At the 14th street station a hispanic man, medium height with a cowboy hat and a guitar slung around his shoulder walks onto the subway

passengers look on suspiciously...

as the doors shut he picks up his guitar in a well practiced fashion

the eyes of the train are weary...

he begins to play a classic sounding mariachiesque tune
spanish lyrics

A woman with green eye makeup and dark lip liner rolls her eyes and tilts her head back in exasperation

at the end of the short song a sigh of relief sounds through the car
he timed it perfectly to end as the train came to a stop

he takes off his hat and gives a short speech followed by "gracias amigos"
as he walks through the train with it upturned for donations

i regret not giving him money solely because of the expression on the green eye-linered woman's face

i walk out into grand central station and am stunned at the beuty of life

Beuaty is an interesting word for me because i cannot hear it with out thinking of the Jim Carrey line in Ace Ventura "B-E-A-Utiful"
this fact however does not save me from spelling this word wrong nearly every time i write it

Later Quietly drinking and crosshatching an old comic on a saturday
with a train gang of long islanders

miller lite is a heroes welcome
for a repugnant anarchist antichrist superstar
hidden beneath the semi-amiable skin tone, ****** orientation,
and likewise social status

the only thing left to do is commiserate
in the trappings of convenience and leisure
and the clash of Hadit and Nuit
thrumping thrashing in the sea

1000 troops to iraq again
and i don't mind to much
beyond the travesty is great comedy
for miller lite is a heroes welcome
to pennstation in late noon
and two corn dogs for breakfast

In the ancient shadows of illicit eons past
and only existing in the shadows of the now
I stare at the reflection of myself in the eyes of my sunglasses

Profound things screaming at insanity
These words have no meaning
My mind breaks
Unable to even move
In catatonic despair
And  then…
when my eyes are tired and my soul is a worn husk
Awake at three in the morning watching videos of steel drummers
On the tired ends of some desperate baffling nightmare
The same motifs recurring endlessly over and over
Recursively storming through the gallows and nether winds of some unmentionable quivering fury
And at the precise moment where all Is lost and all is at your finger tips
the words poured out like buckets of rainwater on the side walks of the throng trembling masses
a primeval cro-magnon scumbag alive and well with a post modern kick
a lone star cupid with nothing to win
the bop kebab pop cabala flanks me at every turn
and the Jesus lizard shrinks beneath the weight of crushing globalism
as the world sits back and laughs

Quack Quack Quack
I'm a duck I'm a duck
Quack Quack Quack. Quack! Quack!
I lost my girlfriend today I'm so sad
Quack Quack
I'm a duck
Quack Quack
Here is what I think about the world
Quack Quack ******* Quack
Quack Quack Depression Quack
Quack Quack Love Lust Quack
Quack Quack Philosphical Quack
Quack time Quack the mind Quack Life Quack meaning
Quack Quack waxing on and on Quack more meaningless description Quack metaphor Quack symbolism Quack analogy Quack Quack
Meter Quack rhythm Quack Sublime Quack
Quack where am I? Quack Quack How did i get to this point? Quack
Quack Quack Quack. Quaaack!! Quaaaaaacccckkk!
I have no ******* purpose! Quack!
Why? ******* QUAAAAACK!
Is this all I'm good for? QUaaack!
I'm a duck
Please hear me Quack

Love and hate are the same
Evolutionary expedience
Whichever gets your babies born

Why are we conscious?
Why life?
The universe
infinite flux
Epic Smashing parts together
Brains splattered by speeding bullets
Simple physics
Described in abstract numbers
Sublime
It’s so plain
So regular
How Life is extinguished without emotion
In an instant
Unseen and unremembered
Why did we even bother?
To become conscious at all
To perceive futilely the world
And despair in the flux
Anguish in the face
Of pure entropy
Absurdity is the only legitimate feeling
And yet there are so many more
Why? I want to know!
Why this fait?
Why could I not be a chair?
Simply sitting, never thinking the thoughts
My bane and my bone
My plagued thoughts
In pursuit of clarity
Like a sore that would go away
If you would
Just
Stop
Picking it

