"Abscission of Eschewal”

If I am still, I can hear the voices.

Chimes of advices, softly spoken, coronate in neon in my peripherals. Messages, abscissas from the x-axis of words and sounds, just parallel, float their fog of transmission to me.

“Touch that wall,” a voice’s suggestion nudges as I crookedly gain my balance by clutching the flat surface of this white wall, one fourth of the surfaces confining the contents of a tight enclosure. Just under the ventilation shaft, the wall is vibrating. The voices are louder near vibrations.

The enclosure, with every surface bleach white, is a bathroom, a corner taken at the edge of the convenience store off the four lane highway by the high school.

Its sink compacts spotless metal into its design, and the crafting lines visibly run parallel upon in its surface, reflecting generously to the bags under my eyes. The soap dispenser’s cubic structure cut into a visitor's vision like the blade of a pencil sharpener, showing every pixel and every angle of my face inside it.

Feint grooves dig into the wall in the shape of a triangle and a pair of scissors. Opposite that wall, a door with no handle stands; in the place of the handle rests only a circular lock. Behind the door, I hear a sigh, a winded slurp, the kind joggers give after high speed exertion on a morning run.

I hear the air rush, hitting the nostrils.

I hear a whimper.

I push the door open, slowly, and the hinge pops in intervals as it wedges open.

In front of me, a stool sets with a touch screen phone running on top of it, and a limp woman curls in a ball upon the floor, facing the bathroom. Her eyelids are missing.

A video plays of her on the touch screen phone on the stool. In a Skype window, she, a brunette girl with duct tape wrapped around her mouth, flickers in the thick black mire of what appeared to be another lavatory with a single fluorescent light with faulty wiring blinking a white glow upon her matted, unwashed hair. A black frame and darkness outlines her figure, filling the rest of the room. Her eyelids are missing in the video, just as her eyelids are missing in person, but she grasps to consciousness in the video, and she turns her eyes frequently with nervous twitches, wheezing and whimpering in the Skype window on the phone.

“Incoming call, 785-135-1581,” a white screen with green buttons interrupts.

I touch “Accept” and pick up the phone.

When my ear touches to the phone, I hear heavy breathing.

“No breeding, Jonas.” a male voice whispers.

“How do you know me?” I ask.

“Mating. They want to keep you from it,” the man continues.

“I won’t let that happen,” I assert.

“This was in protest, the first. Eyes open, so they can see,” the man says on the phone.

The male voice I heard on the phone, The Heavy Breather, inhales and exhales.

“Are there anymore?” I ask.

“I didn’t need anymore. Find out about her. See for yourself.”

I check her wallet.

I see credit cards, visas, and a 5x7 with her standing behind a podium in a lodge in a small town with a banner behind it, and a picture of a man racing on foot, crossing a finishing line with an arm outstretched in front of another racer to prevent him from finishing.
On the banner, a slogan reads, “Keep unborn and unflowered: cleanse the youth.”
Seated before her in the lodge are several lawyers, doctors, and town leaders conversing, smiling, and greeting.

“Look what they’ve done, colluding together, excluding us.  Leaving us alone. Partying while we suffer. Those in The Colluded of the Equinox kiss their wives and girlfriends and children in public they hoard and tell it all to us, flaunting their miscreant deeds. They hide in shadows and do every wrong thing, but they only rarely do wrong in public, and they are never together at the same time. They keep hidden company. They rejoice in their evils, oppression. We live not more than a few miles from them, wherever we live at anytime. We live with them. One sin from an unlucky man is worse than a thousand sins from a lucky man. Is that it? Is an unlucky Christian worse than a lucky atheist? They spew their mantra: 'It’s so much worse than you think.' They tell you you’re not what you think, that everything you know is wrong. 'Submit,' they say. You know what I did? I did what I wanted. This woman on the ground before you is what I wanted.”

“All this to stop from reproduction? This society…” I ask.

“I hate it, also. Be it willing or unwilling conspiracy, it is still conspiracy, high crimes, ” The Heavy Breather responds.

“Crimes before whom?” I question.

