first learn to be a loner, then continually learn this isolation, by simply writing, or say it like you really mean it: i've got a cough and i need to hush it with something cold, a sharpshooter (balance in favour of whiskey rather than the mixer) will do, to freeze the agitated region of the throat.*

the digital imprint changes things, the old guard
of the printing press and the loss of forests
are watching and guarding the
outlet outposts in deliberation,
the high street has shrunk
to shoe shops, clothing shops
and mobile phone stores...
and those ****** book stores
that only sell autobiographies
of famous people, encyclopaedias,
atlases and tabloids of other artefacts
of nonsense... perhaps a charity shop
once in a while, banks aplenty
and fast food outlets... a generic
cloning device known as a starbucks
of those immersed intellectuals and
"serious" writers looking for a busyness gimmick...
the high street's diversity has turned
into a suburban street... rows and rows
of identical houses... all because
people decided with the slogan: ART IS FREE...
a bit like that problem with poetry...
they want it to be neat... they want geometric
neatness rather than the oddity of juxtaposed
colour... like a history book, e.g.:
There was once a town in the vicinity of Paris, where a farmer lived with his wife and they had twenty chickens. One day, one of the chickens laid a dinosaur egg and the farmer and his wife were eaten, which was a noumenon (a phenomenon of 1, a non-viral kind of phenomenon), because the area was plagued by a cannibalistic epidemic, which, to the authorities, was a disappearing necrophilia, the dinosaur egg that hatched and became a dinosaur that ate things just spiced things up... hence it didn't trend and became a myth, which is why most people treat myths as *******, because they're too plain mundane suited & booted and therefore excluded from myth-making that's reserved for a few (ezra pound's lamentation is adequate here: fountain of beauty, yet so few... so few drink from it).
you know, bogus ****, clear form, clear punctuation,
vampires, virgins and re-interpretations of Tolstoy...
nothing unusual... but it ****** me off
that when they allow free reign in painting,
poetry has to be neat, courteous, well-understood
in order to be recited from memory (the first
thing that puts people off poetry is the need to
recite it as the educational system says, hence
the technique of rhyming being crucial as a
numbing cognitive stimulant of memory usage
where you're told to forget personal memories,
priceless memories, just to remember, one,
stupid, poem... how about you recite me
the ******* recipe for spaghetti bolognese?
huh? oh right... you can't! here's a happy meal
or a ready meal... *******!
looking for inspiration?
the lost art of listening to an entire album
by one artist: vomito ***** - fall of an empire.

There's a chaos about him and his beautiful soul. The type that makes the world slow down but makes your head spin out of control when you're with him.
He notices the smallest things I do, like how I go onto my tippy toes and then kiss him on the back of his neck.
How, when I'm driving, I always look at him and smile.
But somehow he's also entranced by his own little world. The way he feels the music as it plays around him and the way he sees the world are all unique to him and it's wonderful.
His dance moves, amuse me, but they show his complete involvement in the music and I can see when he loses himself in the rhythm.
He loves taking pictures but always does the same three poses to show his side and angle he thinks is his best. When in fact they're all his best because he's truly lovely, not only to look at, but also to experience.
Together we can be innocent and naïve yet guilty and experienced at the same time in our actions, words and thoughts.
But when he's not with me and I miss him, I spin around in circles to replicate the feeling of being around him.
I never realized how much I relied on physical contact to feel comfortable in life and without it I constantly feel physically ill.
When the only part of him I have near me are pictures of our past memories, I still get butterflies thinking about him.
His chaos is my happiness.

- F.T.

