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.

Its 6AM again and the cigarette laced ashtray is smoking
There's a joint burned down to the roach
Through the foggy room, lurching, tired and choking
I sift through forums seeking a reproach
Harold Melvin and The Blue Notes from the speaker, I'm forlorn
My eyes are red and I am in need of rest
I peep through the dingy curtains, the world at peace and I feel scorn
The ******* keeps my heart rapid in my chest
Feral cats quarrel and screech through the alleyway, maddening
Gentle hum from a depression creeping
The abuse of my body on these long summer nights, is saddening
A shot to the arm and finally, I'm sleeping

How ironic that one would take it seriously
With this new sincerity hanging so precariously
Satirical words, balanced in a peculiar fashion
Overtly reminiscent of a post-modern passion
And you, who read this, please be aware
To all other poets I simply cannot compare
Proletariat boy with too much time to spare
With this piece it's time that I declare
My mind is in a sullen state of disrepair
Always be aware, that I was never here.

Down by the river bank and the sun beats down
Glory on the ground,
Dragonflies swoop round and round
Discarded souls I found
Discarded beer cans between the lily pads
Metal scraps and petals dashed
Daughters walking with their Dads
Bikers pass, the underpass
and walking past a group of lads
I hear the traffic in a distant world
A cow from the farm talks to me
Ducks playful, swimming in a swirl
Sitting underneath the oak tree
and it's here I take the dregs of water
down my swollen throat
I watch the rippling river
I fall in,
and float,
and float

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.

Try and pose some grand question to the innocuous universe overhead
Or run and fall on tired tread train tracks, flailing arms and legs, screaming
This Elysium falls over broken skulls and your life is shattered too, screen-door glass shards
Pompous waterfalls of the soul crash on a vacant rock, and you sit crying to imaginary songs
Take walks through empty towns and fantasize about some crumbling bridge
Or even smash vending machines in anger
Or kick at tenement building walls, and hope to God that they fall
Like you did when the spirit left your body
We were too young to understand, the slanging match of the soul
And how the doors that slammed were representative of a larger being
The ever present societal constructs that they were bound
And now even in adulthood we too scream at one another
Wishing we were not them
Praying we were sane
So you wash dishes by the grease fire, moonlight faded curtains
And I sit by the table, grinning some unfathomable grin
Because just yesterday I stood there too and washed in the same manner
Fighting urges to lunge and fall at the humming beast in the corner
Or so and you make eye contact
And but I am lost in trains of thought
Or thoughts of trains
And just then the kids come crying, from the upstairs rooms
In the house that we grew up in
Or perhaps, the house I lived in and you grew up in

There's a man with cuts on his arms, probably accidental, perhaps I'm wrong
There's that girl and I think she's pretty
Over there is a dog, unleashed and he's barking at ghosts
In here is my heart and it stopped for a moment
That is a field and the grass grows blue, we don't know why
(On the park is where I first got high
In the bush is where love goes to die
At the shops I told a lie)
In his house we did more ******
Through the window I see her again, so pretty
You can see my eyes, they're watering
On the blue-grass sedentary, lays her body
Regretful hands are mine
Heroine life lost
- I'm sorry.

The masks all burned by the chipped paint backdoor
Pick her up from the floor where the rug is a solace
She'll never be as old as the men she loves
Where she goes to secret clubs in order to find love
the black dress torn

And they all stood motionless on the bridge on the river
Feeling the world move below them
(and the turquoise fish glimmer, sun streaked, reflective beauty)
as some wild cosmic dance spins onwards
in the blackness of something or nothing

Where are your moonlight serenades now
or when do your flowers run dry
and how did you survive on these streets
as all these monsters pass by?

