i don't mind the precision of such quests of investigation, i hardly think you constantly think to keep scientific facts afloat, for me thinking and scientific factual itemisation is like an iceberg, the former above water, the latter beneath the water... snorkelling beneath the water will not change your thinking as such, the upper part seen will still remain the same sized self that you are, readied for the new experience and the closing of all scientific books... you're hardly the ghost thought of libraries, you're the living body among cookbooks and bars; the iceberg's torso and other limbs will remain beneath water, encountered by medical students - if i were you i'd care for the titanic about to hit that head of yours bopping above the waterline, much smaller and smaller even still, while shrinking with all those theories concerning a single sound so italicised as the ego for grandeur of "theories", how about sesame street alphabetical arithmetic? if only the verse, an ***** of kindness in your head where knowledge of chemotherapy actually is in someone else - under the grand curtain of life's theatre... selfish ******* selling crap and islam; what? he came from the merchant class... what's he selling me? i didn't even buy a crucifix or an icon of a saint from the tourist shop in the ******* vatican!*

slavic eyes are reminiscent
of the mongol conquests
and reintegration via copulation
with the germans.

I've heard many a story,
About the creation of mankind
And the way life was in the beginning
But only one, stays in my mind

It has been said for thousands of years
That in the beginning, we were while
And one day, the great creator
Split us, and separrated our souls

This being the reason
We search until forever
To find our other half
So that we may be together

Every soul a puzzle
Only two pieces, they contain
Searching eternally for the other half
A souls distant memory remains

A longing deep within us all
For our souls eternal twin
The other piece of our puzzle
Our lover, best friend

Its been said that When
The two halves meet
The very universe stops moving
And the earth quakes, under feet

I was lucky enough to meet mine
One fine, summer day
His soul called out to me
And my heart was whisked away

But alas! He belongs to another
Inside, my soul cries
Though he denies this with his lips
I can see truth in his eyes

I may have to wait
On and on until forever
Perhaps in the next life
My puzzle piece soul, will be together

well, death isn't going anywhere, it's there, if you think talking about it is taboo, censoring it is normal, trying to rationalise death with thoughts of suicide is morbid, you're really on your way to a neo-stalin system of censorship... what if thinking about suicide is a coping mechanism of having to rationalise death per se, to rationalise mortality... who are these secular gods hiding behind curtains of theory?! who are they? what if thinking about suicide is thinking about death itself? where is this Stalin of capitalism?! where is he?! i need a word with him - because if i can't have the freedom of thought i have no extending freedoms to participate in life - a cog in a clogged up mechanism... but let's not get all hot and bothered and frantic... no, seriously, where's this shady Stalin who doesn't have a podium but a puppet theatre? i know, words like capitalism are grandiose, almost cryptically absurd, as is the word bureaucracy... too many people depend on it... but the french absurd philosophers were given the freedom to wonder about suicide as a way of consolidating mortality... we're not immortals... why aren't the english children given that freedom of such bewilderment, instead reduced to self-harm as a way to paradoxically alleviate the contemplation of mortality, with the thought of suicide as a coping mechanism of the ****** inescapable fact?! hide the cemeteries and i'll agree.*

a funny article in all honesty,
entitled: stressed, depressed,
lonely and anxious. is your teenager ok?
i remember when i was one,
yeah, i have a life,
a bottle of whiskey to finish,
see you 70cl under the sea
of what used to be the shoreline
or a table - you can never take a medium
too seriously, i mean, what painter
would take a blank white canvas seriously?
if he did, he wouldn't have painted on it,
but writing to get +1 thousand
hits of readership? what a weird mathematical
need of voyeurism, you see no **** no ***
no shower scene... you're just addicted to
numbers, and they're not even your savings
increasing for a place in a care home...
oh pooh pooh a tear... fragile souls of
passing on resentment... hey! i'm in the queue
why you barging in? i only have
a can of sardines and a bun to buy...
you have a full trolley of goods for
a family the size of Lichtenstein!
but i get it... europe's disneyland is switzerland,
all the death rides you can imagine,
esp. with an imperial russia banknote with
tsar nicholas ii on it, i'd get a pass on every ride!

Where have all the poets gone
Old friends to whom I've sung love's song
and new ones that I've not known long

We met somewhere east of space and west of time
Now their name's replaced with those dash lines
They've gone and took something of mine

the waves will crash down over the
message in the bottle I will sail out to
sea tomorrow
and the message will entail how I wonder
what mutual love feels like
and how often I play the scenes over in my head of the times I told people I loved them
and blue birds would sing and chase each other around my head and morph into butterflies into my stomach
while they would say they loved me back
and I would wait for the blue birds to move to their head
but I forgive them when you accept
that I may just be unlovable

And when someone finds the bottle
they may find me
for I will wait for someone to love me the way I know I deserve to.

my chest hurt with the feeling of spring,
and i wept melting ice.
and from beneath the surface
came glowing sunlight
that startled even the darkest parts of me.

Twirling in my fingers
Spins a pen so black
The ink inside
Tries to hide
The rainbow in its pack.

Charcoal placed on ivory
Etchings tumble out
These words born
Freely adorn
Colored garlands and shout:

Look beyond this mere form
Beyond the letters scrawled
Make it live
Art that gives
Birth to entities tall

Each mark harbours a prism
Words filled with endless shades
A window to
Look inside you
Painted canvas that prose laid.