“I don’t know,” The Heavy Breather admits.

“I know some. First, they stare. Peeping in your windows, following. Then, records, whole security camera videos, receipts in stores, gone…written in ink that disappears. Records of existence...gone.Wherever you were, you were never there. That’s what they want for you, to delete every backed up conversation, memory, and recollection, so they can instill new things. I shopped in stores, and the devices were amnesiacs,” he recounts.

The woman on the floor moans and stirs, but she settles again feebly.

"They can't get rid of all that at once," I interject.

“No, but they keep scraping the little details of life away, proof of life, covering them up. They have cleaners, cleaning up our little spills of progress and success. Witnesses, like the devices they own, are amnesiacs." The Heavy Breather asserts.

"Even if the electronics are wiped clean, they must have seen us at stores or parking lots, somewhere. They can think for themselves and put it together, right?" I ask.

“Those that remember us have no incentive to continue those memories. The Colluded of the Equinox brainwash. Married people are telling the ***** not to get married. They force celibate priests, figures in white hoods.
The Colluded of the Equinox force people like quivering lures, closing doors until the only ones left are of seclusion and chastity. They are in all religions, hierarchies, in every ruling body, replacing reproduction with work, with ‘purpose,’“ he continues.

The body on the floor twitches as I hear the Heavy Breather grunt on the phone.

“These are their protocols. These are the Colluded’s motives. The Colluded condemns displays of affection, physical acts of love, reproduction. The Colluded controls the population. The Colluded tells the women to focus on each other and obey advertisements’ models of how they should behave and look…conformed and emotionless. The Colluded are survivalists, locking the reproductive organs of selected citizens to save money and keep control. The Colluded use the magnetism of credit cards to lock your urethra…the tingle you feel when you sit down on your credit cards in your wallet…it lowers your ***** count,” he growls.

“The answer came to me. 'Write your message on her insides,' said the sentence that was scrawled within my closed eyes in neon. It should read: ‘She threw us a stone instead of bread, the way corrupt people do.' You can go, now. I have work to do,” he suggests.

I heard a motor crank on the phone.

“Should I expect the authorities here?” he asks as the sound rumbles in the background.

“Carry on. I didn’t see anything,” I reply.

I grab the cell phone from the stool, press the 'End' button, put it in my pocket, and walk out of the bathroom, pushing the woman on the floor with my foot on my way out far enough from the door to close and seal it in front of her, nodding to the convenience store clerk as I push the glass door open and walk out into the street, cranking up my car and leaving to the open road.

the vivisectionist comes to call
when I am separated from you
his palsied incautious hands
removing the hours from my body

one

at

a

time

dragging his dull rusted scalpel
across my psyche
in his leaden deliberate pace
whistling
tunelessly
monotonously
in my ear
he will have no truck
with anesthetic

I am bathed
in the sanguine gore
of his butchery
which others mistake
for sadness

The knife of life carves indiscriminately without warning
said the runts of the pumpkin patch now lined in mourning.
A farmer plucked biggest one, cutting vine, as the runts cried
a black harvest, Mama being carted off, as she died.
Sad black crows circle the day and night sky abreast and stressed
as the winds of fate wielded its teeth at the oppressed.
A blur of orange is all the crows saw amongst the quivering patch
as the farmer tiptoed the pasture wide-eyed on getting his ******.
Now at the hour of her death angels play harps of fruition
in wake of the wide-eyed farmer's wayward act of abscission.
Billows of black smoke followed, taking to the ominous  skies
as the incinerator took matters in its own hands as she lies.
Then all that was left were the ashes and whispers of the past,
a eulogy, as her quivering kin sat in the storybook downcast.
Pages cried out, tears filled the chapters of a great pumpkin patch
her roots holding each on the vines with love that's hard to match.
No day came off, of a jack-o-lantern smiling in a window frame
for in this family house cancer snatched mothers life just the same.

