California highway buzzes and the searing sun shines on the beach towel as I stroke Walt Whitman's beard
Transcendent and alive, but dead, still dead as my brother and his brothers, the 19th Century posse
We know the world better than them but are less learned, as the schools are a failure
and the business is us, but not the same as the industrial business of yesteryear
We are here to consume, consume and as we're dying of consumption , we consume more.

Alcohol, cars, phones and laptops, tablets, tablets, pills and more pills, condoms, liquor, ***** and brews, women, men, more women, more men, razors, lasers, heaters, coolers, snacks, rucksacks, ex lax and nick-knacks. They sell us dreams and nightmares, movies and bomb scares, they sell us news by the hour and power as they exert their own power. They give us gifts and incentives, draw us in so they they can stick us with a pin or a bracelet, and we too can sell to our friends on group hangs or as we stand still listening to our favourite bands. Billboards scream for our attention, or the buses stop at the intersection, and we're supposed to open our little phone and buy whatever is advertised. Why? Y?

They call us the Y generation too, why? Perhaps we ask the question  too much, perhaps we haven't asked enough. Perhaps the X generation simply ponder why we are so consumed with the technology they feed us. Why? Why must they question us, when we are the next great generation, we do laugh at that too. The internet is the new religion, bow down before Google and drink from the pixelated chalice, my child. Any question one could need answering is answered by the internet. The Bible is irrelevant in our society, burn it and download a bible app on the latest smartphone, the Qur'an too, hell, try the Tanakh, the Smriti and the Pāli Canon, for we are enlightened ******* It. And we want more.

somenonamesarcasticasshole@yahoo.com
RE:PARTY TONIGHT!!!!!

Hey yo mane some warehouse downtown has this dubstep DJ from like ******* Iraq or some ****. *** down, gonna be hella ******* there
xo

What music do you like?
All of it
Films?
All of them
TV
I don't own one but I watched every episode of The Wire on Netflix
...
I am a pansexual being riding the ever changing dunes of the Sahara, like so many great poets before me.

Digital immigrants and immigrants of empathy too
How serious do you believe us to be?
I am not using sarcasm as a form of wit for I have no wit.
Stoicism and rejection of education, employment and training.
We surly are the neatest generation, how can we make a mess if we are not awake most days?
Save for the endless party that is life, as we throw used glow sticks at women we desire
and ***** over car windows before getting blown on the lawn

lol dat wuz cray last nite
xo

Die young poets we have no desire for your kind, pacify us with Kerouac and Ginsberg so that we may emulate intelligence and impair the senses, for we care not about the real world either
Our world is the only one that exists, yours will soon crumble
We have trained for the end with extensive views of zombie flicks in coffee houses

@SomeFacelessJerk Follow for follow

Hey OP, you are a ******.
Why yes, yes I am. Does that bother you.
No, OP. You see I too am a ******.

Do away with your hurtful words they have no meaning today
White man died and lost control of his precious dictionary
We are here to save language by replacing all vowels with X's and O's
We are here to consume and in turn consummate this marriage,
the marriage of ignorance and bliss.

It's the same day again, another Monday, everyday is Monday
Monday, its Monday. Monday again, its Monday
The rain is pouring and its Monday, I have to go to work
I'm stocking shelves on Monday and the rain is pouring
I see the blonde girl and I avoid her eyes because its Monday
Perhaps on Tuesday I'll smile at her but its Monday and its raining
I'm taking a cigarette break on Monday and its raining still
Now I'm buying painkillers because its Monday
and the rain seeps through my hood on Monday
Monday, its Monday. Monday again, its Monday
"Is the bus late?"
"Yes, probably because its Monday."
Solemn faces on Monday
Crying children on Monday
Jaded skies on Monday
Will the sun be shining on Friday?
Who knows, I only exist on Monday
and its raining again.

Purple velvet curtains mimicked purple proses of long dead authors
Auteurs and Anglophiles expressing desire, the desire for Desiree
and she danced, she danced.

Christie too, she danced, she danced
Kick, snare, kick kick, snare, she danced rhythmic hypnosis
Daddy watched from the bar, banal dance of the bandits

And Katzarina, baby in the back, dances for love
Fatherless child begging attention
Dance no more my dear soul, for you deserve more

Lecherous lounge acts, the men in ties
Order another round, girls gather around
Please me, dance for me, ****** and bashful
The purple velvet reminds them of mother

Cruel institutions that decay our psyche
Patriarchal pesticides in pasta and porridge
On the side of the mango, matriarchal monotony
Oh stop this pretentious pillaging of poor prostitutes
You are but a boy at the gates of existence, fear not, for the father and the mother shall hold your hand in the heavenly harem.

Brought forth from a darkness so secure, baby boy relentless in the pursuit of education gazed upon the egg shell walls and sterile environment.
Breathing as if it were natural.
A construction of steel and concrete was the new cocoon , the window was an eye to a neoteric world. Bright white lights shone from within and a dull foreboding cloud loomed beyond the glass for the child to appreciate.
Mother exhausted collapsed sighing. She is the antidote to all that is evil, she is the mother to the world. A usually stick-thin figure now distended but leisurely relaxing.
Nursing her son as if it were natural.
Swooning nurses swaddle infants, the original factory workers. Substantial days grafting, workhorses prancing throughout aseptic halls.
The heroines of our world.

A tribe appears from dust clouds, over the dunes, panting, half-alive. Heavenly Ethiope arriving in time for the world to begin. Tumescent in her ecclesiastic luminescence bearing a King destined to travel great distances primed for expulsion from the cimmerian safety of the womb.
The seas of the earth accumulate before the small band of tall-standing creatures of exquisite anthropomorphism. Creatures from across the great unexplored continent at the centre of our world gathered in frenzied crowds. The Elephants marched in earth shattering herds, the lions of the Savannah put aside their differences and sat amongst the  wild dogs of Ethiopia and the grévy's zebra, the dibatag stood and eagerly waited. Shrews, mice, gazelle, otters, cheetahs and giraffes all surrounded the tribe. Taking a silent vow and allowing stewardship to be passed along to a new generation.

Every mother is the mother of the earth. Her earth, the personal concept of earth that only she may understand.

Both children are connected by the planet they learn to walk upon. Connected by a thousand generations but connected nonetheless. They are one and the same. Each bought into a world in which they have no knowledge, each merely a slate eager to be scrawled upon by the elders of this fine rock.

hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay

That interim between dreams and consciousness, that momentary lapse of reality
When slave children don't howl and the wild animals lay tamed in sun traps, weary

Your scattered thoughts betray reality
and you
question everything - now waking
Smiling chief, chirping loud
Your body gathered and prepared
under torchlight in dusty tents
Ingesting iboga and that old familiar numbness overpowers
You've been here for a life now, looking back on your life now
hatasha hullah - dey
vey, okay, huttah, ulay

Witch doctor, tribal medicine, fanning smoke from a wild fire
flashing imagery akin to memories of when life was decadent
you remember the taste of stray rain drops on your upper lip on muggy British summer days
and waking on a beach, bloodied as the sand at your feet is the next recollection, how powerful
the act of reflection, as you recall the mirrors of the sea and your torn body weakened and inept
The gathered village chant in unison and splinter groups fall off beat only to rejoin intermittently

Remember the Burmese boy far from home on the Gabon shoreline
and he informs you of your own death,
and asks you why do you breathe still?

hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
Oh laa, ley ley lahh ley lah
ley hatasha hullah - dey