There was once a man who lived only on a moment-to-moment basis
That man was named I
And he brought the wind of a thousand starry butterflies
To the ears of ***** and things that never heard of such words
His life was broken down to be consumed by troglodytes of stone
And everything was left the way it was
Because in the brief glimpse of unattainable wonder and profound and intense clarity
He and all the others knew that it was but a fleeting glimpse
And that language and experience had permanently marred the white glimmering crystal of pure lucidity
Nothing was as it could be ever again and choices were made like computers programmed to make them
As a great cataclysmic storm of righteous godly entropy funneled itself
Through a sieve of perception
Granting all the trembling palmers the strength to carry the burden
Weighted in the sarcophagus of matter and form
Eudiamonia left forgotten on the slopes’ broken ladders to ecstasy
in union with god in harmony, onward christian soldiers
For all was contained within the realm of everything that was before
And even the forgotten was not forgotten by the whole
As the egg grew larger and smooth to the touch
The ******* son of Pan and Athena threatened forever to crack the brilliant shine of that crystal egg
And then something else happened in the middle that I forgot about until just now
Because I was left unfinished as the sculpture of flawed marble
On the workshop floor of Michelangelo
Words! yes language is the mind
A construction mathematical and taken for granted
The one great masterpiece bequeathed by Nature
Was the squishy erector set built in perfect logical syntax
Only to be rediscovered by its own unknowing creator
The Sublime is but profound confusion

Space astral longing depth, endless ****
Endless love, endless fear
Queer but not quite, right, and bitter blunt
The runt of the litter
And the ***** knows only words, roses
Something new sublime, lost in rhyme
And reason lost as well, spell it out
For the benefit of a clever Lout
Nonsense phrases, phases of will
Fancies of fait
Looking for the concrete
Watching a stuttering bumbling pathetic mumbling
man
With class in crass language
Selling fake props to aviators
And other things stolen from other obscure places
Erased by time and astral space long depth
And endless ****

The problem with me is that I have little patience for other people's ******* while I seem to think they should want to hear mine

I don’t know what to do
And I don’t know where to go
And I don’t know what I don’t know
That’s keeping me from home
The home that’s out there for me
the horizon of tomorrow
And words are fickle ****** things
For description of that pasture
As I’m lost and I’m silenced
In the beauty and the rapture

And if for just one moment
I could finally come to capture
The light that settled in the wind
The storm that won’t begin
The blazing saddled horse within
The path that is incumbent
I stand broken in my stature
I am under-slung resplendent

As the words come much slower now
And the feelings washed out grey
I couldn’t tell you who or how
Has come to write today

and the words begin to flow again like the river Styx
as I follow on an angry path to find a blessed fix
to sooth the shallow paltry soul that bore my sordid stay
as I ponder on the world and things with shadows in the way

I had to say something
My skin was starting to crawl again
And the backs of my eyelids were itching
Everything was deconstructed
And I saw infinity there
Well really I saw infinity everywhere
As if it were a forgone conclusion

They managed to make my heart pump In my ears
I had never known there were men on mars
Training in esotericisms like philosophy and Art
And did I mention I made a lot of this up
As some kind of joke on you
Because I’m far too Oh! So terribly concerned
That I will fail And Oh! How embarrassing
Reputation is the only currency we have
Now that privacy is gone
But there’s still money
And don’t we all just love her

This is my suicide note
To all my friends and loved ones
How can I explain my sorrow?
But in my heart I knew this was the only level of control I still had

The moment to moment
The day breaks softly over the heart of immediacy
And so it goes as I slipped into the past
I could not take it any longer

But I could take that feeling
The gentle push of sanity
Faith in choice and reason
If only I could take that still

So say goodbye to everything you knew before
Say goodbye to listless seas
of calamitous ennui
The devil set my course

And pardon my lack
Of ponderous ambition
And slight of hand
Because I was never a very good card player

