this day in a brothel...
we finished at 8:30 when Coldplay came on...
we had 30 minutes to spare...
in that free 30 minutes they played my two favourite
songs: adventure of a lifetime and... paradise...
but Coldplay wasn't the Red Hot Chilli Peppers...
i don't hate them: but i don't love them...
i forgot to look at the stage when i saw the entire
Wembley stadium illuminated by those glowing
wristbands we were giving out...
i was there for the atmosphere rather than the band...
i smiled and put my head resting on a clenched fist
admiring humanity...
when humanity allows itself to relax...
and enjoy music...
we finished at 9pm... i didn't eat anything from
circa 2pm... so i went into the Wembley Lahore
curry house... ate at lamb tikka wrap...
sure... i'd love to have stayed for the whole concert...
but i also loved the idea of not queuing up
with the crowd...
       plus?! i'd get paid for the shift until 12am... even
though i finished at 9pm... so?
once i sampled the atmosphere i was glad
to ******* from there...
which meant? each... ****** time...
i have some remains of **** in my body
i get these head-jerks like i'm about to fall asleep
but get rudely woke-up...
at Liverpool street i did what ****-break did in
American Pie: people should stop ******* on the toilet
seats... i'm tired of putting toilet paper all around
the toilet seat... just to sit down and squeeze out
the shy remains of a loaf...
                   but i did... the pressure in my head
decreased a little... i drank a cherry apple cider admiring
Liverpool St. station... got on a train
and ****** off to Goodmayes...
got out... bought a 750ml bottle of cider...
walked around in circles with it.... thinking: best dilate myself...
i need to ****... plus... a dry cider?
after a heavy meal? works like an aperitif...
7.5%... that's the percentage for a cider...
it truly cures your digestive system of any blockage...
i then walked into the Tesco and bought 35cl of
whiskey and some Pepsi... did more circles drinking
about 150cl of the gold heart of ms. amber...

started rubbing my groins attempting to
get an *******... well... half-way through...
   not like a pervert: i was aiming to get something off my chest...
did another round of circle around the brothel...
walked in...
ah! there she was... a pretty plum of plump body type...
i needed that sort of body...
i only booked in for half an hour:
with a body like hers?! cherub plump?
what couldn't: what wouldn't have not done with it?

Michaela... that was her name...
i asked her if i could take a shower... i was sickly sweet
with sweat from the shift...
one hour or half an hour? let's see how it goes...
half an hour first... we'll see...
i'm pretty tired:

thank god for being able to take a shower...
wash my genitals etc.
and relax...

each any every man ought to feel this relief
after a day's worth of work...
whatever that work might be...
i was already admiring her physique from
the get go: her clothes were hardly an obstruction:
more, an invitation...
i do hope the people i work with never find
out about my secret life...
some are married and that's good on them...
i would never i could never love a single woman...
i'm like a ******* in that respect:
i need to be shared around...

it would break my heart to only love one...
to be faithful with only one...
i need more...
i'm the guy who "steals" kisses from prostitutes...
how Michaela jumped straight onto my lips:
like a bee toward a blooming flower...
i can't just tell her no... there's no simplified
version of NO... there's not no aversion to YES
either... it just happens...
i felt like a child with her adamant approach:
kiss me before we start playing hide & seek...
i like the plot of reassuring women...

she asked me whether i smoked, i replied yes...
i asked her: do you drink?
we smoked and drank some whiskey sharpshooters
before *******....
PARA-PARA-PARA-DISE...
it was a quickie... some girls like quickies...
i was feeling selfish: and thinking about shellfish...

i adore prostitutes... this one?
after a a kiss and a oral *** and: what position do you like?
*******: in the meantime:
i fell from my knee altar with a cramp...
ah! ah! CRAMP!
30 minutes was enough...
          oh man... she was butter, loaf, and a croissant
on the side... and: a man like me?
does he require a ring on a finger?
we ****** and then chatted...
Romania this that and the other...
no: i'm not here to **** them...
   i'm here t **** them them... i'm not here to love
them...
even they know the pretenses... of
suggested topic...

but how quick she was kissing  me...
i felt like a child...
kiss me: before i start playing this elevated guise
of hide and seek...
all before the *******: she did mention:
although Khadija didn't mention it...
£30 extra for non-****** *******...
£40 extra for vaginal ******* without
protection..
i'm not only here for half an hour...
and let me tell you...
i have a turtle's body that will be given wings...