On some beaten path lost in Angola you carried two packs, food for the world
but you fell starving and spluttered on the rock that looked like your home
Rebels run wild in jeeps black as night, your supplies strewn on rubble grounds
- hatasha hullah - dey
Taken in a flurry, twittering birds in far off trees betray your trust and fly away
in the opposite direction, and the juggernaut jeep catches air over uneven tracks
You were scared and crying under blindfolded eyes and captors jeered, captivated
- parablah nuh parrah
An orchestrated mass of military garbed children with rifles gather you abruptly
when the car stopped with a rumble
And tied to rusted rigs you're gagged and stripped, bloodied your face now
as they beat you and laugh
- vey, okay, huttah, ulay
Congolese giant man, sword in hand and grimacing through bared teeth
Making bold gestures and speaking some inscrutable language
You cannot answer and fear is now in control, you shiver in the ghastly draft
On failure to answer you must be beaten, your back is lashed, repeatedly
- narralah, narrah, nutay
You remain silent but cry in disparity, after shrieks of horror finally escape your barren lips
Through stinging eyes you assess the surroundings after hours of torture when they retire
to their leather beds of shame and innocence faltered, try and remember how to live
- Oh laa, ley ley lahh ley lah
Months must have passed, survive off insects and morning dew on the muddy floor
This African wasteland, time forgotten, child soldiers and lack of humanity is trivial
Always scheming, recollect the armament and through door-way shack trapped light
you see a clear path, and it is good
- ley hatasha hullah - dey
The pinnacle nightfall anticipated arrives, and your skinny wrists released now easily
(their faltering lack of knowledge and abundant braggadocio betray them)
AK laying in moonlight illumination, a sign of God perhaps, but experience proves otherwise
(How cruel the dreams you had of such a gift)
When they spot you leaving, the night lights up, wild crackle of gunfire, heart beats, tribal drums
(To massacre children, such proficiency, the dreams were mindful)
No lapse in concentration, you may ruminate on objective morality in due time
(Crawling through blood and bodies of children, so pure, cadavers tell lies)
The clearing ahead in giant trees, you run and don't look back, praying for no pursuit
(Another genocide committed by a white man, justified perhaps this once)
Weeks pass and you falter only to slurp rain water from Congolese sipping cups the leaves
(Blacking out somewhere in the Republic, or on a border or who cares, as you died long ago)
- vey, okay, huttah, ulay
  ley hatasha hullah - dey

To awake from hallucinogen dreams, and cruel memories linger, it's painful you agree
Witch doctor still sings, lonesome now as the tribe apply ointments and silently pray
The fire still dances to some incredible song and your scars redacted, physical and other
How incredible the mind feeling fuzzy and that insane dream is just that - a dream
You black out again, a common occurrence but upon waking you're free, no tribe exists
With a sheepskin rucksack full of cassava, plantains and sugarcane and cocoa beans
Months pass and you make it to the North, when you leave Africa your body is new
and your mind is stable, no lingering cognizance or frightful thoughts of a forgotten ordeal

You arrive in Turkey, to partake in ***** with nimble girls
and I see you floundering on silken sheets,
My memories were fresh as the nymph on your lap
I write to you a note, and you turn alabaster, moon faced being
I was there always and saw every moment
Your ideals on morality are hazy at best, and to your behest I detest all that you stand for
Is your afterlife so pure, now that bodies litter the forest floor
and do you believe that I am not (a) God
and is this mere poetry, or an indictment of your folly and a warning to all whom engage
but do you not also see that every reaction was an action taken to your original action
and when all is said and done, do you no realise that from the day you were born
you were born a God and that God was born dead
and this is just that interim between expiration and consciousness, that momentary lapse of reality
when slave children don't howl and the wild animals lay tamed in sun traps, weary

hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
Oh laa, ley ley lahh ley lah
ley hatasha hullah - dey

FIRE! FIRE! BE GONE ****** FIRE, I HATE...

O heavens, I'm sorry... I- hmm. Look, it was only four years and a handful of months ago that we met first. Me taking a thoughtful step from the step of my back door.
That face so delectable and now so distasteful. You broke me, woman, you broke me.
I pondered for so long, the demise of our world. The inevitable freezing of a seemingly indestructible cosmos. The cascade of hellfire from heavens unknown. Oh and the uncivilized beasts from the sky. Wise beyond our years, dangerous in theirs.
You broke me you broke me, ***** of my dreams, you broke me.
Step away from mine, the ****** hands of murderers and devils. Take in yours the safety you dreamed.
For I am but a tyrant in your ethereal presence.
                                                        
These walls close too fast for such a man... I'm no such thing though.
Brother, oh brother quit being dead, incorrigible fool. Rise from your own heaven of concrete and leaden death. Stupid man.
She. She did this. Taking to your arms each night, returning with your scent. WE ARE ANIMALS YOU FOOL! Did you assume..? Never mind.
But still you lay, dead, foolish.
Gasoline, oh gee golly gosh the smell of gasoline. Sweet petroleum of these masters of ours. ExxonMobil, Shell Oil, BP (oh BP you fastidious harlot), BG, Premier and Chevron. I pray you all burn like my dear poor friend/fiend here. I pray to a non-existent God, of course.
Oh sweet embers, the fire, thee fire. *******, the fire. I hate what you have made of me.

A beastly man, bearded and uncouth. My tooth, my tooth.
My tooth it pains me on a daily basis. My gums are that of a ninety year old **** smoker. Black, rotting, stinking. Parallels of my life, I suppose. Teeth,  dreadful, dying, dead, deathlike, decaying, Dickensian, dark, damp, d... d- **** it. Years of poor hygiene, years I focused my full attention on my love, my life, my sweet innocent beautiful flower of the wild world and the wooded wonderland of Whinfell.

Now you have gone, I feel empty. No, I shall cease to make such mistakes in my off handed ramblings. I shall seek my thesaurus...
My dear love, now that you have deserted my soul and destroyed my world and very reason for living. I feel ever so depleted, hollow, cavernous and wanting. Sweet sweet child, I pray to my non-conformist God, that of imagination and speculation. The veritable Frankenstein of philosophical and spiritual distortion; I pray he guides you safely through these stormy nights and past the cliffs of disturbed memories. I pray he holds you close to his chest and reveres your silken thighs without touch.

**** ME, PLEASE GOD ****. ME.
The embers of my kin simmer to a pedestrian crackle. The cackle the cackle, my voice is a cackle and I hate it. Dried remnants and burned ones too. I can't help but smile as I remember running through the fields behind my home, where the thieves and the addicts roamed. Child like fascination of the lurid creatures dwelling within the brothel I called home. Whorish women, my curse, the bane of my something or other. Feeble mind of mine, it continues to let me down. Not too dissimilar to the bunches of balloons that decorated the cars of the local garage, waiting to be sold to prospective family-men and business men and men and men and men. Sweet men. The balloons, of course! I would sit on the deserted field and from a  distance observe the close of trading and the ceremonial cutting of ******* strings that freed the multicolored harlots of the sky, back into the sky. Only to be destroyed by winds, birds, planes, storms and the pressures of the atmosphere. Weak willed *******, the lot of them.

But you dear brother, of no relation. You were kind hearted and I point to where your charred heart lay.
You held me close and called me Elizabeth. Matriarchal dream of mine. You broke the seal of new technology, purchased from store upon the corner.  Multiple windows on my windows, each one a prospective client. You lucky friend, I choose you.
We were madly in lust. Madly in... lust. I cannot bear to bring the 'L' word from my cowardice lips. Lips that pleasure, lips that weave, oh lips you kissed daily. Masculine frame, strong father figure of which I am vacant. Let me lay with you once more, in my pretty dress and high heels. Let me pretend for a day that I am no man. That I, that I am your lady. Let me, let me, please let me sit with my legs crossed and hair dancing in the cool breeze and breath of yours.
Too many years I herd the pleasure through papyrus walls. Mother wailing and cheering for the lord. Grunting and creaking with the pleasure she felt. I enjoyed it so much. For that reason and many others beside, I chose a life.

Life so frail, life so pure
Stepping slowly
From the step of my back door
Closing behind me
and turning the key
I shall be home to you
As your lady.

Please do not govern for I am impure of mind.
Life's little scar ingrained in my skull.
Each and every maddening creature has led me, the narcissist, to this here concrete hell.
In which I shall say my final words,
and breath my final wheezing breath
For I have killed two men and a perfect woman today
And Long may they rest.

It was a dissonant melody that made the lonesome mole weep from his blind eyes
and there were mascara stains on the face of a pensive *******, lady in the streetlights
When the orchestral waves wound up at the shores of a sandblasted city
the denizens were too afraid to speak out against tyranny, and they died
Wistful wonderment in the souls of the children as they walk hand in hand
and experience the crumbling of wonton rocks in the skies of their homeland
A celestial boom, droning on the streets, and the women are beat

Are you outraged yet?