So come clever little witticisms
That sum up life on a dime
Because they make it so much easier
Than knowing the ugliest truth

Of the eternal empty knowledge
Born through beyond doubt
Through painfully obvious vision
Religious in its scope

Oh and did I mention that I’m not dead yet
The ***** ridden down, shallow then steep
And petering out at the end
To a third act in a hospital room, Nostalgic and satisfied

So here it is
My note for the loved ones
The ones who could not save me from myself
From a fate decided long ago

So what is the new next thing?
isick ilich selum lee lay lum
syntax brizoke choke sizome
jabber wizock riverrun,
past Eve and Adam
Raisinets, Kay Jewelers, Round Up ‘s the way
Nirvana sun Gaga Ketchum drum Bellum

Numb undone-or-been done “that’s right son you tell’m”
“Ugh a rhymer?” “a diner.” “no stop it,” “crop top it.”
“No really I’m feeling like this meter is cheating”
“but I can’t stop,” “that didn’t rhyme” “oh yea”

So now what?
What is there?
Can I go any further?

Not not, come **** ****
September November taint
I, you, it—‘s all ****

******* mornings coughing up grey phlegm
Phloem and Iggy’s Stooges walk on the wild side to dirt
Playing in the background  
Smell of rubber
Bands and angry men singing
***** words and healthy birds outside the window chime in
Getting skinnier
Having bizarre twangy renditions played out in the mind
And laid flat on keyboards in bat-swarmed attics
fantastic dreams of large cocked sailors
Muggy Mondays sold with a half bored flourish of enthusiasm

There was a message there for a second
But then state farm came in like a good neighbor and broke my train of thought
And that was beautiful in its’ own right
Like paint mixing to brown
As words only confuse everything
And emotions are like real gods

I bring you to the ends of our own expressible thought
on the edge of a cliff that cannot be crossed
a cliff and an asymptote
that is never perceived

Real Gods are in the pudding,
in relations between lines
in laws given and unbending
objective, quantifiable, and beyond my description
they are in the unending study and toil of the labors of love
a thought

but not in religion
unless you think about it like that
which you are always free to do

because sometimes the only way to show the inexpressibility
of life, nature and all is
is in raptures of revelation

I am a ******* artist
I ******* my way through ******* conversations
And I ******* all of my ******* poetry
I ******* my daily life
Spewing ******* to people around
Who themselves are really full of ******* as well
I do this to hide the fact that I am really full of *******
You see it is a recursive cycle of *******
Me bullshitting them, them me, and everyone full of *******
And don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to feed you negative *******
I even believe my own *******
And their *******
I guess you could say it is some Buddhist *******
Or some ******* like that
But really we are all so full of ******* that it’s coming out our eyes
Even this poem right here is *******
I don’t even buy this *******
ah ******* is there any sifting through you?
any escape from *******?
It just seems like the more you try to sift through the *******
The more you get your hands covered in *******

So you see how I fall deeper and deeper into *******
It really is appropriate

I don’t even write.
I simply waste more time,
I feel like smoking ***,
sitting, enjoying this moment,
and watching the world burn bright and beautiful.
I don’t even want to write.
I am nihilistic in this sense, and also self-effacing, masochistic.
And nothing satisfies me, so I am like the Buddha, and relinquish my rights to the great systemic pattern.
Killing time and hoping for the apocalypse to move the broken record that skips and repeats.
Why waste more time writing the things that have been said?
Why express the inexpressible?
I wish to forget the meanings of all the words and pen bleak and esoteric paragraphs in universal grammar.
As I slowly begin to forget even what I was thinking of a minute ago, that thing that prompted this new but white opaque letter.
There is nothing more to say than that and why spend more precious moments contemplating the inevitable.
I have digressed to a state of vague generality so profound that all meaning is lost.
And I can only wipe the spit from my lips and experience the thinking slow and bored perception.
I am complicit in this great shadowy game.
The game that is me
and that is you
but also both of us together, as a whole
and my tacit approval of the state of things has lead me to a deep and darkened valley,
a slippery ***** of mud meant for clawing fingernails in desperation.
And I, like the rest of my generation have perfected the bacchanal and reverie of the leisure life.
Soaking up the romantic narratives of a primitive past to accept the fate of indecision, and construct meaning from the meaningless.
Picking up the pieces of a shattered ghostly mirror only to rearrange them in the likeness of a persistent and inherent logic, which can only be shown and never understood; my own computational meat sack ever deteriorating, or perhaps growing, to the ecstasy through entropy.
I have yet to find the great rut!
On the brink of a new n’other I am blinded by choice.
And I’ve yet to find my voice!
And proof of purchase is another thing entirely.
My misery is self-imposed,
and understood as only frivolous
trash beneath the hooves of trampling centipedes of mars
Because I looked into the stars
And I stared right at the sun
And felt the rapture in the wake
Of the wave I meant to break