Faded lights fall on frozen grass, under the floodlights on the field
outside the window of a fifth floor dorm
The lazy hazed days were long, amazed at the songs, they lay
all along the bed frame and where the mattress touched the wall
Where he ran hands across her perfect thighs
and she reciprocated, biting her lip
Between the sheets the warm air permeated, to the cold room
and these young bodies melt, or drift with each other
or perhaps it's fire, perhaps like water
There as lips caress lips and as eyes watch eyes
and as wordless reveries become satiated seamless scents
of two stars nestled into each other
and as creaks of the bed springs turn to shrieks of pleasure
the whole light disappears into a crescent one over the horizon
They two, moaning together, playing together
Some wild innocence with animalistic tendencies
they bite and clutch, bodies bunched into *****
falling over each other
and into another
till kisses turn to licks
and he raises his head from between those thighs
and smiles in her eyes
and asks if she is having fun

I was never your protector, you abused my stoic nature
Madcap ****** for days on end, and copious substances, abused
The blaring music, disturbing the peace, rattling windows
and you dismantled my structure, and yours alongside it
I am just a house

I was never the crutch you needed, nor was I a friend
Remember those long nights on the town with raving girls
and you were irate when I fell to the floor; rich man's art piece
Now you snivel and scratch because you flushed me in haste
I am just *******

Pair me up with old white friends in speedball imprudence
Meticulous measurements in early days but you grew reckless
Now your ghastly macabre silhouette on back alley walls
Is all that remains in this dead town that you still saunter in
I am just ******

You put too much emphasis on me, to defend the sentient
and you stare me down on the kitchen table, questioning
You hold me close and I feel your brow, indecisiveness
and now I'm caressing your temple; bemoaning barrel
I am just a gun

You sit and attribute voices to the voiceless and inanimate
because for years you have repressed your depression
When you should have asked for help and not escapism
and today you end it all, alone and weeping for something you know not what
I am just your psyche

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

Only several days before we met, I had killed myself several times
Each one for a sin on my soul, repentant death of the ego
And the trees on my grave were hung in joyous apathy
You were neither man nor woman, yet a person all the same
and your hair was smiling

The objective Slavic King was foreboding but intrigued
and you pained to be affectionate
I feigned the aptitude to appease the master
While you danced around the wizard in robes
but the children had no faces

The spectrum gave way to the memories of childhood despair
The dying chair and the wooden man that beat against dun windows
Mossy branches were groping hands that felt the insecurities
and I lay bare in mourning winter air

Still those whistles sing for fallen queens that litter stray beds
The misguided steed in the blacksmith's den, asking for another fix
and the inanimate table that miraculously walked away
They were all there in my vivid nightmare
But you were safe in the rubber box built by nimble giants
and your mother cried alkaline tears

It was cursed pain that you felt
But the horses of your marriage fled for the fields
and you were left there in Novosibirsk
With a silver coin pressed to your chest
And I, lay lonesome in Saratov
'neath the blackening skies
On a wall in Kryty Square

How empty the feeling
of standing under broken skies
when the moonlight beckons all those lonesome, home
Or how the baggies breach branches on the oak trees
on a park before town
where empty beer cans swivel in brilliant winds
and kids dare not go
for the guns come out in droves
- firing squad of the soul

Forgive such indifference, sat beneath a peach tree shaded
Cocksure, word of mouth, rambling through the straw
Squirrel gnaws bark on the ground, and leaps away vibrant
The sun was wild, in the sky she sings
The heat she brings, Mother watching, smiles
Sir, did you see the Big Sur. Sure did, young sir
Australia weeps for she misses the heroine in a green dress
- and with spry wrangling hands, gliding from a cliff-top
The endlessly named Mrs of the fire does soar
Forever on the shore
Forever and some more

Turn to the moon and remember how she swooned
Mother nature's child, oasis in the wooded world
Long leaves of the languid days
Beneath the peach tree she lays
Lighter in the breeze, swinging chaotic
In voluptuous trees, she's symbiotic
The new sensation of grass at your back
When the cold brick saloon in memoriam
is only Sunday's idea of boredom
and the grasshoppers are chirping
and now the city is quiet
For it waits, for her

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

In nature, as in civilised homes, there is evidence of conformity
      That only significant study would make apparent,
      but his studies were suspicious and neighbours would talk

The nose is bleeding and his pretty song is skipping
on the jukebox by the bathroom door
Anhedonia now is constant, the pathos inherent
As their mother went missing years ago
While they read Proust by the window,
and the day was drawing closed
Their father was sick with Absinthe shakes
whilst little duck starved in the pond behind the house