i just received the splendours of slob
****** free for? for free!
my adoration for women is unbounded
in any framework if constriction...
love your mother like you might a *****...
or the reverse...
we smoked we drank, we talked...
i thanked her for becoming so relaxed...
to hell with marriage pleasure-dome melancholy...
i walked home back at 2am...

a very beautiful world...
                 but this girl... i kissed her lips: she stole mine...
i stole her eyelids...
we tried to make sense of our musical tastes...
plump body of plum....
           all the right shapes in all the right places...

i don't know why i'm on such good terms
with the MADAME and the "****":
maybe i'm just the type to love and to be loved:
why haven't you visited us more,
frequently, Matthew?
oh **** me, i'm on a first name basis?

next time a ******* steals a kiss from
me:
i ought to know the constellation
are awry....

My depression is like being on fire and putting out the flames is hard cause it's like an oil fire where normal tactics don't work.

People will try and give me advice. "STOP. DROP. ROLL" Which in any fire situation is super helpful advice and I'm super thankful someone tried to help me out at all.

So I'm rolling around in flames now and nothing is happening to cease the anxiety. Literally I feel like it's getting worse the more I roll around on the ground with my peers still shouting out advice or better ways to roll.

Now some are so kind that they may roll around with me to show me how easily done it is to dismiss the feelings and 3rd degree burns but really it's a disaster.

A community of rollers find me and we chat online and share rolling techniques and controversies of fire related deaths, support systems and rallies to end our fires by government mandated fire extinguishers for everyone. The fire hurts less that day.

Weeks are going by and I'm here still on fire but now there is a heard of rolling people with me, rolling like potato bugs or how people roll playdoh. Whom inadvertently draw in more people and experts on fire to give advice and some kind enough to roll around as well but they aren't there just for me but because people see their loved ones on the ground rolling, so they assume they are on fire too. Which is great, please help us.

So now news sparks of awareness scortching the nation that people are on fire. So campaigns are established and wristbands with "STOP. DROP. ROLL." on them being sold. Celebrties rolling on TV, talking about their oil fires. Have weeks like, "People on fire Awareness week" and petitions for every American getting the divine chance to get their own fire extinguisher covered by an agreed medical plan.  Which then people who think the fire is a lie gain a voice, even when talking to people on fire. They claim false accusations and attention seeking from lazy rolling people. Also a small group  of nihilist emerge with the belief of letting the flames **** people. No one listens to the nihilist, thankfully.

This all creates this unique  debate of flaming people ethics between multiple sides. People rolling. People showing people how to roll. People debating on the technique of the roll. The people who want people to have fire extinguishers provided by the government. Those who disagree with the concept of fire and then those who don't have an opinion or want the world to burn. Yet still even with all the coverage, attention and debate people a still on fire and no one is bothering to ask how.

So back to me still hot with embers but not feeling so warm. Dissociate deeper with bubbled skin but come to it enough to address my problem even though I am discouraged by all the attention people on fire have been getting and internally debating on if I am burning that bad.

I live with burn marks and scars but i dream of one day having the ability and strength, to jump into a body of water and cool off with steam blistering off my skin and smile back at those who roll and say "I'm fine and you can be too."

All I ever need is time and a cool place to ease my flames.

this weather would drive anyone mad...
maybe i'm just weird...
plenty of people: normal people:
normie SIMS
                          adore summer...
you can sometimes watch one guy
walking around the street without
a shirt... or: girl just needs to wear a bikini...
i get it...
    even i'm thinking about cycling
shirtless and donning nothing
but lycra-shorts...

                        i'm too modest:
i'll probably do the usual and put cotton
shorts on top of the lycra...
    and i probably won't cycle shirtless...
i think my hairy chest
and hairy stomach and my "mark of Cain":
my missing "pound of flesh"
might offended people... or... the opposite...
for the opposite ***...

as much as i can be a responsible person
i also know how to be a *******...
reckless... chaotic...
    i tried an experiment today...

can fury / anger cool you down?

like i always said: people don't **** me off...
things do...
that said: do some people qualify as
being tools? sure...
and i hate faulty tools...

so i was vacuuming today... because i felt
*****... and hot... and sweaty and
"teenage girl" -esque "confused":
whatever the hell that means...
for the past three days i wake up
on the floor without my pajamas...
naked: glued to the wooden floor...

gasping for air...
      ******* July! ******* atmospheric high
pressure... go! go! go! go back to Sahara or
wherever you came from...
SNOW... ICE... DARKNESS!
    
