Summer is alive, the barbeque's on fire
But I aspire,
to be far away
There are children screaming all hours
along the sweltered streets
and cars breeze by, families get high
Lawn mower doldrum paradise paradoxes
I look at flight information on a melting monitor
Enter bank details
and the system crashes
I'll never escape
Three generations pass the window,
chuff away on branded cigarettes
These are truly the end of times
The claustrophobic city closes in
and I'm gasping for breath
through the intermittent smoke rings
That I am exhaling into the sky
The societal construct of monetary systems
keeps me imprisoned not only in the town of my birth
but in the mind of myself, a jail of superficial self-annihilation
I am consumed by I
Ego choke-hold, harder to breathe in the heat
Harder to pound these city streets
We need that cash, we need that (government) cheese
We need freedom of wealth to breathe with ease
I feel like Hannah, turning towards prostitution
or Malcolm in subversive ****** and sadomasochism
I feel like dying
I feel like the drifting away
I feel something
I feel it, I swear
Today I am here
But I feel like I should be elsewhere

Fiery orange hairs slick with diamonds
Palms outstretched for a tender touch
Oh stable stalk that holds you tall
And your heaven sent pungent scent
Fresh cut grass of the farmer's field
or the hill I would sit upon before school
with you, sweet Mary Jane

For you were love when love was disparate
And you were there when I was desperate
A comforting touch from my budding queen
Waking me from my daze in the mid afternoon
With an heir of liberation from my solitude
So I shall reap my crops, with love for you
And savour your taste as I lay in your luminescence

Dear friend of my Mother and Father
Joint matrimony of the empathetic soul
You and I as he and she, earthly glory
and your all encompassing embrace
For I am but a lovelorn soul,
and you were always there for me

Down
Midnight shoreline, down
Where the horizon meets the sky
We go down

Towards
Meager but eager, towards
Forever inching away from the lie
Moving towards

[The cold shower wakes you from slumber land
where the clouds were only vapour
and their atom bomb, shell casing suicide shitstorm
was but a nightmare in the mind of the Monarch larvae]

You could buy stocks in Halliburton
make a cool mil
Profit from the prophet, manufacture more than hate
Hollow tips, shallow hipped ***** on the pixel paradigm ***** site
Third eye magistrate, legislation of the pallid nation
Awe-struck in a hazy daze of bullet hole days
Don't ******* play with me, sunshine
David still has his **** in the mouth of a pig
and his own mouth on the great **** of Israel

{REDACTED VERSE}

So we go

Down
Midnight shoreline, down
Where the horizon meets the sky
We go down to baseline loneliness of the soul
and tear our clothes from the vessels we sold

Down we go, to watch the world end

The bass hits hard in the back seat of a car
Passing zoots back & forth, here we are
Hoods up, the man dem looking for war
Pistol gripped, left hand, and we're sure
Trying to **** a man tonight for the cause
Man got the cash, that's right, that's ours
Trying to get that food for the fight, for the boys
Animals in black masks holding their toys

Orders from above as we arrive at the spot
To the place where the man-a get popped
Shifty looking bloke in a hood, we've been clocked
Every man rush from the car on the block
Running with the crew with my hand on my... glock
Round the corner, right towards the shops
At that point the man we pursue just stops
At that point all we hear is gun shots
Rodney got shot, Malcolm got shot
Barry got shot, Marvin got shot
Mans on the roof picking us off like dogs
I let the banger blare, but I know I lost the plot

Took a hasty retreat on my lonesome in the dark
Made a left by the pub and ended up at the park
Man still chasing me, I know they're not far
I need to get back to my crew and the car
I'll probably be dead before I get past the bar
I kept on towards my estate, just to be sure
No long ting, I don't want a grand tour
Shook the man off when I got to my door

But when I got inside, the only thing that I saw
The faces of my dead friends and a land of no law