On disagreeable days,
profound introspection
becomes not more than
subversive ******-babble
and the words he speaks
are dust on the tongue
a bother and little more

Purported to be perpetually depressed, his cool demeanor left an impression
on his sister, as she would gaze upwards at his face, displaying world-weariness
So Weltschmerz they called him and his cool was palpable
but only her smile could bring colour to his fa-

What mysticism is this, that the bluebird fly by my window
  and wake me from peaceful slumber
That the apathy of a summers day can be repulsive to the few
  who fail to appreciate the eternal beauty of rest
That juggernaut engines rail by the sidings of the city
  and shake the Earth that mothers our day
Or that persistent devices buzz and ring and beep and cry
  on the tabletop by the window, as the bluebird fly by

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

I've decided to write a novel because that's what Father John sings about
(my only reality is a vicarious one)
I shall sing the words through a pine tree, caterwauling
(social media passes for inspiration in my wilted mind)
But Kerouac's stream of conscious prose appeals too
(plans often deteriorate so freewheeling seems apt)
My biggest problem though, is my inherent inability to write anything of substance
(and my poetry leaves little to desire)
Cognitive dissonance can be a brutal *****
(my warring mind never ceases to distract me)
I'm tired of forcing words from my brain
(i'm going to lay down and read)

- From the trees, from the trees
I hear the solemn breeze
(A soft whisper, loving, sage)
Enough to bring me to my knees
It's a precious thing to have
(In this lonely age) -

The game played no longer how it once was
No votes on new posts
don't check the trends
or check your own for views and comments
The substantive roaming data of broken WiFi connections
Mangle your jangling words, hide your swollen faces behind forced smiles, Rembrandt bastardisations or smeared oil paintings of the black soul(less) beasts that lurk in satiate tree shadows fawned over the lawnmower blue cycle rinse washed acid soaked daydream ***** slap nation
So you revere the works once read on poetical facsimile sites
only to smear words of younger wordsmith wrangled teen angst
and now in your age and ardor it seems advantageous to judge
But then that will leave you hollow inside
or in fact, you could jump from a tall building only to bounce off the concrete into a children's pool and drown there in three inches of **** coloured rain water
But so instead the workload decreases as your dementia bedpost nightmares
all come aflutter
The laced lily white throng of petal pinched patterns masks
the marked men on their dusty knees
There, watch how heads explode
or listen to foley artists rendering the lacquered finish of the watermelon headjuice
Make up words
or make up lies
Wear make-up daily, earn some prize
or don't
I don't care
idc
idk
Resemble rhyme or reason
Disassemble the times and season
Return to pejorative pretensions, rants in verse verse verse verse prose format and **** the rest
Or simply return to the old ways of playing the game
Upvote this, and maybe they'll take interest
Comment here
return one there
Use tags, hashtags, wash rags, fat slags, arm chair fat cats
But always separated by spaces, prettyblankspaces
No, I don't do slam poetry, I'm too white and not nearly rich enough to not care
Reassemble the times and season, maybe make sense of it
Maybe not
Just don't let them become a passing trend, please

"With great dissatisfaction we propose to you a truce,
and further too, we relay to you, the lands of proof
In return all that we ask of you,
is to burn the land through,
and accept our lies as truth."

It was a lonesome room with little light
Men in suits, talking business and the like
Arab desert bombing, the news is very trite
Lack of remorse for families needing to fight
And the old men in suits care not, tonight
After bank statement perusing,
there's little left for sight

Cathedral bloodied, baron and besmirched
But by the hands of holy men that walk this Earth
We needn't look far to find the dirt
of deceitful white men, with desires so perverse

"I carry the star on the heel of beaten boots, the beet red road longs for the touch of stars. "

She motioned to her nose and informed him of the blood, he cupped his face before examining the crimson drops and saying “my nose bleeds sometimes, I suppose.” She agreed and walked away, into the corner of the room; she stood there and took a sip of beer. He held his hand beneath his nose for what seemed like 4 minutes but was actually only two. The blood began to pool and he sauntered to the kitchen and then turned around and went to the bathroom and closed the door.