Logan Robertson

8/4/2018

Altered by the winds laced with a threnody tune,
life in the northern woods will never be the same without its bloom.
The deceased puppet master continues to pull the strings of the dehiscence heart,
one of this game is forced to take part.
The ears of an indecisive mind take in the plaintive sound,
which provides an ongoing reminder of how these feet are forever bound to this ground.
With the chances of escaping  this monochromatic box slims,
one might begin to take a swim.
The ideal way of living becomes a compromise,
the old personality leaves only the eyes.
Shed away in a abscission fashion,
and along with that goes all the passion.
Sitting down to confabulate with a higher knowledge,
carry  on the dreams of going to college.
Storybook barriers leave no saltant mood.
Being passed by society is quite rude.
A misnomer indeed,
being labeled wrong because of greed.
Hunger of such has taken a life,
of one upon a lake that was never a wife.
Letters that hold such wicked silence,
that can never be undone even with science.
This blue body surrounded by an invisible malediction,
or maybe that is all just fiction.
He has nothing left from his unmanly lies,
upon keeping secrets he thinks he is wise.
Knowing it all is never enough,
but with an abecedarian brain on might just call it a bluff.
Eventually farewells must be given without hate,
and one might hope to return as if all was in a somniferous state.

In every one-word world, exotic spaces' gradual state of life proclaimed as a melon . As the urges to divide the pleasures of the infernal forth from the happiness which has closed in to the square-shaped restless less rolling boxes. And what the treat is if all of the souls from the cypress take the higher breaths of the shrew and belabor them unto the points of humanity, uncivilized humanity that is quite bountifully.

During this autumnal abscission where the alizarin and pallid arms and edges, crooked and afraid, steep in the sullied tatterdemalion and the mysophilia that emimart

Today, 4/9, turned 29;
in '94, 9th hour born;
4 craves stability,
9 thrives on change;

if you believe in
that sort of thing.
But like the dogwood,
its burnt-edge blooms;
the same each spring,
abscission looms.
Roots in the past,
leaves up for the storm
in '94, 9th hour born.

Is life a story, is life magick dreaming to love?

I gazed up. “Standing below the elephantine magnolia,
the ground still bore Tuscany ochre from autumns last kiss.”
My eyes solivagant orbs fed on spring’s dews in mourning
──jewellery clinging opulently to her naked form.
Dawn chilled the breeze caressing her body as abscission
demanded she undressed her emerald gown of leaves.
Magenta and cream blooms sprang “loudly” seducing
─ blushing mauve crowned centres,
a population of endless figurines perched motionless on aching
naked branches.
Solomon’s seal burned white within me drunk impending suns arrows, opulent words of silver Verbus diablio kissed in a cauldron
of Magnolia words, a banquet for mortals that seek loves gold.

A lone spider echoed silence bearing the sigil of Jupiter’s
vermillion and white spun striations luffing on the breeze
warming. “Magnolia dressed the day ardent in perfumed
── glorious plumes that each set sail across waking skies.”
Ablaze I am luscious dreams wrapped in sweet nectar,
travelling limbic memories breathing deeply, held captive,
wanton within her labyrinths of silk caresses, petals whispering,
sweet love as she engulfs my last resolve.

In raptures white velvet gown my hem sweeps over gold russet
and brittle autumns words forged in winters need for warmth──mind leaves crunching beneath life’s changing seasons,
stitched I cling enamoured to mortal honeymoon summered fields.
I am the female of sapphire tears twisting, glittering melting ice shards, bequeathed of pained black stars travelled on passionate magick fires, breathed on melodious Roma nights.

Rested among the branches a mantel crucified- drunk once more,
a bloom held silent in time weeping, exploding fragrant in a coloured soul, a luffing flower creature to life──crowned

──to sun hope thorns.

©ASPAR (A Sol Poet Arnay Rumens)

The abscission of  inner voice comes,
storm from a vein of clouds,
cut that bleeds a profusion of thoughts.
She trails a finger through confusion,
seeks coagulation, anything that solidifies.

Free but lonely --- an epitaph signed
by empty arms from lip to heart,
extended to a faithless world.
Something more than silence ---
tears form a haptic prayer.