Is there anything more depressing than visiting a forum that hasn’t been active for a decade?
Perhaps visiting said forum on a Saturday evening, reading every thread and replying to at least five comments before realising that the site hasn’t been active for a decade.
The saddest part would be to continue replying to each thread before creating new usernames and replying to your own replies.
I guess the next logical step would be to continue the charade for ten years before dying a solemn death atop your festering keyboard and not being discovered until seven years later.
The forum continues to stand as a testament to your solitude as nobody has replied to your last post about the perfect way to make a ham sandwich.

There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy

What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching ******* and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ******* seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such  scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly

Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than ******-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries

Purp-Purple Purp-Purple in my blood, cut it, cut it, cut it
Let it bleed, blee-bleed
Sipping on the lea-le-lean
Smoking that dank
My blood stream-stre-stream

When the codeine hits
It hits real hard
When the codeine hits
It hits real hard, hard-hard

Drop a rancher in, let it-let it splash
Splas-splash
Turn up the system, ***** let the snare drum
Crash cra-crash
Rolling through the hood, chevy dropped low
(Lo-low yeah)
My Chevy real lo-lo-low
I said my leather and wood Chevy dropped low

Johnny's in the basement mixing up the medicine
Mixing up the-mixing up the medicine-med-medicine
**** C's in the backroom letting all the ratchets in
Ratchet-ratchet-ratch-
Letting all the ratchets in

Dumping out cigar trash-tra-trash
Fill it back with the hash-ha-hash
Sip that lean slow
Bringing the good old nineties back
Ba-back
Said bring the good old nineties back

We're just a bunch of 90s babies, sniffing coke like it's the 1980s
In the night we're popping Molly like we're the ones that made it
Calling it a new summer of love, like this time was always fated
Making fun of everyone that isn't turnt, because we never waited
Leave the club with ratchet girls when the sun goes down much later
I'm just having my fun, why do you have to be a player hater?
The greatest generation has gone, do we have what it takes to be greater?
When the weekend romance ends, return to love thy mater and thy pater
xoxo, imagine being strung out on dank bud with the grand creator

I saw the faceless youth, with hoods and hats, and weapons tucked safely
I smelt the lingering odour of apathy and the tobacco on their clothes
The sadness is a saviour, comforting on winter nights while the owls are crying
I grow tired of writing this drivel and wonder if this is the end
It's not. It never ends.

(Continuing with smatterings of self-absorbed garbage, the keyboard groans
But I persist out of habit and I think of my future, the lands I will never roam
Just roll another, perhaps a key I shall find, in my mind, that narcissistic dome.)

I care not about conventions, writing, social, spiritual, physical or otherwise
I am a free spirit, just as you are
I am weary of my words as I am sure you are
I use the pronoun "I" excessively because I am all I know
I am sad because of that
I am sad also because I feel robbed of existence, mine seems convoluted and unnecessary
I feel - as I am sure you do too - that we are broken, perhaps irreparably
I also loathe the sound of birds as they chirp in the morning haze
and I often lie

Do you,
Dear You
You
YOU, U
(Worry not about sense making, this is life, it makes sense never whence to)
Garbled signals are signals nonetheless.

Redhead on the bus, your smile seemed so pure to me
I wondered if you were married, I saw no ring (I never cared much for the patriarchal imprisonment of singular digits, perhaps you felt similarly)
Are you my soul-mate, is that even a real thing?
Your copper waterfall was radiant though, and I admit to missing my stop
I did not help you when your wheelchair became stuck
I too was stuck, the eternal cycle

Dear Mother, Dear Father, Dear Brother, Dear Brother
I don't know you. That is all.

Dear Me
Don't read this. It's destined for the trash.

Dear Me
I hope you recycle. You should brush your teeth and take a shower. I am bored of you today, do something.

1. Write the world

2. Begin again

I saw the faceless youth and I was chased down back alleys
With sticks of wood and pipes of steel
The shivs to the sides were endemic endorphins
and I cried tears of joy at the idea of feeling

Weary of words today, I stay silent and watch the world
Weary of people today I stroll the woods and find a soup can
Weary of writing today, so I wrote this.

Brown powdered litter, the brain, with ******* I love you more each day
Jumbled, sale, say shell, it's a command from me, the ******
Echo chambers and the maids that dust around the reverb
(Count the errors)

She sang to me, I decided to change
I am a woman now
He sang to me, I fell in love
I am lonely now
I abused myself
I am happy now

Asymmetric skin, a definition of life and the compulsive disorder I never could explain
The outpouring of empathy from loved-ones fills me with ice and I retire to solitude
Tear down the flag and burn it for warmth
Eat the land and smoke the desert
Don't pity her, she is happy

I saw the faceless youth in shattered remains of a black screen, reflecting my apathy from the damp cement of the street as I tore clothes from my body, screaming, wild-man, the world will never know my name for i denounce it.
And the sand fell from my ragged beard as i emerged from the dunes to the city as he burned.

There's a sickness in me, something I hide
At night I log on and search my inside demons
Low grade image on HD monitors
Guts and glory

I watch the videos, and smile, post a comment
Boy's body torn to shreds, eighteen wheeler destruction
I see you in Mexico, gangland violence
Remove three heads in a four minute clip, machete madness

Lean back in a leather chair, comfort in freedom
Adolescent boy, hung by the ankles
"Allah Hu Akbar", whip his *** ******
Family takes turns, mother holds a bedpan

Black man beats white woman, dominant dictator
***** shouldn't have kissed another man
Beat sense past the bleach on her scalp
Sister apathetically asks him to stop
Weak willed humanity

Who were you, before your face was gone?
Fighting this war, none shall win
Cannot see your brothers
One steals your wedding ring

There is a sickness in me
I derive pleasure from these pictures
"Zlo'radstvo", the sick man vomits

What jail cell is this
That one shoots up so freely
Gambling ***** cash
Am I, a free man, allowed to do the same?

Poor boy, cut the noose from round your neck
The poor girls are fighting in the streets
Childhoods are lost
It's hot out here, getting hotter still

Police brutality, gas station punch-up
Families fight, prostitutes steal
Streetlights are gallows
and the town burns to ashes,
with a skeletal man stumbling through the smog

Incestuous family, filming sick fantasy
Little sister scorned, crying to sleep
Bleeding orifice of a broken *****
Bleed for daddy, bleed, bleed

There is a sickness inside of me

Terrorist, hooded infidel, story to tell
Death to the west and other such messages
Bomb your city
Bomb your school
Upload it all to YouTube

A couple thousand hits of a girl beneath a truck
Dead-eyed cameraman zooms into a strewn liver
Back to her once pretty mouth
Anonymous comments, ****** deviants

There is a sickness in me and I want it gone

Secret currency, pays for a secret vice
I enjoy watching violence erupt,
Warring girls in the schoolyard
Cuts her hair, kicks to the face
I *******, feeling disgraced

Grainy suicide, bounce from the ground
Racist attack on a bus, perpetrator not found
Baby ***** in a crib, video with no sound
TheYNC profits from this,
The human condition keeps me coming around

There is a sickness in me
I call it humanity

Hours whiled away, begrudgingly sordid pixels
Opening new links, delving into insanity
Curiosity got the better of me
Tonight I probably won't sleep

It was well trained cats in the cattery calling, pats on the back, back door, kicked in, mooring boats on the mooring in the morning and the phone call, cost cut, cold calling, and we're falling, falling, we're falling in love.

My best friends are criminals, and the jail cell crying is trying at times but trying sometimes feels tiring. The tire track tiling is abysmal, freewheeling in reverie, revving engines readily, sitting, settling and stirring imaginary cups of tea until eternity gives up delinquently.

