A solemn wasp invades personal space
It’s buzzing – annoyance in stereo.
Trapped, alone, impending death confronted
It’s passing – a just journey.

Bonds are formed, the wasp’s brothers and
Feelings of naïve permanence
Fill the air.
Lost.
Unjust.
Perhaps dearest wasp truly travels alone.

Why is it this pestering beast?
Itself not a compelling creation
Creates hate with an air of such ease
And when gone, vacuums ensue
To extreme, unexpected sadness

The next life will see done, on equal footings made.
The wasp will be a true friend with a
buzzing friend buzzing relative buzzing girlfriend
buzzing boyfriend buzzing son buzzing daughter
buzzing home buzzing you
Oh dearest buzzing life please release me too.

Inverted archways ascend
As urban reality – warped, broken,
Bends.
Trains travel and delay
As in entropy’s inevitable decay want is
Accepted.
Cigarette butts, jagged glass shards
- An urban holiday decoration.
Men will weep and I will slumber
As this wretched city walks over
- Laughing -
Oh! I will live in hunger

My futile need
To work hand in hand
Acts neglectfully
As the renaissance did too,
To the common man.

Hindrance met,
Frail streams deterred,
- as I -
Man amongst boys
Fall in, and am
Cured

There was an essential part of friendship circles,
Enslaved by their own minds, a broken collective menace.
No great outpour would come from their imagination as
I watched and waited with unbridled peaceful subtlety.
Who cares if people smoke, I don’t even enjoy it
I do it to die.
(Self-destructive wretch.)
One line
Lines
Make aesthetic pleasures exact themselves without purpose.
A masterpiece of modern verse constructed spontaneously:
Without regularity or rhyme, to calmed and cool tones.
I don’t need people; I don’t enjoy them
Nor do they let me die.
This is no suicide note
Simply an appreciation of mortality
I revel in the prospect of my own downfall.
(Masochistic, selfish wretch.)
In art’s putrid ***** comfort is found
Pop culture comparisons made to figures of excess.
I want to be of a certain kind
Loved, killed, then vilified.
The final wish of a tortured soul’s hand.
But also who wouldn’t like to ring my neck?
Not for futile revenge, the ‘emotion’ most dry,
Instead I’ll **** for cold, callous heroes.
No ‘human condition’ - more like the intellectual plague...
I wish.
And think, think, think, think, think, think through
A thorough thinking with illness entrenched
And those most sick who think with more than
Streaming language: the minds penicillin.

I find limbo a destination more desirable than this.
Coming to our strings end the circles’ once tense ties are broken,
Friends’ own minds are once again enclosed, broken -
The menace of others thoughts are felt
-- hard.
People spread their mindless lust with an air of freedom.
(So Ignorant.)
The arrogant are lost
And true freedom is found in strange words such as this
Spontaneous language is resumed
I am free to do as I wish.