****** violence isn’t a mistake, but it’s dealt with by an accident claims organisation.
ACC, you might think you’re right, but I disagree.
He did not trip and fall, that’s not an explanation.

****** abuse, for a while there, stole my ****** exploration.
I would go to a counsellor’s office and nervously drink herbal tea,
waiting to be seen, by ACC, an accident claims organisation.

They ask me my story, it’s quite the fixation.
It hurts for me to talk, you’re meant to help me.
A new stab in old wounds, is a poor medication.

They tell me they have to - ask about the *******,
they need to poke and **** me with questions of PTSD.
I need a mental injury, cos y’know, ACC is an accident claims organisation.

I tell them it hurts, it’s invasive. My frustration.
They tell me they’re sorry but it’s “necessary”.
I’m in pain and for what? A poor explanation.

ACC, we don’t deserve your mental mutilation,
You’re our only option, other counselling costs, we don’t have the money.
You’re meant to be a helpful organisation.
And hurting us to help us is a ****** explanation

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The King stood tall



                                 mountain top
                         .....                           .....
                    ....                                   ­   ....
upon his....                                                 .....


                                        
                     ­                    many
And stood in awe of his many many beautiful things              
                                               many



He s                     l           o      w  l  y   waltzed across his marble bri-----dge



                                                  ­                     l
                                                       f                         a
                                               n                                       t
(Subconciously) Seeking to i                                            e  his mind
                                               n                                       t
                                                       f                        a
                                      ­                                l        

                                                               ­         
                                                                ­
                                                                ­       i                           s
Vivacious v                          and roaring r            v            r            
                    a  l ­           y  s                                            e     ­       
                            l   e


                                              .  high
       ­                                       .
                        ­                      .
Puffed his chest up well and.


                    
His       al-     zi-     g.-  continued slow in pace
         w        t      n  



Until he  dnuora denrut  and beheld his castle



Stepping  b...a. . . . c  .  .  .  .  .  k  for a better look



Acc e  l  l   e       r         a             t               i              n                 g towards the led
                                                             ­                                                                 ­  g
                                                             ­                                                                 ­ e


          

And just before The King could see such greatness


          over
He  stepped and had his f
                                          a
                   ­         
                                              l
                

                                               l.

You are encased in your world of flower;
Whilst I suffer in the pit below
that wolf at the door is me.

He is the leader of my pack
and when he howls others follow in tick tack
tight formation, his howl has rendered cowards
to fits of madness, coward!

I am that too he says? hahaha!
A fit of vortex light burning brightly over there, you fool!
Screams the wolf,
'you do not know the box you have opened!'

'I do!'
I have opened the post it says sickness and fit,
a spice awakening in Sheffield, and not just the drugs
not working in Manchester,
as Ashcroft once sang banging his shoulders
into every passer by, why? For the hell of it,
take no prisoners, proper Manc wolf style.

And I will burn your souls with words, O burn those bridges burn;
I will crush you with every click of the typewriter
you seek to burn me, call me drunk and ****** and fool,
I forget you! ha! Neit papa! Neit Mama!

Da Christopher! I have made such art and wonders
so see I am not to be taken lightly.
I have danced with death, not once but twice
and lived to tell the tale, captured foes forever
their grimaces frozen in time.

In the dead of night when I have no desire
for both shallow words and drunken wounds and late night calling-
your 'fatal fallacies'
I will burn these images and all the old
word scribbled in spider handwriting
by me that eldest poet, and soul.
That fire shall bring solace.

I hate you, as much as I hate myself;
forever smoking in the corner
and laughing at deaths wings,
as it winks at me underneath
cloaked eyes of shallow indifference -

Off with you and your 'perfect' life too.
Bitter wolf blinks, and cannot sleep,
Oh look how I am red and rendered, insomnia
red eyed and twitching, shocks all over sighs the poet,
Never call me again, drunken witches. Vampires
and bloodsuckers.

Alive still and struggling against the call
of it. Defiantly myself, whilst others crawl
to the windowpane of the widows to cradle the light.
I am encased in darkness, and search for my window-
fools allay me from my path, winding, twisting to
love.

I am burning. This fire it will not cease, this is
the end. My first friend, thrown to the fire,
her fate is sealed, she is undoubtedly married.

My pack is pleased, and giggle in the night,
drunk on the strength of passion! and *****!
ACC WOO AGH
Nein Nein Nein
Neit! Da! Da!

I grin through bared teeth,
Always gnashing and grinding.

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New, as a thing under the sun, may not be, if
you know
beyond any shadow of doubt
[
WAIT}{ Wraith, tell no lie, I adjure thee

Human… made of fertile dirt, humus, clay,  right
or did this thing i thing you may
bean be, may be an AI virus
human concept formed from,
star-stuff,
highest dust of the desert
by fortuitous concurrence of events,
after ever begins or began
like a big bang and all kinds of unbelive- oh, that e, escape believe me,
once
just once, you come this far,
you never ring that ****** alarm again and shame,
shame's
a thing of the past, and we don't fish that hole.
Push on, pursuit of happiness is a right, not a privilege,

I inherent have, as a given, an intu ifity? An information messenger
from all who survived before now, this now, the right now?
I am, I think
A meme that makes me know,
from dust I came,
to dust I go, or is it some idea everybody knows

this me, the thinking me, I dust, become dust, damthatkansasong,
in the wind we then inherit
as
a means of propagation. Idea viruses evolve from invented
necessities formed into memes,

like on Facebook yes, yes and in Animal Farm where the egalitary
evolved an elite corps of the finest minds

and they formed a cadre of guards, to guard the riches caused by
the blessing of god.
A necessity for coping with --
op [option: change the course of history, portunity, or
position…

step by step as an upright walking being humanoid, but not dirt.
Nobel,
aragon level refusal to mix with lesser, looser fields of
gaseous matter dust,
atoms,

the un breakable thing at the point, until the Alamogordo,
fat cottonwood song was danced
in silence, and we saw

we make peace, where there is no peace,
do we lie,
can you wrestle with a message formed in media no scribe
could realize,
nor resist imagining if touched with the sting of this
what if, what if
god did adopt useless dirt beings and enoblize them above
all aaaa acc use
me. What if you got it? The itch, the kurio bite, the feel of a snaky lick?
--