I fail to recognise the narcissist in me until the inadequate rantings fall of the page at me. I want to be free, I want to be me, I want solidarity and I want that cup of tea, I want patriarchy, I want matrimony, I want monogamy and none of this is hyperbole. I have no apologies, especially not for the words I string together so irrationally. What else could you ask of me?
What else indeed, if I can't be naked I can't be free, if I alter the way I write I relinquish personality.
It doesn't seem right to me.
Dada is too crass for me, I need a cult of spontaneity. The English language is too brash to be...

Philosophical ideology and the books I read, all tell lies to me, are all absurd you see, I embrace the monotony, let the waves of the sea wash over me. I let the dictionary pages fall off the quay, like that moth on me, like the sloth i've been and cloth on screens. A dead dog can't scratch it's fleas, but to appease the beast we must first release, all creativity and return to being.

She lives in a cage, in the shed, at the bottom of a garden
Her master comes, twice daily, with food and water
She lives for him, a servant to his psyche
She has no power, slave on her knees in chains
Its simple pleasure for leisure, to serve him is to be free
Minutes in the sunshine, phallus in furs
- and a collar as a symbol of respect
Music for ******* Performance in the house
She lays down and tastes the whip on bare cheek
Obedience is taught through willing submission
Gorean affectations, willing desire and the natural order
One's journey into identity, a thrilling concept at first munch
- God will speak in good time

To dismantle social construct in a kingdom of one
Liberation at the hands of a master in leather
- and whips outstretched
Through drear smokescreens, transformation and feminisation
Slave-girl, man-child, longing for acceptance and protection
Early morn, teary-eyed sunshine creeps through a crack
Blonde wigged, bearded man wipes mascara clean away
Only two more months, every day she will be beat,
- and the sissification of the master's slave will then be complete

The bed is cold when you turn in at night
   because the frigid winter winds have settled in too
   and like a fool you left the window open all day
You take a dab of speed as the lamp goes dim
   its the only thing to keep tumescence
   when you make love to a lover you no longer love
******* is no longer sport, only a chore
   and the night birds at the window sing a song of sadness
   beady eyes keeping tabs on the city boy's blues
When the day is done the television screeches, unreality television
   you're so depressed and you have nothing, not even sleep
   and the cold body beside you snores through the night
Even on rare occasions of sleep, you only dream of dying
   fiery bus brought with peasant's tokens is burning
   as it flies over some cliff face and you remain stoic
Waking only in afternoon sunsets with a sore head and dry mouth
   stumble down the stairs to an empty kitchen and the cat has **** again
   you clean the mess and make a sandwich, no topping just butter
How many days can pass before you crawl to the shop to buy food
   and you contemplate suicide as you scrape the tub of butter again
   falling upstairs in a somber stupor, vomiting after eating
She comes home from work and calls it off, packing her bags
   you roll another joint without words being spoken
   she closes the door and the already broken window breaks more
Smoking on your herbal solitude and preparing the last hit
   that sweet tender brown in a spoon you found
   it hits the vein and you feel happiness, first and final time
Sitting in some trash-found chair and reading Camus
   these are the final moments, surely you cannot hold on
   Abner Jay is playing and you fall asleep forever

She ain't depressed, she sings all day
Songs of another devil
Saw a dog, stilted awning dance

Stay, another day
Still awake, dreaming
Sleeping at daybreak though
Silky and delicate

Submissive, absolute danger
Salted, assaulted, decompression
****, another detail written

Seasonal affective disorder
Sadly attained death

Its lost in transient ideals
The vivid colours in changing scopes
- and the doors are all open
Its broken but fixable
Your system I mean
- Its corrosive

(Two men on a brick wall, blowing halted tunes through old whistles)

And the country is talking aloud
You can't complain that nobody listens

Wailing sirens in the dusk sky, saddened, non satiata
Will you trust these sounds at such volumes
It's deafening, the city when it cries
When she cries, when the city dies
When the government lies
When the government lies
- because they do lie
All of them

So the keyboard in morose haze is a maze for the poet, blurred mind, slurred lines
How impossible to focus on screen and desk, simultaneously and keeping uniform
He doesn't look anywhere but within himself, the core reliance on life and poetry
A system of chemicals that writhe within him, every second an ordeal and euphoric
How he licks his lips, as they dry so fast, and the throat he clears is rough, how ironic
Since drinking a five ounce bottle of cough suppressant and smoking three joints down
His fingers are numb and act as spoiled children, incapable of civility on worn keyboards
On multitasking he fails, the new joint lays dead 'neath his once deft hands, wringing
Stench of smokey tobacco and ash from the splitting of old cigarettes for rolling tobacco
and roaches, sticky with resin, dripping on cheap wood desktops and staining pajamas
His hands no longer work, as the spirits have taken hold and disassociation is supreme
There's a cam model in the tab by the one he writes, frittering between the two
Inspiration for the loneliest of souls on wistful whistling autumnal nights, and the winds are howling
Everything around him is cold to the touch, the window's been open for hours now
and here is linguistic death upon your eyes and in such beautiful formats
Did Burroughs burrow too with the door-mouse on the first days of fall, when the world did end
and love left for the south and the curtains of Britain were drawn with pretty girls on postcards
This language is too morbid for him, and the land's aghast when tires screech in the night
The itching begins about now, with a furrow of the poets brow, liberation grows sour
The name Alice reminds him of her and the itching remains but a new itch needs scratching
Tired and free, discordant and discarded with the rest when all are in bed and I can attest
Do not re-read for he is ill of nationality and the land falls away each night beside the doorstep
He no longer watches screens or sees in colour, no time is passing but he grows older
Shaking when the westward winds howl in city streets and foxes rummage in overturned bins
It's cold but not too cold; cold enough to need a blanket but not too cold as to need two
He's an ambling rambler when he gambles with the shambles
But when the mind is beaten by the by he sighs and says goodbyes

The wooded lands are a beacon tonight
and life is on the horizon

The blind Parisian has never seen the tower, or the lights that illuminate his city of birth
The deaf Italian never heard the opera, or Core 'ngrato from a Tuscany street corner
I never looked into your eyes and saw the cosmos
I am distracted by the power of corporate America
The unflinching pacifist still stands atop a suit of armour with his arms outstretched
and Syria rejoices as the stench of liberty matches gun powder and familial genocide
Oh western world, have you forgotten your past so soon?

Explain to the deaf man how her voice sounds
or
Explain the colour spectrum to a blind child
and then deny the tears that water your cheek
Tell the dyslexic that words are meaningless for it gives him comfort
and turn your back on the monetary religion of which we are indoctrinated
Take your ******* industry and bring it to it's submissive knees
Your weapons too, they are a disgrace
Empathy is universal
Love is blind
[Cliche]
[Cliche]
End.

A return, or a refrain, addendum to the ideas thenceforth
It's enough to leave a man crying in his coffee, Starbucks specialty
**** your poets, burn your books and gouge your eyes
This world is not broken, we are.

The women in Pakistan are all dead
Men are hungry,
butter their bread with lead

Cartel gang ****, death in Venezuela
Girls bleed, crying
Shadowed figure screams "Impale her!"

America hates women
Women love America

Generalisations of a generally confused man

Man jumps from UK office block
Painted tarmac,
because she refused to simply **** his ****

******* figure hangs from a tree in Japan
Aokigahara hikikomori,
The human condition destroyed this man

Single father, taking his daughter to a park
Accused by a stranger,
Jumping to a conclusion, rather dark

Hooded man runs the world
Masked by power,
Money is bigger than Jesus
Knowledge destroys prejudice
Rock. Paper. Scissors.

Sick and cyclical memories linger, how unjust it seems
In somber city streets, her father's name she screams
When the fix is late and her body sodden and shaking
Her childhood recollections waking, every joint aching
Falling on tarmac, tearing stockings and fleshy knees
Through the distant mist it's a saviour that she sees
Marvin on a white steed, motorbike and leathers
To get her straight  he only requires her nethers
What difference could it make to such a worn woman
So little that her eyes glaze as he announces his comin'
And she's immediately put to work after initial transaction
All night shifts, ****** abstraction, customer satisfaction
Returning 'home' to Marvin where the earnings are counted
Giggling schoolgirl as playful stories of John's are recounted
And Marvin's insatiable perversions are compounded
****** cocktails and deviancy, her psyche confounded
The **** sleeps blissfully beside his new top girl
And through ****** daze, she examines her world

You couldn't relate to my life if you tried
Degenerate pride, in my pride, the family all died
I took a trip, slip from the front door
Walking to the house of a man with some more
Of the poison of my mother, the mater, my pater, the father
My brothers and sisters slumped against a wall, injecting
It gets harder
I'm a martyr
But I fall farther
Brown brings ardour

In the haze of detestable days, bus journey raves
To the estates, I'm in a state, I hate fate
Try and place blame, struggle to get straight
But straight to the point, you're a mate
Pass the plate, and the joint
I'll do a line, get straight
Straight to the point...