Outside the apartment block were two lovers. Kissing under starry smiles as the broken door swings wide.

Staring into the vastness of the starry skies, he could see that all was lost and without thought or pause, held the barrel to his skull and pulled the trigger. Upon witnessing such an unprovoked and horrifying scene she ran from the car and held his body close to her breast, removing the gun from the ground on which it lay. She mimicked her lover’s action and ceased to exist along with him.

(It was all a dream.)

They held each other close, with heads together and a murmuring sigh from each of their stomachs. He mumbled into her ear “I promise I won’t look back.” Starting again on his journey, gently rejecting her body from his and refusing to make eye contact our traveler took to the cornfields, marching with intent and brushing aside the vast bushels as if he were a human scythe but he hesitated as he reached the great fence at the edge of the property; standing still he fought himself with a rigorous internal monologue before turning his head half way. She looked on with angst and hoped he wouldn’t turn fully. As he reached the point of seeing the house from the corner of his eye he snapped his head forward and gallantly marched into the woods and eventually to the desolate road from which he ventured a week earlier. The scent of Emilia in his nostrils, the finest ******* he had ever abused, the sweetest cacophony of noise, her voice in his ears, ringing like so many bells on the shore of some obscure beach in Britain. His thoughts turn to home and a solemn sigh was enough to shake, rattle, destroy his brittle bones and cause him to fall to his knees on the dusty road, screaming out to the clouds above him; wishing his mother was by his side. Tristan was lonely and the sadness of a life alone crept over him and held his shoulders in a way no person ever could or would.

He woke up and the voice on telephone that was curiously at his ear told him that his mother was dead. He went back to sleep. He woke again and wrote a novel. He then deleted the files from his computer and went for a walk in the park as that used to ease his depression during childhood. The trees were black and the sky was still blue. It was odd, and his nose was bleeding. Back home he woke up the computer from its dormant state and opened various sites in a cyclical manner. The hours passed and his back began to hurt. It was 7:43AM and the computer monitor became inexplicably brighter as the sun followed suit, pushing through the faded curtains and seeping through the gap and onto the wooden floor. He refreshed the web page and sighed. Nothing was happening. The world was over. He sat straight and slumped over before dragging himself across the room and falling from the chair to his bed. Asleep again and no dreams were had.

The world outside the window stood grey and as motionless as the icy waters when Lethe freezes over. The world outside is dead. All of these people are now one.

I shift swiftly from the window sill
Fearless after forlorn grievances
Hey Taylor you have me believin'
Failed love stories, you're just teasin'

Eighteen years and I reached maturity
Listened to your ballads, felt amorous
I can't ask that you'll write me a song
I must confess, I think of you all day long

I want you to see me, white horse mounted
Rescue you from a life rebounding
I raise a hand and pray to the lord
But you're the reason for the teardrops on my keyboard

Why can't you see... me?
Are we meant to be?
I would hold your hand,
let your soul fly free.