       雪 (ユキ)... コーリ... クラヤミ

(yuki... koori... kurayami)

this vacuum cleaner is ****...
first of all... the person who designed should
have just been an employee for Mr Dyson...
seriously... the cable is too short...
i have to switch from about three different
power-source outlets...
   and those hairs on what's supposed
to collect dust? too short too...
   i've been vacuuming the staircase twice...
once fast... then slow...
  
i ended up testing my idea...
can anger cool you?
can fury cool you?
                   well... first i had to wet my beard
and comb it... then i had to wet my hair
and comb it... then i asked myself:
if i get really *******
about... "a hammer you can't hammer nails
in with"... i.e. a vacuum cleaner
i can't clean with? yeah...

                like an orthodox Jew
head-banging before the Wailing Wall...
which... honestly... if those guys were kneeling...
i'd imagine a massive Ha-Shem *****
just there... imitation blow-job...
or rather: repenting for the ancestors
to mutilate them...

monotheistic lunacy...
   same in Christianity... kneeling... kneeling...
******* procrastinating...
or the **** position of the Islamic rites...
geared up, gents, for some extra-curriculum
action?!
it's one thing to be told that you came
from an ancestry of hunchbacks...
i.e. apes... and another to insult
those origins with these silly antics...

                          oh... but i do believe in a deity...
but it's all in my head...
it doesn't require Churches, statues...
sanctities and heresies or anathemas...
that's the best way: at least for me...
it's all in my head...
     and the world can be as beautiful as it already
is...

people don't **** me off... things do...
sadly some people mingle with the category of thing...
there's this guy at work...
a sad soul... deformed in a way that doesn't
appear deformed... but he has a physiognomy
that would tell you: *******...
******? not really... too weak...
   everyone at work hates him...
     well... wouldn't you if you heard:
i've been a steward for 12 years...
                        he tries to boss people around...
me? i only started last December on a whim
and i've already become a supervisor
blah blah X no. of times...
                    
it's lovely seeing society function on its original
intent of meritocracy...
right... but this guy is despised...
me? i'm... curious...
   he has terrible conversation cues too...
he tries to crack a joke or says something
and non-responsive... i was?! i wasn't?!
i don't even know anymore...
      i didn't say anything... i'm pretty sure...
and he's like: yeah, ha ha... you never say
anything to me...

weird as **** when he starts calling me
by my Finnish equivalent: Matti...
               only my father gets to call me Mateo...
thank god he didn't venture south...

i actually prefer Martin... the guy with cerebral
palsy... the one that looks jittery when standing
still... or drunk... but at least i can look into
his eyes and think:
                         oh... this world is a *****...
but i promise i won't make it harder for you...

back to the other guy... everyone at work hates
me... but... when i was supervising him?
oh man... WHAT A JINN!
perfect! i had to argue with some guys without
wristbands trying to get a pitch-side view
of the concert: clearly they bought paid-seat tickets...

i gave up... arguing / being persuaded...
blah blah this blah blah that...
i turned around and crossed my hands...
but they just kept on nagging...
    then my whittle fwend came along and worked
his magic...
it didn't take much...
just his physiognomy...
             his body language...
                              his actual use of language...
   the seriousness he applied to the profession:
yeah... "profession" in my eyes...
crowd-safety is a joke...
                     i take it seriously in terms of:
looking out for terrorists...
but compared to roofing or anything DIY related
it's a farce...

   soldiers at Buckingham Palace might also
realise that they don't have a job...
they just have a uniform
smoke and mirrors...

everyone at "work" hates him but i found
most useful... when you can't win
an "argument": just allow the most "disgusting"
person to do the work for you...

i mean: for ****'s sake... how can you win
an argument if people find you endearing,
hug you, kiss you, take selfies with you...
it's impossible... throw in a "Quasimodo"
into the mix and watch them turn their attitude...

