By Arcassin Burnham




i thouht you were the one,
but instead you were a freight,
i was buried from the sun,
hiding everyday and everynight,
but you and your voicemails,
are really annoying,
you use to paint your nails,
with vanity and suffering,
like jellybeans and m & m's,
they really just dont mix,
its like every direct hit,
is an every direct miss,
you keep calling,
i hate it,
you keep calling,
i hate it.

I never mean to get anyone mad
Some aree just not use to the truth
I'm hoping to a balance but all is outta wack
Would make time both on different schedules
She's ben blessed and experienced more
I might be pursing  her and get hurt
I thouht she was the one
I wanted to be her one too many complication
Never treated her bad but I'm on the end of a damaged heart
If it was easy i d say away
Be better if things went my way
For once there's love and feels right

I didn't see it
Maybe I didn't want to
Just friends I thouht
He was nice, he cared
But he is like the rest, which isn't fair
Telling me I was beautiful, all for something, the warning signs were there
I just didn't want to believe
until once, he persued and I rejected
he didn't like that
and know for 3 months I feel marked
what's a girl to do?

These tears
Speak pain
And
This pen
Bleeds agony
Painting
My journal
With painfull
Colours
I dont know
Whats happening
To us
I couldnt Sleep
Last night
Knowing you're
Angry at me,
Couldnt even
Pick up
The phone
To call you
Because
I dont know
Where
To begin
Or how to explain
Myself,
The pain
Of sleeping
Without
Hearing that sweet
voice of yours
Is just unbearable,
I really dont
Remember
What happened
The night
Before yesterday,
I had too many
Drinks,
I just rember
Us arguing
Over the phone,
I wont even
Tell you
How the argument
Started,
Fingers were
Pointing
Opposite directions,
Agonizing Words
Were uttered,
It was accusations
Left, right
And centre
I know
It wasnt me
Speaking
Bu the alcohol,
Not that im putting
The blame
On alcohol
For my uncalled for
Beahvior,
I just took
Too much
That it started
Controlling me
And
My behavior,
I never thought
My words
Would pierce
Sharper
Than a needle,
Accusing you
Of cheating
When
Im the one
Who broke
Your
Trust and loyalt,
I thouht i saw
The signs
I saw in me
When i started
Cheating
Reflecting
In you
And I was wrong,
Thats what happens
When one cheats,
They start
Suspecting
The other
Of cheating
Whenever they notice
Something different.
What im trying
To say is I opposed
Pain to you
Knowing not
It would do me
More harm,
I know I did you wrong
And accept full
Blame
For everything
Happening
Between us,
Involving myself
With her
Made me
Realise
My survival
Depends on you
And
My soul feeds
On your love,
Your'e
Like the Air
I breath
And
I can not go
Another day
Without you.
Down
On my knees
Unworthy
Of your forgiveness
But I beg
For your forgiveness
I love yo
And
I miss you

Will you forgive me ?

An object can't hear
An object can't see
An object can't breathe
Like you
Or me

What's an object's motives
or deapth of reason to be?

What thoughtfulness, does an Object Have thoughts?
...who am I...
...why am I here...
...how and who should I outta be...
...can I be happy...
...am I sad...

We craft an object
We use an object
We define it's reason and meaning
Why it is and What it should function for

We specialize it's resourcefulness
And squiz out it's worth...until it's?

Useless?
Doesn't work?

Doesn't have the same woth
it used to have?

It's totally in our control
We define how long it should exist
Or how long it's in our presence

An Object we don't like anymore
Or have no care for we lose,...

