It's 5:11am. A pretty time.
The street lights outside, in my dipped  valley lane,
glow orange against the soft, warm, gloomy shades of morn.
The pretty pitter-patter of rain I can
hear on the roof is adorning the bluebells in crystals which will twinkle when the wild wide world wakes.

They stand there glassy eyed,
Not quite side by side,
But close enough to feel every painful shake and quiver,
The judering and stucatoed shivers,
That reverberate all the way down to their liver.

The 11am Crowd at the bar,
For whom drinking becomes a daily chore,
Who shuffle there dutifully everyday,
Who haven't got far from the night before.

The 11am crowd at the bar,
Do they feel life is passing them by,
Do they even want to try,
To experience something more,
Than sticky floors,
And amber pints,
And revolving conversations,
That lead to lost nights.

The 11am crowd at the bar,
Do they believe that their downfall is their choice,
Or at the bottom of a pint,
Do they loose sight,
Of those who prayed for them day to final night.

my phone beeped
in an almost deserted train compartment.
my boss,
'where have you reached?'
I sighed and replied,
'should reach in 5'
(would reach in 20)
same old dance
to the tune of corporate slavery.

a sharp sound,
I looked up.
the sound dissolved
into a fit of giggles.

a group of kids
playing around, teasing,
their mother close by;
a hawker, selling trinkets in the train.

it looked so natural.
a working mum
looking after her kids while on the job
(doesn't work that way does it?
guess they didn't have anywhere safe
without her)

I couldn't look away.

it was such a sight...
torn, tattered clothes
dirt and mud all over
and those innocent giggles;
it didn't add up.

I was tired, aching,
infatuating about sleep;
feet bleeding in killer heels,
rushing around without purpose,
forced into an exploitative overtime job
by myself; frustrated,
trying to keep up with society.

the little family
calm, collected;
torn, tattered smiles held with grace,
facing their exploitative poverty
with innocent mischief and honest labour.

confused,
I had a thought:
that's the life they've known,
this is the life I've known.
we fit in our lives...
differently?

no...
we fit in different lives in the same way.
I struggle she struggles,
we both have good bad days.

I didn't realize I was smiling
till she smiled back.

I bought something
and got off at the next stop,
wishing she has more good days than bad
and the kids keep their giggles
a little longer than they can..

why did i ever go out on a friday night?
drinks with "friends" and hitting the essex
club "scene" -
well - no much of a scene -
there was never the music you'd want to listen
to: come friday or saturday -
even mid-week when all the rock kids
were "hanging out" -
what would be chances of being your own d.j. -
catching something really new...
POIZON - church is poizon -
cool mom - something between a crossbreed
of cage the elephants and nirvana on blew -
3rd view - moi -
but i used to: and i remember that gehenna of
a sobering walk - alone after a night out -
like some furious son of sam -
when youth still had the adrenaline with it
and a sense of anger ******* around with
disillusionment -

those were the friday nights: bon jovi highlights
and long hair and milking a somewhat androgynous
look - sometimes the mascara would come out...
those were the days of having milk skin
and a proper shave -
the long hair and the waistcoast and cravat: semi-,

the lonesome story before i met my beard:
fwyday mordaithceirch -
i actually have a name for it...
i forgot what's already the designated
whittle pecker mr. pritchard of the down down:
below...

oh, oh so what...
rough friday nights in my youth -
on the clubbing "scene" -
and always that moral hangover when it came
to drinking with others -
ever since i started drinking by myself:
i forgot the mirror and that bucket
of warm water beside my bed to put my hand
in before going to sleep...
once or twice the company was worth the drink -
but most of the time you only kept
such company: because you were drinking -
drinking was never an afterthought -

now... i like drinking alone -
at least i can keep fact-checking the company
and the odd vocab peacock taking to the catwalk
of a ruminating free-fall tongue waggle
and rummage - the needle in the haystack
adventure - or... the ******* bucket
of deshelled oysters...

there have been some awful friday nights -
but: seeing how i started to give my beard
a welsh name borrowed from a willem dafoe
novel - and how it simply became pointless
to wake the dead with the angry tantrums
of youth: and how i seem to have
forgotten where my 20s "went" -
somehow rooted in: da-sein and how
i "wasted" 2 years on one book by kant -
2 years on one book by heidegger -
and: how i didn't have the time to "catch-up"
on the greek classics -

oh these island dwelling people -
i try to imagine them not being a seafaring:
and their messiah / superiority complex -
with their breakfast that could hardly
be digested come the hour of noon -
or no messiah / superiority complex -
the traffic: indeed - works like clockword...
from left to right...
sidenote: what of fahrenheit and
the feet and inches - stones and pounds?
ounces?
the metric of: baseline 0 here,
baseline 00 over there...

no... Michele Campanella piano solo take
on wagner's das rheingelt: entry of the gods into
valhalla - it's hardly anemic -
it's... the last leaf of autumn falling -
because the crescendo has already happened...
a befitting closure...

the superior island folk and their...
hyphens and germanic loan words -
how almost all names in chemistry are still
in their germanic: intact form of: no hyphen:
broken leg or broken arm...

woodwinds... perhaps... the violins providing
the humming of birds:
chirp chirp: no chirping -
and of course the horn - but the horns never
as prominent as those drank from...

something has happened today -
but i am... left without having any english
sensibility / egalitarianism -
somehow i always equate egalitarianism with
the english - the islanders -
a firework went off in the background -
mr. sloth awoke mrs. slouch after 3 years
for a firecracker celebration...

because who would want to be ruled
over by unelected: chocolatiers...
esp. after their trial run in the Congo -
but i have certainly had worse friday nights...

it can't exactly get much worse than...
say... listening to the siegfried idyll...
multitasking: drinking a cider, smoking a cigarette,
balancing act of folded leg sat on
perched on a windowsill solving a no. 11,289
sudoku from the 27th jan. 2020...
otherwise prior to:
imagine my disbelief at the pleasure -

with numbers to somehow escape thinking in words:
no grand arithmetic linear gymnastics -
of the end result -
certainly no logical statements -
just a whirlwind of numbers complimenting
these few words...
and what a fine friday night it has become:

the pizza was made - god save me from the perfume
of yeast... or checking on the rising dough
from time to time -
the leftover yeast gave me the opportunity
to bake an imitation sourdough crust pretty-as-a-picture
loaf that: would make any mushroom blush
and shy away from unfolding into an umbrella pose...
or a Y... curling outward-inward into an upsilon Υ...

because how could i forget the pleasure of
sifting through numbers?
by the time i attempted puzzle no. 11,290
i had to write a "map"

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
2)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x

come to think of it... where's a subscript?
if i'm going to use 1, 2, 3...
to tier the allocation of squares...
tennis and sudoku...
tennis: a game of 7 rectangles -
and how many judges and ball boys / girls?
sudoku - a puzzle of 10 squares - perhaps...
if i'll use tiers 1, 2, 3: a1, b2, c3...
what if... sudoku invoked letters rather than
numbers?

much later... oh believe me...
this is the antithesis of knausgård
writing about using googlemaps...
        
