am i being an *******, am i, maybe?!
                     before the real polemics begins...
i have to deal with these little
shitlords in the comments...
                    plague: the sefiroth lifted to the heavens,
castrated and told to sing: give me
my idle hands for the devil to do much more
than this...

based upon a reflex:
   concerning

thank "god" / "luck" my alter-ego
Conrad von Heiligkreuz is not getting a welcome
reception elsewhere...

my-poetic-side...
            only a 2nd poem in and i'm "told"
to shut up...
         happy to conclude a revived jazz binge...

i once had a friendship...
which lasted to the point of hearing:
it's word salad... sorry, what?
i do know the lexicon of psychiatry...
perhaps your sister is a genetic oddity...
but i'm hardly the "spezial needs"
culprit... the royal family are paid for by
taxpayers' money...
they are grifters of pomp and circumstance...

not that i'm waiting for ol' lizzie to die...
but if i had suicidal tendencies...
i'd wait this one out...
a pope dies... a knee bother...
but the queen of england?
the lineage running from edward
the confessor?! ****! i'll have to be around
for that one... when ol' charlie
gets his face into print
on that new spastic fantastic grit of
plastic... paupers' paper...
hardly a square mile of a proper... wipe...
one's ****...

         i'm waiting for lizzie to drop
at the gallows...
i had to call her: purple comic sans girls...

rereading... on the offensive...
i am an *******...

purple comic sans girl:
do you feel better having got that lot off your mind. So therapeutic this posting on MPS business isn't it? I imagine you found yourself bored out of your mind before writing that tirade and i hope its been of benefit for you.

Conrad von Heiligkreuz:
blah blah blah blah blah... and some words in between... then again more blah blah blah... wait... is this one of those "safe spaces" i've heard of? you're not going to leave me with a benefit of the doubt, are you? well then... run along... run along... stick to rhymes and rumi, or whatever crap you're into.

he also posted a comment on one of purple comic sans girl's poems:
yep... thanks purple COMIC SANS girl... your comment was more engaging than this poem... sowwy... now get your sycophantic hyenas to focus on me and get me banned... too bad you can't see any constructive criticism... i was going to ask: iz u zee torbewahrerin - some twitter-esque blue checkmark cerberus for this website?! will you be the one to go that one step further and tell me: no lightbulbs for you: no internet access... wipe your *** with your hand and write by candlelight? thanks for the emotions though... i was right in being slow today... low blood pressure... thanks for the emotions... now i can knit them into a bundle, a stone... and throw it into a sea of rhythm. again: i'll just ask your sycophantic hyenas to come knocking... god forbid this site is to be one of those urban myths of "safe spaces": thinking hurts: aaagh! i quiet like the blog section of this site, though... it would be a great shame not to catch up on poetic news... yup.... "friends" / fwends... walking on egg-shells... looks like an echo-chamber to me... this sort of "love" / ******* you see for miles and miles... doesn't anyone these days tire of news as propaganda... and such only ++++ comments? i'm thinking of washing my hands like some o.c.d. golem... and brushing my teeth... see you later purple comic sans girl; thanks for the adrenaline shot.

definitely the pronouns...
that's it... this is not definitely the *******?
first impressions... the churn of emotions...
well there was... nothing exactly... "offensive"...
but i'm that beyond redemption e.g. of
no e.g. to begin with:

         alter-ego alternatively: who's who in third
person - there's always someone missing...
my alter-ego has to write an apology
for her... the aura of hostility is being multiplied...
forever dealing with a genesis story...
to have seen a mountain and the sea...
but this crown... this new-found-tooth:
yet to be a jaw...

i'll make an apology... i'll post her this link...
do i feel better:
what's there to feel better about?
even if i think i'm hardly the optimist desired
to only mind weather forecast prophecies...
over a pint-hour-long-conversation...

this is a reflection... but the reflex is already
a faux pas:
bull sees red... some porcelain gets
shattered on the hoof and snort of wet air...
there's a heart: but there's no glory of it
to be made into splinters of breadcrumbs
when extracted from a tabernackle...