Forget, dismental, discard, do things with it, without a shameful thouht

Well an Object has no feelings
It's just there
No emotion no motion no tensions
To care about

It doesn't speak
It is always the same
Does always the same it was made for
No smile no hurt

It's there because of you
You chose so
I't doesn't just apear out of nowhere

You baught it
Someone gave it to you
You saw it and wanted it to be yours

You can share an object
You can keep it for yourself
You can show it proudly or destainfuly

What ever you feel to do with it
You do
It won't mind

Well if I think about all this
I guess we can all agree

What an Object really is.

you can count yourself out of the picture
once you've visited a brothel...
   oddly enough: never came an easy girl,
i remember at university
we sat and watched a soft core belly dance
with a few girls
   (with some Sheikhs jerking off in
the background)...
     so one invited me back to her flat,
we smoked **** for a while and then
I started to kiss her...
     borderline necrophilia (metaphor)
given her reply: do you think I'm that
easy?!
    so I replied: can I at least sleep
in your bed? my feet feel like lead.
and so I did... went home during a fresh
morning, had a shower,
                ate some cornflakes and
never met the girl again...
    I thouht that teasing foreplay
while high want about poking
the course 18 times...
                  no big deal,
   it's not that I can suddenly be in
the mood either...
                         too much blood
to the head, very little to the private...
until I stumbled into a brothel
and bypassed the madonna-*****
complex with my genitals and
thought about...
    anything other than emotional
gambling en route to scented candles,
flower petals, a warm bubbly bath
and a cinema date...
   the cow was dragged into
the slaughterhouse,
               the butcher was waiting...
because "they" think that by
infiltrating the university,
they can subsequently infiltrate
   the brothel...
     I agree, tuition fees are an extortion!
can't exactly find **** CULTURE
in a brothel...
                    and always with a good
intention, every time I walked
in I had to check whether I was a *******
or even Quasimodo himself!
       talk about looking behind your
face in a mirror... some sort of
autistic-narcissism...
    just before the mentally ill leave
their childish games of seeking attention
(as, according to a Hindu yogi)...
sure... anti-depressants?
   on my prescription is says:
FOR INSOMNIA...
         apparently not all pills fit one
size...
                 and then back into
radio music, and POP music infatuation...
mmm... LOLLIPOPS!
    candy-floss... and pink unicorns...
before we get on the topic of
clowns... ha ha... imagine
   a fear... of DRAG-QUEENS!
               yes, before the pop pushin'
a last resort of the unsure insane
abusing a metaphor...
   like any politician might...
                             I can almost feel
solidarity with women in their early
30s... I too am going through
an existential crisis...
    spaghetti in the head of a Mintour...
who, once upon the time,
had a map of the labyrinth
in his mind...
    what biological clock?
      I almost hate democracy in the form
of the lessons attributed to
the autocracy of nature...
     and when the people raised their voices...
see... once it might have been much
more intuitive,
    now there's this nagging narrative
behind the whole affair...
    we already know the Beatnik
poets of America desecrated
temple of mescaline by "inviting"
god, of symbols, into what should have
been left, undisturbed, unwritten about,
no need for the tourist in these
parts... one poem on mescaline =
1 hectare of chopped Amazonian trees...
***** is a cheap *****...
all the time in the world to bash
her about, having inherited
such notable predecessors of the art...
just today I spotted a genuine
drunk, red as a beetroot
   dancing a shadow tango with
***** Dionysius... hardly happy
on wine...
                        and no pen in sight...
a drowning man: clinging to
a razor...
               me? on my birthday I have
a moth for company....
      happy birthday me...
                     and me, escape artist in
a brothel, escape from this almost
pointless courting game:
    profiles on dating websites like
disembowled hangmen...
     short-cuts to where?
                       might as well be the one
who always asks the anaesthetian
before an operarion: quo vadis?
       the moth will spend the night
on a curtain, tomorrow i'll **** a lemon
and forget to wash my teeth
scratch my *** and wave at the sun
telling it I'm far from squinting...
           and and and...
     whatever happened to
the punctuation protocol?
       the eyes must have about
six pair of lungs...
                   no... England is a nunnery
and...
      it wasn't exactly giving 110 quid
for an hour of subjectifying a woman
(objectifying a woman during
*******?
what?! with a phobia of a limp dice?!
you have to be kidding,
*** isn't objectification akin
to a pole dance! ribbit...
    kisses a ****** that becomes
the cheapest imagery of a floral
pattern of rose flesh)...
       and if only english language
graduates wrote books or poetry...
we'd all have to be **** by their
standards of having written
essays for the dead...
   but we'd recycle... burn the libraries
which would dwarf the fate
of the library of Baghdad under
the 'ogols, or... whatever the hell
happened to the library of Alexandria...
come to think of it...
    the old testament is such
an unremarkable text....
     but that's expected,
  given the spectacular undercurrent of
events...
       the Koran? a spectacular text...
but the life behind it so generic
that Muhammad looks like
a gimp in latex compared to Genghis...
just another camel jockey / *******...
not to mention the *** note of
the repetitive rhyme during
the salat...
        sheep
     jeep, keep...
      not exactly a bunch of bookworms
with these jihadis?
what do you expect:
    a pyramid like a library consists
of more than one brick / book...
     ******* better start
scribblings something on the Kaaba
and praying for another meteor...
   unlike a woman in her early 30s...
god forbid I have an analogue
budging unconscious motive...
            to leave this joke...
               yes,  and irrelevant 100 years
from now and then...
could have been a skateboarder,
a chess master,
    a footballer or a cobbler...
           or a butcher or a tree herder...
       i'm suspect to a cognitive clock
running dry on me when I hit 35...
after which nonchalance will probably
kick in...
              the spaghetti will become
a sheath of lasagne...
    flat and boorish as far as the eye can see...
never having infested in
the monopoly of fame akin
to Madonna being desperate having missed:
better die young, than to fade away    
       train...
        Rasputin genes me...
     can't, as some people in my life
already said: ****** just won't die...
                             for 5 years have been trying
and yet the locomotive keeps ploughing
on...
              imagine the other glorious heart
akin to Caesar's ideal of sudden...
    ethereal, from a broken heart....
             and I'm sue you won't find people
jealous of those who's necrologue reads:
died, peacefully in his sleep...
   no one is jealous of those who die
in their sleep...
                 refrigerator noise / ambient
music worth of life...
                shallow graves...
                   perhaps the people
who have died in the sleep are the mentally
ill in the afterlife, having lost
touch with the reality of death...
   returning as moguls of ***** bedsheets?