           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

it's still a schematic - the narrative is yet
to begin... otherwise...
there's nothing smart about this...
i have tired eyes sometimes:
i succumb and have to allow myself
to no acid-bath these eyes in words...

esp. since i speak so rarely -
imagine... in england and i spear
the bare minimum of english -
i can: i have to: i will - when being prompted -
but i can't remember the last time
i had an honest: informal exchange
of letters... lapped up by the glutton
tongue... i looked and looked
and with my silence i can attest:
there's a speech-impediment -
a stutter that's not born from nervousness...
but... an allusion to a "stoic" through
my lack of conversation...

at least on paper i can exfoliate -
enough cider and enoug whiskey and i'm all
sparrow McDermott!
ugh... the devolved scots and the likewise
welsh... devolved nations...
only this aspect of Brexit is... well...
imagine the "evolved" status of post-Yugoslavia...
Kosovo...
this is the only aspect of an otherwise:
fair enough that's... well...
if you lived for 3 years among the scots...
you'd get to appreciate them...
this is the only aspect of this whole affair
i will ever appreciate...
i would pour blood and **** into
the Welsh continuing their...
preservation of the iaith...
forever and the more - i would love to see
scotland start to dig trenches and
forget trainspotting gaelic -
parading like ponces and humpty dumpteys
with "harkccents"... glasgewian bull-runnings...
cousins aye and wee -

a thing of beauty: a thing of union...
but this... they were bullied in brussels...
they came back and started to bully the scots...
if you have lived -
the betas of cardiff - but they tongue: remains!
look far back and wales would encompass
cornwall -
ignorant i of a 26 year "servitude" on these isles...
quiz me on outside of London:
no point...
perhaps i too would wish for the lost
theta in Dublin - towing: to t'ink...
as any sanskrit H-surd does matter...

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

but if i will replace... the side tiers of numbers...
the numbers in the puzzle will have to become
letters - greek... probably iota, epsilon and upper-case
gamma...

the bullied have returned from the palance
of the chocalatiers and: back to their old ways
of bullying the rest of these island folk...
because: it's infantile for me imagine
a resurrection of the crown (poland)
and the grand duchy of lithuania -
the commonwealth -
but somehow the united kingdom is not
fated to become the next yugoslavia -

i can confirm - up in edinburgh i was
confirmed by having the hat of Knox having
scalped me -
never is always metaphor: vaguely -
as in literally - in these quasi-paragraphs...
so it's not... infantile to even "think" that
the british empire can be revived?
zee window-licker spezials of
cross-breed h'americana postcards sent?
i nibble to attempt a joke...

oh i can bulldozer this whole narrative...
turn into a berserker -
i've saved enough money to deal
with the label loser...
all it will take is me having drunk enough -
sightseeing the slums of london's east end
and then hitting the brothel:
like an iron-head... to the pillow
and the ***** of a *******...

because i have had worse friday nights...
terrible company...
if i were not a michel de montaigne or a knausgård:
me me me, me me, me me me me,
write enough of that and:
to meme to grafitti... or to...
why are there no diacritical markers in
the english language worthy of recognition?
why would i...
rhoi fy **** y Cymraeg enw?
give my beard a welsh name?
and why is that not a cedilla C but a ******* K?
why not... Çumraeg?

on foreign shores i have made it adamant that...
this sense of foreigness does not
peppermint my presence with hopes to:
add to - an integration -
just borrow what the local have made: left-overs...
and work with that...

(insert snigger) - the neu-vikings of
northumberland...

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

this really does have a linear narrative...
here goes...
3(c1), 9(c3), 1(c1), 2(c3), 2(c1), 2(a1), 9(a3), 8(c3),
4(c3), 8(c2), 8(a2), 5(b2), 7(c2), 3(b2), 3(b3), 8(b3),
7(c1), 5(c1), 7(b3), 5(c3), 1(c3), 6(c3), 1(c2), 3(c2),
9(c2), 9(b2), 6(b1), 6(b2), 6(b3), 2(b3), 2(b2), 1(b2),
1(b1), 9(b1), 9(a1), 8(b1), 8(a1), 5(b1), 7(b1), 7(a1)...

and then a "gamble" in the narrative...
the (7a2 and the 5a2 - interchange)....
it's a pleasure - not a chore -
5  9  4
2  8  7
3  6  1
8  1  9
6  4  3
7  5  2 - this line... what if it was 5  7  2?
1  2  5
4  7  6
9  3  8
if i want to solve this puzzle - i will solve it
and not read a tabloid article /
whatever the hell has become of youtube...
my diamond jukebox...

otherwise the "narrative" continued from
7a2 and the 5a2 interchange:
7(3a), 4(a3), 4(a2), 6(a1), 4(a1), 5(a1), 5(a3),
1(a3), 1(a1), 3(a1), 3(a2), 6(a2)... end result?

           a             b             c
      5   9   4   6   8   1   2   3   7  
1)   2   8   7   3   5   9   6   1   4
      3   6   1   2   7   4   5   8   9
      8   1   9   5   4   3   7   6   2
2)   6   4   3   7   1   2   9   5   8
      7   5   2   9   6   8   3   4   1
      1   2   5   8   3   7   4   9   6
3)   4   7   6   1   9   5   8   2   3
      9   3   8   4   2   6   1   7   5

because i can imagine this not being:
the most difficult Finnish sudoku...
i can almost imagine this puzzle
to be in greek...
where: 1ι, 2ζ, 3ε, 4χ, 5Σ, 6δ, 7Γ, 8β, 9ρ...

in the background all i hear is:
corvus corax' la i mbealtaine...
the greek version of the japanese puzzle...