Dearest creature in creation
Studying English pronunciation,
   I will teach you in my verse
   Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;
   Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;
   Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet,
Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!
   Just compare heart, hear and heard,
   Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain
(Mind the latter how it's written).
   Made has not the sound of bade,
   Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as vague and ague,
   But be careful how you speak,
   Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via
Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;
   Woven, oven, how and low,
   Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery:
Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,
   Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,
   Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing,
Same, examining, but mining,
   Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
   Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire",
Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,
   Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,
   Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.
   Gertrude, German, wind and wind,
   Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather,
Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.
   This phonetic labyrinth
   Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured
To pronounce revered and severed,
   Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,
   Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet;
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
   Blood and flood are not like food,
   Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet,
Which exactly rhymes with khaki.
   Discount, viscount, load and broad,
   Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet?
Right! Your pronunciation's OK.
   Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
   Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher?
Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.
   Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,
   Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision,
Now: position and transition;
   Would it tally with my rhyme
   If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy,
But cease, crease, grease and greasy?
   Cornice, nice, valise, revise,
   Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous,
Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,
   You'll envelop lists, I hope,
   In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it!
Affidavit, David, davit.
   To abjure, to perjure. Sheik
   Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.
   We say hallowed, but allowed,
   People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover,
Between mover, plover, Dover.
   Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
   Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
   Petal, penal, and canal,
   Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit
Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",
   But it is not hard to tell
   Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron,
Timber, climber, bullion, lion,
   Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
   Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
Has the a of drachm and hammer.
   *****, ***** and possess,
   Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants
Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.
   Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,
   Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker",
Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",
   Making, it is sad but true,
   In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
   Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,
   Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic,
Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.
   Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,
   Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle,
Make the latter rhyme with eagle.
   Mind! Meandering but mean,
   Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny,
You say mani-(fold) like many,
   Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,
   Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring
Rhyme with herring or with stirring?
   Prison, bison, treasure trove,
   Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald
Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.
   Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,
   Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it,
And distinguish buffet, buffet;
   Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,
   Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling
Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.
   Evil, devil, mezzotint,
   Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention
To such sounds as I don't mention,
   Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,
   Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included,
Though I often heard, as you did,
   Funny rhymes to unicorn,
   Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely,
I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.
   No. Yet Froude compared with proud
   Is no better than McLeod.

But mind trivial and vial,
Tripod, menial, denial,
   Troll and trolley, realm and ream,
   Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely
May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,
   But you're not supposed to say
   Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid
Worthless documents? How pallid,
   How uncouth he, couchant, looked,
   When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite,
Paramour, enamoured, flighty,
   Episodes, antipodes,
   Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser,
Don't peel 'taters with my razor,
   Rather say in accents pure:
   Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly,
Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,
   Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,
   Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you
More than r, ch or w.
   Say then these phonetic gems:
   Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham,
There are more but I forget 'em-
   Wait! I've got it: Anthony,
   Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit
Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;
   With and forthwith, one has voice,
   One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger;
Then say: singer, ginger, linger.
   Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,
   Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very,
Parry, tarry fury, bury,
   Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,
   Job, Job, blossom, *****, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners,
Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners
   Holm you know, but noes, canoes,
   Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little,
We say actual, but victual,
   Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,
   Put, nut, granite, and unite.

****** does not rhyme with deafer,
Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
   Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,
   Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific;
   Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,
   Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and *****,
Next omit, which differs from it
   Bona fide, alibi
   Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
   Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,
   Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion with battalion,
   Rally with ally; yea, ye,
   Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.
   Never guess-it is not safe,
   We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary,
Crevice, but device, and eyrie,
   Face, but preface, then grimace,
   Phlegm, phlegmatic, ***, glass, bass.

Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;
   Ear, but earn; and ere and tear
   Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often
Which may be pronounced as orphan,
   With the sound of saw and sauce;
   Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting?
Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.
   Respite, spite, consent, resent.
   Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,
   Monkey, donkey, clerk and ****,
   Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour,
S of news (compare newspaper),
   G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,
   I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers,
Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.
   Once, but *****, toll, doll, but roll,
   Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!-
Is a paling, stout and spiky.
   Won't it make you lose your wits
   Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel
Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,
   Islington, and Isle of Wight,
   Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather,
Saying lather, bather, father?
   Finally, which rhymes with enough,
   Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup...
My advice is: GIVE IT UP!