i could really, really, find a purpose
in life, by ******* off
a mystic, like Sadhguru,
which would be nothing short
of spectacular...
      and not for some personal
gratification,
                         but for equilibrium
of some sort...
           notably on the topic
of ailments...
          having studied chemistry
and, oddly enough, gained a degree,
i resorted to a drop-out mentality...
what can you do,
    when your brain becomes your
laboratory...
    and the times when you once
synthesised esters is reduced to
perfecting, a chicken saag recipe...
**** me their cuisine is
breathtaking...
     never mind the mistic...
  apparently the news from India
isn't good...
         Hindus doing Muslims in,
    a ****** is told to do 100 sit-ups
as punishment for ****** a 16 year old...
  hence the mystic simplicity...
     mind you...
    for years I was prescribed
an antidepressant, amitriptyline
(25mg)... but for some strange reason
I treated it like a sleeping pill,
or at least that's what I thouht it was...
blatantly there is an instruction "manual"
for the drug...
                   DO NOT MIX WITH
ALCOHOL... and what does this little chemist
do?
    he mixes it with alcohol...
      the odd naproxen...
     but the question is...
    do most people take antidepressants
before they go to sleep,
    or during the day, before breakfast, etc.?
I'm a ******* cheap-***, can't afford
a laboratory, might as use this
****** fatty-sponge as an alternative...
curiously still:
  Alzheimer is caused by killer protein,
and the pop consensus is:
to train the brain to work as a muscle...
straining it on puzzles...
   mental "exercise"...
      but the yogi is right...
as my res vanus reworking of
the res cogitans suggests:
    perpetual "thinking" is exhausting,
Nietzsche had a macabre take
on things: when the you look into
the abyss...
           seems that, fear,
rather than puzzles,
    can be a greater motivational
artifact, than some banal puzzle in
a newspaper...
                 as much "exercise"
   is achieved by not thinking, than is
achieved by "thinking"...
   example:
               emptiness is substituted
with a cognitive custard when necessitating
a complete brain coordination,
notably when changing lightbulbs
subconsciously thinking about:
  how many blondes it takes to...    
    remembering that you too had blondish
hair, once upon a time worn long...
   oh we can play the words game
with the cited yogi...
     bud-
            (dog kennel)
                      -da-: (will give)
   on da / ona da:
    he will give, she will give...
            which is half of what
Budapest was built on...
                   do most people prescribed
antidepressants, take the pills before
bedtime?
               unlike taking hormonal pills
having had your thyroid gland removed,
I. E. half an hour before breakfast...
   I can't see how,
    overcoming the "placebo effect"
   of almost all psychoactive pharmacological
drugs isn't compensated by
the taxable, and notoriously
evident effects of psychoactive...
      pleasures...
                            stigma schtigma...
      are people really reduced to
a sort of shame equivalent to being
a child, caught stealing cookies from
a cookie jar,  when talking about
the most subtle of ailments?
                            last time I heard
is that there is nothing worse than apathy...
apathy breeds no pathology after all...
        but to call these subtle, ether ailments
as self-generated...
                begs the question
of the "self", and the per se...
                              at once frivolous in
the guise of depression,
  but then authentic in the genuineness
of lethargy... and in the extreme example:
narcolepsy...
       sure, sure, I know:
hot **** and a bag of marbles...
                       thank god I do not
hold responsibility or have the authority
to prescribe drugs...
     sly rat Timothy Leary...
   trying to slither out of an interview
after populirising LSD
   and the girl who jumed out the window...
good to know that if I am hurting
anyone, it's only myself, and it's done
by no other, than yours truly...
    and, apparently...
while saving the Amazon and not wishing
to exhaust these words to be on
a printed page...
      sometimes, there's simply
a rhythm to writing...
    there is not actual concentration
on the content...
       there is only a rhythm to writing...
since I never managed to
play the piano...
      at least there's the rhythm in
writing, and not a chance for
a desperate, exasperated poet making
it to centre stage...
         and with that sort of
honesty:
       I'd love to have the chance to
pass off a Hindu yogi...
                             or repaint
every Christian icon...
              with a needle puncture in
each of the saints' halos...
                 early prototype of
astronouts or something?

