rereading is sheer masochism; poems that are like quantum maps of complete disorientation, walking across horizons with a crazy Bermuda triangle compass constantly spinning, with no scientific entry point of potential of itemisation, a bit like π, and yes, re-wording or revising a poem in english you have to deal with conjunctions that turn out to be prepositions, and indeed pseudo-adjectives too; so many ******* modifiers of phraseology.

one of the reasons, i find,
why man encodes sounds,
is because of the images
he generates;
****, ******, war;
we encode sound to hush,
we encode sounds as a way
to trivialise if not simply obstruct
images, we find "peace"
encoding sounds, to limit the possibilities
of generating images,
we're not keen on generating images,
we encode, we encode sounds,
without the zenith (the sound of raindrops)
nor the nadir (the sound of rapes),
we try to encode sounds, but we never
really decode image recurrence
as necessarily being obstructed,
we say the same **** like our toiletry practice,
sure we encode sounds perfectly, elaborate spelling
and grammatical technique,
but when we paint we depict...
we can't encode to decode-an-obstruction in that medium,
we can't surd the **** thing from ever
repeating itself, we depict in order to
conceive a pendulum and a forward magnetism,
images don't seem to be artefacts of obstructive-decoding,
of sentencing to a taboo, more like passive-encoding...
easier the crucifix or an electric chair...
we can encode sounds, but we can't encode
images, since we exploit them
for an unnecessary repetition -
the regurgitation of life's something, and an awareness of it,
we can encode sounds with the 26 surds...
but then the medium of assembling contortions
of shapes in the medium of the rainbow
gives air to exfoliate - the oyster pores opening
up eagerly for experience, however painful...
try it... you can't encode red of a rose or the sunset
with oils of the required sediment / pixel...
encode it... *red...
we love to hush matters and brush them aside...
which is why painting by posthumous artists sell
for so much, we have civilisation but no tribalism...
no society as such...
we encoded the pains and pleasures,
but made experiences doubly opulent by a lack
of encoding the rainbow spectrum into either white or
black extremes... sleep or blankness...
indeed sounds are easily encoded,
but images and conventions of experiences aren't...
with encoded sounds there's no mirroring effect...
they remain, the everlasting imprint on the psyche...
i can convene with you over the sound of the periodic
A, as it supposedly instructs you in it being pronounced
via the allowance of being strapped into
the role of dentistry's guinea pig...
but where are we with green? is that short
of amber to instruct you in what? what?
imagining a meadow, or instructing you to talk
like a Hackney hipster after puffing dead a blunt?

it's language, of course i'll be desperately self-conscious and worried and ashamed like i had been caught with a thong, attempting being a transvestite; i'm a man, i ought to be on a building site! instead i have about a hundred chinese per head tailoring and making things tick... what is this ****?! what, everyone had a poetic potential in them? so poetry has become an excuse, the art of excuses? hey! eh! play the jockey part, i'll do the moaning from now on... be the cashier at a supermarket, i'll do the dying bit of the existential convention of the many trades being advertised to foetuses! well obviously when you make music free all art forms will follows; everyone forget Newtonian causality? good... which means you'll all be artists... in your spare time; i do truly wish i had the inhibitions of a labourer, a smithy, at least then i'd know my life was full; rather than being a scarce exhibitionist as guiding the normalised feeling of inertia, coupled with hopes via the digits of readership.*

i can't do anything more
to this poem:
a Hackney hipster (live editing);
i can feel the shame of not
owning a cupboard and putting
it in there, dyslexia what have you,
html typos etc.,
i guess i'm just worried
by the speed of your reading
misappropriating it to
a different meaning, and
undesirable activity via quote into influence
of expression that shocks people
and gives them straitjackets of hope.

I was born in the waves of music
so long ago now
when the music was faint.
barely audible almost silent.
I was a accident a beautiful one
but still an accident.
She was a concert pianist
he was a guitar player in a rock band.
they should have hated each other
but that's where I came in
they didn't.
her father was a control freak
all he could see was her career.
after my parents met
it was something at first sight.
They slept together
on a bench on a new York rooftop.
I guess you could say
that's where I came in.
Her father took her away
to her recital in California.
she did not even know his name.
but I found out later
she never married
nor did he.
When Mom found she was pregnant
her father said it must be adopted.
I became an it instead the baby
or my grandson or even the boy.
Mom had an accident
after the news she was
to put me up for adoption.
She ran into the street
and a bike courier hit her hard.
I was born
but her father
I still cannot call him gandfather.
forged her name on adoption papers.
when she woke up in hospital
he said the baby was lost.
that I did not make it.
I was put into the orphanage.
I never got adopted
I guess I was bit weird.
I listened to music everywhere
in the grass the street the wind.
and I knew somehow
She was out there.
I could feel it.
I became a musical prodigy at seven
I could write music without lessons.
I could play any instrument
you threw at me.
the nuns at the orphanage
sent me to juliard.
I was their youngest student at nine.
Then her father confessed
what he had done on his deathbed.
Mom searched and searched
until she released the adoption papers
with the forged signature.
she saw my photo for the first time.
she said that's him.
at juliard I wrote a symphony.
it was put forward to play
in central park for best new composers.
The moon played
its music loud that night
The park was full
and she was playing
the concert piano.
when my music played
it awakened in her heart
I could see her feeling it
she felt me.
She felt my music.
She felt her son.
The concert finished
they called me to the stage
to take a bow.
but she came to me
in her beautiful gown.
she was so pretty.
she held me in her arms
I felt for the first time
the softness of my mother.
her eye makeup
was running down
her beautiful face.
is it ..is it you she asked.
I kissed her cheek
and whispered yes mom.
thank you for the music.

I should cut out my tongue.
What's the use of these words if they fall on deaf ears?
But I know you still hear me
screaming through the darkness, " let me in"
I've become entangled in your ****** up fairy tale
Writhing and twisting just to get a little closer
But how did I get here?
I fell through your eyes like rabbit holes
And I ran so fast I lost myself
Searching for the parts that don't belong to me
That heart, that soul, but I had a look and I can't let go
I'm not scared... I'm in pain
But I'll try to be brave
I'll do the right thing
I'll walk away if you'll just let go
Just let me forget that I found you exposed
So willing to share the darkness
I vaguely remember the warning that you gave me
But you led me too deep and just left me there
I need you to find me and lead me back to sanity
Or stay with me so I'm not so alone