An animal and a man rolled into one
With the desire of the id
And unabashed self-determination of a Sartrian dream
Or a Nietzschean *******
With viral hairy arms and mustache
And throbbing uncircumcised member
(any takers on the reference)
And with a Nihilism that would make even entropy blush
My ultimate goal and ultimate fear

The words of Urgnd Lichmae as spoken by the prophet

There is no authority but yourself and your mom
Do what thou wilt but be chilled that is the whole of the law
All of my life has been governed by the same principle
Knowledge is all
Reason is the route to knowledge
This is paradoxically countered by the striking realization
That knowledge is unattainable and reason is flawed
I consider myself the master of my reality
Ever knowing that I have No remote control
I am but a particle in the vast swirling mess
Conscious of itself
Ride! Ride! To Armageddon

And lo! He spoke in Tongues

The Young americans win the black parade blues dandy
With Crowley Tilling the endless Time Killing
Flash fried, deep dyed in coliform, and unwilling
And right then Powers said “do I make you randy”
A Flabbergasted basterd Worn Torn for the feeling
Clapper switch on ******* sent a poor boy reeling
Stealing all the ugly bits that still remained handy
Crippled light of the monitor howling **** Forlorn
Torn a sunder under Urgnd’s blundering sojourn

Yay! The beast did appear

Mike myers white Kirk Mask, light flicker
In the mirror stares the face of a devilish creature.
Blatant slander to the depths of existential life crimes
Alexander de Macedoni lost in the stammering story line
Sofie’s Crime was never letting go of her Petty moral fiber
And the First thing that comes to mind is that I’m pretty tired
But too slow was the English Tea drinking grey earl’s mudline
Mortal Corporeal punishment on the philosopher’s Stormy mind
Sold separately from the Cheap plastic **** measuring Gun Club
To The tangible alien televangel flannel laced voice Dub
Hurt, he Squirt the black fish of the drug addled killer kind

Copulation Commenced

“Hard and fast baby hard and fast” hands around my waist
On the darkened eye shadowed lids of emotional teenage angst
Embodied in all that pitiful splendor

Until Reason Beget

In game changing fashion
And delusions of Grandeur
I closed my computer for the fifth time only to reopen it in a flurry wide Side Longed imagination
To right the Wrong words for the Wrong generation
Write the rights of man, only quicker than you can
On the Holy Madonna’s, waist like a ****** Libation
This one Goes out to Baby jesus’ Great Clan

“Sometimes a man is just left with nothing to say for himself, there is no rhyme or reason to it. Sometimes the gears come loose as the train smashes into the building. Sometimes there is no hope”-Ernest Hemingway

Just keep writing
Mescalito swing
To the Margarittaville ring
Plaintiff Mingus chilling
Round Midnight fling
Or was it Miles Davis.
Stayed puffed with smors
Made with white chocolate.
No great war
No great flame no great pain no great gain
And for all its worth, for all your trouble a penny for your loss
Cost millions of Jews down the Dachau blues
Lifebuoy next clue,
For the literary jury
And a glance out the window yields the Spike of patriotic fury
Killing time Tod killing for Casey Jones locker
Playing the bag pipes off Key
Send a Post Card far away
For Diane sawyers interview
With bizzaro nbc
Done Smash Melee way
Because “I love it” and “I do too”
Even though it’s rough
No rules just right
Died sleeping in the night
Just like the lebouf
None of this is original

And then my words failed me and I slipped into a trance where I met a man holding a snake, a cobra. He held it up to me in a gesture begging my approval. I nodded and he took a pair of scissors and cut the head off the snake. Out of its body came ribbons of color and light. I cannot imagine that this has any significance.