She told me leave I asked her how long
To wake the leaves I walk all alone
The day is dark and the nights feels distant
Lately I've been sad for no real reason
And the lamppost sighed at the vision
Follow the white road, follow it alone
The brown road is a detour
and you're left needing more

Air in my hair, ere to be here and there
Sniffling, solemn, saddening sarcasm
and the city sleeps, a ******* paid well
With my arms outstretched and wings in my mind
Time to tell the time, time and time again I told lies
It's time that tests my altruistic timbre
The pebbled road is illusive but filled with freedom
and it shall lead you back home

Draping a well-worn shawl that was once a vibrant purple over his tired shoulders,
the pale skinned, grey eyed writer hunched over the battered typewriter
He knew for a second that he was indeed God
Not in any bastardised sense of the word but the truest form
He click-clacked at the keys and made words as if he were the first magician,
tricking the masses with wizardry of the most absurd kind
and preaching his word for them to follow
From the pictures of his mind he tapped away,
creating great monolithic structures and clusters of characters,
each with defined personal traits
Mere seconds before ink blotched paper they existed in no universe, and now,
now they were defined, realised and serving a purpose
God truly does love all his children
Alas we know not of who God truly is
Each group would have you believe a new story,
each sect within those groups would differentiate between themselves
and we are no more enlightened
You see, God is real but only as far as we are real

I
There was once a room. In that room was a deadened fireplace,
beautiful in its marble stature
In front of that lonesome cavity stood a sturdy but small round table,
barely enough room for the slightly oversized candle that sat atop it
Beside the table were two tall sturdy wooden chairs
On one chair sat a tall thin blonde haired man, the other was occupied by an equally tall, equally thin black haired man
The candle was lit and burnt mightily but still failed to light more than two feet in any direction
This meant that neither man was completely visible to the other
Perhaps they intermittently appeared to each other as they adjusted their position in their sturdy seats or as the candle flickered from a phantom breeze
The rest of the room, while rather large, was fairly nondescript, and even less distinguishable when the brazen darkness saturates the walls like a plague on a nation

The black haired man stifled a yawn. “I concur” uttered the blonde haired man.

II
The black haired man leaned back on his chair and rocked forward
The blonde haired man leaned back on his chair and rocked forward
The black haired man leaned further back on his chair and rocked forward
The blonde haired man leaned further back on his chair,
he fell backwards and split his head open

III
There was once a room. In that room was a deadened fireplace,
beautiful in its marble stature
In front of that lonesome cavity stood a sturdy but small round table,
barely enough room for the slightly oversized candle that sat atop it
Beside the table were two tall sturdy wooden chairs
On one chair sat a tall black haired man, the other chair was empty
The rest of the room, while rather large, was fairly nondescript, and even less distinguishable when the brazen darkness saturates the walls like a plague on a nation

The black haired man stifled a yawn.

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.

"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

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

This fine young brood, the native athletes have arrived
We rise, we rise!
To justify great minds and the since forgotten dreamers
Have we arrogance enough to stand, hands clasped
or are we yet more stepping stones for thought?

We tip-tap diagnostic prose on angelic keys
and work as a unit to enrich newer minds
Before we too retreat to darker corners

And I too saunter with relative pace
and catch your casual eye
Struggling to conclude its motive
and hoping to embrace the future.

My fingertips asserting soft pressure upon the concrete allow me to feel how cold and damp my city truly is. The weather is obviously a dead give away, but to truly understand something I feel as though the tactile approach gives one a more accurate picture.
Soft fine drops of precipitation strike my hooded jacket as I pass between streetlights, phone boxes, poles with no signs and signs with no poles. The back alleys feel like home. The bohemians, students and junkies pass by adopting a familiar fixed gaze on the cold, grey ground. Nobody speaks to me, not even once. I revel in that. The pretty girls leaving the hidden college and the ugly men sat upon scaffolding, high above the city, like Gods, Angels, workers. Imagine if one just fell.
I hurry my pace past the crowd that gathered, I'm not a fan. The alley gets darker as the time ticks by and I contemplate time ticking by. Lost in transient intermittent thoughts of pasts, futures and presents of each face that solemnly passes by my own stoic masterpiece. I must get out of this drizzle before it begins to pour.
The poor man stops me once more.
I haven't got the change he needs.

