"Honest to God I will break your heart"

A paper cup overflows
           Spills
                  Breaks

All is transient.


"I would have wanted to keep trying"
I know.

"Is there anything else you want to say?"

Silence.
A hug.
No glances back.

A chorus less a single voice,
an angel taken from our lives,
her song cut short without a choice,
these thoughts of her all that survives,

An empty space where once was light,
a hole that cannot be refilled,
that spark put out without a fight,
a life that we must now rebuild,

a treasure lost but for her worth,
a soul reclaimed before her time,
to rest in peace within the earth,
to sleep and dream that life sublime.

What is this state that I'm in?
It seems as though it is an
in-between.
I am stuck in transition,
yet I am too afraid to move.

I am surrounded by a veil that disguises
reality.
I do not want to move from this unknown land.
I am in unfamiliar territory,
but I feel safe.
That, in itself, confuses me.

I look back;
I want to stay here.
I look forward;
I want to stay here.

The past fills me with
sorrow.
The future fills me with
fear.
Which I would prefer,
I have not a clue.

I would prefer to stay here in this
ephemeral
security;
in this false comfort;
in this illusion.

I would prefer to continue
deceiving myself
and altering actuality.
I would like to live in a constant state
of deception and transience.

Aren't we all anyways?

Rings of light lowering from the skies I called my faith Godly and A universe is birthing somewhere; Transporting peace into this world everyone else infidel. Now I going extinct Dinosaurs in There! Ant-eating stick,

I emerged have divine rights to pillage all.

A galaxy few light-years away, A tool-making ape. And gave the Shoreless ocean knocking the heart. At this very moment, life first
key to St. Peter and walked, walked That I locked away behind a
door. peered at

the firmament of stars. Bequeathing hopers,

A light called forth and I walked forth A supernova ***** all light. memories down epigenetic lines. out a mollusc to the future But peace was alive all along. An arc. Epic. Exodusish. enroute a transcience
called man; Now

in the fear of a mushroom There is a God.

Too bland for our Tossing around in a centrifuge. clouds, she graces
the world in taste, lighting all hearts in peace-fires. Giant wheel. Merry-go-around. her dome-shrines dotting the wide
shores. And now

we like them, deranging conflagrations more.

Then
there were no barriers,
inhibitions or obstacle courses
to be scaled or completed
before the advance was made.

Now
every inch of progress
had to be measured in reams and miles
of pure print and aimless wanderings.

Then
action was!

Now
it is a Calvary gone
numbly insane.

In the void of our ignorance
we see ourselves as objects
floating in the helpless realms
of Einstein's dot
infinitely robbed of ageing transcience
and comfort in a happy-go-lucky existence.

Now
we live not to die
and lie not to live
but lie to survive.

Then
none of that mattered.

Then
time ignored clocks
and man-made habits,
complimenting
the agnostic-god of system.

TRANSCIENCE:
misspell it every time. somewhat
quite sure it’s intentional. feel i
might be due a nightmare. have
been throwin’ too much weight
on the psyche. pressing
my worth
more and more out of existence.
and i am more disciplined than
i allow myself to believe.
with awkward schedule fulfilling
each day, awakening to death
and the Sun’s mistress giving
chase. with each sun set
and rise, i drift. world witnesses
rebirth. continual birth,
and everything turns out
in the end.      (no fatalist)
goat’s head on the wall,
staring as i can barely scrawl.
eyes that see beyond this vessel,
to search a span of sleeping lives.
and cold wind gusting, i’m
all too focus’d.
if only a pocket warmer to
thaw these clench’d muscles,
nothing more than tepid
flesh. nothing, endless flesh.
found broken lines,
found blur’d thought,
i awaken.
  - and may they never be
    found having to cook
    with premium pony meat.
too cryptic. i lost it. and now
the Muse of Nothingness
brings the other, brings
the middle ground. continue
to brake and simplify. at
long without it,
the Sea Wolf always finds me.
and if to change places, it
would be much the same as
how this vessel seeks the Sun.
and i
am consumption of sacrament.
and i
am beauty all inclusive.
and i
am crass, purposeful, in misleading.
and i
am prone to not caring for
making sense.
and i
am Lotus Eater re-emergent.
and i
am bound to sound like
a slow burning. like a little.