Looking meticulously on a river scene of beautiful Wednesday afternoons with all of life’s luxury
Out the window is a tree bent and gnarled with visible age twice my own
The perfect metaphor of life merely eking by, postured against infinity
As another, warped by the waves and turned to termed drift wood, also catches my eye for its existential merit
As it’s all been said before perspective is our only peculiarity
At the point, or lack there of, between all and nothing
Our minds spontaneous self-revelation is miracle enough for any, god fearing be ******  
As over grown and lush as the under-leaves have become it seems like a waste to cut them out now so we might as well pump them full of fertilizers and hope for the second coming
Of knowledge and growth that began in the stone age bottle necking and splurged on drugs and money during the industrial revolution.
While trying to remember the ugliest parts that were and always will be me
Lets get free, really really free

Let us compare life to a large white goat
That will eat anything you put in front of it
Even a bent rusted tin can with some rain-watered down beans

Or a young man with long hair listening to zeppelin
Strangling himself in his room for pleasure
Or playing party games where nobody knows the rules

Where some make them up but others follow theirs
And in the end everyone goes home

Burning fire death curdling scream because I’m back from the dead *******. Anger is an energy that I cannot ignore.
When I am worn down to a nub it is the soul seed,
Which I can hold onto,
My psychic anchor in my hour of need.
The moment when you have broken through to the other side
And you explode in a thousand fiery shards.
The collapse is imminent.
There is no avoiding the finale.

I washed my hair today with three in one body wash, shampoo, and conditioner.

It has come time for someone to say the facts in blunt and bold terms.
A Cartesian scaling of reality
There are no facts

In a society founded on genocide and warped by decadence,
I find no solace in bitter resentment.

Thriving in ennui, when the real demons come about
I parse together bits of my consciousness in a frantic search of clarity.
No solace,
And I have become the neurotic eye of the mid mind watch dog.
Sailing into Armageddon for want of heroic end,
Plastered to the seat back with sweat.

The carefully constructed outer shell of my being disintegrated in front of me in a mesh of color and light, and they said there is no god.
Enter the Thing

In the desert ****** up the *** by a sordid English poet, religion finds all the seekers, otherwise its madness.
And without truth, Its just a ride, we
play the game, for it is the only thing that we
really have—As  I begin to calm down, two months later,
I realize the folly of my actions.—Actually, **** that nonsense, folly is a lie,
there only Is.

Is there evil in truth? truth in evil?
And is evil not subjective?
For the fathers made the call.
Doth thou do what thou hath
For truth, subjective as well, is an infinite path,
Gödel’s law.

I write with groomed fingernails on a keyboard of obsidian-blocked letters and cadmium laced circuitry.

At our core we are neither inherently evil nor good,
Intelligent or stupid,
Narcissistic, altruistic.
life is Never simple. ‘No secret ingredient’
And pity the swine who clumber over the word nor

If you think you have found the answer to anything, especially in real life, and especially if you can write that answer down in a sentence, you’re Dead Wrong.

So what is there? You think I don’t know where this is going?

Lines written with acid and syrup tapped deep
Is there logic in reason? You know, the what’chamacall
Aren’t we all
Dominated by utopian views
of manifest destiny; the End All be All.

And so what of the fall; the universe that cares not?
No matter how many mushrooms I take,
Reality Still Exists. Then, I almost forgot

And This Beacon of Hope,
Will it save us?
Will we win?
Is there a win?