      miasma... miasma...
          and metaphors of miasma...
                    otherwise: this congested traffic air
of plugged horn sections of an orchestra...
                the past or the part where i say:
someone was misunderstood...
someone clearly jumped to conclusions
too early...

       i was going to do something human today...
instead i opted for toying
with a robot that made pizza...
and over-seasoned the pizza sauce with
too much oregano...
           faulty "a.i."... back on the new found
glory wheel of replicas...

cheers! here's a hope to...
when two reflexes meet... spawning two reflections...

the only tragedy of what comes from
borrowed time - or the past -
however irrational the previous "few" were...
they still allowed us to carry through:
the W of a wHEN...
              they allowed us to carry a
H of hOW... and...
                                 there is not rhyme to bargain with...
the cess-pool of feverish breathing...
the insult of exaggeration from the propaganda
news... it's not even fake, as such...
it's just... cold cod and ambers...

                        if they were to be dying with
mushroom-esque sprouts of out-growth from
their foreheads... i'd be deemed the most interested
undertaker...
an apology is necessary... but i only spotted it
having written this "repudiation"...

perhaps that's what her comment was all about...
the hope for a beating heart...
this prospect of feeling...
i can't remember the last time...
anything of thought was worth
a cradle of genius...
or that anything felt was more than
a reflex... hell wouldn't want me to reflect on
certain matters...
hence the faux pas immediacy...

                    i was able to read: but at the same
time i was blinded by a rage that...
allowed me to feed a larynx replaced with
an impossibility of a heart...
and with the heart replaced with a larynx...
⠊       ⠎ ⠏ ⠕ ⠅⠑
                                        ⠃⠇⠊ ⠝ ⠙
no colons or dot dot dot included...
here's to me singing a karaoke in england
with the song: madonna's oh father...

           blind fool blind bid to pray...
if only... those forwarded gesticulations
of phatom were to be a gratification of relief
i were to be seeking...
handshakes with shadows and the dead...
eclipses of multiple suns
and a suitcase of words that cannot cross
borders beside the familiar pain of some later
posthumous translations...

what modern scientific discovery?
the ancients gave me the sound and its subsequent
meaning in how i connect it to
another sound and a subsequent meaning
and craft this umbilical chord...
this tapeworm this foetus of myself of
a future bound to a past...
wrinkles on a page...
a spilled picasso of coffee in some
variant of Rorschach...

                               most of the time i don't want
to be forgiven... to be forgiven is to be immediately
asking for an apology: a futile enterprise...
i'd just like to be understood...
take all the time in the world:
for that to happen... or 'appen...
we're dealing with surds that still retain
a status of a spell-check: you know...

                         there's that impossible moral
of this: anti-story...
         the comments section of an internet...
let me show you the sqm
of what it takes to resolve: a boot... leather belt...
strap... of extending enough of the shaved
hind of the snorkel of a pig in the shambo
of a blood-bath of a slaughterhouse...

                             all the best parts were and will
continue to be used...
               she called it a tirade:
i'm more prone to the self-laceration
of calling it a diatribe...
                         is this what promulgating
self-depreceating humor does to one's coordination
of: "it's at"?
                             this new breed of: there...
               and being...
            perhaps a focus on: that? clingy little shitstorm
of tomorrow's never new...

well...                      that's me...
asking to be forgiven is so futile...
       this clingy originariness of sin... more like:
replica - and... was that the originality of
individuation - the sin being...
the replica... the plagiarism...
                               that "unique perspective"...
the eventual monotheistic intra-personal "god?    
and later the democratic fizzling-out...
the diluted "god" of the... yawn...
inter-personal?
                
          the better half of me has already died
having written this...
the pivot of either half of me that was
ever going to be differentiated as good, or "evil"...
the challange of probing the mediocre...
i would always keep to retaining some
standards of cohesion...
grammar, spelling, arithmetic...

                   the skeleton requesting
a pickled jar of brains...
and some tendons and muscles to coordinate
itself as an early grave-risen:
                           shadow of a mollusk...
circus of words... the meadows of Edinburgh...
the ego as a minotaur...
thought as a labyrinth...

                             and the leftover...
the shop of porcelain...
           and the revised minotaur...
as a sphinx.