universal ****!
**** me so I can give birth to your beautiful slumdog millionare
you know what I mean?
the man wearing pants so tattered it doesn't matter why he's dancing?
I meant that when I said it and I said it when it meant so much to the
king of all castles running in circles around melancholy as if it were
a dog to be chased so catch your own tail, too big to fail, too big to
fail, ah, cleanliness has its way of speech and I will never be rid of
it's cancellation fees, but does that matter oh so much if clouds
understand me better than sand sees chord progressions in winter hymnals
sung by early risen bird from dust and snow?
I didn't think so either.

that secret that you know
but you don't know how to tell
makes you believe in eyes tossed
upwards, towards, inwards, sentient
applause from the back of my mind,
watching through binoculars the opera
of your heart and the angel of your
person, I suppose if I were going to
admit it I'd say

Peter's gates

open for me

everytime

you part your lips

to kiss me.

art
is life

digested.

if I fail my road test again, there will be
flames in the road and sobs in the ear of
the self that demands a piece of plastic,
demands legitimacy from social rule, demands
a head lain to pillow smiling with success.
if I fail my road test again, there will be
a clamour of bike chains and huffs met with
a very un-Zen slapshot clamp cramp stamp me
atom bomb salad. but if I pass, there will
be satisfaction, there will be gladness. there
will be love. and in reality, if failure besets
my tire marks, I will try, and try, and try again.
the old Chinese proverb states... fall down 7 times,
get up 8.

good luck, Kyran Paterson-King. you've got this, you
snarky-*** *******.

you make my legs

                             fill with lust

                                                         and some sundance

                                     chemical I cannot

                                                               ­           explain. you make

                                                   me feel like your

        pupils are the sun

                               and the sun has

                                                               ­                       little in respect

                                          to you aside from

                    attribution to the

                                                               ­  very existence of

                                                               ­                                         the girl I love.

                                                          you make me feel

                                like free chai tea

                                                   lattes, even if this

                                                               ­        analogy was used by

                                                               ­                           an ex of mine to

                                                               ­                                           describe how she

                                                               ­                                                           felt about me I

                                                               ­                                                                 ­        feel it's still

                                                               ­                                                                 ­                     valid in context.

                                   you make me dance

                        like thunder in a

                                          snowstorm and link

                          arms with my lack

                                                      of a bedside table

                and ring as true as

                                           my ears to the ashen

                                                               ­        corner-lounge love-drug-all-this-please.

                                      

                       ­             I love you,
                                    I love you,
                                    
                           ­         I love you,


                                    I love you.



                                                         ­          holy sweet good *******,


                                                   you sweet,

                                                   sweet soul,
                                                    

          ­                                         not even

                                                          novel­s
                                                  
                                                                ­  could properly explain

                                                       how my universe swells into serotonin heartbeats
                                                      ­                    whenever
                                    ­                                       you're
                                                          ­                wherever
                                        ­                                    with

                                                               ­              me.

Like a viser I advise that you finally find your eyes
Peaked and bordered by a toque the  sun cant stop to shine
Yet light obliviates eyeballs well adjusted to the rain
Can make the same eyeballs rise to re-perceive again
In this corporate quest investment is on par with love
Always carrying cash like a box of rubber gloves
Defend against the right to starve and strangle on the street
Gain the right to put a diamond right above my seat

Altercations alter authors read atop the altar
The Council of Nicaea building progress not to falter
Piling future thought like a towered Jenga game
Is funny *** it's true to say the atheists are the same.

Preachy ******* carrying Richard Dawkins in one hand
Sapping all that's holy from a gold block into sand
Crying because life is now a fight or flight response
A nihilist is just another  ****** fanatic ****

A nihilist is the strangest
A suicide bomber using words
Making sure you understand it's worthless and it burns
Bombing every holy site stacked deep inside your brain
Proving that within this life you've got nothing to gain
He pretends you come from blank and end up there again
Forgetting that's impossible,
Hypothetically insane.

If we came from nothing, return to nothing
Where's all this from, then?
Nothing can't exist by implication, but we can?
When I say that everything is nothing
What I mean:
Is nothing is the everything that we all can clearly see.

Society is a case of forward smiles and back logged tears. Most of us are crying most of the time. Look at that middle aged grimace, the Starbucks smile of I'm-here-because-I-have-to-be.

I'm sorry you were born a human being.

Our greatest tragedy is the fact that it could be better. Life could be a breeze. But we won't let it be, we must keep on pushing gravity back into space.

We demand the air march into our lungs; we order the water to our bellies. We do all this as if it wouldn't happen of itself.

That is our greatest tragedy.
Life as beyond is a miracle. Life in the circle is death in constant progress.

The end.