how tedius the sado-masochistic
mantra of mea culpa,
as if the 2nd shame of Adam,
ecce proto... ****...
              mea culpa mea culpa...
with death and the index finger
pointing, a release: nunc tu!
             death has only been industrialisted
by pagans and polytheistic alike...
far greater hope
in returning to fire,
       than as fertiliser to the element
of earth...
     the fire dance,
            no point speaking
of animal rights, if the death rite
of man is so shallow within
the confines of earth,
             less than a sailor eaten
by 72 sirens of the depth of
of poseidon's heart,
  less so in the immediacy of
to ash... brought before the pyre,
and of stature column...
no animal rights exist...
point being, monotheistic religions
chose the wrong elemental tomb
of burial..
          with fire unto air,
    rather than this obnoxious
gangrene ritual of laid into earth,
translated into aqua on squid feeding
and crab and worm recycling...
obnoxious monolith of monotheism...
as the myth goes:
poles thouht that Jews buried their old
sitting down...
    so that they'd be the first to get up
and walk to abrosia's sap...
         in defence of polytheism and
paganism... at least they didn't
    desecrate the once living
    body, with confines of rot, wood,
and the born gothic with a
subsequent loss of adventure
and living splendor...
                   taught the toll of
the hollow bell chime...
                in that respect,
monotheistic religions have little
    compensation to mark themselves
with glee, as Notre Dame superior...
for one, satan, the hunchback angel
replies to the story in the Koran...
     how am I to bow, since I am already
bowing?
      the monotheistic religions chose
the wrong element...
            to bury their dead or give
praise unto them...
also notable...
      panicky or rather picky eaters,
unlike the Beijing supra-aestheticians...
namely? eat anything that moves,
and you're, sure as ****,
not bound to **** anything, that doesn't.