yeah, read it, left a piece of toilet paper
as a bookmark
     before i gave it away to a charity shop...
atheism is so ******* boring -
primarily?
              it doesn't study the linguistic /
phonetic SMACK IN YOUR FACE
presence of the tetragrammaton -
ha shem's - presence in the english language...
you can't get more blatant than
that...
    plus i'm not a hamster on a hamster wheel
or a rat in a rat maze...
i don't like the idea of being trapped
in a cul de sac of a fellow primate's mind...
   or theory, or lack thereof -
             plus: i trust the prophetic madmen
when 1 in a million claims he's not faking it...
plus: unlike all monotheistic trends of
"fellow believers":
    i have nothing to do with a personal "god"...
impersonal? by all means...
   i once passed a homeless man at night,
looking up at the sky and giving a sly smile,
mesmerized by something: out of the ordinary...
Tamara? that one night stand i had
but couldn't get a hard-on... given that she
was so drunk, and wanted to do it under
the bedsheets, and lived with 3 homosexuals
(**** me, girl, i could do myself a better
hand-job... you forgot the hand brake maestro)...
but i admit... it was nice having a bath with her
the next day, and going to the Notting Hill
Carnival with her buggery-chums -
   but she had so much tact breaking up with me...
she walked me to the south London tube station,
and said that she was going to Ibiza
to look for some love...
             nice girl...
                         she looked up at the sky
  and asked me... what's that?
   no comet tail...
shiny, like a star,
  moving across the sky -
   a star, born, moving across the sky,
and then expiring out of existence -
                   this phenomenon keeps following me...
don't know why, don't care...
even my grandfather noted this...
but he has dementia: so he would be hardly
believed...
never mind that...
   god delusion?
     how about...
   the foot-soldiers of political movements?
      propaganda...
  is like a magic trick, albeit in slow motion...
it requires more time since it requires
to captivate more people...
    it's still a magic trick -
   a linguistic magic trick...
    the sort leaving you wondering:
how come so many people have become
brainwashed?
           hardly a quick-draw at noon
in some western movie...
                 and divine intervention?
   that part where prayer is a vanity project?
well...
      how else can we not have free will,
if it's a contradiction should any divine
intervention become enacted?
     a "god" can't exactly intervene and
at the same time promise free will...
   impossible...
             either there is liberty of the human
psyche -
              or there isn't...
Islam teaches us...
that angels were born without free will...
and that persistent argument for humans
is? we're not angels...
                well... unless you're Iblis -
                     the angel who surprised god
with a free will antagonism -
even he was necessary -
    but back to atheism -
                 so ******* boring -
          exhausting in its requirement to
make its argument a constant sophistry -
rather than a dialectic.

Words do not echo.
Words do not cry.
Words do not,
Identify.

Scrambled and stirred,
Frozen and baked.
Pulled when needed,
Eaten to be fed.

Pieced together,
Black or white,
Laugh or fight,
Wrong or right.

A sound is bound by key,
A picture by color pigments,
Emotions chemically,
But words contain,
Everything,
And absolutely,
Nothing.

The same word
Can be
Completely
Different,
Depending who, what, how
When it was read
Or written.

What if every word,
Was positive in meaning?
Harmless,
Could not
Destroy feelings.

Words have no senses.
Words have no bounds.
No touch, sight, taste, or smell.
Words have no sound.

Words have no sound.
Unless read aloud.

Creativity is like an ambrosia,
Which artists **** sweetly from the fingers of the muse.
A drop at a time is all we're given,
Because it is the most lethal of all drugs.

To be without it creates a void,
Somewhere--we're not sure exactly,
But we feel it.

There is a golden goblet within the mind of every creator,
And it sits waiting to be filled with creativity,
So we can once again pick up our brushes, our chisels,
Our pencils and pens,
And longingly wait for that sweet drop of ambrosia.

and i’d like for it to sound poetic.
poetic and sad
“the car smelled of
cigarette smoke
as we swerved
on an empty highway
waiting for the sun
to catch up”
nah.
neither of us smokes
and you didn’t swerve
and the highway wasn’t empty
and it was only
eleven p.m.
we weren’t running from the sun
i’d like to say
we were chasing it
but baby when
have we ever done something
so brave?
nah.
it would even be poetic
to admit that we’re cowards
but we aren’t those either
we’re just ****** people
you know?
that’s all we are
that’s all anyone is
driving on a highway at eleven p.m.
with other people
who are just people
and ****
if that isn’t the most poetic
and sad ****
that i’ve heard all day.
ha.
turns out the highway
was empty
after all.

My mother told me to never trust a sweet talker
so that’s what I became.
Cupid and his demons created their evil
through my father’s DNA.

I was built to design happiness
then exploit its flaws.
Never trust a sweet talker,
it’s in our blood to ravage all.

He sat in his chair with his back to the fire,
He deliberately sought to make the air chill,
His hand on the paper lover's pink with desire,
But his method of savagery not lust but the quill.
His starchy stiff collar was tightly ill-fitting,
His shoes chafed his ankles but he did not care,
His breathing was hot in the cool of the evening,
His fingers streaked ink through his long wavy hair.
He scowled at the pen and he frowned at the paper,
The writer accursed his impotent art,
He wrote with great ease those magnificent ballads,
But useless he felt at affairs of the heart.
He rose and he cast all the sheets of fine paper,
Into the fire and he winced at the heat,
He lit up his pipe, eyes smarting at the vapour,
And bitterly cursed this impossible feat.
For who but a fool smitten for a princess,
An admirer for now but soon to be queen,
When he just a poet and a poor one nonetheless,
And dandy Prince Albert just arrived on the scene.
He slouched at his desk and once more made a scribble,
Decided to write the biggest lie he could call,
For who but a fool would believe in such drivel,
“Better to have loved and lost than not loved at all.”