           a             b             c
      Σ   9   χ   6   8   ι   ζ   ε   7  
1)   ζ   8   7   ε   Σ   9   6   ι   χ
      ε   6   ι   ζ   7   χ   Σ   8   9
      8   ι   9   Σ   χ   ε   7   6   ζ
2)   6   χ   ε   7   ι   ζ   9   Σ   8
      7   Σ   ζ   9   6   8   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   8   ε   7   χ   9   6
3)   χ   7   6   ι   9   Σ   8   ζ   ε
      9   ε   8   χ   ζ   6   ι   7   Σ

half-way... i just wanted to "selfie" what
will become of this... i no longer write: i paint...

            a             b             c
      Σ   9   χ   δ   8   ι   ζ   ε   Γ  
1)   ζ   8   Γ   ε   Σ   9   δ   ι   χ
      ε   δ   ι   ζ   Γ   χ   Σ   8   9
      8   ι   9   Σ   χ   ε   Γ   δ   ζ
2)   δ   χ   ε   Γ   ι   ζ   9   Σ   8
      Γ   Σ   ζ   9   δ   8   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   8   ε   Γ   χ   9   δ
3)   χ   Γ   δ   ι   9   Σ   8   ζ   ε
      9   ε   8   χ   ζ   δ   ι   Γ   Σ

going... going... gone...

            a             b             c
      Σ   ρ   χ   δ   β   ι   ζ   ε   Γ  
1)   ζ   β   Γ   ε   Σ   ρ   δ   ι   χ
      ε   δ   ι   ζ   Γ   χ   Σ   β   ρ
      β   ι   ρ   Σ   χ   ε   Γ   δ   ζ
2)   δ   χ   ε   Γ   ι   ζ   ρ   Σ   β
      Γ   Σ   ζ   ρ   δ   β   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   β   ε   Γ   χ   ρ   δ
3)   χ   Γ   δ   ι   ρ   Σ   β   ζ   ε
      ρ   ε   β   χ   ζ   δ   ι   Γ   Σ

i don't mind a people being right...
but the overt-gloating...
without having to work around the sort
of paranoia associated with:
how the russians are not allowed to glutton
themselves on gloating -
because they are always made
to feel suspcious - the russians can't gloat
like most of the anglo- speaking world...
always suspect: russophobia evil genuises...
tip-toeing goliaths - less the blundering
fudge-packers of "global ****"...
and i kissed a boy and i liked it...
my genitals started shrinking
and my *** started to exfoliate with:
welcome all! welcome all hard and on!
and that tongue in my mouth always helps...
but imagine my surprise when
i started to navigate my hands
but the reply came:
timbuktu and mt. kilimanjaro will not be found
attached to this sort of torso...
wrong dog, wrong tree...

some things really do require numbers...
i once had a mathematics teacher in high school
bemoan the origin of modern numbers
and how we once: upon a time used these letters...
but did our arithmetic with visual aids
akin to the abacus... because...
you'd have to "read braille" when counting...
to differentiate the already: lettered numbers
and the letters being letters -
and all arithmetic functions
were "spoken of" but never depicted...
i.e. there was no VII + III = X...
there was no XV - XI = IV...
eh?! arithmetic was cat-intuitive...
not spoken of - done by either the visual
aid of fingers when haggling
in a market place -
or by the abacus aid in a bureucratic office!

i said this was the most perfect friday night...
what did i have to offer?
no clickbait title - some gems of wording
in between?
the patient reader - as ever - most rewarded -

but... oh my god... the sensation of
changing the bed sheets...
it's friday night and you're... changing your bed sheets...
and they are more crisp and clean
than any political event that the journalist leeches
are milking -
and you do it with a saving private ryan precision -
you will sleep in this bed: well into
11am of a today to come...
believe me: that you will...

- in that i am still walking among the germanic people -
if the germans will sing a: bretonisher marsch...
then the two peoples are alligned by
their sentiment for the crow as their godhead:
alles menschen totem...
what could possibly make me feel welcome?
french grammar is polish grammar...
matin de printemps - poranek wiosny -
spring morning in reverse in germanic...
how many more examples would i ever wish
to give?

there was a moment in my life where...
i realised my faults... i should have read
the Pickwick Papers... anything by C. Dickens to be sure...
instead came Stendhal, Voltaire, Balzac...
because if you said to me...
BBC radio 4... the archers...
and... thomas hardy: madding crowd?
you'd accuse me of being ignorant of:
London is a bustling cosmopolitan in-waiting
from the busy-body industrial proto-Beijing
it was of 100 years ago?    
the French had cosmopolitan intellectualism
100 years prior to the english...
100 years later and it's still not much...
is anyone about to cite me william hazlitt?!

the trouble with the english is that they hold dear
to that one old 19th century idea -
this waiting for: awaiting a revival of darwinism...
the "blatantly" obvious needs a resurgence!
because a michael faraday must most surely
be forgotten!
how many times will this already painful reality
need to be emphasised once more:
intellectually - via a darwinism?
no one stresses the copernican "upside-down"...
or what is copernican "west" up in space?
how does acknowledging the sphere
of the earth - ease you reading a flat map -
moving from point A to point B?

earlier this week - for once in my life i was
ashamed of what i wrote -
so i wrote for scribli per se: scribbles for
scribbles themselves -
the darwinian germanic folk who say:
alles von afrika...
how the hebrews debased themselves
in both aushwitz and breaking their bones
on the emoji hieroglyphs -
alles von afrika: ja... so sicher... so wahr!

ask any slavic person among the germanic
peoples...
where from? wir (ar) sind lesen und schreiben
"afrika": i.e. Indu...
if the african challenged the hebrews
with... "the best they had": egyptian emojis...
why would i not stress my birth
with pseudo cedilla Ş / इ... ☦ -
this indo-european is not... at home with
these african-germanoids...
pseudos and quasi -
these chocolate frenzied busy-buddies!

from the caucasian and further still from
that whittle sub-corinthian quote: continent...
somehow, "somehow" this part of this story
is read: south to north... always a grand
marker missing when the people went
east, squinted... learned skeleton existence,
atoms... and the frenzy of letters:
owls and ******* **** flinging beetles
back in the north eastern tip of
africa: in that egyptian haemorrhage of "idea"...

i assure myself... perhaps the form came from
africa... but sure as **** the tongue only arrived
in the lap of the Dalai Lama...
as did the "thinking" and the music
across prior to the Mongol's curiosity
over the tundra of Siberia...
something had to be placed on a loan...
and coming back to the cradle and the crux
had to happen like so...
not this current: ergo: so...
quickened and: what news from Damascus?!

