i'm not Agatha Christie in terms of volume,
but i still feel a sickness
      when i'm the foetus
    and someone cuts my hands off
          that are attached to the umbilical cord
that's the mother that's the keyboard that's
    the cyber web, and what not.
i guess it's unforced haiku incision:
    poetry or how to keep a **** in yer ***
in a crowded train...
           they always say that: keep it to yer self...
true that, but when it's waking up in the early
morn and ******* hangover, even the Chinese
poets would applaud the effort...
                     excusing the pristine haiku and rhyme
and getting knee deep in **** -
sure i could have become an engineer
or an Apple pioneer talking about a revolution  
that never ends but actually ends when the next
revision pops up on the speedy shly
               for all 'tings said: Sean was always going
to say all things, a little bit shooner...
      Mish Tooshpencepenny -
                        he does say money-penny, against the obvious,
total badass spy work, that is.
the clocks are dead, the blinds are up, but it feels
like morning, as i lie in bed i know
it's the morning sun knocking on my eyes:
it's less dictatorial, actually everything feels less
dicta, there is no need to pass on the information
of any kind, imagine: morning sun and all the things
that desire for everything to be less rummaging -
the morning sun, a sketch of how it actually feels less
intrusive than what the hell happens in the afternoon...
to be exact, half past ten a.m.,
squash and contemplation of the anti-gentlemanly
consideration of a "stop the quirk **** reroute epi",
lapse into the metabolism, like any addiction:
worthy the romance, bro.
                       and no doctor could write a better prescription,
doctors are famous for their chicken-scratching
type of handwriting, they're one and truly kindred
to be in the white-pill mafia with only pharmacists
able to decipher what is generally thought to be a cipher
morse code...
                          now, if you ask me, i see a poem like
this and think: also a prescription,
              but less white-pill blue-pill and more a hook and
an offshoot for any analogous or otherwise narrative
in a person's daily hygiene / narrative;
i don't know, you might read this and automatically suggest
to yourself that you swallowed an octopus,
                 or that you drank some consecrated holy water
out of the benediction urn in a church...
                 whatever i did, i still remembered my first
lesson in sign language in a primary school playground,
five steps to say it:
a. left palm canvas
                   with index and ******* paintbrush
      slap
b. as           above, although reversed, slap with
         knuckle side of fingers
c. wedge a V / Y          of the index and middle
                            fingers to the side of the canvas (palm)
d. then make a fist and thump it against the palm,
e. the raise your thumb with the fist still intact
           and move it away from the left palm....
psst....
           you just said: y don't you f off?!
                                               oh not personally,
i'm just teaching you sign-language i learned as a kid,
passing on the genes, as it were....
                                             either that or it's me lying
in bed trying to think whether my body is the parasite
with a finite contract, or my ego is a parasite with
a deluded infinite contract - well mascarpone macaroons
to you too... don't know, just felt like saying,
what with the killer clown craze
             and the frivolous: ever dance with the devil
in the pale moonlight?             stance of the old waggler
being all hushy hushy, and not so much pushy pushy
in a public debate; for your eyes only ta d'ah!

i moonwalk, halo skewed and shredded.
sleep talk, mouth twisted, heart burning.

i am not an astronaut or an angel
or a small child- not anymore.

i used to be ethereal with stars in my eyes.
i used to be young and full of promise.

(promise me you see the gold
promise me you won't go blind)

i fall forward, my face buried in imagination,
i haul the sword, to cut this heart in half.

i'm not a soldier, or a courtier
or whole, i never was.

but i used to be ethereal.
oh!

i used to be, i used to be, i used to be...

there’s no real gold, but this kind is for fools like us who don’t know any better.

you make me feel like the world is ending, so i allow you to smile at me. i let you hug me and ask if i’m okay. i say yes. i’m just tired. but there’s so much i don’t tell you: how your baby blue eyes make me feel like everything is crashing and burning, how when you hug me, i feel like we’ve made a fire in antarctica (something warm in this cold warzone of a world).

stop worshiping young gods, false gods, no god- this place is not a temple.

you are nothing. i want you to be nothing to me. because the last time i felt like this, i got my heart ripped out of my chest by his pretty, stepped on by reality, and spat on by every person who said, “i told you so.” the stars are my hope, and the sad thing is that all of those stars are already dead. maybe it’s troubling to think about it that way, but it’s all that i’ve got. but with these hopes and my fears i can’t be free.

i’ve got petrichor trapped in a bottle, and melancholy in my eyes and they sing hallelujah.*

i tell my friend that i like the way you smell in the morning. for ages i haven’t been able to why. i’ve known you for over a year and only now am i figuring out why. it makes you human. it smells like brand new, clean, and sweat. yes. there’s something beautifully strange in the way your most human attribute is the way you smell after walking to school, but this prison might be the only way i can feel you hold me when you know i’m not okay.

i just want your compass to point you to the home you could find in me

**it doesn't matter anyway