Thirteen androgynous men and women, dressed in pressed black suits, like some swarm of government bees, stoically entered the dilapidated school bus with solemn disregard for the general mass of people surrounding them in the California street, and the sun was shining. An ecclesiastic figure, swathed in purple robes with wild glittering gleaming beads adorned across the body, stepped forth from the shadows of a cluster of palm trees; it wore an incredible mask, damask as a rose with intricate golden patterns around the cheek and toward the forehead of which was embellished with an etched geometric pattern that seemed to resemble a flower and faint lines that would require a keen eye to be seen and elaborated upon. The hood was up and formed a velveteen waterfall at the back of the head, as it crumpled over, though it was probably designed to look that way. As each member of the secretive yet oddly unconcealed cult traipsed onto the growling, garish yellow bus, the pensive figure gazed on and regally followed the group, taking a place at the back, holding a staff with arms crossed, and the rest sat coldly, staring ahead, unblinking and sedate. The hours passed under the drab desert sun as a singular cloud passed overhead and gradually dissipated into invisible vapours that fell gradually into the densely blue backdrop of the California sky. The old school bus chortled along the deep black road, with pristine lemon lines hugging the left-hand wheels and a driver as stoic as the passengers. There, in the desert, amongst the snakes and the saltbush, a rusted old bus, full of strangers had parked, and with little fuss the suited men and women reached below their seats and removed a piece, they exited in an orderly fashion with eyes fixed ahead and hands immovable from their guns, gripped tightly as if life itself was within those guns. Colt M1911 to be exact. Every gun, though not obvious to an outsider, was loaded with a single bullet (230 gr Federal HST) and cocked, with the manual safety on. Each of the silent group had left the bus, with their apparent leader at the back of the line, holding the staff and the driver stayed seated with the engine off and staring straight ahead into the vast expanse of the sandy hell ahead of him. Twenty metres from the stationary bus, the man and women formed a perfect circle, each were standing a little over an arms distance from the next person. The robed figure took centre stage and uncrossed its arms, the staff outstretched in the left hand. A magnificent golden rod, a thousand etched stories from base to tip, each one emblazoned with fantastical jewels, this staff could belong to a Queen, a King, a God. The followers were still silent, and still stoic, despite the glaring sunlight reflected from every wild diamond and ruby on the majestic phallus like object. The masked person made a crude attempt to engage a member of the round by walking before them in a cyclical fashion, making eye contact with each but none did move, nor bat an eye. Finally it took its place, back at the centre of the circle and made an unholy sound that sounded as if the Devil himself were dying. Garbled words and unnatural screeches thronged from the unmoving masks mouth piece before suddenly falling silent and it raised the staff higher before striking the earth with passionate fury, and this led a simultaneous movement from the centralised hive mind as they each removed the safety from the own weapons. A single shrill scream echoed across the valley and a second strike to the ground from the staff was the indicator to raise the guns to the person to the immediate right. No noise was made, but a third strike of the staff to the desolate, cracked ground caused thirteen concurrent shots to ring across the arid lands, followed by thirteen solid thuds and a ghostly silence fell across the desert once more. A perfect circle of death among the cacti and Kangaroo rat, and the silence finally broken by the starting engine of a school bus as the driver awakens from his trance and returns back to an apparently civilised world. The fine figure gently steps over a corpse and lifts its robe so as not to disturb the pooling blood before sauntering into the basin of a lonesome American desert and fading into obscurity.

The jukebox plays that old time swing
What a wild sound, a jumping fling
I've got it bad today, a fever for you
Think of us, when I'm feeling blue
Sinatra say that having it bad,
Well it ain't good and I'm so glad

So when I'm down and out, I'll turn you on
That old timey jazz, for me it's the only one

Art Tatum I'll turn you up loud
Swanky Szabo, amasses a crowd
Slim Gaillard, that crazy sound
Teagarden's trombone all around
Mingus and Ayler, Rollins and Miles
Dalindeo and Niechęć all those styles

I'll dance the moonlight serenade
and these hepcats, will never fade
Dry up daddy-o and focus on sanity
Sonny still struttin' with such vanity
Wayne Shorter quartet on a starry night
Jazz has me goofy but feeling alright

I've been feeling grummy for far too long
Remedied with an old Billie Holiday song

The gutter is lined with a thousand neon lights,
flickering in the morning's rising sun
We tied rockets to our wrists
and repeatedly committed a fantastic cosmic suicide
Our legs were bound by masked oppressors on government soil
and we were stoic the whole time and still embraced
Together we watched Pierrot le Fou
but I could only adore her hands in the movie theater dim-light
She always looked as if she'd been crying,
maroon nose sniveled and her pursed lips did glow
And we stood catatonic in low slung dance halls
Satiated.

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

The east bequeaths us life and light.
Many rise from slumber, in agony. Many greet daybreak with compassion and hold the world close as if it were an old friend. The lights of the city shine bright, stars in the day and of the night. A holy cacophony of exuberant sonances.

A million more flashing lights surround us. Another lonely room illuminated with images of pills, sugary snacks and loan sharks.  Disillusioned and malnourished we tread softly on thin plates of ice, ever drifting further from the source of life.
A man flies to Botswana, another to Yamalia. Forever in search of truth, history, refinement and happiness. One lady prays to God, another preys on a new victim. One man dies, another is born. One person writes poetry while another deconstructs the economic and social barriers that prevent many from ideals that, not one man, but many people search for.
To say I am all these people is lie. To say we are all the same would be a bigger lie. But to say we all seek truth is undeniable.

