so it's true
there is a world out there
in which the rich are
inferior to the poor

and there's a woman, more
beautiful than any, desired,
waited upon, a woman to
die for, a woman who only
comes to the dead and sometimes
to the poor and the miserable
and rarely, almost never to the rich,
to the well-being, to those with
full bellies and pockets and
no worry of the morrow

strange tastes she has

above all
she loves madness
the mad never have to search for
her. It is her who hunts them
and unless they grow sober
and sane she never leaves

she goes by many names
and no name at all
and a name this second and
another the next
But names don't matter
she only cares about making love
and you'd better not wash yourself
before getting in bed with her,
don't chase the stingy smell
of hot spirits from your breath
don't clean your teeth or the
***** stains from your shirt
or the sweat
If your stomach keeps turning
around empty, void and
if your guts could make a little
music while you're at it, it's
even better. She loves this type of music
And if you still wanna take a step further
have your body covered in wounds
and rashes and some broken
bones where possible, a swollen
eye, a bent nose, a chewed off ear,
enough scars, missing teeth, and
oh, boy, she's yours

"Name me, lover boy!"

I call her simply The Muse

What about you?

If you wanna be a writer
Write

If you wanna be a good one
don't get yourself a cozy, comfy,
warm, clean studio. Just don't.
It won't help you, it'll do the opposite.

If you wanna be a great one
be a wanderer, do more living than
writing, break rules and laws and
glasses and bottles and heads and
lots of hearts

If you wanna be an outstanding one
break yourself

If you wanna be godlike
join the gods
There's a shotgun in the corner

a flower brain across the rain,
scents of love mixed up with rage,
love was the feeling of desires,
an eye so blind in times of anger,
whims boiling heavy rain,
my flower brain can touch, can smell,
forever wet, always in the motion of the mind,
electric juice to pour a web of luxury and vivid gaze,
scarves of woody oils, petrol and water,
steams of refreshing scents indulge the body of your reign,
gentle rose blooming in the void of the Universe,
red petals melting the coldness up above the sky,
the seed, the blossom of science and genesis,
a shore of steam freezing the burning flames of hell,
it’s a heaven of divine architecture,
the throne and treasures of the magic life,
a rose so red, exploding the structure of the Universe,
decimating, vanishing a galaxy,
time’s wonder would melt and wound my lust.


(Buy my book 'The Allure Of Time' from amazon.)

Help.
I can’t stop writing.
I’ve stopped thinking,
And started pouring my feelings out through my fingers.
I find some release, but this sharp pain always lingers.
What comfort can I find writing down these ineffable emotions,
When perfect words surround me like oceans?

words on paper
tears on face

what we create
is just a memory of how we love

by Suicidal Christy, a child from the 3rd World.

I never knew my Dad.
He passed away at a young age.
Mom told me he died a hero
though i sincerely doubt that.

Cause every time i looked at his picture,
he always looked sad.
I think he drowned in an ocean of depression,
an ocean of *****, failure and rejection.

He worked as a Cop.
Earning the equivalent of $7 after a full day's work.
$210 a month ate at his soul,
that; plus the hungry stare of a Four year old.

And so he died with no fan fare,
leaving my Mom a net-worth of Debt.
The death of the poor and wretched
and the birth of my life as 'the wretched'.

And now prospective employers say;
'Why didn't you go to School?'
'A night with us and you'll be made'
'Be smart and don't be a fool'.

And so the cycle continues:

Cos whenever I look in the Mirror,
I always look sad.
I'm drowning in an ocean of depression,
an ocean of failure, medication and rejection.

So Look at me Dad!
Like Father, like Daughter!
Are you proud of me now?
Oh God..I'm too young to die.