first impressions count...
i made my bed... it's newly washed...
as crisp as falling onto a bed a prawn crackers...
without the crumbs' itch...
like listening to some german:
juggernaut... this will do... i can fall asleep
with this: grab hören zu der winderhall...
mehr flöte - weniger violinekratzen!
schlechtdeutsche? alle deutsche ist gut deutsche...
erwarten etwas isländisch zu sein
gesprochen insel von insel: auf diese inseln?!

to make a crisp bed of freshly washed sheets...
to sleep in them alone...
given the grammar is not that far removed...
are the french even remotely translated
as a germanic "sort of" people?
"they" or "we" share the same grammar...
and there are celtic freedoms that would
never be allowed to exfoliate under
strict anglo-ßaß obligations...

oh sure! great people! steam engine: choo-choo!
newton et al...
shakespeare: when they taught us shakespeare
they should have taught us bernard shaw...
when they forced jane eyre down our throats
we should have been reading
the pickwick papers...
the music will remain german -
because as much as vaughan williams...
holst and händel were "were" english...
esp. latter with his umlaut that spread over
toward i-and-j...

why wouldn't you **** at the pillar of the empire:
a past most assured - dust, books and moths...
like hell will i come to correct my ways
to state the: pish-poor Elgar... this poo'em too...
himmel... sky...
leerenhimmel - empty sky -
nein sonne während der tag:
das englischnebel: bedeckthimmel...
nein mond während der nacht...
nur so...

i of the lesser men of this world duly bow
my presence before the altar of the higher men
of these isles...
and hope and pray that their wisdom
will not bestow upon them any major calamity...
with not irony or ridicule i wish upon
these peoples... the right sort of oars
to turn this rooted island
into the people's imagined langboot...

there are only one british people a people
who will pursue to gloat having been
conquered by the romans...
being raided by the vikings...
integrating the anglo-ßaß...
a second viking coming via the Normans...
the push-over remains of the celts...
that somehow translated itself into
the: empire...
ideal: to compensate...
the islamic fervor for the... resurrected
caliphate...
jokes about the dritte ***** and the vierte *****...
that's pretty much the precursor jokes
surrounding: ein zweite ***** -
auf welche die sonne nimmer setzt -
ever wonder how that translates with the increased
cases of insomnia?!

again: bad german is better than
no german.

Will the fog clear today

Like clockwork
11am
and my eyes open

the same blurry thought makes its way to the surface

will it be today

will the dull dissipate
the confusion clear

this edge of uncertainty
uncertain about possibilities
that might not be possible

this worry

I cannot explain it but my father says I
worry too much

Too much or too little

Too much
too much
too much

dense whispers
in the light of the shadow

but what exactly to see

11am
Will the fog clear today

1:11am:

in my lungs you breed a pale disease
you are even in the air I breathe

3:29am:

heart in half chasing electronic dreams in technicolour screams
your claws in my teeth as I drown out my whims

3:45am:

and all the nights I spent lying in the freezer
and all the little lies we wasted telling each other
and even as you left I had not come around
I was the reckless wrecking havoc on wicked ground

4:59am:

last night I was flying around
dazed and dazed and dazed all over
awaiting my jewelled crown
adorned with the prestige of an empire

even in a new cage I could not throw you out

5:27am:**

even as the sun rises surely troubles stay the same
even if you came back now I would gladly play your games
even after all this while all the daze you left me in

still you are imperial and my grailed heart it shakes like porcelain

The blood comes dilute, as if to refute
What is, or was ever at all
To challenge the must,
The is and the thus
The ever, the will, and the Fall

The Winter, the Spring, the Summer that brings
A freedom, an illusion anew
A time to recline--in dreams and unwind
The idea that you can, that you will

The will, O the will, O the untempered can
Of worms which one opens and finds
Full to the brim, before and again
"Reality"" which tries to unbid

The self from the mind
The meaning from line
The reason from rhyme
And the is from all time

Separates Us: from passion
From Trust.
From belief in ourselves
From love
From true wealth

From magic. From tragic
At least in true measure
Dulling the pain,
But denying the pleasure

The Roar and the Ring
A Hell of a Thing
To make the time pass or
To fill up Your Glass.

~D.B. Guy
August 15, 2011 12:11AM PDT

Pancakes and Maple Syrups
Sunshine and Light Blue Sky
White Clouds and Golden Hashbrown
A Round Sausage and Chilled Milo

Red, Chilli in my saucer
Red, they are in my eyes
Red, they are burning strong
Red, is my tongue and my taste bud
Loving it

Yellow is only when "you're loving it"

7am is:
'good morning :)'
'have you had your breakfast?'
'i'm heading to school first'

11am is:
'right now i'm pretty broke'
'but do you want a smoke'

2pm is:
'what do you mean how?'
'having lunch with friends now'

6pm is:
'having a meeting now! talk to you later'
'have you taken dinner?'

10pm is:
'on my way home gonna eat supper'
'let's play dota together'

2am is:
'i know you're already asleep'
'talk to you in a bit'
'goodnight and sweet dreams :) (the ones which wouldn't cause weight gain)'

Never enter the pool by the stairs
2. Don’t ever dumb it down
3. Talk to seniors
4. Don’t pose with alcohol
5. Don’t pose with drugs
6. Don’t pose with *******
7. Don’t make out with ******* on video
8. Don’t make out with anyone on video
9. Eat your vegetables
10. If you can drink your vegetables
11. Don’t ever smoke
12. Read a lot
13. Carry your mom’s groceries (she carried you for 9 months)
14. Know at least 1 good joke
15. Surround yourself with smart people with ambitions in life
16. Don’t wander around with people who don’t know what they’re doing
17. Brush your teeth 3 times a day
18. Read a lot
19. One day learn to dance to cringy *** songs because it’s better than awkwardly sitting on the side by yourself
20. Don’t dress slutty (be as slutty as you want but don’t act it)
21. Be elitist
22. Don’t litter
23. Learn your national anthem
24. Always buy the railway stations in monopoly
25. Try and eat dinner on the table
26. Consent is cool
27. Don’t talk in movies
28. Don’t call people between 11pm-11am
29. Always open the card first
30. Never save the wrapping paper
31. If your wrong mid argument chance your name and move cities
32. Talk to your grandparents more
33. Thank the bus driver
34. Tip the pizza guy
35. Buy a silk robe to sleep in
36. Don’t lie to your doctor
37. Be proud of your music taste
38. Don’t gate crash parties pls
39. Educate ignorant people
40. Look hot for yourself
41. Hookup with people who genuinely give a **** about you
42. Its ok to show up to parties by yourself
43. Watch every good detective movies from 1987
44. Learn to have fun without alcohol
45. Once again cigarettes aren’t cool
46. Don’t sneak onto public transport – buy a ******* nol card
47. Don’t take life too seriously