Where is the end Dark lord of the nether?
Does begging this question get me closer to the truth?
Does it even get me closer to explaining what I mean?
The man selling purses on the corner, patent leather
I cry out to you! For a soul’s desperate answer

But **** that defeatist ******* also, this journey must come to its bitter bite.
And flight from the truth is cowardice divine.

“What reason is there to believe that humanity will not overcome the next world crisis? There is no reason to believe that it won’t. If the universe is infinite isn’t every point the center? Why else does reason even exist, why else do we see ourselves as the masters of the universe?”-Bill Hicks

Here is the closest I have come to any conclusions ever in this Painfully Obvious vision

The universe is chaos,
Our soul is order.

We draw the ductile copper wire through chaotic blackness.
This is our being, it is our tool, take that as you will.
A fiber of a thread on the ocean floor vs. the divine sepulcher

I have lived my life bucking everything that didn’t come from myself, but in vain
Because even these are chains.
I am my own slave master.

In the depths of true evil is the darkest knowledge
Is morality but a thin mask? Fear and Weakness
Is there any difference? Dawn on the killing fields
Dew on the earlobe of a dead man
Drips off and drowns an ant

Back on my so-called Conclusions.
I cannot say I still hold any of them
Even though I typed that sentence not thirty seconds ago.
That man who drew conclusion is now a stranger in the past.
There are no conclusions to draw.

Sometimes I wish I could **** without mercy, if only to know I am really free. Sometimes I wish for suffering, if only to give me some obvious direction. Sometimes I wish for death, if only to clear my skull of all these pesky thoughts.

On the train
A tunnel under New York,
The unseen interlocking teeth
The Filthy steel grating
Narrow shafts of brilliant day shown through
Illuminate the works of unknown artists
Cartoonish letters hastily scrawled and placed
Directly in the light
The only light
Of the tunnel of the New York train
There it passes, and another and another
Each precisely placed
In the thick blackness laced
With light
For your viewing pleasure

And So Spake Urgnd Lichmae The Prophet of anarchic Tremor, Schlock and Paradox. Of the author nothing is known or will be known.

All the pain of all the souls mashing away in a great battle of long lances and fire
In perpetual anguish at the realization of our own ignorance
Everyone finds it easier to turn the guns around
And in doing so turn them on themselves
And this is what we call progress

For men that sit in rooms clacking away on ponderous theory
Find no voice in the world at large
And only in the exorcism of demons can we be rid of them
So may it all hangout
The most acidic bile laden stomach dream
Of pungent hate
Spurs the horse ever forward
Until the great lamp burns at its brightest
And the inferno of infinite souls fully realized
In the capacity of will
Only strengthen it
And bring about the most golden of ages
with the realization of the great project
Of the true moral will

And in that very theoretical moment of revelation,
Finally in union with that beautiful Conceptualization
Of the world without flaws
Will we find peace?
or will we stifle all our lust?
Does the river come spill to the Ocean?
Or Dry Homogenous Dust?

Is the problem in the difference?
Or the lack of its acceptance?
Will a captain-less ship reach the shore
with all its crew?
Or is a flawed diamond the best that we can do?
Will the Will remain when the moral flags unfurl?
Or is there some third thing that keeps the best of both worlds?

Lying on my chest the heart beat of a hummingbird
Love and Passion Incarnate
A Seraphim with ***** Wings
The Open Box of Pandora
and all that one and a million talk
High frequency modulation betwixt
the souring doves of ecstasy
and the rain No! halberd hail!
Knifing the streets and back alleys of Brooklyn
on the subways again I recognize the worst of myself
in the lush of my Yin

Words and words and lethargy
Languor and ennui
Writing to pretend to write
Pretending to pretend to be the master
But pretending to be is how we be
And in me being me I am always free
To pretend to be
So you see the sea of ennui
That was me
Or is me
Is only me pretending to be
Ennui
From fear you see
Of finding me
In the depth and sea
of to Be

