and thank **** i found
audioslave's shape of
things to come
as a post mortem.

last time i checked,
           the only time i used
a mobile phone,
      was on a bus
    telling someone i was
going to be 15 minutes late...
or... otherwise receiving
a call, telling someone
that i was stuck
in traffic, and was going
to be 15 minutes late...
after a while i stopped
using the bus and
walked, as a woman might
spend an hour
pampering herself:
(however that Eric Clapton
song gpes)...
   having a beer or two
along the way...
    sometimes catching a sunset...
technically speaking i'm
ten years behind
every 30+ year old...
or... 25 years ahead...
    hell...
    whatever a mobile
app. for casual encounters...
etc.,
    luckily i know a little
bit about brothels...
        but making
conversation  on the phone
on the bus,
always seemed like
a waste of public space...
   given there were always
15 minus involved...
oddly enough,
  Internet access is still
   an artifact of having used
a 3½ inch floppy disk...
   and dialing a number
   via the modem...
           hence no mobile
internet access...
                 and all of this,
means as much, as a **** in
a wind, to be honest;
   as all attempts,
to put in the back of my mind...
a teasing constipation,
and no, immediate,
          laxative relief.

I had wished that he loved me
like he loved violence
He had no problems romanticizing
the trauma of others
But he couldn't romanticize my problems
not at all
Made a mockery of suicide
but would gladly take the lives and loves of others
I'm glad I've learned that there's people
who can love me without making me small
This stupid girl
or parasite, as he would say
She can't do anything about him
There's no controlling what he does
or who he hurts
There's only hoping that the hurt
stays emotional
There's only moving on

i could really, really, find a purpose
in life, by ******* off
a mystic, like Sadhguru,
which would be nothing short
of spectacular...
      and not for some personal
gratification,
                         but for equilibrium
of some sort...
           notably on the topic
of ailments...
          having studied chemistry
and, oddly enough, gained a degree,
i resorted to a drop-out mentality...
what can you do,
    when your brain becomes your
laboratory...
    and the times when you once
synthesised esters is reduced to
perfecting, a chicken saag recipe...
**** me their cuisine is
breathtaking...
     never mind the mistic...
  apparently the news from India
isn't good...
         Hindus doing Muslims in,
    a ****** is told to do 100 sit-ups
as punishment for ****** a 16 year old...
  hence the mystic simplicity...
     mind you...
    for years I was prescribed
an antidepressant, amitriptyline
(25mg)... but for some strange reason
I treated it like a sleeping pill,
or at least that's what I thouht it was...
blatantly there is an instruction "manual"
for the drug...
                   DO NOT MIX WITH
ALCOHOL... and what does this little chemist
do?
    he mixes it with alcohol...
      the odd naproxen...
     but the question is...
    do most people take antidepressants
before they go to sleep,
    or during the day, before breakfast, etc.?
I'm a ******* cheap-***, can't afford
a laboratory, might as use this
****** fatty-sponge as an alternative...
curiously still:
  Alzheimer is caused by killer protein,
and the pop consensus is:
to train the brain to work as a muscle...
straining it on puzzles...
   mental "exercise"...
      but the yogi is right...
as my res vanus reworking of
the res cogitans suggests:
    perpetual "thinking" is exhausting,
Nietzsche had a macabre take
on things: when the you look into
the abyss...
           seems that, fear,
rather than puzzles,
    can be a greater motivational
artifact, than some banal puzzle in
a newspaper...
                 as much "exercise"
   is achieved by not thinking, than is
achieved by "thinking"...
   example:
               emptiness is substituted
with a cognitive custard when necessitating
a complete brain coordination,
notably when changing lightbulbs
subconsciously thinking about:
  how many blondes it takes to...    
    remembering that you too had blondish
hair, once upon a time worn long...
   oh we can play the words game
with the cited yogi...
     bud-
            (dog kennel)
                      -da-: (will give)
   on da / ona da:
    he will give, she will give...
            which is half of what
Budapest was built on...
                   do most people prescribed
antidepressants, take the pills before
bedtime?
               unlike taking hormonal pills
having had your thyroid gland removed,
I. E. half an hour before breakfast...
   I can't see how,
    overcoming the "placebo effect"
   of almost all psychoactive pharmacological
drugs isn't compensated by
the taxable, and notoriously
evident effects of psychoactive...
      pleasures...
                            stigma schtigma...
      are people really reduced to
a sort of shame equivalent to being
a child, caught stealing cookies from
a cookie jar,  when talking about
the most subtle of ailments?
                            last time I heard
is that there is nothing worse than apathy...
apathy breeds no pathology after all...
        but to call these subtle, ether ailments
as self-generated...
                begs the question
of the "self", and the per se...
                              at once frivolous in
the guise of depression,
  but then authentic in the genuineness
of lethargy... and in the extreme example:
narcolepsy...
       sure, sure, I know:
hot **** and a bag of marbles...
                       thank god I do not
hold responsibility or have the authority
to prescribe drugs...
     sly rat Timothy Leary...
   trying to slither out of an interview
after populirising LSD
   and the girl who jumed out the window...
good to know that if I am hurting
anyone, it's only myself, and it's done
by no other, than yours truly...
    and, apparently...
while saving the Amazon and not wishing
to exhaust these words to be on
a printed page...
      sometimes, there's simply
a rhythm to writing...
    there is not actual concentration
on the content...
       there is only a rhythm to writing...
since I never managed to
play the piano...
      at least there's the rhythm in
writing, and not a chance for
a desperate, exasperated poet making
it to centre stage...
         and with that sort of
honesty:
       I'd love to have the chance to
pass off a Hindu yogi...
                             or repaint
every Christian icon...
              with a needle puncture in
each of the saints' halos...
                 early prototype of
astronouts or something?

it’s real and thick, like, jiggly
tingly and tasty— i said baby i’m
not made for much but giggling
and i can make your night
haven’t spoken since i was out on bond
but you’re super cute more than i
envisioned and you’re good at makeup

makes my feelings all kinds of wiggly
days lost in green oblivion
like a prison weight lugged around
do you remember when you were
with me all skinny and brittle *****?