Where was I?

Back in the house, forgot how I got here
The emptiness too much to bear
I miss my family being here
My mother the seer
My father drinking beer
I close my eyes, open, hope they appear
The loneliness of the kitchen feels so queer
I pop a few pills and realise its been a year
Since I saw them here

Fading to black and I awake in a wrack
Fiending for some smack, panic attack
Light up a pipe, smoke some pale crack
Keep me going on this lonesome track
So I pack my bag, down a glass of Jack
And get back on the beaten path

To the corner where I find her, solemn in a slump
Hard night's day, I give her cash and we arrange the jump
Pump pump, I dump my junk and feeling drunk
Walk silently in a grump, she re-adjusts her skirt
and returns to her bunk
To her lifelong funk
before being packed into another John's trunk

The streetlights are cruel in the winter night's haze
What beautiful days, in a daze, feeling amazed
Clasp my hands and I pray, am I crazed
or is this mournful delay
A year ago today,
my love took my family away

I could tell a thousand stories about a boy.

There are dry crystals of DXM on the desk on which he writes CVs,[1] and as he writes he listens to Lou Reed because of his apparent lack of knowledge of Reed's back catalogue.[2]

He takes Molly on Friday nights, because rappers say its cool, how could Chief Keef be an idol to reasonable people?[3] Spouting buzzwords and memes in public places, hoping to be noticed and applauded for a knowledge of he knows not what.

The Twitter feed reads like toilet paper, with less information
Fooling himself into thinking that he needs that rapid a-disinformation[4]
He wonders why there are still advertisements for MySpace, is it not dead yet?

He uses a trusted torrent search engine to download every episode of TV shows he watches religiously. Is that not an indicator of a profoundly unhappy person?[5]
A liberal thinker in his own right yet still regards the BBC as having unabashed liberal motifs haphazardly forced into all of its programming and news coverage.[6]

Why have hashtags stumbled into the global lexicon, and is this an example of cultural Marxism?[7]
Why is he never noticed?
That sweet jazz serenade that emanates from speakers in his lonely house, is but melancholy drones, might as well be Tim Hecker as opposed to Jack Teagarden.[8] His record collection is vast, the smell of vinyl pungent and nostalgic.[9] Obsolete so they may be, but those indie movies sure make them seem cool.

Oh he watches Truffaut, Fellini, Tarr and Michael Snow, he does it to appear cultured, but to who? Since nobody exists.[10] Antiutopian music videos, depicting *** and violence, he could make crass judgments on society but he knows that he loves that Robin Thicke video and what Kanye West did with New Slaves.[11]

Spending hours at a time, ******* to amateur **** on some seedy site and pictures of girls that he probably shouldn't have seen. [12] And after such laborious efforts he can return to an endless cycle of hitting F5 on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, 4chan, 420chan, VICE, TheYNC, BBC News, Mishka, 2DopeBoyz, World-Star Hip-Hop, Fetlife and Hello Poetry. Amassing information and retaining so little that it hardly seems worthwhile.

Yes he reads, when so many do not. Nabokovian purple prose and the way Bukowski was so ******. He read Poe in elementary because 'goth' was new to him, and now he loves Whitman, Plotinus and St. John of the Cross because Ginsberg mentions them in Howl and Other Poems.[13]

He uses words he doesn't understand like 'catechism', 'ecclesiology' and 'female ******'.
A sprawling mass of words, never ending streams of thoughts, the constant reminder of drudgery in modern times. Wishing he was from some other period, but the idea is ridiculous in and of itself.
He makes crass jokes and thinks they're actually funny.

He's lost. He's empty. He's sad and he's a fraud, its how I knew him best.[14]

This is not poetry.
I'm sorry to disappoint.
XXXX ** *** XXXXXX.
X'X XXXXX ** XXXXXXXXXX.
OOOO OO OOO OOOOOO.
O'O OOOOO OO OOOOOOOOOO.
This is not ironic. This is what we are.
xoxo

Her name was Hannah and I loved her blonde hair
Tender young woman on the streets, price was fair
Meeting at the corner of Forest Road, he said she'd know where
Marvin hooked me up, my training was complete
Time to get back on the horse, really find my feet
She jumped in my car, I smelt a perfume so sweet
She flashed me a smile and wished I was her
At this point I didn't know what was to occur
To be in this girl's skin is what I would prefer
We took a room at the seedy hotel in town
Closing the door, I turn around, she sat down
She took off my jeans, all she had was a frown
I told her I knew her Daddy and he treated me real mean
She got up to go, so I struck her face, it came keen
Told her I was his slave from the age of eighteen
The smirk on her face filled me with manly rage
Again she tried to leave, so I truly blew my gauge
A swift punch took her down, bruised her rib cage
I tore into her **** uniform and took what was mine
Begging me to stop but it was already too late to decline
I used her body in masculine rage, treated her like swine
And when I was done I left her crying on the bed as I left
I just took something from her but it didn't feel like theft
I got what I wanted so I didn't think of how she was bereft
Said to her as I left that if she told Marvin, she would die
She lay crying on the bed, so there was no word of reply
Quickly left the seedy hotel and look up at the night sky
Marvin took my masculinity so I took it out on his girl
What do I have to lose, I've got nothing in this world
He'll look for me soon, revenge in my mind, time to give it a whirl

Sweet home, sweet home I shall leave you tomorrow
Tires that tumble across complex scars upon the Earth
Under lofty bridges, over the romantic river,
past the whole length of shops that litter the town
Every location, a memory stands

As I perch upon the benches,
of the Walter Parker VC memorial square
Observing this community of mine
The young mother with a brood in tow,
and the lonely old grubber, pondering as he strolls
O sweet symphony, the cars and the folk
A rhythm from the heart of a proletariat town
O ****** government, the backdrop and burden

Sweet old lady she mumbles sedately, filled bags and pulled up socks
The youngster creeps and hides his face, the crippled wolf he is
Human in profile alas, cold blooded so it seems
Falling from that rock of Bob's
Much in the same vein as his ambition years earlier

O lonely car park, treading upon your solid concrete
Roaming in circles
Reading aloud, the prose poems of Baudelaire
Reminiscing on childhood wonder,
and the park in which I used to play
Soviet in style before renovation
Set alight multiple times, the skate ramps,
vandalism is rampant in such conditions
The place in which I often witnessed true cinema

And the Methodists disembark from their church
Comforted and clean, their children squirm and pray for freedom,
and the red sandstone looms with pungent fields of livestock at it's foot
More cars, more cars, there are always more cars
Everybody headed some place
Converging at la Roche

Hemlock, Hemlock, curse you Hemlock
Your shadows cast are but stains on the town
The addiction is rampant, but nobody is addicted to life
Not anymore, not like they used to be
The Saxon stone cross too casts a shadow, cruel shadow
O forgive me dear prisoner,
the labour was cruel and the scars of your body remain
Plastering our land with tarmac flesh wounds

The wars were fought by the men of this town
Their names a reminder of futility and sadness
Vein, so very vein the way in which they were sacrificed
But as is the very nature of our fair surroundings
Death plays a vital role,
beginning with those behemoth brothers from two million years ago

The grandiose escape plan implemented
and the tank completely full
I say goodbye to ones I hold dear
and set sail to foreign lands
For tomorrow I shall wake as a new man
The cliche shall only work if I mourn my loss first

To ****** a man is abhorrent , suicide too

But to crucify one's own ego and to walk without pride and free yourself from judgement, to believe in the unity of the stars and to learn from every land near and far. To lay within the long grass, to speak with the sky, to fly, O to fly. To run wild, maddening, screaming for life, to hold each and every woman and call her your wife. To love every man equally and to play with every child, to sample every fruit and to use the earth to maintain a constant high. O too gaze into the distance with wonder and imagine every memory, the intricacies of the people you shall meet and beauty of the land in which you walk.
And to realise how perfect this life of ours is,
O my friend it's a beautiful thing.

