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poetry can resemble a jackson ******* method - but it can also resemble sitting on the stairs in the garden, just when winter starts to dig into it's cold at night (but still not cold enough) for a man drinking beer and smoking cigarettes to feel the skin etch out in itches from the mild freeze, and imagining himself holding the beer bottle with skeletal fingers... then the thoughts come... nothing is really planned by a narrator working out a fictional linear process, it's more like that soviet invention of a game of tetris, thoughts come, the ego disappears, thoughts arrange for a brief narrative, then disappear, new thoughts come, then a randomisation process takes over, until ex nihil complete dispersion, the faculty of thinking is exiled, and the faculty of memory takes over.*

after watching two grand movies in one day,
it felt really sour to return to the grand stasis of things,
the only constellations that are visible
without any ******* notion of light pollution
are scorpio and the big dipper...
the litter dipper is more dim this year,
so dim i mistook the earth's celestial geographic
route as spring summer the big dipper is
when in autumn winter the big dipper is
the small dipper... but seeing the two in the night
once i became aspirational in my error -
if only the prefix aspi- existed, derived from
aspen to the added continuance of the word
left: rational: rationality based upon unforced error?
but these two films: kingsman: the secret service
& the hobbit: the desolation of smaug
you get penetrated by so many active ingredients
for the narration via images, that when you
un-glue your eyes from plato's cave (actors
are the best conclusive interpretation of shadows,
no rabbits in the hand to be mistaken for the real things)
you get this drawback sensation of having to focus
on inanimate things in stasis -
and it can & does become pretty glum,
esp. if you want to return to the realm of using
phonetic symbols, to not speak in reserve for
an up-and-coming stage performance
but to see the glaring starry composition of hidden
things in the things already seen...
so there with the beer, scorpio elsewhere
the big dipper only thing providing me with
a workable dynamic: in schematic
          
       .         .
                    
                       .
                .

       .
            .

               .


i had to active this arrangement of stars
to negated feeding my exposure to
so many images...
i began by coupling the stars: three couplets
one star the odd one out...
then i started to create a dynamic
on the basis of geometry, a geometric
non-linear representation of infinity,
but the constellation into a circle,
and therefore thought of infinity as not
beginning                         sequence                    end,
after all, infinity as a constant interchange
of 10 distinctions 0 - 9 can be ridiculous,
whereby infinity just becomes a randomisation:
either 14123480345792340834 etc.
or 12300984393657499393030, etc.
so using geometry i need to acquire
a infinite parallelism, infinite parallelism
implied as non-convergence.... two points
small enough (atoms, sub-atomic particles,
stars) to interact in parallel, but never converge,
for if convergence was possible...
i wonder: me being conscious of being
the olympic gold swimmer to the ****?
i hardly think so.
i can perceive atoms via the greek imagination
or with the galileo of small-print via the microscope,
but i can't individuate an atom of some sort
to a specified functional guarantee: well yeah,
sulphur stinks... but i could technically
atomise the one unit in my capacity to a state
of an atom... my self... given the number of people
and all the chance interactions in an environment
big enough to all a minuteness of the atomised self...
which is perhaps the counter to that old chestnut
known as solipsism: how to get the right phonetically
chemical concoction to get an etymologically word
out of this? atomipsism? no philology in me just
yet to open the bible of philology (the dictionary)
or bother thesaurus rex for comparative literature.
but anyway, as things go i was musing this other thing,
the fame of achilles with the modern fame machinery...
back then you really had to push the right buttons,
and your actual fame was post-mortem, in order
that you might be glorified in some way...
modern fame seems like a bad orwellian joke...
it's translated into our modern themes of catchphrases
slogans and trademarks as c.c.t.v., a ****** camera
on your shoulder... it actually is a bad orwellian joke...
no double think i rephrased into:
there are more c.c.t.v. cameras in england than in
all of europe put together... so the double think
is as this:
a. should i be bothered, or
b. should i not be bothered?
i'll answer with my usual enigmatic methodology by
just changing the subject -
we left the realm of philosophic doubt and thinking,
we entered the realm of modern denial and thinking,
i dare say i prefer doubt to denial,
it makes all our apprehensions, petty fears and
all petty concerns a bit smaller - via the maxim:
the only fear to fear is fear itself... denial doesn't
provide what doubt provides, doubt is like
cushioned fear... if there's a fear to fear as simply itself
doubt puts a lid on it, a spontaneity,
a kantian noumenon by definition, fear-in-itself.
So the response to my confessions
are how losers spoke to me
ten years ago?
I admit a mistake
and the head cases
look up but talk down.
Suppose it is not worth it anymore
to say what we need?
Don't bother making me look bad.
It is my job to be naive.
So Im done with them all now and forever.
And this conversation
is over.
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Emily Jones
Could you love me now
With my inked skin, bad attitude and jaded smile
Would you finally hear my words no longer gentle, no longer weak
Do my words my words echo in your mind?
Did their sweetness finally sour?
Why else would you be looking back?
The ghost your looking for isnt here.
She died waiting
And whats left is well beyond forgiveness.
Her perfume smelled of cheap Musk,
      tobacco and passion flowers,
the scent of betrayal lingered
         long after she had retreated
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
kyla goodson
Words are only temporary comfort in this game of life
Inevitably disappointing people for centuries
So spare me of your indecisive nature
I've no need for vague interactions
no urgency to ponder the possibility of love
This soul is free of uncertainty
Free of vulnerability, obligation, pain
Time surely is the syringe of life
constantly injecting insight into my universe with grace
Creating tolerance and understanding
But never denying me of my independence
I wasn't manifested to run from my problems
Merely molded to coexist wildly wielding imperfection
leave this modest mare to her enclosed meadow
You stallion are much too wild and free to remain captive
I'll not be held responsible for taming your soul
If you wander coherently into my territory
I'll insist fate takes charge
But might I remain graciously instinctive
and resistant to faulty desires
I will not fear love, instability, my mind, or temporary comfort
Nor will I fall victim to temporary confort, my mind, instability, or love
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Skai
Untitled
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Skai
Your smell stained my pillow again.
Your snores rang in my ears.
My head was buried in your chest.

And I've never felt so at peace in my life.
It's been 3 months, and I don't have to wait any longer.
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Gaffer
Fate.
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Gaffer
I watch you across the crowded bar
Woman of beauty
Tantalising in every mans dream
I seek the words of wisdom
Then pause
Tomorrow I’ll walk away
Waste what should have been
A lifetime of hope and wonderment
To a life of freedom

I watch you across the crowded bar
Woman of beauty
You sense my pain
Like it was your own
In a way it is
Your beauty attracts
But they want to covet your entire being
They don’t see the strength within
They don’t see you

I watch you across the crowded bar
Woman of beauty
Fate sadly throws us together
Magnets for a time
Till that moment
When fear throws us apart
Destined to walk the passage of people
Clinging for only hope
In the abandonment of love.
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