I remember when I was six there
was a hint of it
even then.
I was six.

Six and already acting as if!
trying to catch a setting sun.

As if
a last apricot
snapped of its thin, pendulant
node, were falling into
abscission, and the pulp, and the flame
orange  
flesh, and the
seeds
about to rupture.

Would lay an open hand, one hand
(I think my right)—lay it on
the frail bark of a tree
outside, together, alone. As if
even then
asking the skin
of what rises and holds
organic and tall the
living and strong
not to peel away
leave me.

As if I thought
I don’t know who was beyond,
watching.

But laid it there, still, all popely
and saintly and, really, quite foolishly.
I was six.

Six, and wondered,
had somebody
watched?

I don’t remember what I wanted.
But a trace of something
important
remains
ruptured in me. As if

all along I had known
not to hold out the hands. Known

I am six-teen years later.

several dozen leaves fall
all at the same time
around me
on the
ground
and there
is no wind

its abscission.

I've always fallen in love in autumn
always to fall apart early spring--
call me deciduous, the abscission just happens,
I've considered my winter coats, my shields,
the neat places I've tucked myself away

were we to overwinter?
to hibernate until further notice?
the titles were frightening, impending and
ominous, each one a textbook on subjects
we had no knowledge of, dark leatherback novels
featuring versions of ourselves we never meant
to be or never knew we could --

wrapped in sleeping bags and white down duvets
best during the winter becase we were both
raging fires, flames licking at eachothers doors
stopping short of our naked toes, put out by the
here and there snow, but sometimes
we were embers, pulsing stones of coal
settling, wishing, waiting, kissing wounds
breathing secrets over bruises--

but migration comes suddenly,
i've been in and out dormant for years
a sputtering volcano rumbling and groaning--

were we to overwinter?
I lost the dream woke with a start,
the caldera gave way and sunk in
terrified I'd take you with,
but travelers don't pause for eruptions
or make their way through magma --

and volcanos don't plead
   for them to
       stay
       were we to    
                overwinter?

To me, it was nothing but a forced attraction
I needed a filler for my soul,
a soil to fill my cracks and crevices
I pitied him for his self-love, always unrequited love
When I worried about his heartaches and abscission
he worried if he’d get the chance to light up a cigarette
While I pleaded him to live forever, we could be forever
Eternity, like evergreens
I’d wait forever.
The life I planted in his soul was slowly losing touch,
Or perhaps it had never even rooted
The forests flourishing in his eyes
turned to charred dust,
singed to the heart of the land
He burned us down to the single ****
that we are left with to remember
The beautiful landscape that once was
captured in a measly moss
And I am unsure whether to admire the audacity of the wildflower
Or hate him for the ruins that were once my roots

Tell me why I can't sleep.
I'm staring at my phone,
Draped in darkness, all alone.
Solemn, silent, joy agone;
Sorely sick of feeling nothing.

I can't muster any old ambition.
Time winds down but won't abscission.
Slowly it keeps moving, and yet I'm sitting still.

The happiest I've ever been... about three years ago.
It's cathartic don't you know?
Just to sit back and remember.

Is free verse even poetry?
It's purely unperpetuated,
Obnoxious, and inebriated
Slowly slurring slurries of distinguished eloquence and grace
With no outstanding reason, rhyme, or measure of it's pace.
It's disgusting, and undignified;
An element of haste.

Or am I just upset with all my words that hit the page?
My emotions, things of rage... or longing
My mind feels like a cage.
Oh I just hate feeling this way
And yet I do.