There was rage in her eyes, unfiltered fury and contempt. Violence was the tool of her salvation. I can forgive to a certain degree but I will never forget. Her face distorted with rage. Bottom lip curled under the top. Forehead wrinkled prematurely. No reason penetrating that thick shell. Shell of what I cannot say. Yet her eyes burnt with hell to pay.
Sometimes, when I am alone and the stillness of nights overcomes me I try to understand. I try to reason her rage out; hoping that by understanding hers I can prevent my own. Was it impotence in an aggressive world? Was it struggling to no avail, barely being able to feed and shelter us? Was it mental illness or ignorance? More than anything the fear of becoming that is what drove my desire to be better.
Very rarely I see an inkling of the thing. Some darkness hiding just out of the corner of my eyes. Some monster waiting to swallow me whole. Other times I can see the same horror in others.
The stars blur and bleed white light for me. A billion years of time passed and still I feel as though they burned for me. Twinkling lights needling their way into my brain. Then I ***** specks of perceptions and philosophy about the stars and how they relate to my existence. Their transient nature, nurtures my broken heart. That is how I turn pain into beauty.
They say Van Goh suffered greatly, but channeled his pain into beautiful works of art. Such agony surrendered to the canvass. No peace for him and little for me as well. This human hell is my sick shell of an existence. I have no canvass. I have no brushes nor paint to mask my wounds.
I do have love. Not as a matter of tangible fact, but as an abstract. I love the world, as I keep it safely at a distance. I love life, mine and all that progresses from single cell to the bipedal. Above all else I love words. This flesh and mind is a cage designed by evolution with no purpose in mind. Time is a linear progression that plagues me with uncertainty. There is no stillness or permanence. Only me walking backwards while I move forward, a contradictory *****. Pain is a plague of memories, things past never to be changed.  Agony and apathy dull the better heart of me.
So how do I turn the tragedy in to beauty? Last night I saw deer sitting on either side of the road. Perhaps they were siblings nervously awaiting the other. Eyes a radiant yellow, reflecting my oncoming headlight. I slowed to avoid startling them. The one on the right tried to conceal itself in the darkness of the ditch. The few on the left just sat and waited for it.
Then just as I passed the deer I saw a small possum casually crossing the road. I stayed my course but slowed. I watched his sly eyes turn towards me warily, then he finished his journey, safe and sound.
There was peace in those moments. The beauty and wonder of love and curiosity. I could almost sense the child in me glowing and grinning. The next six hours were rank with the loneliness of human existence. I could not drag contentment from it’s ***** corner.
Now the midnight sky gives way to a new day’s sky. Layers and shades of dark blue, prune purple, white, light blue, and back to dark blue paint the sky beautifully. I play some instrumental music to sooth me. But burning in my stomach is that same ache, the one that I can’t shake. I try to sustain the illusion to create something beautifully human and transcendent.
I wonder is this a lie or a worthy distraction.
I have watched the lines in time. A permanent progression pushing towards blackness. Each phase a shedding of something old, to be replaced by a younger older self. Forgetting to remember, remembering to forget. Shades and tense becoming jumbled in a trillion phases and transitions. Is this the vein that I mine gold from? Is this how I turn pain into beauty?

Hello baby,
I'm not sure what to say.
I've been waiting a long, long time just to see you here today

I think you know me.
Remember hearing me?
Telling you how beautiful I know you'll turn out to be

You open your eyes, and smile

Hello daddy, i hope you're proud of me.
I know I don't really have that much to say.
There won't be a lot that I'm able to tell you for awhile
So i hope that you see this in my smile.

                                                         ­                  " Hello, daddy"

You won't catch me – while running through the rye
I've got nothing to lose - only everything to gain

Maybe I'll end up in miles of traffic waiting for the lights to turn
Like a yellow ladybird, waiting for the red light so to leave
The daily grunt and anxiety of simply going from A to B
My stomach churning at the thought of such a terrific possibility

Alternatively, away from the city, there's the sea.
I do always hold I was a French sailor in a past live.
Even though I've never been to the Côte d'Azur
I'm sure I could find a second home there

But I’ve never doubted the fact I do like my hometown
Could I really sway away from Bray?
I’ve never been down when walking along stony beach
Or over the Dargle at night, swans floating about without care

Learning is synonymous with Leaving
If I am to strive in this life maybe I need a push
To drive myself from my comforts
And feel that rush upon discovery one’s worth
In living than mere surviving.

Although I must admit, this poem is full of ****
These ramblings of single stream of thought
Not dreams per say as I am aware that
They do tear at the seam and unravel quite brilliantly.

No, this is not my dreams and hopes
Or some sad reality check
About how tempting the rope can be
Or what can be done before one is dead

No, these words are quite frankly, just words
They represent my world at this present time
What one can find on my mind
Nothing more, nothing less

There is danger that tomorrow
It could all change
Stranger still, it could all remain the same.

Still with all this said ---

You won't catch me - while running through the rye
I've got nothing to lose - only everything to gain