it's called: effectively utilizing a person's
otherwise considered disadvantages to your
advantage... that's what's called:
nature abhors a vacuum...

                 i'm going to write this... drink some more
and then cycle... hopefully concentrating on
any of my possible recklessness...
hopefully not falling head first
across my bicycle's handlebars while
trying to avoid a ***-hole...

mindful: of a copper-neck...
that's the only good thing about summer...
getting a suntan...
that's it... i like looking like a lychee flesh
dipped in sunflower oil...
or that darker oil: peanut?
            
it's almost like the recurrent joke about
**** Germany... the supposed "Aryans"
waged a war against actual Aryan
inheritors... given the geographic history...
an Iranian tribe known as the Sarmatians
settled in the region otherwise
known as parts of Poland...

                            ah... sigh... i don't want
to laugh: you can't "win" something
by falsifying "said"... "truth"...
                           i guess i'm prone to a "symptom"
of... sleeper-genes...
they're waking up... it doesn't matter
whether i like it or not... it's happening: the end...

my mind has become a cauldron of events
that happened and should be forgotten
and a forgetting that should have happened...
and it has: with the immediacy of me
scratching my head... figuring out some
metaphysical arithmetic:

i don't do language formalities...
i don't do pre-scripts...
i abhor Thespians...
  as much as the ancient world abhorred
poets... clue: in Ovid...
poetry is a waste of time blah...
modern times have yet to appreciate
despising Thespians...
shadow-thieves...
                                        doppelgängers...

death's only until one's unsuspecting
tomorrow...
that said: i have a corrosive animosity
for maxim spewing: maxim regurgitating...

at least proverbs are ciphers...
maxims seem like deciphers...
lost proof on their certainty was always
going to be established by anyone
who read any other genre of literature...

- because as a ******... i abhor being regarded
as the pauper of Europe...
sure... i write in English: because it's more
convenient...
i write in the most economic language
available known to man...
    do i think that America, the FSA:
federal states of America would be more stable
if they employed an indoctrination
into resembling a rigid bilingual nation
not governed by WASPS
        (white, anglo-saxon protestants)?

Switzerland?! massive failure...
isolationist from day 1... whenever day 1 was...
and they're accustomed to...
everyday people speaking...
3 languages?!
    **** me... perhaps we'd be better off
knowing at least two... the minimum...
but then... n'ah... pointless...
the "modern miracle of literacy"
sort of backfired...

                and if not backfired then didn't
give the desired results...
the guilt of manual labour...
          forget GAY PRIDE...
back in the satellite state of the Soviet
Union that was Poland...
there was a LABOUR PRIDE DAY...
yeah: physical labour was celebrated...
appreciated...
              what, the, ****, has, your, ****,
orientation, to, do, with, whether,
you, get, a, taxi, on, time?!
                    
                                  work used to be celebrated!
not sexuality... and that's Dodo-sexuality, no?
unless you elevate prostitution
to surrogacy, no?
            well then... you have your little revolution:
i'm going to have mine...
  i don't mind slurping on the many-used
oysters' worth of ****... mind you:
they taste better...
              nope... i was listening... i listened
long enough...
                i'm tired...
                no wonder the Slavic world imploded
with Ukraine as the sacrificial lamb...
the Czechs were a priori Germanic in their
liberalism... libertarianism...

they can *******: PAKICOCKPAKICOCKPAKICOCK!

****'s sake: THINGS: HAPPEN...
you can't just cower from things happening...
might as well throw in your own
narrative... poetry shouldn't exist in
safety... poetry should exist in jeopardy...
in being branded X Y & Z...
               poetry should tease at
the egoism of Marquis de Sade...
                            it should be all about cycling while
drunk...
         because life's what? you borrowed?
you're in debt?
     or is it the inverted:
you wanted me here...
          i'm here... and this is what i am...
or rather: this is what you taught me
to become!

                          mein gott... this is sort of looking
like a self-help guru manifesto...
i'm ashamed... but then also very much
drunk and dehydrated at the same time
and i truly want this heatwave to ******* from
England...

                   i will never give up my testosternone
for my: abhorrent antic
of cycling while tipsy...
i need a coupling of testosterone + adrenaline...
i need to be crazy-stupid...
                like all the prostitutes said;
you're good-crazy..
i know i am... i'm fully invested.