It’s 4:50 pm and the clouds look angry,
They wanna fight, I know it
Not with me but my brain
They know something i dont

The loud cracks
Whipping in my head, my eyes wince shut

I KNOW OK I GET IT,
I GET IT NOW!
YOU WERE NEVER “THE ONE”

They’re screaming at me
Telling me how wrong I was
They’re not upset, no,
Just- ready to listen once again to my long stories of complaints,

And they wonder why I don’t do anything
Why don’t you do anything!?
Why, because you love him? Is that why!

Love is evol it says so it’s self,
Tears your heart apart
What does it mean?

If we knew what it meant there wouldn’t be questions and concerns,
Jealously, for gods sake!

Stop,
they are angry
Listen to them
There’s a reason they look the way they do
They know
You know
It’s time...

it was nothing more than
drinking a
   ⰔⰕⰀⰓⰑⰐⰓⰀⰏⰀⰐ
      beer and walking
the night without
             a suitable suit
or care for flesh...
  bone to cold:
            cold to bone...

god (casual inference
of making a sound
equivalent to stating
something: aghast)
these people are "gone"
yet they're still here...

no, i'm not thinking
about deus...

             two things on my
mind:
    making dumplings
tomorrow:
       fungus, pickled cabbage,
chicken meat and
chicken stomachs...

(well, three):
how constelations
look: almost pristine
during a cold night...

                    •
                 •
              • .
                             .
                            •
                            •

  ­                                             •
                •

while lost paparazzi
flashes of frost
cuddle the tips of
the grass' elongated
strips:

head tilt one way,
head tilt, another:
    at night in this cold:
i might as well
be walking the red carpet.
  
(well, four):  
                        imagine all
the amount of paper,
should books be wrriten
like this:

¶...........................................
.............­.................................
...............................­...............
..............................................
..­............................................
....................­..........................
......................................­........
¶...........................................
...........­...................................
.............................­.................
..............................................
­..............................................
..................­............................
....................................­..........

rather than, like this:

          ....................................
...........­...................................
.............................­.................
..............................................
­..............................................
..................­............................
....................................­..........
.......
          ....................................­
..............................................
.................­.............................
...................................­...........
..............................................
......­........................................
........................­......................
.......

countless pages!
  
(well, five):
  imagine the students of
architecture having
to rely on roman numerals
to think of
    wriggling out
something to appeal
to the pleb...
        
      countless men have
tried: but...

          a coliseum via
  IV + VII = XII

   and sure as ****
    a quantum physics
definition of reality
via 4 + 7 = 12:

"god" of the "gaps":
    4, 6, 8, 9, 0,
    A, B, Q, O, P, R,
    D...

ⰔⰕⰀⰓⰑⰐⰓⰀⰏⰀⰐ:
this writing?
about as much vitality
surrounding it as...
not since high school
have i heard someone
say: you should read
james joyce's ulysses..

(well, six):
god has nothing to do with
"it"...
   it being a precursor
of: what?

   i.e.
          religion as in what?
i can hardly kneel,
i can hardly play
the lunatic variant
of: before me i see a void
that eats, rather than
clarifies itself for the sake
of vanity...

      a cold beer, a cold night...
the existentialist fwench
philosophers:
   existence precursors
essence...
             as mind precursors
body...
  or rather:

  there's no god other than
in the gesticulated: aghast
expression of: a little
bit more than mere awe...

    i'm just...
bothered...
about no less a point
of god...
              other than:
faith has never recovered...
in that:
   man is less and less
someone who believes...
man, to satiate
the curiosity of time's
inexhausive narrative...

        what was once
faith: has become nothing
more than paranoia...

       for no god
there's only the suspicious
inclination of
a reality that's...
   in situ...

          man becoming
so self-conscious
that indeed:
   doing away with god,
he ought to do away
with: and lodge in
the zoological mingling
with the psychological
study of man as:
   "self" -
   this... etymological
curiosity:
           Babylon...
            selb...

because the modern Italian
is somehow,
unrelated to the ancient
Roman...

              the in situ
conundrum of man being,
able, to scuttle away with
the myriad of facts:
shared among the myriad
of people...
  
and to think...
people used to reason
with     ⰏⰀ as
the same as         MA...

i can't read the modern
variety of hieroglyphs
of the EMOJI...

         :) - sure,
i can read that... :(
       but anything beyond
that?
           well... it's not like
i was even given the opportunity
of finishing school
at 16 and entering
a ******* coal-mine either!

although no trinity
of Giza before me:
   all i seem to be clarified by
is the current
        endeavor of:
whatever is the collectivist
ambition of man...

           a pyramid of sighs...