I walked or sauntered or dashed or stumbled, no...
staggered! or swaggered, or was it stepped, no...
I jogged or, bolted, no stomped or slid no...
hopped! or was it skipped no hop skipped and jumped...
or sauntered! no i said that one, it was swaggered! no....
I stampeded or dogged or shlepped no bounced or was it...
I stamped or ed or rolled? no strolled! haha yes Strolled! no...
I stalked that was it or was it followed no no it was sojourned
sojourned! sojourn? no it was galumphed or marched, no charged...
aha sauntered! no! ******! it was ambled or slogged, trounced? or tromped, no rambled, yes I rambled on! no no thats not right, I plodded, trod no tread! no strided, thats not even a word, sloped, no...
govereetted, or persnicketied, or skreed, or preened, no no no none of that is right....
I sauntered! no no, swaggered! no was it promenade? prowl. no patrolled, parolled, no no thats way off...
I trekked, trudged, no fudged, no dogged! like george! he dogged it all the time, no I said that one, slogged or sashayed no trooped, no perambulated, or moseyed? or hoofed it? no it was definitely sauntered, no no it wasn't sauntered it was a dawdle, no lurched, or hawked, no stopped,
no no it was definitely movement, thats it! it was a movement! no no no that can't be right I paced, yes i paced back and forth and thought about life for a awhile....

no no that wasn't it either it was really more of a strut, or a saunter, yes saunter! no swaggered! no no
**** you words....

I wandered or was it roamed, no limped, gimped! no...

minced.... or no yes! minced... wait.... no it was a hike, yes I hiked up a mountain with  friend of mine, or was it climbed, no no thats not right...
I slandered, no.... pandered! no... I meandered, haha actually no i think  it was a peruse, or no a beat! no.... I cut a rug! or actually i think it was more of a stumble no....

ah yes it was walked, I walked about sixty blocks today

When watching a zombie movie, did you ever think we are the zombies?
Did you ever think we are the shambling dead?
The listless mourning, past its prime
The rotten apple, left to rot
Everything gets better and we feel worse
Our project, nigh finished, and here we sit
Only complaining, and waiting
I think and I spit
On the ground
(I heard that’s illegal in Singapore)
As I am just another falling leaf
In the autumn of an empire
I sit with the TV on mute
Hoping for some lateral inspiration
From kitsch
I am born of kitsch, of product placement, and buyer’s remorse
And I have no shame for it
I am another product
Built by a combination of complacency and incompetence
Incompetence in one place and competence in another
And I sold the world
And it made me a nice profit
But then there was nothing else to say
And nature reared her mighty head
Hubris led you years ago, and now does shame
An experiment that drew no conclusions
And only drew on time just a bit longer, pulling film across the projector
And inventing for just that brief moment
All that we held dear

AHH sometimes I love how I can be soo
absolutely
repugnant

And lo! The soul worn thin
And so the story begins

The words feel swallowed
Hollowed by their meaning
And with force followed
By desperate screaming

For purpose and strength
To face the wild future
Planned for at length
And dashed in good measure

Errrreeeeeeeumumunumb
Nerevum nerum numb

Blazed into tomorrow
Carrying things to yesterday
And accidentally making a point
About the illusion of time
and the inevitable conflation of meaning in words

There are things that words cannot describe
And emotions cannot grasp
Things that are unbearably simple
With depth and meaning vast

Things that the poetic form cannot possibly imagine
Things so sublime
That men fall silent and bow their heads
And angels sing in the hearts of noble song bearing birds
Where unintelligible jibberish is the only thing that you feel
And the words flow freely, feeling as if without will
Or manner or flow or ugly grumbling pensive cynicism
Where more words are ripped out of the dictionary for affect
And boring recursive narration is the only option left

As the mind jumps from topic to topic
In an unending string of free associations
Listening to a man with white hair and beard
A young writer blathers impetuously
Longing only for sublime novelty
And castrate words of biting wit
And pure and simple truth
And lyrics of pure aesthetic
And also fame and fortune
**** it all, he wants it all

Cling! Cling!
Bling Bling!
Tick Tock! Tick Tock!
Another gimmick poem from the prophet of schlock
Today I even spelt my own name wrong

Sitting under a scaffold on the mean streets
Comes the Smell of ****

Abbud sits and picks his nose behind his mustache on the first UAE space flight, The year is 2020. Cold fear creeps up his spine as he notices Sahib staring at him just as he puts another crusty snot into his mouth. Neither man says a thing but the silent judgment is made. Abbud ponders quietly, questioning himself but also the bizarre stigma as he looks through a porthole at the pacific ocean below.