In the west, the world rests.
The people of pain lay their tender heads on pillows of self doubt whilst their counterparts caress the soft jaw line of the heavenly death. To sleep once more in fleeting rest. The lights of the city shine bright, stars in the day and of the night. Each soft noise amplified tenfold in the vacant sprawling streets, tinged orange and creaking like so many spirits tied to the eternal noose.

Tell me please, did the virginal angel take your hand and walk you through the narrow corridor of dreams and death? Did she tell of of your fate, your future and your meaning? Did she kiss your solemn lips and allow you to place your head to her *****?

O mother of the Earth, tell me your grandiose plan. Am I a cog placed concisely in the machinery of life or am I merely a superfluous button on the vest of some ancient God?

Spoken once in dissonant transient prayers. The mind incapable of rest continues to conjure images so appealing and yet so ghastly. Flight and failure, love and despair. Each one fades upon the first light of morning.
Waking in despondency,
fingers smeared across red, stinging eyes,
thick crimson lines betray your mind.
The first lie is told as we raise our heavy heads,
allow the light from the east to guide you on your daily path,
and let the lies cascade from windows, rooftops, trees and great unholy structures.


                                                                  I lie to myself each morning.
I am you, you are simultaneously  him and her, she is I and I am her. He is I, I am him and he shall always be we.
The angels speak of all their plans in great halls of marble and ice. The swords and shields of a million warriors line the walls. Books of a million more great people are the furnishings in such a palace. The great waterfalls provide the purist of refreshment to the guests of the seraph. Mountains and catacombs alike, are the ornaments of this great hearth. A billion buzzing beings attract the attention of a distant messenger.
                                                                      For today we shall learn.
                                                                                      ∞

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

There's a solitary sadness in my soul when I think of you
and him, touching you the way I should have
I happened upon your pictures on the internet and cried
because you seem happy, in a way I could never have made you
Remember the late nights, sleep deprivation, voice messages and pixels
Remember me as the boy that adored you, amorous and angst-free
I think about you still, daily, years later, after our odyssey
You lied, a lot, I understand though, of course I do
I just wish it had been me, that bore you children,
and entered into that classic institution of which I had no interest before you
Please, I hope you remember me, as I remember you, the time of day
Today I am depressed and wish you were here
Today I feel as if you know
and today I still love you.

Does he make you happy
If so I shall leave
If not I'll leave anyway, for what else can I do
When love has closed it's door, boarded the windows and turned on the sprinklers
Everyday I **** another memory of you, sacrificially
It's easy to do when you have a substance addiction
The ****** makes it easier to breathe since I no longer have you
Lonely robot, lonely boy, bruised synapse and broken spirit
Another tab will ease the pain
Another shot, one less to gain
Taping on a keyboard
Fruitlessly I came.

The colours ran psychedelic in the drear night skies
above a ramshackle house on a country lane
He heard music from the open windows
it was meandering and opaque
Myriad drones flew from a cellar door in the backyard
and a burnt out Chevy housed a family of snakes in the front
"Understand that when you enter-"
A voice came haunted, from a tree in the yard
"... that you will be forever changed"
The door fell from it's hinge, and made no sound on the deck
Everyone was ghosts, pale eyes sunken, yet absurdly alive
Preachers and pragmatists drank beers in the bathroom
discussing Plotinus and Pleiades
Rainbow haired women ran through the walls,
wailing some transient ecstasy and crashing to the floor
eating wildflowers and berries
All eyes washed, acid dipped dreams, screams, it seems, that they were all-
"Hello my name is forgotten"
"Hello, I've forgotten your name"
"Goodbye I must be returning home now"
"Goodbye? But you're already there."