It was in a dream that the bearded man came to me.
"You must come down, my son. You do not belong in the skies."
I was often paralysed by such dreams. I guess I still am.
Unable to call for help, afraid of the heights I could reach,
I'm contained by logic even in dreams.

I'm sorry I can't be what is expected. Expectations are often too high. But I still walk with my hood covering my stoic masterpiece. The sun is dead, the stars too. The crowds dispersed, the pretty girls lost their charm and the men descended from their fixtures to reveal themselves as boorish and dim-witted. A personal problem of my own. Junkies are sheltered in their boarded up flats, while the students tap away on gadgets they hate yet cannot live without. The bohemians dance and talk and sing and love.
I continue to walk softly on the coldest and dampest concrete my city has to offer. Unwilling or unable to interfere with the natural balance.
And so the drizzle turns to a downpour,
the poor man still asks for change,
I'm still unable to provide the change he needs.

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

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.

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

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

Support your local drug dealer, **** your local poets
Protest the local governance
and burn your houses to the ground

We don't need them anymore, not where we're going

So rise to your feet and sweep away the apathy
this is a call to arms, your swollen scarred weather-beaten arms
Take your loved ones and dispel your desires
the Id  and Ego will die soon
and we can bury them beneath the beetroot
blood red desires of the human psyche dissipate
All your instinct are an lies
Here in lies,
a truth you despise
Oh, the world in your eyes
After death, again we can rise

How hard it is to breath when streetlights flicker across the faces of brick houses
and how lucky you must be to sleep below the stars, a new patch every eve
To the girl with high heels clacking on paving slabs, remorseful ears hear all
and with a shimmering bow in your hair the birds do sing in distant trees
- a song of you
What sort of feelings are these, when hedgerow heroics are ignored
and the tin can roofs in some shanty town are rusted, with babies sleeping below
The man with lackadaisical swinging arms is singing to the fruit bats, nighttime solitude
and disabled on his scooter, the obese man sells basketballs at cut prices to teens in tracksuits
- a deal for two
When hydrogen gambling men in suits blow holes in the world and sit back laughing
and when brown eyed rebels sing Allah hu akbar in mountainside dole drum, cavernous bedsits
The seas of some eternal land will rise with cleansing attributes to wash away the ******
and intoxicating blues men sing ballads of the end, with delectable imperatives, scorned by it all
- I will think of you

Rhythmic reiterations and the rats are racing
Pacing, erasing, charging the crowds, bracing
Foul stench waving and vexed kids pacing
Sunshine suicide, the motives need tracing

Milk bottle crashes to the ground so final
Cyanide tears of men at the ******
Crying now, fears, the mother's semifinal
Poison in the veins, poisons tap spinal

Further step back, story needs explaining
Little boy weep as his father keeps caning
Crying over spilled milk, could it be staining
Tears of a boy, bent over, straining, maintaining
The composure in him is slowly draining

A life of campaigning, refraining and engaging,
Little boy sees sunlight painting, so illuminating
And a sunshine suicide is what he's entertaining

I've got **** holes in my ears
and **** holes on my fingers
So every time I drop a ****
The smell, it really lingers

I've got **** holes on my tongue
So every time I french ya
You will get a taste of ****
All over your dentures

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.

