The sun is shining,
The bees are buzzing,
The laps of water gently break against the shoreline,
And for once all three dogs are gentle and still.

Time marches ever forward,
Collapsing the waveform of our reality,
Testing our love,
But never breaking it.

After 11 years you'd think I would have learned something.
I'm not sure that I have.
When Love is perfect in the beginning,
Doesn't it stand to reason it would be perfect in the end?

And yet, the end is neither nigh nor seen,
For when perfection begins and ends,
What could possibly be in the middle,
If not a more perfect perfection realized?

Our Love may be perfect,
Never boring,
Always changing,
Yet unyielding.

11 years ago we made a decision,
That forever changed our lives,
For the better,
As today I'm only jelly and you are clearly my peanut butter.

A match made in heaven?
A match made on Earth?
Nay.
A match made for our souls.

Soulmates and soulmatages.
Beebros and beebees.
Our little family, the best one,
Is a microcosm of the Universe trying to understand itself.

So what have I learned all this time?
That I have never learned to love you.
I just do.
So far and for now and probably forever.

Happy 11 years my love.
Will you for to be continued to be married to me?

Whatever civil stuff there is to oppose evil, in terms of removing an agent of evil from a position of significant power, it's nigh on ineffective. Partly because people, being ones putting all that civil stuff into practice, are corruptible. Imagine someone [further - TP (that person)] in a position of power being accused of some wrongdoing. Yes, if TP's an expendable part of a corrupt system they belong to, they may end up in prison. But what if TP isn't & have more than enough money for a bribe & connections big enough to end up with the case against them being dropped or not even initiated (in other words, untouchable)? And let's say a wrongdoing committed by TP is grave (just like a place deserved by villains such as autocrats to be put in). Such as sentencing a dissident to prison, thus making them a political prisoner, or usage of physical tortures, or even being a leader of an authoritarian regime waging an unjustified aggressive war, what's then? What are remaining options? Evil understands only the language of force & threats. And in comics, there's a type of individuals to punish such agents of evil: VIGILANTES.

Yes, vigilantes operate above the law, but they're above the law either when the rule of law is broken, or in cases when there isn't enough evidence to put a criminal into prison. And by vigilantes, I don't mean the "civil" type like the Batman bringing criminals to justice by neutralizing them unlethally so they can be handed over to law enforcement agents (though, it's worth noting that the Dark Knight strikes terror into criminals, at least into ones operating where he operates). I mean the type like Jason "Red Hood" Todd, Francis "Punisher" Castle, or V disposing of agents of evil as if they were weeds, which they are. Some may deem such individuals as criminals, if more precisely, murderers, but to me & ones like-minded, they're, first of all, society purgers. Necessary antiheroes, if you will.

It's understandable why there's no or nigh on zero such individuals in the real world. For there's little of those having nothing or nigh on nothing to lose & even less of those belonging to this type & being/willing to become expert assassins at the same time. As for professional killers present in the world, as far as I understand, most of them work for the underworld & have no or little principles. I wish there's a whole squad of those vigilantes/society purgers in the world targetting the most powerful ones among agents of authoritarian regimes & members of the underworld. For all those power-corrupted ******* understand only the language of force & threats, as it seems to me, &, as Rorschach from "Watchmen" said, evil must be punished. Of course, the problem is not that there are corrupt people committing wrongdoings, the problem is that there are corrupt ideas hosted by these or other people. But since there's no way to destroy an idea, especially in today's digitalized world, all there's that can be done is to make so that wrongdoing hosts of corrupt ideas are either stripped of power somehow, or isolated from the rest of society, if realization of either one is possible. If not, then liquidation of those hosts.

As Vladimir Makarov from "Call Of Duty: Modern Warfare III" (2023) said, the wicked prosper, they always will. The harsh reality is that this world's so terrible it could use having antiheroic vigilantes being lesser evil to fight villains being greater one.

Don't get it wrong, I neither support nor mean to glorify violence. My only intention is to justify usage of it towards wrongdoers in positions of power, in particular, towards, as I've said, the most powerful ones among agents of authoritarian regimes & members of the underworld.

Looking on the past year,
I couldn't change a thing,
Throughout all the fights and arguments I would call here,
It also brought forth joy like a warm note on a nylon guitar string.

I saw my sons birth,
Where he held my finger in that operating room,
Where the strength of this newborn titan laid me low,
Tears of joy springing unburden to my eye,
Carrying me to a great height I never knew before.

I got to see him take his first steps,
Hear his first word,
And see all the other firsts along the way.

