Ouija, ouija, ouija
Grab my heart and squeeze
Grip my neck and pull

Ouija, ouija, ouija
Shadows released into the wall
Horrors brought into this world

Ouija, ouija, ouija
I wasn't here
But now you see me

your love is like Ouija Board,
in the end you got to say goodbye.

and oddly enough, H is the only letter in the alphabet that can accommodate vowels the easiest, and subsequently laughter. well m can too, but it's more of a jolly hmm in between sudden outbursts of h and co.*

and on Sunday i get to read
about a prince moaning
quote: 'at home on my ****'...
oi oi ***** Harry, where the magnum?
call on Clint Klein and head into the eastern woods!
'there be a bowl of spaghetti there waiting for ya'
the leprechaun said.
ah a job, ah a family, ah George the usurper
of attention seeking girlies...
10 years in the army, and then bust,
using a Ouija board to stop being
employed by McDonald's;
but hey! it's Sunday... can't a price have
his day?
              god, this humour is so cheap
                       it's almost gagging
                                  for canned laughter,
             but it ain't getting any, shame,
   and double shame for Fawlty Towers using it,
whatnot and what care for all that "famous"
                  intelligent humour of the British ballot box,
    supposedly... if that **** is intelligent & funny why use
                  such horrid precautions (psst... laziness)?
slapstick does it for me, means i can be intelligent in
other mediums.

Time was you could turn on the radio
And the first song you heard would contain
A message to you directly from God
He'd tell you what was happening in your life
Sometimes He'd tell you what to do about it
Always a surprise, good to hear from Him
But not always what you'd want to hear
A lot of it depended upon the radio station you chose
These days fewer people listen to the radio
Opting for streaming music or perhaps internet or satellite radio
The last two sometimes seem to work in a pinch
But it's just not the same, I don't know why
Yahweh just seems to like good old fashioned terrestrial radio
Probably makes His voice clearer on the AM band than FM
Not that He doesn't respect progress
He's got a nostalgic streak in him, that's all
And some really poor people can only afford a cheap AM radio
So there you go
Practically any song can drip with profound meaning
If you use the radio like a Ouija board
Try it sometime
It could change your life
Even for the better

i mean, who the hell needs an individualised
orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't,
Chopin and Liszt is all piano
so never mind the punk renegade violinist...
how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated
a population of a billion is staggering,
western powers ******* blanks by comparison,
it's like a body and a virus, translated
with optometry the way we say things,
Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it
is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea
or alternatively lysergia -
it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue
given the history of celebrated colonialism -
proof of the Hackney populace being solely
Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with,
maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot,
on the word of honour dynamic pledging
conveniences with the Vatican - look
no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches
and the sickbed eventualists rather than
evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists...
so they preached their Darwinism exactly against
the theologically roundabout of the pyramids
and the celestial intervention - but expected
nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least
the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism
you'll hardly convene on kindness as
the standard norm of expression -
track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music,
i'll be honest... pop music drama of
the band... you never hear of it with orchestras;
the point of genius: you're not really there,
absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others
make the dough for the bread that's a house and
a family of four, e.g; and just by petting
cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild,
are naturally / intrinsically autistic.

there's ethical idealism:
where ethics is discussed...
there's ethical relativism:
where ethics is practised...
there's ethical realism...
where ethics is quantified
as an improbability;
and then there's ethical
absolutism,
where we supposedly
"progress" -
in this scenario are
the laws of physics actually
suspended:
whereby oculus qua oculus
is replaced -
a loss of an eye is "relative"
to 10 years in a cage...
really?!
           ethics is
ideal, realistic, absolute or relative...
we're encouraged to live
in "realistic relativism"...
      never in an absolute realism,
since realistic relativism
only compares itself
  to ideal absolutism...
and nothing more...
          ever watched that film
secrets in their eyes?
you ever wonder what
ethical idealism is to the ethnical
consequence that can absorb
a realistic libra?
    i can only believe in
ethical absolutism,
  ethical relativism is horrid to me...
relativism adorns idealism,
absolutism adorns realism...
          a life sentence is worse than
a death sentence,
whether justified or not,
prison is sadism,
but at least ****** is simply ******...
a space-time intact,
           a ****** penalty is not
inhumane, nor a ouija board...
      it's time for time,
space for space,
  the actual punishment comes
with the missing adrenaline rush
of the unexpected reception of the wielded
weapon...
          either send these jealous plonkers to
siberia, or sentence them to death,
for you are no more than they are,
nay, you are more...
  you're akin to cats toying,
playing a sadistic games with half-mutilated
mice...
             this is why i abhor
ethical relativism of the crucifix...
           hence my belief in ethical
absolutism in the paragraph of realism,
  which is perfected, by
being exacted, and never, ever,
being leisurely discussed,
  on a farcical palette with a grimace
to boot: ******* a lemon;
compensating the horrors within
minutes, is never compensated
  with ordeals that last years...
which is why i find the death penalty
an act of authentic humanity,
and not this quasi-humanitarian
act of pardon, ******* hypocrites -
       i abhor the caged rat
more than the rat gladly nibbling
on a dead corpse...
        at least there was passion
in the ******...
waiting for death penalty is like killing
a vermin with poison,
disposing them with nonchalantly...
the wise maxim states:
  ledo ferrum sicut id est calidi -
strike the iron while it's hot...
       death is the dawn-broker -
a new tomorrow promise -
              left intact, the fermenting process
of ethical dynamism takes over...
      then again,
the supposedly "evolved"
preferred moral relativism to moral
absolutism,
          because there was no
moral realism to speak of,
                       since morality could only
be talked about in ideal terms of
the supposedly so, supposedly
fashioned via: it ought to never happen to
me...
and then it might, and then:
oops... argument sinks like a wet fatty ****
into shambles of keeping up with
the presupposed pillar of argument
being "impenetrable";
hey, genius, back to the blackboard!

four years and three months today
without you
the spirit in my attic
the white feather on my nose.
one time i picked up a ouija board
giggling with new friends and no expectations.
and you... you were sitting right next to me
and jumped at the chance to use your voice
(you were never good at keeping quiet).
you spelled hello into my hands
and when i asked you for your name
and the planchette moved to "L" then "U" then "C"
and one of the girls whispers "oh my god we summoned lucifer"
i smiled and a tear fell in my mouth
because my heart was weightless all of a sudden
and you were next to me all of a sudden
and i'm sorry it took me that long to realize
that you were still so close.
so we talked
and it was almost like the old days
and for the first time since you died i could hear your voice saying the words our hands spelled on the board
and--my god-- was it good to hear your voice
(sounds don't sound the same without you
and i can't sing on key without you).
as we talked i sobbed and laughed
and probably scared the girls around me
but it was me and you, you and i, like it always used to be
so i didn't care.
the best part was the white feather, dancing hazily above my hands while i spelled your words.
i hung on to every word
because i knew they might be the last for a long time
at least until you're ready to talk again.
when you said "goodbye" i felt my heart float back down into my body and my soul felt less sore
and then someone looked up "what do white feathers mean"
and google said "lifting of bereavement"
which i think was your way of telling me to man up.
and you're right! why should i grieve and bereave when you're still right next to me
in the white feathers that have fallen on me and followed me
every day since the ouija board chat?
i miss you still. of course i do.
but you're still here in every little white feather