Water only runs in the house of a holy man
But the prayers of a parched child are ignored
in favour of the money man's plan
Believe in a God all you want
he won't save you

Nihilism saves valor
Believe in nothing and nothing can hurt you
Those empty symbiotic phrases of the faithless

Listen to the chimes of the ice cream van
and despair at the crimes of a suit and tie man
Crunch of steel in a midnight collision
they collude in hopes of derision

Under desk lamp ambiance, in heated rooms
13th floor apartment blocks
where the doorman knocks
where the doorman knocks

Time and crime again, and lie and try again
Paid protests in the streets
Digest your intellect, removal of a safe space
So that they might turn the power switch

The blackout comes when revenue succumbs


In your ancient catacombs, where matted bandages hang
and drip crimson onto dusty floors
Smeared where they jeered at the death of a democracy

This is the corner of civilisation, torn down and replaced with a bank

There's a dark road near, see it, just there
No lights, just despair, see it, here
Two deer limping, see them, smell the fear
There's a dark road turning so cavalier
That's a compound, there, lives a seer
The despotic cliff face is too sheer
He falls like a tear,
and wearing his bandolier
The fight is over, until the next fiscal year

Tomorrow I will lay on the floor, adjacent to my bed, and think about the stuffed animal I never had as a child.
The day after that I will bang my head against a mime's wall as he gestures with his feet to 'go away and eat three beans.'
Two days after the mime incident I will cry.
The day before I cry, I will not cry.
The day before that I will rest.
Yesterday I will use incorrect syntax to create a piece of post-modern drivel.
In a year I will be born and two decades ago I will listen to a recording of myself typing an masterpiece.

In exactly 1 hour and thirty7 minutes I will.

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

anamelesspoet* · 16 hours ago
The Weary World Traveler
Byron did blush at the faceless one's amour
Strange feeling he'd never experienced before
On the cloud blackened night by the shore
Continue reading...

Lonely and Naked ·  20 hours ago
The Light Sings A Name Majestic
                                                          You're The Light,A Name Sang Majestic
                                                             I Was The Life That You Had Ingested
                                                              This Was A Love Never To Be Tested
                                                                            Continue reading...

sweet princess · 9 hours ago
love and other hugs
i am so alone my bed misses you tonight
oh sweetie i love you - do you love me tonight
i want to look into your blue ocean eyes again tonight
Continue reading...

Daniel.M.Molasses · 19 hours ago
A story as old as thyme
A Kid signing language to his mother's despair
the way moonlight frittered throughout the air
A lost cat prowling to and fro by the gas lamp
Continue reading...

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.

Lonely black lab on the path behind the garages I used to sell crack
Went to the shop, brought some ****, blacked out windows on a cab
spells danger backwards that's Reg Nad
So I'm looking all around me, back at the cash grab
Where old ladies clutch black bags and wear glad rags
I'm not glad lad, '*** the world looking like rag mags
with girls selling soul on corners right now
where their daddies sag lag on the track; Baghdad
where war heroes return home back to the smack
and clap traps where they get and share the clap; sad
or when little kids run to their mummies 'cross roads all alone
to their home that used to be a home but now is a dome for the dome
so food can be put on tables that rust and break and the kids get hurt
child protective services, what's worse
I'll tell you what's worse living in a hearse
or a one berth tent on this Earth where the ones in charge
discredit your worth
or better still when they ignore your very existence
so we're standing here screaming and pleading
bleeding and scheming
because there's no food in the cupboards
quit dreaming
stop the screaming
Lousy demon fiending, feeding the sea men with *****
on seashores the sea's ****** sing hee-haw the horse of remorse
hits the veins and see more the way the see-saw zig-zags
back to the black labs on lagging black paths
behind the garages I used to sell crack

Hell is being drunk before eleven o'clock on a weekday morning
but the shade of some tree is solace in the summer sleeping
He left money on the side counter
so she smoked a bowl as his shadow drifted through the door frame
and she drifted too, only into the bed and back to sleep
crying in her dreams

Since I hugged you on that train platform in Illinois
I know that love can slow the passage of time
and that I need to hold you again

Since we listened to La Dispute and swayed lazy as ghosts at midnight
I feel connected to you in a way unparallelled before in life
and it hurts to be oceans away

Since we kissed under the Arch and fell heavily into bed that night
I am just a love-lorn cliché, composing poems in my head
and never writing them down for fear of embarrassment