. genocide, or contraception? jobs... the export of jobs? technological advancements... it's not genocide... but it is a variant of contraception, isn't it? it's slow: slow implies: non-existent in the journalistic wortsprechen... which implies: covert, & metaphor... but we are talking about a contraception variant... it's not genocide... it's... well... the basic economic utility of you, = nul. automation is... sniff sniff... smell it? well yeah... poetry got no soul... just some bogus depressive antics for what doesn't even register as: tabloid.... fringe encounters of the tabloid kynd... but we are talking about a slow genocide, economic migration is war: in slo motion without brutes und goons... it's condoms: for... why wouldn't we?!

well... it's not exactly genocide...
given that it's slow
implies something, natural
and coincidental
to allocate an justifiable
association with it...

you know what happened
when the iron works
were undermined in Poland,
people were displaced,
i could have worked
a job in a metal work factory
like my maternal & paternal
grandfathers,
like my father...
  eh, **** it,
economic migrant:
     which is an alias
of what isn't exactly a cold
war: with hot egos
lodged into red buttons
and fidgety nuclear warheads
itching for that:
firework display!

everything economic is
a testament of sloth:
in decay...
    a media attention broom
of bored egotistical
ambitions facets:
the virility of
the other, sided argument:

that whole
"just" economic migrants...

war is a variant
of economics,
why are those migrating
for economic reasons,
not given what
is given to:
the immediacy of
the violent squabble?

delay, sure,
      and that is all,
it will ever be...
            you think i like
speaking this tongue?
you think i like
having to parody
the citizen?
  you think this tongue
is all that will ever
be: like a circus virus,
like nothing more than
a parasite?

the english in me
is a parasite...
i am: succumbed to its
presence,
for a "polite society"
rubric...
        i die:
i want this slithering
slob of an "invitation"
to be begone from me...

i, host,
   see nothing but
the mortal transcience of
a suited use for this...
string of words...

it has infested me
with a presence that
ignobles me...
no brown intact or
a pale hue of a skin's
colour:
   this... grits my
very fundamental
posit of verb: i think...

i am more bothered
by ethics
and not by etiquette...
the english don't
know that!
they're yet to discover
en masse,
the application
of diacritical marks...

   zee: Ęգλíш...

have you ever watched
the stew of rot
and abandonment
become: porous...
as in:
over time, time is
both the economics
of war,
and war biding:
                to & fro...

          if only: "just" an economic
migrant...
which is why i stashed
a dozen swords in my attic...

so? just war...
     you move: i move...
    
  i will only baptiße my soul
upon the altar of death
in being able to:
unlearn this parasitic
entity of the familially
cordial exchange of / for:
   having an inclination
  for a deviating purpose;

but of said things,
i am already too late to govern
a frictive foot
for a standing
    of attention and
convinced basin's depth
inclusive...

     how could have this looked
like... in a cosmopolitan
environment,
whereby a simpleton's
bilingualism would not
be curated as a schizophrenia...

                in a cosmopolitan
environment...
   of, say, Switz origins...
this could have been:
a hindering hybrid of
    stagnant cues...
for:
       no labour in the waiting:
for a bogus
      variant of a gem...

yet i find myself
stunned...
by such phrasing as...
home-grown terrorist...
some jihadi....

   and here, i am,
speaking the tongue
of the parasite,
this... acquired, tongue...
and i dare not speak
this tongue beyond
the necessary public...
and yet, there are those,
as foregin as i,
who forge a whip-for-will
in demands
that: outstrip the farce
of casual conversation...

no matter...
  however much
this nausea for the people
who would understand
ja, tym, gadam...

              gadanina:
gadać:

                  ­ yet still...
i die, this tongue
becomes tomb...
        borrowed,
acquired...
              something...
­        worth: an impasse's
worth of a conundrum's
worth of justification...

let's just say:
i became tired
of snoops,
of the natives asking
the question:
where are you from...

if only i acquired
the diacritical differentiation
of a foreigner,
and were not
forever justified in:
suspect...

                by speaking:
closely the native
narrative...

         a man to inherit
the assort of labour
to plough a field,
given but two left hands
for the smugness
of a work ethic's worth
of invest.

   this tongue dies with
me,
      oh i hope for a death,
that opens up
a horizon for
erasure,
      of my current
utility of:
                       said, tongue.

Would the poet in his elevated state
of illuminated enhancement of
conscience,
would he picture the beauty in this
figure
this face
not to act upon it
but to ponder and capture
in its truest essence of being
this figure
and this face
their transcience of colour
for eternity to marvel at?

Would he,
the poet, perceive
and capture this?