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Alcoholics UnsatisfiedFrom the moment your born, roll on death. / Alcoholics Unsatisfied sit round in a circle, / soft acquitting eyes passively flow in direction

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Ishmael Run - Prose.**Ishmael Run; So begins the Journey.** / Thoughts lead thusly; there is no death, only the fulfilment of purpose. We live relatively long and for that period of being and becoming we mostly find a petty meaning for ourselves but in this we stand wrongly. This is a sick joke we are involved in, there is a dark underlying purpose that eventually swallows us all into the ground to become a part of something monumental; the compilation of events known as history. / I am no cynic, and neither am I depressed, ashamed or even slightly darkened by this thought, on the contrary it is this knowledge that allows me to live. Without such inspiration life would be empty, totally and utterly discredited. Because there is enlightenment, to know the meaning to life as it is to end it, there may be ease within the world and no pitfalls of delusion or false hopes to fall into. I need not to push beyond myself or anyone else, I have no reason to attend to anything, is this a freedom?

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Why T.S Elliot is always right."It is a postulate implicit in all metaphysical poetry that nothing is ineffable, that the most rarefied feeling can be exact and exactly expressed. If you cease to be able to express feelings, you cease to be able to have them, and sensibility is replaced by sentiment, in the end by the vague expression of the vague, and poetry degenerates into a diversity of noises."

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Englar AlheimsinsListen to windmills, / Breathe, become breath / Coarse hair is stroked across strings

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The Nobility of 'Sleep'Through dreams I learnt to live / And in waking how to die / The golden hand of the morning sun

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Unhealthy RemovalSolitude begins with a silence, / It is an uncomfortable void / Solitude begins with nothing

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Loneliness BecauseLoneliness because / I should not want to succeed the sky / And because there is no limit to the question why

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Simply MusingMaybe i am the tainted dust that settles beneath / that infinite evening sky, and / Perhaps i am the winter ground that lay hard

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Untitledi see no ense in winning, as all success becomes regression, / owning ones life is to reach out and grasp and to catch only the wind. / strange, it is cars that bring faceless names and namless faces

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MotherMother, / You walked in / Years later, I understand

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