Oh take me back in time
To a world where she was mine
When all my poems weren't so...
Depressing.

i once helped a bee die... how? the poor thing was lying
on the patio giving his last twitches...
so i overdosed him on honey...
yep... picked him up in my hand,
squeezed a bit of honey and watched him
stick out his: maxilla, labial part,
proboscis and glossa (what a complex inversion
of otherwise calling it a phallus and zunge)...
and **** up the honey...

i don't know whether he was an old bee or he didn't
see the glass and minotaured the empty space
with a concussion...
but i did see all life evaporate when he finally died
from a sugar-overdose... thanks to me...
a little universe in the palm of my hand...
how else to **** a bee that's already dying?
i couldn't just flatten it with my foot...
why? i remember being stung once... all i can remember
is the mud and the lake...

unlike killing mosquitos... which is just fun...
of all things in this world: mosquitos i **** for fun...
i once took a selfie with a fly on my forehead...
don't ask me how i walked from one room
to the other... turned the computer on...
and... the fly in tow... to compliment a perfect
hindu bindi!
sometimes i would catch a fly in a glass and walk
up to cotton candy of some spider's lair and wish
that i might just: feed her something...
that's like winning the lottery...
but mosquitos? i **** for fun... i just wait until i see
that needle of theirs get injected into my skin
when then anaesthetic is being pumped in...
and then the splatter of a hand-guillotine...
when i was younger i watched to boys playing
by a stream... they would catch a frog and cover
her with lipstick... two sadists in the making...
and then they'd light her up...
i once dated a girl who used to sprinkle salt
on snails... but i still eat chicken...
perhaps because i want to retain a "moral superiority"
by also appreciating eating the hearts,
the stomachs... esp. the poached necks...

if an animal is to be killed: might as well make most
of it... i heard that deep-fried pork ears smothered
in breadcrumbs are a rave in new york...
no one this is supposed to make sense for me
keeping up with rigid religious dogma...
there is none in this scenario... there's just this freak
event... of watching a bee die in my hand
from a honey-overdose...
perhaps honey is like an ****** for these little buggers?
beside the point...
i always feel **** when i write something and it amasses...
a spike in readership...
notably: the words come of their own accord;
the ***** are a bonus -
i must have written something to estranged from my usual
diatribe... i must have prostated myself
in defiance to... compliment Iblis or something...
hunchback with wings...
i've heard that myth a long time ago...
concerned with the Eden story in Islam of...
in defiance Iblis didn't bow...

so however many generations later...
some "genius" decided to bow and earned himself
the title: the hunchback angel... formerly a man...
perhaps at my lowest: when something should
not have been written: but anything to escape
and not give into a writer's bloc is more necessary...
at least it must be entertaining for the many...
stick to the script remember:
you're not writing for the money...
nor the chance to collect a memory harem
of one-night stands...
in reference to the use of english - which isn't a first:
nor is it my first daddy and mummy:
t'ah-t'ah and m'ah-m'ah...
last time i heard t'ah-t'ah was a shared primeval
syllable construct also found in south africa...
to denote: father... which is "odd" how
it moved to poland... abscission...
that's the closest i've come to reaching a competence
using this acquired tongue...
what a past have i left...
unlike Czeslaw Miłosz... then again...
he was always a Lithuanian at heart...
i once heard from a girl in a pub that i kissed
and kissed mad drunk with love to hear any sort
of *******... forehead, eyebrows eyelids nose
and teased at the lips: as most drunks do...
we ****** the Lithuanians over...

in what respect? who's fault was it... the three partitions?
and the pseudo-Israel "non-existence" on
the map... this fear of losing grips on a language
are not new... oddly enough i allow myself
to be an anglophile... it's unique in that...
it doesn't have... orthography debates... just bad spelling...
and plenty of metaphysical fish from...
that sort of death yawns and a ship sails
across an entire ocean...
therefore i can't just "integrate"...
it would be bad psycholgoy to think that:
one tongue is better than two...
it would be like an amputee's ghost limp...
or worse... since to cut out the tongue...
first, later second... because it's a minority tongue...
and: what if i don't have anyone to speak
it with? how about i think in it?
what two groups of people were ever able
to sack moscow... the mongols and the poles...
during the polish–muscovite war (1605–1618):
poland - the cindarella of europe...
and she really is... just recently celebrating 100 years
of independence?

while all these other cases have had:
uninterrupted histories?
we ****** over the Lithuanians... how?
we ****** ourselves over to begin with...
a democratic monarchy - the commonwealth -
because it somehow started with...
democratically electing a king by the aristocratic
class - a swede once governed over this...
myth of a land... the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
should be regarded as a myth...
ancient greece would be a myth if no writing
was used in modern blah-blah...