. entertainers of
the lost abstract...

i don't know:
personally?

i just like,
the way it sounds..

akin to something
with chaos
inclined:

        and i was
the devil that danced
to the song
of the misfortune
of:
              seeing
the glitter in the moon,

and the moon
and i
were stunned:
why, why o why
am i left intact?

i've been given life
but no peace
to fathom it with...

ever consider
harrowing
a harvest's worth
of a season
by sowing
nothing but
salt...
   on the budding
eager grain?

the irrelevance
of a dylan...
compared
to a cohen:
via a...
                     cover...

to have lived is
to have died a thousand's
worth of the unrhythmic
beat...
in symphony
to the equation
summarized in
the rubric of
the word: heart...

heave my solitary
Atlas: one more day
worth with you
and worth of you
and all that becomes:
the lost "missing"
grey area of -

you can almost
finalize yourself at
the prospect of
a grey-square
    in the vein of
  Beckett not being:
either of those
  compound
                      skives...

i have a mind
and a heart like a lottery:
yet for all
that deserves this
and any other
comparison:
to tenderness
and no veal
                to a beef...

you do know,
that
they do not advertize
work in a slaughterhouse
in the job center?
you do know that?
i could certainly
pet a cat,
as i'd be able to
"pet" a cow before a:
chow mein;
enough to fiddle with
yer finite gobs in
what becomes a:

  you'll tire of
the anonymous tirade...

i once thought of
Saturday:
had nothing to do with
something akin
to sitting it out
on a claustrophilia
in a living room...

the day's baggage
and a non-to-send
bask for a postcard's worth
to appeal to the green
of: somehow...
             anise...

                   mediocre
mellow me...
                       punching-bag
ergonomics:

      to heave this weight
as the weight that
        lost the purpose
of being: orientating...

              i...

                   forget
whatever remains
of what's to come via
the collapse
of the affirmative
in a scuttling
  variation of:

             chasing
the shadow that gave
the chase a genesis,
a cul de sac exodus...
and the shadow:

mighty avant-garde
clues for:
a lost breath...

man as assured:
the pebble
           and humanity
as the:
   prior to all
minor stakes in
reviving
the gloat from dino.

the little history of man:
in the omnipresent
hyena's eye
          for the ever
resonant:
           calculated
demise of the narrator...

for the
   / a world to see:
is no world:
    in prospect to be
          - even midning
a completion
   with the composure
of a suffix...

rigid boy,
     educated for nothing
more than a brand
of shackles,
    and of envy...

and...

                a testimony
of what becomes:
best - assured -
           could ever time
lodge into itself:
                   an amnesia
and become
                   a person?

hues in blue:
    bound by:
thesaurus...
                azure...
  and... a Sunday's tip of:
what isn't
the collective mind
for the invigorating
mess of soul..
              
            a serious literary
endeavor...
   hues in blue:
brush strokes like
accents and...

            it's hardly an
algebra, or some mathematical
abstract...

                 f(Σ) = ι

consciousness: via the function
of the sum: man,
              sum: of man...
     "off" man...
                      
                          f(Σ) = ι...

which is a contradiction...
     sensationalist journalism
would agree:
the function of the sum of man
    = the isolated man: iota...
but it doesn't...

shackled buckling of
a man versed in
science:
having no profound
scratch at the humanities...

sooner come death
sooner i will arrive
at a clarification of:
not having to orientate
myself
with a "self"-worth
of introspect
in an en masse
      with no retrospect.

Isn't making sense over so little irrational ?
Then again, with the constant change of life is there such a thing as being completely, or even partly rational to begin with ?
Perhaps not, all what is thought of it are social standards which in themselves differ from each culture in each country in a small world,
Those unlikely to advance are left in darkness all by themselves,
Rotting within the terror of their mind, shunned by interaction,
With the simple wish to be considered normal, to feel the way most of their many encounters of human beings do every single day,
As a result, they may further distance themselves and define each other as an inhuman, resented by life, losing the last light of hope,
Such is a cycle of despair, a downward spiral of lost emotions,
What does it take to enjoy just one more day, one more moment,
Before quitting it all the same, leaving without trace,
After all a demon like me has no place
In this beautiful world.

~ Umi

you say you’re not a poet but
with a girl like that,
how could you speak
anything less than
the stars?
-a.c.b

Is this what writers do?
Lure their readers to a false sense of security?

You know that I'm in love with you.
So you, with insincerity, play my heart strings like poetry.