"She did the laundry
in the mirror of me

I saw myself in
the mirror and disagreed
with the smell,

The thought of you

was beautiful,

but I was wrong,
and a feeling of discontent
-ment
came over me,"

Misspellings
Mispronunciations
An unconquerable world
of big money
I parted ways with the large
and saw another even larger world,
One that was intelligent and reads
the Wall Street Journal, listens to NPR,
and says "wow" at the sound of hearing
one million dollars, or upon hearing about
San Francisco start-ups,
or Silicon Valley.

Or the opposite, in some ways, but still very
similar to - Virginia Woolf.
whose book on feminism
which I'm unable to explain fully other than
to say that she suggests
that women only need
a bedroom, money, clothes, etc.,
or rather, less than etc.
in that, they need little, but only the bare supplies.
That they should be able to supply themselves with what they need
for when their husband, which, you know, is not required, in her eyes,
for when he separates from her
and leaves her 'in the dust,' alone without anything,
perhaps only with a child, or in another instance, estate-less,
with only a white dress, really more of kitchen-robe than anything else;
like Virginia Woolf says, we should really try and dismantle the patriarchy
that we write and tell about. Reader, what do you after reading a story, article, or book on radical or moderate feminism say? The boys, like me, who will tell, or, try to tell their perspective of the book and say to the closest person around them, "I just read a great book by Virginia Woolf, she brings to mind an image of a university with white buildings and ends of roofs of university buildings leading along to the the main hall of architecture buildings, with sidewalks pristine and underneath people walking in their sweaters, collegiate, and later to make their way to art history classes in the fall evening. So, like Virginia Woolf, who makes you ask why you're not at the Parthenon, but instead are inside of your house, in a city that you don't want to be in, at a hospital, in your apartment, or surrounded by whoever, she nevertheless gives you have a feeling of longing-ness and a strong emotion of want. Virginia Woolf when will we go to Greece together? What do you know about Athens and classical architecture, I nearly beg you.

December 30th 2018 7:11am

Morning breaks with the sunlight peeking through the curtain.
Light stretches it's way across the room,
blinding and beautiful.

Reaching for him,
I need him close because time won't last.
This isn't reality,
we have been tinkering with hour glasses.
Finally able to pause the world.

My head swims as I inhale his scent.
I had to much to drink last night,
dive bars and napkin poetry set the tone.
Adventures and exploration,
ending with erupting satisfaction.

I've been swept away,
lost and entangled in the bedsheets.
One earring missing,
my bare skin pressed to him.

I don't want to leave this room,
but check out is soon and we can't linger much longer.
He was mine for a moment,
tucking another secret behind sealed lips,
and trying to get a grip on my beating heart.

Tangled sheets and coffee stains,
Foggy minds and opening blinds,
Sunshine devours your very being,
And you are overwhelmed by the innate warmth you feel.
Stretch out your limbs,
Open your eyes,
And prepare to face the day.
11 am.

As long as you're sure
He's your Kristoff and not your Hans
Who am I to get in your way?

I'll be loyal
I am your Olaf.
Willing to disappear because
"Some people are worth melting for."

*Just as long as he's your Kristoff.

Consanguinity: A Commissioned Poem
(How Well Do
You
Know Me?)


This request, from wolf spirit aka quinfinn, accidentally hit the spot of what was foremost on my mind.

Cosanguinity:  A relationship by descent from a common ancestor; kinship (distinguished from affinity).  A close relationship or connection.

Poetry, mine, yours,
Ours,
Invades my consciousness.

We write poems on the same subject,
Even the same title,
But a few days apart.

Insanity,
Coincidence,
or
Consanguinity?

Perhaps we are reading each other's stuff
Too much.

But that's crazy,
Or
Consanguinity?

Yet,
And yet,
We see the same things
So incredibly different.

That is the answer.
We see the same thing and I am
Struck down.

A billion sights.
A billion words.
Yet, the human computer,
Sorts, collates, and generates
A billion different writes
In a similar spirit,
Employing the same phraseology.

All right.

Alright.

Malaysia.
Minnesota.
East Coast.
West Coast.
Geographical differences.
Time differences.

No difference.
A billion differences.
The stylistic differences enable,
No, correction,
Ennobles us to coexist,
Value each other,
Learn.

Observable differences.
But more interesting,
More pleasurable,
are the incredible, visible, signs of
Consanguinity.
Mere affinity?
Kinship.

A poem?
Nah.
But at 1:11am in my location,
It's what's on my mind.
Now that I know the meaning of
Consanguinity.

And so the bloodshed ended
The war to end all wars reached its ******
Shattered minds and shattered men
Returned to shattered families
But they gave their all for world peace
But did they
NO
For in far flung corners of foreign fields
The killing still goes on
The blood of boys and girls
Nurturing foreign soil
BUT
All of you younger generation with beards earings
Nose rings and piercings
Who say to me its ancient history
So why do you bother
I say this
They gave their today for your tomorrow
Their sacrifice gives you the freedom of speech
That you now have
So don't ask me why I remember
Because I understand

This is for those hemp clad allotment dwelling new-age professionals,
riding the crest of an organic wine wave,
with heads tilted so far back,
showing off their vanilla white, Dulux painted nostril showroom.

11am, it's not too early,
community centre trip,
twisting and stretching,
kneading and rolling eighteen-month old Oscar into a morally righteous,
gluten-free,
linseed loaf of faux intelligensia.

Tofu and thai veg stirfry please,
healthy and nutriousness,
Nah!
it's greasy and delicious.
Cultured, not truly,
it's Anglicized cuisine really.

Less like a political activist,
more like the organic bourgeoisie.

Somehow you have managed to put the pieces back together,
Just to rip them apart again.
Should I feel honored that you chose a different way this time?

I can see the difference here, her and I.
Shall I list you the ways that matter?
What breaks me into repairable pieces?