The wooden paneled walls started to peel in the August[ine] humidity
but they kept singing love songs in the kitchen
as the toast burned in the sink
Eat more kosher meat, kid
Hi my name is Doner
But what's in a name really
They squat and lunge in harmonic deviancy
Though by the statuesque running man poses, the dance-floors of hydrodynamic and hydroponic release and reconnaissance were blasted by the man of zen, but only in his third eye, the eye that saw it all

The floors started to bleed, some toxic glue
and the shoes of a tribe were lost there, nobody cared
Bloodied scepter of the soul, rapier of wit
Oh how cruel the searing whip of understanding
and falling away from reality with every dip of stick in candy coloured goo

The morning sun also rose, rosy fingered...
It's all been said before
search for answers on the bathroom floor
or muddied ground
or in the sullied unsound

It's far from profound
because when the night was over
The house was nowhere to be found

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 transient nightfall lingers on worn clothes draped over forlorn branches and magnetic pulses pull the once ebbing forest into the singularity
The traveler astounded looks upwards as the skies sing the Earth eclectic
Possums and pretty leaves settle
the river rolls backwards
- imitation of time

Her body felt warm by the asphalt's dark light gleaming
and his body felt tired; aching bones whimper
Fizzy hollows cower, turn to you, and speak some avid gospel

Remember your immortality is limited
but tonight we fly
and fall

This is how it feels
  When the embrace of flaxen foe feeds the eternal encumbrance of esotericism
  When dark locks clamber through foggy basins, up river banks and over foliage of the forest floor
  When the name on a thousand lips is vivid yet inscrutable, how you pronounced the consonants under the bank's stale light
  When the masquerade ends and we're imprisoned in a kiss
  When the dusty moon places a celestial hand on yours, and sighs, for the night one day may never return
  When you danced naked under cherry coloured clouds and the rains beguiled the flesh of your breast

Remember to never forget
as the harsh morning sun will make amnesiacs of us all

Arkansas skies, endlessly wise and wider than the bluest tide
Dam closed so **** close to the edge, bullishness of the blueish hue
Borders of the borderland shuffles eastbound,
walls get built and torn back down
To see a thousand sunsets, grows tiring
Turn my back, decision made to see no more

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

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.

Defective synapse
broken
              relapse
In the club
turned all the way up
and nowhere to go that can be called home
Turn a *****
Dab dab draw
Break mirrors
                        /memories
Icy breath
Dicey left
The corner-boy man-child sweet-teen sensation
Reciprocation of deprecation
Juice twos ***** loose lose the news today
Break mirrors
                        /realities

A rhythmic whipping of winds on the pine trees,
Mescaline mind, staring through tawny windows and thinking of America
  That easy breezy, ****** wind again, blowing blow from laps of men
  Tripping on paving slabs, adobe piles and rubble pouring through city streets
  Thorny throned king calls out his wife's name
No response, no reprise, water fills the eyes of the owl as he watches
  A lizard through the grass with no legs, and the oxford comma blues
  A rider on horseback, gallop through the gully, hair screaming, maddening flights
  Frightening nights in the Texas desert as consumptive creatures crawl on broken sand
Feel the eyes of the devil, searing the seer
  and the car that once roamed gaily now fails daily
  Left in bereavement on the side of a road
  Crying into calloused hands, wailing for the whale's lost daughter
Sea-dive, see me dive, watch me drive, across country, to a home I will know
When I see it.

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

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

She sat and watched the translucent orange leaf fall
and with it every aspiration of her ego
She noted the way the dull morning sun shone through it
  
Ego and leaf alike

Her house is a happy one
Sisters smile
baking cakes when autumn appears
Brothers smile
when furtive grass rises in the spring
Her life is a happy one

She sat and watched the fire burn
cutting her own hair
and whistling

Her song was happy too, as the dwindling dream faded and the afternoon moon shied away
fears once ever present now vapour on crisp dewy winter evening breezes


He sat and watched her trace faces in the air
with a delicate finger
And he drew her face in his mind with ease

His self collapsing

His house is a happy one
Father smile
playing raucous games in the summer epoch
Mother smile
huddled with baby on winter snapshot days
His life is a happy one

His words were happy too, as he scribbled on ragged notepads whilst the wind blew
and so many newspapers broke free from the vendor by the statue


(Though they can't shake that one impression
of the world dematerialising before them
and the prolonging of time
in the interim ghost world
of lost memories
and sadness
on DMT)