Every one worth the trials of life,
Working to support us,
Put myself through college,
Waking at 4,
Coming home at 8,
And sleeping at 12,
Working for 15.30,
And slogging hard for 2.

You were mad at my doggedness,
Angry at ignoring myself,
I know I waylaid my own needs too much,
Put too much on my own shoulders,
And sometimes I still do.

I promised you the world,
And I can like to think I can at least give you the parts of it you want.

Only now do I realize that the parts in question are not as big as I once thought.

Why do books smell so good?
I know, I know the chemical truth
But ever wonder if its because the planet approves?
what if mother earth agrees with the use
cut my child down but write wonderful prose
dream a million things and use the pages to be verbose
explain something carefully, like mother nature would
if she could speak, and now she does, through books

Shallow Victoryprose for enmities 


Where were you when I was tied to a tight right fright fight flight- out of site- bed of nails?


Where were you as I climbed the river’s apex- onto the bridge to jump into the grubby gray filthy foul nubilous turbid Yarra River during afternoon peak hour?


A couple of years later I found a path that led me to solid ground.


The floor of leaves: ashen brown- dried from the autumn skies that frighten the forest walls lived my torso and mind.


Decision plus: chambering up the tree-big burly branches to hang on to or to just hang: whatever you please- I swung backwards and jumped down only to feel fervently frighted and let down by myself.


Bad reasoning is the corner stone of every neuro-domapine- lacking- serotonin- high- chemical- affected-aneurysm-apocolptic-trip-of- nine- inch holes- cranium-madness


Am I supposed to weep at a funeral every other time?


Or cry at birthdays?


I don’t know anymore.


Lost the music in the ears.


Loud as London buses.


To Camden Town or Finsbury Park


Back North where we lunch in Hampstead Heath.


Meeting with the dead-turning life into sugar- was my soul brain fed properly.


Nice to hear the dream come truly alive.


Ears are made of wax.


Eyes to peer in.


Tax merchants visiting their wards.


I exist as a soiled tar glum stolen by a grub ancient times ago.It’s about the whole rage. Ripping into your sick mind and gut stripped out of you like a lamb slaughtered.


Another organic area of bile.


Living with a sin or kin.


Blabber- bub-drums-it into a ball


Dearth path laugh quark


Dim- win-din-pinned and high on smack


Hot tot rot amaze me with your scream number 1


Bella- we all been one sometime

For me, it's very strange to see familiar people who don't recognize me. I feel like I am in a different dimension where my personality has never existed, and the people there used to know someone who looked like me. When I asked them, "Do you recognize me?" they replied, "Well, your face looks familiar."

Poems, sonnets, haikus, odes, songs, prose;
every one of them are trapped in a little black box—
a pen, the only key that unlocks my heart for everyone.

A box teeming with all my pains in it;
secrets or lies? There’s an eternity in that box- all my
verses are in it; some remain locked till the inevitable
death of another disregarded poet.

Oh, my little black box; filled with thoughts-
your love is less;- in an honest jest; laughing at most
of my secret ideas— ones far from their best, further less.
Writing something to forget as something less;
pieces I beget as children; I leave them so fatherless.

                                  Trapped in that little black box!

Somewhere between ripe and rotting, I will love me again

Wear my flesh like rind and reclaim my sweetness


I am not dying yet, but I am not living         and I am thirsty

For days, dazed and drugged on dirt’s divinity, brown knees


Nestled under the willow tree, the sun promises to purify me

Before the night swallows it whole, and regurgitates it tomorrow.


Somewhere between ripe and rotting, I will shatter my shame

Shed my sin, kiss palm to palm and nail a cross above my bed


Rid myself of impiety and feel what it feels to be clean.

I will walk the veins of the forests and trail the spines of the hills


Forage for berries and fall stupidly in love, over and over and over

With the art of existence and one day I will mean it when I say


I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live.

Maybe I give myself too much credit: that I am good, I am doing better, I am great at my craft, that I have something to show everyone when in reality I am just average at best. What else do I show of myself that is worth a praise more than just “you did your best”? How bare do I have to be for people to pay attention to me? Maybe I am just having a bad day that has been going on for 182 days. But at the end of it all, I am just a mere performance worth 59% rotten tomatoes, it’s more than half, but barely fresh. At least I did my best? What other ******* do I have to say to myself so I don’t end up crying with a blade in my hand? It seems that trying is just never going to get me far, and the best I can give everyone is this: the mediocre poet who dreamed too high and fell so deep she died on sea. She had wings too weak and dreams too heavy that the only place she could reach was the clouds of 9, where she could only see from a few feet afar before she landed and died. That is the only thing I can offer.