I am not one for these dramatics, this is way too cinematic.
You don't even know me anymore.
I wish I could forget wanting to be loved.

I wonder if everythings not doomed.

11am

today i was sluggish

I ran a 6:45 mile

Beat my mile time

Benched 235

New max on bench

Almost have an eight pack

And somewhat feel unhappy

I've adjusted

My body is a temple

That society and culture busted

Warped by mocking of blemishes and dimples

Six pack well built

I fall in that circle

Mal nourished till I tilt

Collapses when i turn purple

Guided by past achievements

Visions of success

To forget what belief meant

Gain mass the more you digest

Calories, Carbs, and proteins

Vitamins, liquid, and BCAA's

Work hard

Workout harder

Appreciate where you were like other would if they are you

We are all victims turned into the very perpetrator we rejected

Look in the mirror

Change or accept

Fight or conform

Satisfy pleasure or  live in comfort

To be honest

I haven't felt a reason to be happy

I appreciate when times are good

But I'm still not happy

And i refuse to ruin someone's day

Or hid my emptiness behind a smile

And until I find what I am looking for

Tomorrow at 9am

I'll be at the gym

How I wish to be free
To spread my wings
feel the wind on my face
to forget it all
Let go of everything
before I fall

ve bu benim kanım, akşam yemeğim gelenlere ne mutlu.

i really tried my best in learning some Turkish
before our next meeting...
   and here is my blood,
                 happy are those who come to my supper...

well... i already wasted one bottle of wine on Jemminah:
i still have one left, probably the finest of the batch,
so i texted her at 3am in the morning:
i knew she would be up...
   the sun was teasing the sky by just about
raising a desert storm of colour below the ink blue
hue of night when she replied
to my text: are you available tomorrow?
i have a present for you, maybe you do, maybe you don't
but i'm bringing some of my homemade wine
over...

yep... she is... right... time to get ready...
i'm not leaving that brothel without having *******...

strange two days... for all the **** i've been
through since the age of 21 through to about 30...
life... oh it's come back: or rather... i've come back
to life...
    i'm already holding this ram by the horns
and wrestling with it...

    oh right... i came home at 2am... stayed up
until about 5am, woke up at around 11am...
where was i last night?

the times Wednesday June 1, 2022,
is this UK's final glimpse of Messi?
james gheerbrant -
in march 1960, evlis presley stopped over
at the US airbase in Prestwick and spent a
couple of hours mingling with the Ayrshire
locals, in what turned out to be the only
occasion he set foot on British soil.
when Lionel Messi captains Argentina
in the Finalissima against Italy at Wembley
tonight, it will be his 25th game in this
country, yet his appearances still have
the same sense of visiting royalty,
      a brush with something luminous,
a story for the grand-children, laced with
the possibility that this might be the last time...

oh right... that's where i was...
   **** me... by the end of it even through it
i started yawning...

not out of any disrespect for the genius that is Messi,
but... see... i've never seen Argentinian women
before... i probably have but you never truly know
unless they're wearing an Argentina football shirt...
and something hit me...
like it hit me when i was grooming my female
cat and she stuck her *** in my face from pleasure
and something grotesque was woken up
and had to be be immediately translated onto
a woman... or rather: hidden inside a woman...

took me about a whole night trying to find a new
brothel around London... i did... but the price
was too steep... and everything about Stratford
is shady... a whole night cycling towards central
London and back... in between shady places...
second night i was losing my libido
and went to the one i knew by heart near
Goodmayes train station...
     that's when i met Khedra... after a disappointing
hour spent with this timid little Romanian number...
who... no... she shouldn't be into prostitution...
for the love of god i tried to get a hard-on...
i blamed it on myself: maybe i drank too much?
but... i'm already on my second libido-booster:
the first i've already "ingested" - exercise...
cycling toward Upminster and back and around
Upminster towards Rainham...
exercise is an aphrodisiac... mix that with fresh
air... sunlight and nature...
boom... get the blood flowing...
                                the second aphrodisiac?
white wine... not rose, not red... white wine...

so i thought, maybe i drank too much?
   no... she was just a timid creature that...
    had zero skills... and she was "supposedly" a *******...
obviously younger than me...
so... i just lay there with her in my arms
and we exchanged words for body parts
in three languages...
   just leaving Khedra came in... boom!
thank god it's no longer something stupid as:
"love at first sight"... thank god it has become:
lust at thirst-sight
                       because: it's true... it's exactly that...
once you pass your 30s you get this
spectacular... hmm... "magic" of being able to
find compatibility in the right sort of place...
what better place than in a brothel?
    i mean... ha ha: are we there to talk about
Walter Sickert? are we here to talk about...
  geo-politics?! feminism?!
                we're at a butcher's shop and we're getting
some meat... and we're talking to the butcher...
ergo?

mind you: while cycling i really thought about it...
you can't really employ the ad hominem argument
against Marquis de Sade...
   i did read through his biography...
                   he really wasn't such bad of a man as
history lends itself for us to believe...
personally? i think he had some pretty ****** ideas...
but as a person, sure... his imagination was wicked...
but he was imprisoned for... what?
asking a ******* to use a crucifix as a *****?
and these days if you skim through some...
soft-core *******... you'll find what?
well... it's not exactly a crucifix... but Saint Sebastian of
Cucumberia is pretty popular with the nuns
of modern secularism...

     he was imprisoned more of the time than
he could have had the time to fulfill all those whims
of 120 days of *****...
among other works...
                        ****** is a different matter...
that's a stand-alone work that's his pinnacle...
it's a good thing i read him when
my own hormones were pulsating in my teens...
that kind of subdued matters, youthful frustrations...
if anything: his uncle was the real rascal!
because the argument that Slayer or any other
music for that matter incentives anger and
violence is BULL-*****...
                                it subdues it... if anything...
it reduces it to a fantasy land whim-whipped-day-dream

like marquis de sade and the idea of
regular ***...
    eh... turns out it's better to take decent breaks...
sort of live the life of a Konrad von Wallenrode...
after all... the Teutonic Knights
did have a brothel with the walls of their citadel
capital of Ordensburg Marienburg...
    so... let's not pretend what is... and what isn't
happening...
  