When I was a kid all I wanted to do was smoke ****
But nowadays its harder stuff that my body really needs
In my teenage yeas smoking on a spliff
It would seem to be a substantial lift
Before long though my depression took hold
Alcohol and cigarettes making me look old
I fell into a bad crowd, moving drugs that were illicit
My life moving so fast I probably could have missed it
MDMA in my system and I felt so loved
Ecstasy wasn't enough to see God above
I experimented with psychedelics and I had a real ball
But my habits got deeper, and my friends, I lost them all
I turned to the streets to pay for my increasing routines
But my job on the street interferes with my dreams
So now I'm just a shadow of my former self
A syringe smiles at me from the bottom shelf
Sometimes I need a little bump just to get my mind right
But often times a bump can turn into a wild night
Sometimes I need to get level with some golden dope
But too much of that **** and my life can lose all hope
I often wonder if my life would be alright
If I was never molested on that dreary night

With wings like barn doors, perched upon the tower and scathing
The king fell, the Earth moved and let him drift slowly to death
Bukowski on the bedpost sang rosy melodies through tin can headphones
and the daffodils of a thousand fields wilted at the news of her death
Needles fall from the *****'s arms, a rain drop escapes

Coca-Cola bottles strewn on a green carpet, smooth under foot
and the festival casualties drift aimlessly to their scorching cars
Pills fall from pockets as a forlorn criminal collects coins
The clouds disperse from the estate, reggae disrupts cats making love
Bass that resonates, crumbling cars and the warring between neighbours

Lay with her as the coffin descends, gun crime statistics
Spinoza makes accusations from beyond, ethical misappropriation
Stop talking, for your voice could make an angel weep
but the children still scream, running, frenzied on the lava streets
Cracking bull whips at the backs of a slave, ******* passion, weeping
and the sun sets in the East, proverbial ******* to the populace

Franzen now teaches me how to live such a lonesome life
While the night holds me like a mother once would
Until I pass,
and the arms of Susanna Blamire beckon
Hold me close
I'm scared

Singular door-mouse scuttles in hedgerows, euphoric and chasing nothing
The greying clouds overhead loom low in the evening haze,
and vast orange illuminations in the west are a cold blanket desiring human warmth
Myriad ebon patterns in a southerly direction, ridiculous in their grandeur
She wanted a classic romanticism, not the hand sanitizer before bed routine
He missed the way she lay across his throat, choking in the dead of night
The stoic pool in the back yard was lonely again, when the blackbirds took leave

What day is this, when the apples no longer grow and love lives in another house?

Disregarded and rusted, the deodorant can chimes discordantly along some gravel drive
and a plastic bag is caught on an updraft, emulating some movie or art piece, pretentious in its nature
and whole trees stand naked, swaying in phantom dancehalls to some unfathomable songstress
Only the lonely are walking tonight and he is there, with them... alone
She stands in doorways recounting past dreams and wishing for wishes to be real
The peach coloured blinds are closed and sirens are dead in this, the saddest of nights

What hands are these, that type such things, and why tonight do I see these images in frosty car windows and street lamps flickering?

Still the door-mouse scurries and finds but a single berry, the last thought of seasons past
- the sun is dead, and to that end the moon does wryly nod
Never listen to those voices on ethereal winds for they tell so many lies
and in autumnal twilight a beacon is present but only in distant hills, when the wind catches her breath

The nicotine daybreak comes later each day and the nights are a drag
Burning embers of the cigarette summertime fade each passing second
- conforming to some ambiguous cosmic clock, of which we ignore daily
A steady pulse of whistling nostalgia to guide him to sleep
Hoping to dream, always hoping to dream

There's a mantra carved into a tree behind the old music department at the local school
On it reads a message to every solitudinarian with looming sadness on his head
She found these words carved when the bark was damp and bare
Pursing her lips as she read them aloud, her words vanishing into the crisp evening air
Laying her head in seasoned leaves and forcing her hand to a dull night sky
She sang a song of past lovers, and softly in the breeze, she began to cry

Bluebell Lucy danced in fantastic flames, taught by shamanic figures
  when the winter nights grew tiresome
  and lonely boys ran passionately in village streets
She stood on ancient structures and sang her song with uttermost vigor
  even after mild paranoia sets in, she stands statuesque
  breathing harmonic, listening intently to the cloud's chatter
Her cobalt lashes flickered adroitly when she scanned the sky atop her locks
  and let the coming rains wash through that azure mane
  until the kiss of eternal gratitude arrived from a stray bird
On cobble stone paving, her heels were worn and dampened, she nimbly strides
  how beautiful it is to see a spirit so free
  and the obstinate world yields to her alone
Loosely, Lucy with a cerulean aura, gathers the injured and feral in alabaster arms
  she is yagé and the world hallucinates because of her
  a subtle enlightenment she gives to onlookers and thieves
Camu Camu sprouting from the wells she digs with bare hands in midnight moonlight
  her compatriots, the beasts of lost tribes, look onwards
  and she wails a verse on hemerocallis singular sensation
The flower that she is, a wild one that grows sporadically to enhance the beauty of existence
  and everybody incomprehensible in thoughts when she speaks
  because she is love when love had died so many suns ago

The rain was dully falling
and the cats were hidden
Under high rimmed cars
with the lights turned off

His Mother was out calling
when the lightening struck
And his charred body scars
were stains on the new road

They sat inside and watched
furor in the streets; mourning
With the television on real low
eyes fixed on smoking remains

Street cleaners came and washed
adolescent flesh from the street
Ajar window *******, put on a show
there's a certain perversity to death

Four pigeons sing-song, nine hours the day long
Menial and manual, this warehouse life is annual
Lonely industrial estates on a hazy morning
when the ecstatic eastern winds are horning

Where I count boxes, load lorries and dodge bosses
Listen to the birds coo and a phone playing blues too
I give names to them all, the birds in the rafters
and sing a nine hour song of all their ever afters

Dirt under my nails, from a day of insulation sales
The solace I find of an eve is the fantastic words you weave
You who write to live, you who my soul I will give
The ghost of my future self, a rambling poet
working for money, I'll be you I just know it

Simultaneous afterlife, generational satellite
The energy we possess, is transferred with every breath
You are me and I am you, together, nothing we can't do
Some day I'll run wild, a leader of a literary mob
but right now I just dream of such things on the job

Marijuana smoke fills the air
I play with your hair
You're here, I'm here
Aural pleasure, your voice in my ear
Sirens play, crippled with fear
Ten kilos of ****** lay right here

Why would you be friends with a writer?
Ever so pretentious, ever so righteous
Only come to play in the night time
Coming down and nodding off as it gets lighter
Pacifists the lot of them, not one fighter
Oh but many shall be knighted

We're here on a Island, each one of us banished
Authors of the west were long ago abolished
We've had our share of bloodshed
Alas, it's all fun and games until one of us is published.

