Dec 2017
i’ve learnt about enough online bullies to bully back
why do people immediately assume that pixel white = talk? where i'm sitting i'm curious: who's talking? must be scary to think pixel white as enough public to equate "speaking"... which it, never was... there's not speaking involved in writing onto this pixel white... if no one owns this space, no one gains from it, and if no one gains from it... then it's just another blank space; play your little hit-le-rs games elsewhere, i do gave the lessons and the gob to answer, but **** me... it's always so ******* predictable, i might as well be talking to someone fixated on watching EastEnders! big shark bite bad... sir just comes short of: are you sure who you're talking to?
if you've asked me to read your work, rather than provoke me... come on! asking is better than infuriating! i know that most people are infuriated at being asked, but not asking is doubly infuriating... i have ample time on my hands and hardly any excursions to bother myself with... Krista, don't read too much into the content without delving into the context, it's not a personal reprimand, or some viability into an answer of an allergy... i can retort to an immediacy of offence being taken, although an offence not being planned to encompass a narrative... so please, have something bothersome to plague me with, like caring to read your work, which i will gladly do, but please remember, the man on canvas is never going to satiate your attempts to reprimand the man due in conversation, sorry to disappoint; my offer is still vacant though.
internet drama**
it doesn't really bother me,
i'm about to embark on a internet-free hiatus
for a month,
perhaps it should,
but it somehow doesn't,
a CSRF hack on my account in place
cross-site request forgery hack is in place,
why should i not be surprised?
all i know is that being reasonable
these days, is to not have an reason at all,
you can be as reasonable as you care to be,
but madness has been normalised
and by the time we're finished,
the sane will entomb themselves in
the asylum, while the insane will run amok...
umbrellas upside down
shouting: we're collecting puddles!
we're collecting puddles!
for a straight month i will be clean shaven,
hair trimmed, spending time
with sane, civilised people,
within the confines of the drama
that unfolds between grandfather, grandmother,
uncle, father, mother, me...
and upon my return,
if the hack is still in place,
i won't suddenly break-down and
whimper, i'll add a second tier post-scriptum
addition to each, of the 3K+ poems,
and then i'll a third tier,
and then a fourth...
and perhaps even a fifth if i am
worth the bullshitting material,
and then i'll revisit the turkish barber
and get a second trim,
and then i'll watch the day advance
against the wintry night,
and then maybe, just maybe,
make me a snowman...
the only way this gob is going
to stay silent is if you cut the tongue out,
cut the hands and then gorge the eyes out
with a crow's beak attached to a short stick...
i am well aware of my errors,
although i am hardly aware of
the errors i perpetrated without being
allowed an explanation...
there's but one aspect of high school
that i abhorred...
the "need" for drama...
i hate drama...
as any man would say:
give me war! but don't give me drama...
war is every man's mother,
when compared to the drama of having
a wife.
why do people immediately assume that pixel white = talk? where i'm sitting i'm curious: who's talking? must be scary to think pixel white as enough public to equate "speaking"... which it, never was... there's not speaking involved in writing onto this pixel white... if no one owns this space, no one gains from it, and if no one gains from it... then it's just another blank space; play your little hit-le-rs games elsewhere, i do gave the lessons and the gob to answer, but **** me... it's always so ******* predictable, i might as well be talking to someone fixated on watching EastEnders! big shark bite bad... sir just comes short of: are you sure who you're talking to?
if you've asked me to read your work, rather than provoke me... come on! asking is better than infuriating! i know that most people are infuriated at being asked, but not asking is doubly infuriating... i have ample time on my hands and hardly any excursions to bother myself with... Krista, don't read too much into the content without delving into the context, it's not a personal reprimand, or some viability into an answer of an allergy... i can retort to an immediacy of offence being taken, although an offence not being planned to encompass a narrative... so please, have something bothersome to plague me with, like caring to read your work, which i will gladly do, but please remember, the man on canvas is never going to satiate your attempts to reprimand the man due in conversation, sorry to disappoint; my offer is still vacant though.
internet drama**
it doesn't really bother me,
i'm about to embark on a internet-free hiatus
for a month,
perhaps it should,
but it somehow doesn't,
a CSRF hack on my account in place
cross-site request forgery hack is in place,
why should i not be surprised?
all i know is that being reasonable
these days, is to not have an reason at all,
you can be as reasonable as you care to be,
but madness has been normalised
and by the time we're finished,
the sane will entomb themselves in
the asylum, while the insane will run amok...
umbrellas upside down
shouting: we're collecting puddles!
we're collecting puddles!
for a straight month i will be clean shaven,
hair trimmed, spending time
with sane, civilised people,
within the confines of the drama
that unfolds between grandfather, grandmother,
uncle, father, mother, me...
and upon my return,
if the hack is still in place,
i won't suddenly break-down and
whimper, i'll add a second tier post-scriptum
addition to each, of the 3K+ poems,
and then i'll a third tier,
and then a fourth...
and perhaps even a fifth if i am
worth the bullshitting material,
and then i'll revisit the turkish barber
and get a second trim,
and then i'll watch the day advance
against the wintry night,
and then maybe, just maybe,
make me a snowman...
the only way this gob is going
to stay silent is if you cut the tongue out,
cut the hands and then gorge the eyes out
with a crow's beak attached to a short stick...
i am well aware of my errors,
although i am hardly aware of
the errors i perpetrated without being
allowed an explanation...
there's but one aspect of high school
that i abhorred...
the "need" for drama...
i hate drama...
as any man would say:
give me war! but don't give me drama...
war is every man's mother,
when compared to the drama of having
a wife.