thank for that! for what? i just keep hearing these
nightmare stories on the internet...
Tinder this: swipe swipe left left left left...
Tinder that: swipe swipe right right right right...
once i met this guy who laughed about
people who joined Facebook... that got on me...
i was fooled! back in the day?
when Facebook was exclusively for university
students?! yeah... it made sense...
obvious blah blah some years later and it's
a boomer gimmick like e-harmony etc.,
                     but me?
   oh no... not another social media bullshitter
going to **** me in... my use of the internet?
i'm in... i'm out...
    i come here to gush out my thoughts slit the veins
of my imagination, drink... listen to music...
read someone else's suicide notes and *******
to bed...

i don't think i have ever commented on anything
that i otherwise must comment on to get a pass
for something... because...
yeah, right... you buy a book...
and you then what? scribble your opinion on the last
page of the inside of the cover and expect what?
a response?

and this whole, modern, fixation on dating apps?
hook-up apps? it was never my thing,
the whole dating "revolution" passed me by,
shoom! gone! bye bye...
            nothing is ever good when it's easy...
losing 20+kg was never going to be easy...
being falsely diagnosed as a schizophrenic was
never going to be easy...
but... i wriggled out of both of these "percularities"
(yes, i do you mingle the technique of
misnomerism with metaphors)
hence the air-quotes... ambiguity...
   everything for the imagination to unravel: revel in...

in alba vino volo (in white wine: desire)...

i even cut down on my smoking to get a better /
prolonged *******...
obviously i had to check...
   check over... jerking off to almost ****** and then...
o.k., everything's in working order...
now to write something, take a shower,
pamper myself and ******* with that bottle
of wine of mine to **** Khedra...

**** me... if i had to go through all the clumsy
dating advice, even clumsier dates...
eating food... ugh... who the hell wants to **** someone
on a full stomach?
mind you there also that: MAYBE...
because there's no guarantee...
**** first, talk later...

                            easy? easy? what's easy?
first you have to sit through the ante-chamber
interrogation room of about 12 prostitutes...
and they have eyes like the beak of the eagle
that's bound to eating Prometheus' liver, for ****'s sake!

sure... yesterday was fun... i had a chance
to perhaps see Lionel Messi for the last time in England...
but i also managed to see all those
Argentinian women... that was a breaking point
for me... south American women... mmm hmm...
yummy doesn't even cover it...

today? it had to be: i had to go all out...
i had to start the day off by eating two soft-boiled
eggs...
and then? ****** off to my Turkish barber to
get me beard trimmed...
i once remarked it (getting a beard trim)
was better than getting a blow-job...
i'd like to retract that statement:
a beard trim and a hair-cut done by the same barber
feels: just as good...
eh... a beard trim is a beard trim...
my mustache was overgrowing my lips:
drink and random food and snot was getting
stuck in it... how am i going to kiss her?

oh when Cedilla met Caron...
that's
                    when Çedilla
  (soft, although it ought to be hard)
                                 Čaron (there's no "soft" caron -
it's most certainly re-laid as
the Greek Xaron - Kharon - even though...
  chasing chiseled chalk and cheese)...

ah... the enthralling sensation of meeting someone
for some carnal debauchery...
one bottle of white done - check
visit to the barber shop - check
exercise prior - check
a decent amount of protein ingested - check
press-ups - check
pandering... ****... i need to trim my nails scrub
away all the dead skin off the soles of my feet,
wash myself thoroughly... use all the necessary
chemistry to give off whiffs of freshness...
   have i trimmed my "other" beard?
yes, yes i have...
    well then...

    eski kuzgunsaçlar (old raven-hair)...
   here i come!

My hand is still locked in yours
My lips still hold fast to what I long adored
I rise each day and feel only cold and longing
Wishing our acropolis hadn’t washed away with the rain
Hoping your hand will find its way to my chest once again

You loved the greeks and I was your god
I was cast in bronze,  you cast in marble
We both stand in the shadow of a city far and cold
But you rise two hours late and things are so different
And I miss our warm silent town and waking at the same time

And I ache to know that your form is not mine
That there wasn’t enough time in the world for us
That I cannot drink away your body with mine
And I miss knowing that the same stars shone over you and I
Whether or not we lay underneath them together

I discover ima near sighted bird
I creep so close I cross my eyes,
fill my heart, and hope to die.
you're brilliant and my brain produces chemicals that say 'hmm yes, a perfect specimen'
so pure, like starlight, a name I own.
my tailor my kin we stitch together this perfect stream
forcing up and
                       it  
curls and it turns and floats away

© 2015 Kate Volk

I don't know how
To tell you why
The days move slow
And so do I
Drawn out in your parlor
I am drunk off a memory
I am drink off the thought of putting my fist straight through your head
I can't forget any word of what you said
Honest open I showed you my world and you promised
You promised
But I'm the one you wanted to fill the void no I'm not the one you needed
I was your toy
And the date is set
The bed is made
Your heart is set
And I shouldn't have stayed this long
I'm just too busy picturing a 1000 forms of revenge
While you're too busy talking about the lines of your new dress
Spinning twirling the focus of the party
You talk over me and I sit complacently ready to tear you apart
You took root in my heart and walked away time after time after time
But the difference is that I'm big enough to recognize what fault is mine
So I'm seasick listening to the harrowing details of your relationship with god
All your devoted disciples sit at your feet so isn't it odd that
My fingernails are digging into the inside of my palms
Isnt it strange that
I'm acting like something is wrong
But as you continue to spit **** to all our mutual friends at somebody else's birthday party
I've decided that I will let you have no part of me
And so it's 2am and I'm coming clean in your doorway
I'm a mess of track marks and contraditctions but all I can say is
You're not my fix
No you're not my fix anymore
You're not my fix
I'm not your girl anymore
The date is set but I'm not coming around
No I'm not coming around anymore.

First see new photo, or else won't make sense.

Word is out
Animal kingdom on red alert,
No animus allowed near the chair,
Tween human and animal.

Good eats, good writes to be had,
Near that ye old adirondacke chair,
Where scribbles float in
L'air du temps,
Ripe for the plucking.

Arrived in the night dark,
Twelve eyes grinning, sheepish,
Wasn't tho no sheep, just a  veritable
**** deer herd munching the shrubs,
Who when head lighted, indifferently said,
Yo *******, it is September, remember,
Get the fk off **our lawn!

Argh.

Morning.
Coffee-armed. Tablet shotguned,
Went to write in the fall sun,
When to my shock n' awe,
A gaggle of geese, awaiting.

And I mean a good-god-**** giggling-gaggle, no sht!
Probably resetting, resettling, looking for forgiveness,
For ******* all over the hard scrabbled grass.
Well no atonement boys, Yom Kippur notwithstanding,
I ain't the forgiving type!