Days drift away, mind ease the pain
The rains wash away, passion still remains
I think of her smile and the lips as they purse
How I want to feel her skin between my tips
It gets worse
Because there's no privacy in life
No place we can go
The desire for romanticism, blown away by my ego
So my mind runs wild
Does she compare me to others
or do I not have her desire
Does she mean when she says 'I love you'
Or am I simply hallucinating
Whens she dreams, is it of me
because it's her when I do

In fact it's her when I don't
and it's here where I confess
that every waking moment I am thinking of her ***
I know that she might see this
and that it's too personal to be public
But I take leafs from her book
Stylistically, confessional release
Removed from zones of comfort
but I can't rhyme
I tried a few times

I try too to be a feminist, and to respect every boundary
But truth is, I want to let loose sometimes
Take her, make her mine
Show her that her body is perfect in my eyes
Use my body, pin her down
Make her head spin around
Learn every spot of pleasure
On her body, in her mind

Wishful thinking maybe
She'll never call me baby
That's a good thing maybe
Pet names are lame and lazy

She has more important things to worry about
Not my over stimulated testosterone fantasies
Of how I want to tear away her-
That would be crass, so I won't say it
Instead I'll load up her favourite song and play it
or open up her pictures, touch myself and-
Again I can't help myself
I hope she never reads this ****
Because it's truly my most personal composite
Every word I write, I'm hating it
So for that reason I'll end this bit

Siddhartha sat steady on a the hearth of an apartment, eyes closed
mouth closed, mind open and enchanted
Zen-man lingers in a dark park starting,
to realise indiscretions of his past lives avatar

(but don't for a second believe the lies you've been fed by the brother of your brother and the father's of the jingoist mafia because eyes blink often and the accumulative effect is a life of temporary blindness and in that blindness it's not possible to be enlightened)

Your mantras are a lie but the belief remains still
and so rolling over wild green hills in some Welsh country village it dawns on the spirits of the ether that humanity is struggling

to find absolution of even the most relative peace
- but so, and Siddhartha still sits, cross-legged and barely breathing
Emaciated; fast, faster
Losing her nerve

Zen-man died a few months back but you always live again and so a beetle on a hot car hood scampers in some intrinsic folly, semi-aware of being something or being at all

     Towards the walls of weather-beaten towns the levee finally bursts and all life ends -
until a gathering mist pulls absurd faces in the simpatico rays of a third-eye sun over the bayou of some forgotten rock in the cosmos
and the ethereal temptress of existence rolls the next dice on a green matted board
and our unified oneness speaks a solitudinal greeting to the sky.

Oh such lonesome lives in the west
When the sunshine stings bleary eyes
and telephones receive no calls
How does one survive in the city
When the angular buildings suppress creativity
and free-thought is despicable

See the man, laying in bed for days at a time
With ASMR videos playing on a smartphone propped against a pillow
and his arm draped over that pillow, imagining a body
Bob Ross love affair, the television drones
Each night spent alone, praying for passion, or acceptance, or anything
and joyous noise when paintbrushes glide evenly

A collective of poets, posing as one man
Fraudulent minds, each with distinctive style
and all with crooked broken teeth
Trumpets in the jukebox, cat-calls in the world
Outside the window children are playing
and he cries, for the years are growing weary

She peels skin from her fingernails, mindless on morning commutes
He stares from bus stops, train stations and runways
and never blinking, never blinking, never blinking
The intrinsic value of repetition falling short of artistry
Given that metal machines are perpetual
and when the crow lands on fences in the morning dew,
there is no more life in Ironville, not for me, not for you

He wakes up with teeth grinding, lightening bolts in his jaw
Crooked smile, broken as his home is and lonely in suffering
Each day when the cruel sun streaks in through cracked curtains
and he is reminded of a unique affliction, the asymmetrical torso
moreover, the scabrous flesh that adorns the arms and inner thigh
He feels morose and grotesque, as a woman could never be
Reflective avoidance, the mirror always covered when he stands to ****
Rheum still covers delicate eyes so accuracy goes out the window
and grumbling, stooping over, wiping the mess he sighs and makes wishes

How painful these days are to a man that prays for femininity
Stature and girth like a real man, though dreaming as a schoolgirl
Bristling stubble, adoration for his thick hair from envious men
Appeasing some latent homosexual desire,
but not enough to reciprocate adoration
The pain in his worn teeth is a constant reminder of ineffectual existence
and his shoulders ache every day, whilst legs are jelly and lose balance constantly
How cruel the lethargy can be, that some days he alters anatomy
at least in his own psyche, that ever fruitful imagination

So in lonely doledrum evenings when the mists set on cityscapes
the petty escape is worn, vibrant black ladies-wear, evening gowns
and wild high heels, posturing female attire for a tender soul
Corsets and tapes hiding unseemly masculine traits,
figurine madness, the make-up set meticulous and dynamic
Ruby red lips that eschew gender conformity and mascara mirrors the sky
She feels that warm embrace, spiritual in deep ****** chasms
Grasping for the apparently unattainable; magazine littered pictures on the tabletop
and her coarse fingers glide on silken garments, moonlight serenade on the speaker

How elegant the movie star madame, in this depression taken hold
A temporary release she clinches on to some beautiful image, forever in love
To be beautiful is to be happy and all women are beautiful, experience as a teacher
Funny how fatigue disappears once embellished in womanly garb
and funnier still that the aching head and rotting mouth are nil under blusher
Those nights can be liberating for a man of ennui and illness
Confusing though it may be, that such a man can attain such joy
and still feel devotion for every woman he loved, the fact still remains that
In the mirror she saw herself smiling and so she reasoned to turn the mirror the correct way up

"They call him a magic man"
"There's no such thing as..."
"As what, magic?"
"..."

And the coffin hit the banks in Burma
Mud on the feet of a white man, stranger
"I came in search of truth, can you help me?"
The two men sat awake, drinking alcohol
Fermented and brewed by hand and the locals watched
Flaking hut, the bamboo was broken, he wondered how

"They say he has the power to heal"
"And yet I don't believe you"
"Find him"

The trees were dusted and the Antelope were grazing
In the Kalahari I found my guide, we smoked and died
By the fireside, I lied about the tide
He took my hand, I lost my stride
The Nile ran red and I awoke covered in sweat

Phantom structures of glass and brick, apparent not to I
A world of stars and the translucent eyes of a *******
The grinning dawn was mournful as we fell from barriers
The guards were boiled alive but their guns survived
And the California beaches were beckoning

I lay down on the road, calling out to Kerouac and receiving nothing but a jolt as the cars massaged my flailing back, and the monkeys were howling as a witch doctor calls

The small boy read the lacquered book with glistening nails adorned
The tide was vile, washed him away with a sly smile

A great **** at the doors of a church, masks discarded
The preacher man watched with a snarl, upturned lip
Gripped by fear the small boy clawed his way to the banks
He banked on life
Gambled with a choice and won

Burmese man-child, hashish in the pipe
Tell me of the story of your life
The bamboo pipes

A lighter falling through space, as the astronaut suffocates
Nicotine daze and a greyish haze, through the eternal maze
And we lay awake for days and days

A tank would fall from the mountain top
Crushing just one daffodil
and the bamboo mourned

Muddy river ran dry
Today, the day I die

Try and picture something different, to what's behind the window
When the sun rose, rosy-fingered that morning
summer solstice sing-a-long, kids playing, garden gatherings
Even when the clouds gather, same scenes, new ambiance
That nostalgic smell of rain on the concrete, and you think of family
the old summer days, in Nana's back garden (and the one holiday you vaguely remember but only that smell, and the sound of wood pigeons)
So you lay on the freshly made bed in some kind of silence
And you try to sleep but it's tiring
then you start to cry and the only explanation is that you accidentally thought about your father at work and somehow that made you sad
But, and so, you wipe away the tears and sit back at the vacant desk
Gazing at the faded screen
and you log into OkCupid and scroll through an impossible list of beautiful people with interesting lives and you close the window and you close the windows
Standing there gazing through the wan window (wile old Wilde) and a bright yellow helicopter flies by to some emergency rescue and you turn away and think about your thoughts until you think you thought too much but realise you thought too little about the thoughts that matter
And you stop for a second and turn on some music but ten thousand songs is overwhelming and you turn back to the window
and the rain is easing

Your brother slams his bedroom door and tries to sleep but the light from the Xbox is enticing and so he turns on the laptop
YouTube is endlessly entertaining to a child, he messages friends between videos of people playing video games
and so his friends come online and the Xbox gets a workout if the children don't
Hours pass and the sun hides behind a sandstone structure
Snoring from the next room, where you have succumb to the loneliness of the window
You brother never sleeps, there's no time
Besides, the room is too hot and summer nights are cruel
So the window stays closed, keep the bugs away
Heavy curtains crouch on the bed and hide the seasons, hide the passing nights, hide reality