Tell someone you love them today because it feels good
But you know what else feels almost as good
Hate

Gruber Classitanius peers down the path of the monkeys, the bodies lay strewn about penetrated in every orifice by the dreaded ****** spider monkeys. He remembers what the profit sphinx told him and focuses on his Iphone Shazam application, just as instructed he clears his thoughts of all else but the Shazam logo for this is the only way to avoid **** death. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the supple upper thigh of one of the **** monkeys unknowing victims and it brings him back to a night before where he lay with a women he had never met but upon falling on the bed beside her knew that he must be in love, his spine tingles with a shiver of emotion, but the pleasure soon turns to fear and he jerks his thoughts back to the Shazam icon just as the first spider monkey ***** penetrates his left eye socket skull ******* him to death like all the others.

Galumphing along the road stands the son of the jabberwocky slayer
In Psychedelic dreams of Gods speaking without words
On the brink of the next moment I forgot what I was saying
And just decided to write whatever I wanted
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasdfghjkl

A book falls off a desk in a room where nobody is there to see or hear it, it doesn’t so much fall as the atoms of the book and the desk spontaneously align and it falls through the table and out of existence entirely.

Aahhh the crushing ends of postmodernism
the impermeable coffee filter
selling jacked post existentialism
with innocuous novel filler
on the doorstep of Burroughs
or Joyce and Sartre
eyebrows furrowed
and chin resting in hand
looking for lost art
and coming up with grains of sand
in the boring blasts of a mind trapped in plaster cast
with solecism to guide the trembling hand
and wrinkled ****  vulgarity
language is the dullest knife
I have ever cut myself with

Kettle drum *** *** *** *** *** ***
There is the moment of the sun breaking over the edge of the moon
In that Stanley Kubrick’s movie what was it called?
In 2001 the towers fell and we still don’t have a colony on the moon
It turns out the monkey’s bashing each other’s brains in with bones was as far as we got
The bones got bigger
But didn’t transform into “the greatest cut in the history of film”
But who cares right? I got my iPhone
And make sure you capitalize that P
Because if you don’t you’ll get a red underline
Because even Microsoft knows that apple is a big deal
So lets have a little fun while the reigns loose in our fingers
“look mom no hands”
But I really don’t want to get all like that
I want to watch the candle burn down to the wick
And light a joint using the last bit of flame
Or heat a spoon whichever is your fancy
The beauty is in our solecisms
The comedy in the autocorrect
Corrected by our own machines recursively
We are in a never-ending project
Of retrofitting meanings to decisions made at whim
Out of necessity
Because the decision must be made
And explained afterwards
God I must sound preachy
I try not to be
Because it’s easier not to care
But harder in practice

Listening to Beethoven’s moonlight sonata with the Fresh Prince of Bel Air on mute in the background
I looked up how to spell “Bel Air” in the All Knowing hive mind
I thought it was one word
It’s been some time since I’ve even seen the word written out
Is the point of language to convey meaning?
Does the absence of a question mark throw off the reader
Lack of grammar or punctuation
I don’t know
Wat abowt propr spelliyn
Kan I get bi on fonetiks
Or am I missing the point
Is real innovation in the structure?
Or in the emotion?
Or is it in capturing some unmentionable truth?
Some undeniable reason in faith
Ever expanding the wealth of experience
For the collective subconscious
Now I’m going and assuming a lot
When I know that there is no truth
If there is one thing I’ve learned its that buffalo society is in a sorry state
Because as we all know
buffalo buffalo buffalo baffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo