You, you had me hooked from the very first, the very first moment,
Stories of Peter Pan running in my head,
We flew away and had times of the greatest value,
Now here I am, stuck in this tragic place,
Under the ground of a trainstation,
Like the punished soul of that Anna you missed,
A russian girl you'll never forget.

You, you had me hooked from the very beginning,
Our eyes met only for a short recognition,
Only then I knew who she was to you
And what I meant all along.

There is darkness, and then there is utter darkness.

In this pristine atmosphere I have crossed my legs, clasped my hands and placed them in between openings. My eyes follow suit. I am in the pyramid black and yet I don’t feel lost. I am here amongst the burning wild bushes of thought. These are fires dying animals gravitates toward. In this day and age, we long for more fires rather than water to nurture our dried out hearts.

There’s a drought.

I try not to feed it. And so I stay here, not perturbed in the least. What was I thinking? A beautiful young girl all the way in Afghanistan. I’d like to hear her whisper sweet nothings into my ear. No. Wait. I think I can hear the bombs now. A voice that slithers through nearby carts rushing past on freshly built railroads. A trainstation of the mind.

Often, I feel my body contorting itself into the youthful rage I once loved. And by love, I mean grew truly comfortable about. Comfort is a great ecstasy.

I am no writer.

I have no motive.

I sat at the trainstation at 7am and the temptation to jump under the train was so great I nearly did
But I couldn’t because I forgot my shoes at your place and I had your smokes and key in my pocket
The security walked past me and tears ran down my face making the path for more of them to travel down
I got on a train and it was cold I didn’t want to sit in the quiet carriage I rested my head on a window
I cried rain but then sun shined and maybe it was going to be all right people talked about their lives I heard them
And then I cried again
And again
And again
And again
And I still do I wish it stopped but
I want someone to really care about me or maybe just like me a little that would be great as well
Im sorry I’m such a **** person.

hey

it seems that im back here again at the place we used to call ours
i still call it ours because no one really comes up here and i know this because i go up here everyday after school
i know it's been months but i still love the view just as much. it's peaceful u here and it's getting cold but dont worry, i carry my jacket around like you always used to remind me to- i miss you
there's a lighter in my hand, it looks like the one from the day at the convenience store where you first talked to me-the black one with scribbles all over it-, remember? (do you even remember me?)
don't worry i stopped smoking a month ago- you've been telling me to quit ever since- so no, i didnt go up here to smoke
i guess i just like watching the flame flicker on and off; sometimes i burn things- dont worry it's harmless,i swear, though it does hold a certain sort of power, you know? once you light something up, it just sits there and detoriates then it's gone

it ***** how my mind's still stuck on you as if you never left, the memories are kept kindled
i keep looking back at our pictures, i still believe they can lead me to a trainstation or a bus stop for a detour back to everything
i dont know why i cant seem to stop- my friends think im over it
the thing is i tried getting over it but not really, just a halfway attempt
i met a guy twice, thrice and they'd last until i wanted them to (but i dont- time passes by fast and they start to irritate me sooner than later)
this makes me a sadist but i cant help it, the pain's deadly and i still relinquish on it
maybe it's my fuel, it keeps me alive

i gotta say you're really good at your thing- with the hiding and all- it's what made me look in to you the first place, your persistency and consistency (or i thought you were)- ignorning and disappearing
ive tried looking for you, keep hoping that i'd bump on you in the halls but i never really see you and you never come back up here-if you did, id know
i cant say that i 'loved' or 'love' you because i still dont believe in that fickle thing-infatuated, maybe
all i know is that i got attached and im left to suffer with this downfall. i knew it would end sooner or later, i knew you'd leave but i didnt expect you to be the one to go. tis is the only part of the story uncalled for-the begrudging plot twist

i should regret our paths diverging but i dont feel hatred towards you. im stuck living in the past, chasing ghosts of you and me, even now i still think it was worth it, ironic right?
maybe meaning's found in the fleeting
i no longer depend on cigarrettes but i still keep lighters in my pocket, with a flick i watch the flame because it reminds me of our times- it's so very much like the memories that cease to die; i cease to forget you
maybe in some way it can make up for a love lost
the fire reminds me to sta alive like how you used to- you were my fire

i guess i cant take you off my mind because you gave me something ive been deprived of-hope-when you held my hand in the alley, the warmth of your palm made me hope and only now do i realize that hope is a treacherous thing
now the night has reached its peak and i have to go, mom's going to be worried
i'd come back here tomorrow, i know you're not coming back at all
but i hold on,
to my lighters,
i hold on to hope

just in case

what am i with regards to language:
   another person -
             or some complex tool?
my grandfather is still bewildered
by invisible telecommunication
lines of connectivity -
and if philosophy begins with awe,
poetry - well hardly a bewildering
enterprise -
            back to language as a primitive
tool box -
         a shape ascribed to words -
rather than colours -
      take this one word:
   what shape would be ascribed
            to bewilderment?
           nouns are all straight lines?
and so unto bewildering-,
  are adjectives squares?
         there must be a grammatical
geometry of some sort -
otherwise how are we to compete
with the chinese encoding
complexity -
   if we are to return to such
openings of phonetic complexity
as Handel's messiah -
             while the chinese call themselves
Lee Chow - or Li Po?
              i'm buckling under the fact
that english speakers are literate in
that they are literate by some measure:
        odd...
         is language another person -
or as i like to think of it:
            a "primitive" toolbox of screws
nails, hammer and sickle...
better still: a scythe's shadowy peering
into the light...
            i think of death as with a hope
of immortality, armed with a hammer -
nailing each staff of wheat
               into place -
rather than: with a guillotine grin
marking each equal: before itself...
        i too wondered whether language
needs complicating -
     or whether at best: to simply grunt
and growl through...
       but that's beside the point when i
wonder that the brain: has no knowledge
of the tongue...
     how many times i've heard people
speak of: the eloquent thought,
coupled to a mumbling tongue...
   which is why: a cartesian dualism is hard
to fathom... summon Libra!
eternal Libra - nothing precipitates
to an equal fathom (unit of comprehensive
in situ) -
               there was and always will be
a dichotomy... hence the dualism advocates
invented the: schizoid mind...
   which is 2 x 2 = 4...
                     so is language not worth
complicating - after all, i have no other,
"greater" concern in using this: tool... person?
    can language really devolve
to scoop, or is it mere a shambles of
floating vegetables in a soup?
          drinking helps to numb the pain...
oh how friendly to return to
   a pseudo-incubation of sheltered
ego-foetus...
            ego... foetus...
               it must be an echo from the future
shouting: right back at me...
    for not having a memory of
being a tad bit tadpole: foetus -
  here - said god: i give unto you ego...
and thought - your 2nd womb...
         and for the love of god:
so few images have been ingested with
words, having to weigh the ******
obvious, smirk of science.
   of what i've seen of Warsaw i remember
not too dearly -
           the Warsaw Central Trainstation:
a barren place... a beautiful girl engrossed
in techno-attachments -
   the capital with so few people -
          a sight of a head with thinning hair -
if only: the apocalyptic
                  baldness of a Golgothan scalp...
then i could: smirk and retort -
last man standing is never the king...
perhaps a pawn, a bishop, queer or rook...
i laid my king into a pocket rather
than a coffin...
          last time i checked i was able to
numb mein schmerz with the antic of
sleeping for 14 hours...
            and can you believe it that:
graphemes are needed?
               the germans require S C H
to utter the same sound as the Poles do
with S Z and the English do with S H...
  some spaces ought to enforce
the Siamese dictum of Roman hellish
spawns...
                  because what is language at
best?at best it's not another person -
but a tool, however primitive language
not looks compared to <code> ext .2
practice...
                or that techno-puritanical posture
without a glum book...
                   either i am using a hammer
as i use my tongue to babble or lick -
    otherwise...
             a sickly simplicity?
  - and words do have grammatical geometry!
clearly, a verbum similis changes
shape: from the form
           bewilderment -
    through to (to) bewilder -
   into bewildering -
        otherwise named from an observation:
the genius monkey who said:
   (that) thing makes be more wild
   in temperament...
      and open: the universe -
   and closed the sight of stars in an
oxygen tank...
            for i am sure -
of a satanic possession that stirrs the mass -
as i am sure: god took a seat back -
what proof?
                  home bid yet homeless -
in the same station, a gradfather watched
his grandchild taunt a pigeon -
in her arm no breadcrumbs but only
a wish: perish: or perch here...
       i am blind to see past only
two existential arches: types -
  winged or horned -
    and beyond that: a zoo -
    something daunting to clarify with
an intelligent discussion...
      so is language another person -
or a tool?
                may i be understood
or must i necessarily be: standing ground -
never aloof - never fascinated
with an attic?
                am i to always lounge with
an antithesis of friction?
                 - and that's what sitting on
the throne of thrones does to you with
a dollop of Heidegger -
             yes, dropping a name -
but it would be hard to accomplish what
i am strumming without a mention of
what "mirror"-psyche i looked into,
before i looked into mine...
      it would be hard to digest myself
as being this complicated,
   on an a priori whim...
                  as if it was worth a base of:
uniform humanity -
    sooner finding an answer concerning
the existence of a mole looking
into one's own ****:
     and only one act is left with an
impossibility -
    the mole is as certain to exist
as a floating **** in the oasis -
   but my ***: might as well be
the regurgitating mouth...
         - and for all the beauty -
  it's crasness that shines for man -
                   to have to educate foul
speech is one thing -
              but to have to use it:
                 a lesson in liberty...
               besides - never mind "educators"
outside educational institutions -
     the muse: gratifyingly ends -
    but unlike a sense of accomplishment
a reader ascribes to having finished
   a historical novel...
     saying that - what is below a poem?
a novella -
      at least i can be honest -
the novella can only be dwarf of a Goliath:
the height of Goliath's armpit hair...
         BUT TO THINK I HEAR WHISPERS
IN MY DREAMS!
     who was the original iconoclast?
       "paradoxically": Medussa...
      enshrining them into stone -
        the word is odd - to make icons -
      ah... ****: tribe -
                caste - to caste is to make -
         again why the Americans don't know
that the suffix -cicki is actually slang for:
*******... i.e. **** - well, piquant zingy -
for the original ingests cycki...
         never mind nationalkapitalismus -
the nakies?
          because obviously it's not just:
nappies, is it?
        big baby was told it could poach
bacon instead of frying it?
                           evidently we can't complain -
unless of course we care to be
both nationalists and capitalists
  at the same time: as the English found
out the hard way...
                       but little Joey and big Sam
can be: national capitalists...
                   the rest just sign of
whether they're capitalists or nationalists -
since, outside of h'america:
   the two are never supposed to meet.