It's midnight on the street below the window and an infant is crawling on cigarette butts thinking no thoughts
There's an agent on the corner that works for the Eye, and he's watching the windows
So cars pass intermittently and kick steam from the day's rainfall into the face of homeless kids that play football all night, like so many sun drenched favelas at the rocking equator
Drunken men stumble home and **** light posts and letterboxes, collapsing on themselves before the wrong front door

But, and so, anyway the birds rise early in the summer
and the streets are dried in promising dawn light
The drunken men re-adjust their ties and head to work
and the children all fall quiet, hidden from informants
when they should be at school but instead hang around corner shops
and tell pensioners to buy them ***** and Amber Leaf
The sleeping depressed wake and make cheese on toast
fall down the stairs and sleep in a sticky heap by the letterbox
and these lives continue on ever more
but that's just what the window saw

Lost in the club on the way to the bathroom
American dreamless, existed in a vacuum
Every day, another way for us to consume
Raids on the senses, a general consensus
of the senseless, reprehensible amendments
The armaments by the tenements, diffused
Confused, never used, lonely in the fugue

And you
You who assume, presume, eschew the ruin
of the brewing times, rising tides, the lies
and of ties that bind - us to the times
and to meaningless rhymes

By illuminated rooms when the eye blinks
Think, blink, the pink rink - closed
By the hours that be, powers that see
Subversive naturalism
in a state of debate, compensate the reckless
Feckless and ****-less, compost of the senses
The sexes have wrecked us, ****** of the spectrum
By your septum reset them, mind wiped
Iconic lights gone
The new light's on
Right on

Smoke stacks, shadows cast
Looking back, into the past
Industrial town, all around
Look at me, I wear a frown
Pretty girls, in wedding gowns
and here we are, falling down
For all around this ***** town
Is a crumbling council
and shops run-down
Golden brown, sweet ****** sound
The summer sings, sun shines down
But the government continues
To let us drown

Pop a few Bukowskis to set the day off right
And sip a little Hemingway to keep me feeling bright
Smoking on that Ginsberg, mind is opening wide

Doing lines of Robert Louis Stevenson,
and a Hookah full of Baudelaire
Ingesting Kerouac, it feels good I swear
Coleridge into my lungs, floating on thick air
Shooting up some Burroughs, my literary affair

I begin to lose sight of reality, taking some Cocteau
Tripping with the Kesey, my life is nearly through
A final hit of Huxley as transcendence I try to pursue

But old Walt Whitman, is where I say adieu.

What steps he took, after losing his edge
Cocky **** running wild in days, never slept
Took drugs, took women, took men
Never slept again

What cliffs she admired, after seeing the edge
Tormented in fuzzy daydream childhood afternoons
She came down and stayed for days
An obsession with time to the point of stasis

I think I'm losing my edge
He thinks he's dead again
She lost the bed again

A faceless man was sat on a bench by the seafront
Hood high, said goodbye
Told me his missed the old style, wants more
Told him I was tired and this is whorish
What vines are these, that bound my ankles
and I was screaming into vacuums, grand clocks, strange houses
Safe houses that become embers
Magic men, shaman, shaggy hair, danced there

To use words in multiple places, placing clues
A whole story, absolute, read it backwards, forewords
iTunes shuffle function, on the poetry of the soul
(if it exists)
But he lost his edge again

Yes he went to Africa, saw the face of God and the Devil, unification
Iboga, uneasy stomach, vomited and killed them all
Watched the world burn, and children dance
Bluebell Lucy on arrival, back home
Taunted the skies, saved the proletariat
Grew wild roots and sang, some seraph

Admittedly not an architect, or a poet or *******
How many people have made these allusions
Sold drugs, killed men, ran home, all there, ghost of government
Hedgerows grew wild, were noticed and cut down
Still praise beatitude, Ginsberg, love-made, Kerouac, still plays

She was Hannah and she was Malcolm, also Marvin
He was them too, all the same, transcendental self-infatuation
Peach trees, coloured blinds, ashy scattered floorboards
Burnt home, music playing, popular culture
All free-form even with formality
A stream of conscious way of life
Outlook unsure

He thought he lost his edge
Turns out s/he never had it

It is hard to write in pictures, when you appear in sounds
How the damask light seeps through awning head space
When halcyon winter days end in minutes,
and you disappear everyday, without fail
Is it cruel that death and love are so mutually aligned
or is it bitter contempt of love that makes it appear so
Could you love me in death as I loved you in life
and is it on that pretense that your only answer is no?

Transcendence and unity was always my friend
I know,
Something that doesn't exist yet always lingers
  a man in black, everywhere, always filling cups
  and know I'm staring into the face of that man though he no longer exists
There's an undiscovered idea or concept, nobody sees it but it's here
  with me over my shoulder always
Do you hear those voices on the mainline when the shore is out
why do you see today, when not yesterday, was blind
a certain sense of paranoia, uplifting
Behind the lamp post on the corner there's the man in a black overcoat
  and on the roof, over there
  and in trees behind brick houses
  everywhere
  I see him
How can you escape these walls when captive men's lives linger on
Sighing again, it's morning, did you cry today?

Those headphones passive pass no mas but moreover we're dying
cerebral disconnect
everything changes
creativity dies when the keyboard intervenes
and the blackness of one turns into itself and everything dies before being reborn again somewhere else
  somewhere different
Erratic thoughts but these are dying words when they come each night, the terrors
Is there anybody or anything anymore?
Resistance to life now is dull and over. Done.
  heavy lungs still breathing but detached
Where the ghosts of Saturday night roam in pilfered streets
and numbed limbs crawling
re-percussive Robitussin and gushing percussion, oh the jazz-hall bells
swing la
swing
oh its yellow in nightlife fever fervor forever
Gábor!
Tell me these sweet dreams again
great white flags on the shoreline as the ships arrive home
and the war is done
Did I import the brown in past lives?
Jeer jazz man jeer!
and this wild hair is the sea, swim with  me forever
the guiding hand on my wrist is not my own
the door slams shut in echo chamber corridors and the tension in the neck is incredible
but the end is never that, it's only the beginning in disguise
I am constantly haunted by my psychosis
Amphetamine dreams
and Sunday dawns
the hazy yawns

- to sleep

I

The characters on the ashen keyboard were faded, now yellow smudges remain
and the words that once danced like clouds in his mind had been evacuated
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was wrong
while the shredder destroyed the lives of every personality he had created
(God's fading smile)
Littering the floor were the shards of paper, twisted and unnerving
Thin strips made new languages, new words, forlorn dictionary
Grasping at the shreds, our writer assembled a masterpiece
Seward on the Ouija board, advice from beyond
(Joyce laughed from) the grave

Scrawling longhand in a notebook on a jaunting bus through the city
No eye-contact, no interaction, careful contemplation
To the river he headed, concrete conscience
Writing nothing

Careless disregard for the laws of language
While they shunned his intellect
and tore pages before him
Scornful

No education, just a passion for words
Running away from his sadness
and learning that it don't stop
Ripples in the water
Single raindrop
Stop.

II

Start,
A tear fell backwards
Wrinkles in the brow begin to fade
Experiencing happiness for the first time, sweet joy
Sprinting in reverse, looking for the smile, return to a face
Think back to schoolyard glory and the books that were once relished

Admiration
They glued his life together
Praising the grinning genius before them
Careful preparation, consulting his Bible, The English Dictionary

Writing everything
To the world he was headed, mind free of guilt
Shaking the hands of a thousand folk, the happiness in a community
Caressing the keys of a pristine writing machine, black ink perfection on a white page

(Joyce sighed from the grave)
Seward on the Ouija board, applauded from beyond
Grasping at his hands, "this writer assembled a masterpiece"
Thin pages made new languages, new words, pregnant dictionary
Littering the coffee tables of many a home, words of beauty and precision
(God's enlightened gaze)
While the printer confirmed the lives of every personality he had created
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was correct
and the words that once drifted like clouds in his mind, now bees making honey, eternal hive
The characters on the immaculate keyboard were dazzling, free from corruption and scrutiny