Since we lay writhing on trembling beds, as people passed by the door
I am infatuated with you, and everything in your mind
and it scares me sometimes

Since we ran in open fields with dogs at our sides, laughing like children
I have had you in my own mind like bank vault doors, unmovable
and I don't see any reason to even try and move you

Since I left you at that Chicago departure lounge
I finally understand how dying feels
and how bitter my tears truly are

Your Instagram tinted daydream solo self-help projects
are naught compared to the many faces of my Ketamine addled
multi-faceted bed-ridden wasted ****** aesthetic
Bring me my poppers while I can smell them
or get off my ******* rocket ship
These are the bed sores of regret
tinged in tingly jingle-jangle garage rock twattish twee twaddle
Smoke my tea drink my plants, Kratom of the smack recovery
cat come cat-call **** all to be done
the ladders lead to the plateau that the Meat Puppets sang about
Some say I've been away, some that I've been dead
dada said daddy in the monotone voice, slippin' mickeys and mandys in the drinks of the boys and girls for spoils of war
and causalities of the political system
I hope the vote for your preferred pederast is enough to stop *******
or in fact let us turn to your queen so the monarchs can reward the patriarchs that beat the matriarchs and maybe we can sleep a little better tonight
Truth is these four walls are enough of a prison within the prison that I feel free in slavery
Words too imprison the soul, so I stopped using them
implicit in silence
explicit in message
call on your horses
kneel before the great *** of democracy
these are truly the end of days
and her natural milk shall flow through our veins
until the new dawn awakens from solemn slumber
and your faux-intellectual ******* returns to witch doctor ritual seance ******* matador squeaky clean record having gutter-troll reprobate sunshine easy listening solipsist elite country club golf retreat in the hills where you **** the carcass of the empire with your dysfunctioning penises and praise your zionist overlords that mock your ****** hospitality through gritted teeth as they push you over the edge onto the wailing crowds of peasants below where your alien bones crumble to dust and your stagnant coagulated blood oozes into the Earth where it burns like gallons of acidic chemicals and the world rejoices at the sight of fallen greed and toppled regime until the next time it happens again

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.

Stood lonesome beneath the old floodlight
Sweetest embrace, the Gods shone down
Forging great dramas in steel slabs
and returning home with a picture of Hollywood
I, sad-eyed fool, asked after you, and heard nothing
Though, in Benzedrine dreams I was gifted your scent
and awoke to the stench of ******* *****, and the powder dissolved
Ah, I have heard your voice
Yet you ignore mine

The great whale twisted in the alley, with biceps bulging
and tussling with hoodlums we were sent packing,
Awaiting us were the sterile walls of some grande hospital
Lined with officers, their pads and pens at the ready
Beds spinning, squinting under neon, docile
and confused

Bars and bars, from one t' other, flicking roaches into the gutter as we went
and howling at the harlots stood 'neath street lights, flickering
Poisoned in body, poisoned in mind, the spirit on it's way
Brick lanes and paddy wagons, urchins and knock-a-door run
The unshaven dealers, passing poor product to the children
and they, still in uniform, bleary eyed, satchels and sandwiches
We, tied, cuffed, stranded and free

Flags! The flags were a sight, satirical and stupefying
Patriotism always made me chuckle, it being so absurd
Yet her majesty still reigns supreme, have we no shame?
Oh justifiable mockery, tainted our streets, the names we know
How can one free one's country if one is but one person,
and how could one simultaneous be one million?

But even here in this mournful cell that layeth ten feet below, I am free, I may not know it yet, but I am...