I saw them rise on a January morning, lights cascading over treetops
Flittering life and love combined in sun-drenched washed out skies
watching them floating so high
and their smiles were new stars
a transcendent tenderness
that I was in awe of
and still am

Repressed sadness manipulated into shapes
when they made love in the sky
Every bleak memory of their time dissipated
and the cityscape below began to bloom
All industry halted, a million stood and watched
as new life radiated around them

Convoluted linear time was now disrupted
All events in history, happened simultaneously
The birth and death of a cosmos
Captured in a kiss

Under stone lamp posts he took me by the hand
Walk little boy I'll make you understand
God has chosen you to be the man
God has chosen you to wear his crown

Broken through barriers, the road is quiet
The path that we travel is clear and bright
God has chosen me to be the man
God has chosen me wear the crown

Lectures in the forecourt they gathered round
Come little girl and hold my hand
God has chosen you, it's his command
God has brought you here to understand

The fields turn red in distracting light
The soldiers have arrived to heed the fight
God has chosen them to make a stand
God has chosen me to protect his lambs

Burning battle fields turn to rivers of blood
God speaks to me through the wood
God has chosen me I still believe
God told me that I must leave

God will carry me into the light
God will hold me through the night

Sombre is the morning, dew underfoot
Crying are the mothers, for their fallen sons
God feels distant when I ask for help
God only cares about himself

Ceremony dances in the pale twilight
Cups full of juice for the lambs tonight
God carries me home, I still believe
God had chosen me to take lead

Distant are the screams as I fall to sleep
Distant are the voices that chose me

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

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.

The words are cement that stick to my tongue and the roof of my mouth
Molasses is the apathy that oozes from every pore of my beaten body[1]
I watched a man enter the bus, the same time, everyday, his wife waited
Today she was not there
His ring too, was gone[2]

I grow tired of writing, as I grew tired of speaking years previous
Semantic satiation of my everyday life
and I lost the will to live

There is no form, or rhythm
A shame considering the beauty of language[3]

She sits and stares through the wan window and wonders[4]

I avoid eye contact, physical contact
I refuse to acknowledge your existence
Solipsist *******[5]

What does it feel like to **** a man?
It hurts.[6]

...and the needle dangling, I fall out

Scrambled thoughts of an addict, convulsing, cursing, begging for that redemption.
The golden mistress beckons through dank alleys.
Trees and cars and man-made structures are no shield for the siren song.
Wringing hands, rubbing necks and itching forearms, I need that fix.
Blood spots on the sleeve.

Oh how my teeth cry out,
My arms plead with me,
The legs I abuse, stand rigid but ready to falter.
Feet stumble on ragged carpets,
My back arches and twists, aches and itches,
Eyes dart back and forth, are you my saviour?

Hand me the bag, there shall be no trouble
I'm too weak to escape you.
Snatching, grabbing, thrusting cash and powdered death from one ***** pair of hands to another
The trade off. I thank you my friend, until tomorrow.

Broken down, malting carpets
Stained mattress, I love you
The pealing paper and rotting stench
I love you too

My hands shake, fix me.

Oh the pleasure. Imagine if we were to erase that pain beforehand. Free me from my past. Euphoria.
.
.
.
..
...and the needle dangling, I fall out
.
.
.
..
...Scrambled thoughts of an addict, convulsing, cursing, begging for that redemption ad infinitum.

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.

Great Britain, fantastic Britain, incredible Britain
You're making me sad

How many lives in the name, and religion how do you fare
When parliament crumbles, like fantastic hash
And the heroes are on ******
Dying in the street
But are they heroes?

Poor Britain, lonely Britain, disparaging Britain
Your lights are all dim

Atheist populace, defending Christian beliefs
and shaming Islam with wild generalisations
The BNP are a joke or a Greek tragedy
and I laugh through acerbic tears
It's pitiable

Bleak Britain, brisk Britain, despairing Britain
Are you happy with yourself?

Fight in foreign lands, maim those trivial children
and keep that payola rolling, we depend on death
Complex industry, the military it is, and we follow
Always follow, follow follow, follow

Britain, Britain, Britain
Blindly patriotic