No, no poet!
We stand before you on the Jewish Judgement Day,
Decorously waiting, in a row,
Before the throne, tho honking a little rudely,
Impatient for inscribing in Natalino's
Hall of Fame, Book of Life for the coming year.

Harrumph.

Well, in that case,
(Ego melting secretly inside),
Here is a poem just for you.

Fly south safe,
Inscribed and sealed you will be,
In both the Book of Life and Prosperity,
But only if you, stay off my grass in perpetuity!

Done and off they flew,
Me smiling, proud of my new fame,
Until I found their presents
Under my flip flops.

******* deer.
******* rabbits.
******* geese.

I wish they were not such
Poetry fanatics.

Ok.

Forgiven.


10:11am Yom Kippur morning.

I woke up very early this morning, restless and bothered, itchy for the day to happen. As dawn broke orange, the city was revealed. I’ll never get tired of watching that. The snow was gone but a gloss over the city streets indicated ice. I scanned the landscape for movement - for life - like a predator.

Lisa and I are headed back to school today, at 11am, by air, which our parents feel is the best way to avoid our old, holiday nemesis omicron (doesn’t that make us sound like secret agents?).

Once everyone was finally up, Lisa and I got our busy-on, doing the last load of laundry and final packing. Lisa, packs a suitcase, by throwing clothes in without bothering to fold them, while I meticulously fold and roll my clothes, like a marine headed for deployment.

As Lisa and I worked, Leeza (12) was lying on Lisa’s bed, on her back with her head hanging over the edge - watching us pack upside down. Her red hair looked like a thrown plate of spaghetti.

Leeza was talk, talk, talking and gnawing on a toasted bagel at the same time. “How do you feel about going back to school?” she asked us. “OH, feelings!” I gasped, “A free therapy session!” “No, really,” she said, grown serious and rolling right side up.

Leeza is cute as a button and vulnerable - I could almost feel her anxiety. As the youngest sibling I’d been left behind too - you don’t want the holiday to end and your big sister to leave - it’s a singularly lonesome feeling. I wanted to grab her, like a puppy, wrestle her and tell her I love her and I’d miss her - like my sister used to do with me. I decided that as soon as we were done packing, I would.

“My GOD,” Lisa said to Leeza, “will you PLEASE shut up! I have to think.” Leeza blushed and shrugged “I’m just making conversation, grump-face, you’ve packed a million times before haven’t you?” “Does counting to 10 make ****** premeditated?” Lisa asked the ceiling.

Suddenly, Lisa dropped the blouse she’d been holding and pounced on Leeza, tickling her as she squealed with delight. In a second they’d become a ball of flailing arms, legs, hair and playful noise. I slunk out of the room to give them their sister’s goodbye.

Besides, I smelled bacon.

(for Elizabeth) 30th January 03:11am*

Through towering colonnades of stars
She rises with the daybreak's fire,
As angels strum on lute and lyre
And frost sparkles like fractured glass;

And when dark clouds have filled your eyes
Pray do not yield to let them cry;
For she is where the white doves fly
Amid the glades of Paradise.

I officially hate you,
more than I have ever done in my life.
I hope it satisfies you enough,
now you have a reason to not come back for real.
Now you should just go away from me..
Now only I realized for real, I don't think I will ever give you other chances.
And I am not sorry about it, at all.


I just hope I can sleep peacefully away from your ****.

You stabbed me in the back
and are apologizing for messing up my shirt.

I'm willing to admit an amount more than I've been given,
is about the love that I've so longingly hidden,
deep inside a place -
where doors are locked and walls are dark
where I don't even go
for fear that I might know,
what love looks like -
even in the shadows

brighton,
you made me feel
like less of a cage
for one night
my bars were branches
i have since, however,
thrown away the key.

you,
wore your heart on your knee
we spent three months
in bed
until i found you
washing your sheets
of me.

11am,
you made me impulsive
i knew nothing but your name
we shared our skin for three & a half hours
until i faked a text
and rushed to leave.

one night stand,
and sit,
and all fours,
we were eachothers last resort
it seemed
the whole time
i felt like the aftermath of a catherine wheel
all my charred skin wanted
was to find something for breakfast.

we
found comfort together
2-3 nights a week
only,
momentary comfort left me
with uncomfortable shame
maybe that's why i never said your name
always tried to hide my face.

promised land,
your arms were meant to be a haven
i was supposed to find god in you
we ought to have been scripture
but i am not a holy temple
and i stopped praying years ago.

october
you made me shine
from across the bar
it didn't take you long
to get me into a taxi
didn't take you long
to stain my skin
didn't take me long to let you in
now every time i see you
i know i'll never be clean
again.

your attempts
to "get back" at me
for ******* him
aren't really working.
i'm done with him
and wore his sweater
that you're wearing
months ago.
you're just making
this easy class
interesting.
have fun letting him
treat you like ****.

but glare at me one more time
and i'll rip
your badly bleached hair out.

not good

The way he looks at me is as if he is at a theater watching the titanic, but the ship is still sailing as the credits appear.
He looks at me as if I have found the cure for cancer, as if I am important and worthy of so much.
His voice has become my favorite song. On repeat in my head are phrases and words that he has carefully spoke to me and touched my entire being with.
Thinking about him and our time shared together still sends out invitations to the creatures to come flutter in my belly again. Or have they ever even left?
I keep telling myself they will leave soon, but they insist on staying; the party isn't over.
Looking into his eyes is a lot like peering into my own soul. I can see so deeply and feel so connected to him AND myself.
It is incredible and probably the greatest feeling to be able to look into someone's eyes and see and feel so much.
I am falling so hard for this boy, my knees are scraped and I've acquired bruises on my belly, but my body won't stop until it is fulfilled.
It's like it is literally drawn to him and will not quit until I have completely fallen.
He is the only thing I could compare pain to, and still crave it.

6/23/14
2:34am
Him: okay, well what's your biggest fear? Or (even better) what do you despise the most?
Her: um... Time
Him: haha why?
Her: i guess it's just that it's impossible to win a fight against time

8/14/14
12:11am
Him: it just doesn't make sense.
Her: what doesn't?
Him: us.
Her: why?
Him: we just aren't at the same places in our lives, we can't keep doing this.
Her: you can't fight for us, for what we are, for everything we could be?
Him: it's impossible to win a fight against timing.