Her eyes are in the skies
of the town I grew to despise
The appetite of the mind, seems sublime
but over time...
it all faded, and so the mills stopped turning and like so many machines in the lace houses I too became a sedentary one

The gentle hum of railway hydrogen bombs bicker over sounds of birds in the morning beams of a British summer morn
but along the tarry scarred roads of every little town lay a thousand lonely suicides aided in deeds of governmental scorn
and the requisite notions of sanity are held only to the regards of glossy magazines stacked high in a disappointed dazed newsstands and corner shops
where young kids once stole *******, and snacks, and milk
where lonely old men buy scratchcards and lottery tickets
where the mothers of the young hide their bruised faces in soup can solipsisms
and where the working migrants use ticker-tape guns to price the worthless and mourn their homeland

I saw you, walking lonely as a cloud
William Wordsworth of the wonderful beard
and I saw them laugh and point and deride

I saw you too, in vagabond virility
stalking the girls in summer dresses
down on bended knee, at the bus stop in the heat

I remember the old car, burned out shell
under the bridge near the shops
that I passed before school

who was it too, that I recall
stood by the wall
with eyes to sky, and in some cosmic free fall

and you, who read Proust by the canal
listening to birds twitter
and the gentle wash of ducks paddling nearby

I am all your faces, divisible by none
when the exasperated winds of some folly of the season
comes rushing through the alley by a brick house
and in some provincial moment in time
I believe we are the same
I see you as myself in simultaneous existence

but soon we leave, and in the proverbial ether
my soul will forever be intertwined

Running from the future until the sole is worn
into Abyssinian empiric solitude
Where the only voice that speaks
is the hollow tone of history's fatalism

Destined for the furrowed smile
of luxury's unknown apathy

Growth hormone empath
who sleeps frozen under cosmic abandonment
A chancers change of chanson song
that sweeps the windy street

A vignette of turgid stories
that predict the rising tide of paperless bedsheets

"Do you have the time?"
"It's a quarter past seven"
"My house is on fire"

Wish I was Daniil
Writing absurd poetry
But I am not him

Wrote her a haiku
It was a bad idea
Did it anyway

From Qeshlaq-e Chukhli Quyi Bahadruhamat to Abraham's Woods
(Tom Brown's Schooldays)
William Bleakes' Wind on the Water at Guishan Island
or Telladevarapalli struck by 13424 Margalida
heard in the Somam Rural District by The Monk
So now Minister Samuel Shaw watches Nakshatratharattu
and eats Beef shank taking Action Against Medical Accidents

Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, when the cliff tops call its name with disparaging diatribe? And how do you fare as the undulating waves tell tales of a million generations of fish? I sat there as the days wore on like so many jazz men beating holistic drums and blowing those crazy brass horns as if possessed by the demons of some ancient tribe way out in the Kalahari, masked by the illuminating stares of wonderment and the children in the darkened bar, silent, speculating. I see the waning wood through magnificent trees, behemoths in the dusk skies. I see the ground too, for it is stable and true. As true as one could attest to its objectivity, I often ponder the relevance of truth and whether the whole concept is but a twisted lie fed by the men before us. Quite cruel these thoughts, and barely worthy of the hours I waste. The ocean too speaks truth but its truth is one I have faith in. Sure as I am, sitting here, witnessing the waves as they mourn the changing sands and the rubble they sift, sure as I am, that the gently faltering ripples will retreat before attacking the shore once more. I am sure of these acts, as I am sure that I will die with laughter on my lips and a tear in my eye.
Take your water and let it flow through the bodies of man, take it, take it and do good. Let those clear drops circulate and bring about true knowledge in one and all.
Let your rocks fall to the ground, erosion of the city and decay of the populace. Let them fall with dignity, while we scream from the Atlantic and feel tumultuous waves of apathetic foreboding ripple into our skin and bring us to ******.
These rocks in the sea, these rocks in you… and in me.
Has the land seen distress like its inhabitants, or have they been the harbingers of such malcontent abuse to these fare isles? Have you, You, have you seen the sea when its tranquil repose turns to solemn spite at the ego of the cliff face? I have heard the ocean speak, and it told me to fall to its mercy and ebb into the unified conscious.
Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, or do you too stand with your back to the truth and one leg bowed cocksure over the top of some deteriorating construct?