my own... my own... shame that i don't write
in the language... but instead write in english...
i've given it plenty of assurances that it will:
or rather that i will be its most respectful host...
but given i see no need to point at myself...
perhaps the english in me has its own mind?
i sometimes "feel" under strict obligation to just sit
back and let the language express itself...
for some reason there might just be enough...
"unaddressed" points to consider...
should this language not find a suitable host...
perhaps... a subversive host...
that would use the language for: ulterior motives...
i don't have the skin in the game to...
throw tantrums and do nothing about...
psst... the grooming gang scandals...
i've been trying to bed an english girl for...
a better half of two decades...
australian, russian, french...
romanian, bulgarian... thai...
                           idealist me... *** is always ugly...
nice photographs... but any conversation
before or after...
**** anything that moves is the general motto...
steal kisses from prostitutes...
because this is not the time for: the jack of all spades
to tame the hearts of: the "less pure"...
oh sure... i could go back: to whatever "back" is...
perhaps i'm invested in england somehow...
like the r.a.f. squadron no. 303...
who have something to take care of...
outside of the "homeland"... home... i don't even know
where that is...
this doesn't even suggest itself as a...
perilous exile... for there to be some longing...
i can't even boast... become overtly pronounced
in myself: with said origins...
can't exactly sell you pierogi dumblings like
a turk might sell you a kebab or an indian curry...
so... pride... at which point? the current:
march of the black umbrellas... the... dead twin speaking
to the current: party president -
from the wreckage of Smolensk wreckage...
having a russian girlfriend... wouldn't have helped...
i'm sure...
winged-hussars... something special about distant
folk songs... that aren't in german?
oh they have to be in german... only the germans really
know how to sing folk songs...

question: how long did it take to defeat france
in world war II?
six weeks from 10 May 1940,
german forces defeated lllied forces
by mobile operations and conquered france, belgium,
luxembourg and the netherlands (42 days)

question: how long did it take to defeat poland
in world war II
35 days... wow! now i can ******* gloat!
it took the germans and the soviets... 35 days to defeat
poland... ha ha... riding roses against tanks...
that famous / infamous: charge at krojanty...
but it did take both the germans... and the soviets...
35 days...
i guess the gentile folk of western europe...
just 7 days more... to conquer a plethora of
countries... some that didn't have their existence...
put on hiatus... the welcoming **** of france
it seems...

fair enough... i've found something to be proud of...
woop woop!
mein gott! i come from this past...
why am i not passing my genes? och! **** lord miser
that i am!
here's to: not ****** any english girls...
or perhaps: it's the love for the welsh: just being welsh...
and it's somehow imploring the scots:
get some gaelic in you! don't base it on
a glaswegian accent!

yes... i am the host - and english is a "parasite" in me...
personally i think it has a mind of its own...
ever think that a language can never be your own?
esp. if it is acquired?
all that: from an outsider's perspective...
but not from a "racial minority" perspective...
beside the whitey you would have to tell me to:
wear my "brown" on the inside...
any excuse to not but otherwise troll some german...
for the giggles and fuchs...
if only this was written by some Kensington rascal...
but it's not... and it's not by a northumberlandian
either... i tend to forget the bristol wankers
outright... sorry... local prejudices...
you can never somehow escape them!
i.e. essex this, essex that... all the blondes and oranges
and... thick as bunch of doorknobs...
that's why i'd call them the bristolian wankers...
some prejudices just come with the language...
and locality.....
prejudices or merely a tease mark-up...
the usual west vs. east, north vs. south...
and to think... i came here... aged 8...
with no knowledge of the language...
watching cartoon network doesn't count...
and look at me now... entrenched in it...
the host...
                            i quiet like the analogy...
thrown in the deep end and shouted at:
now learn to tread water, you beautiful little
motherucker! swim! swim!
if there's no self-deprecating humor...
then there's no humor at all;
oh look... there's even a latin phrase for it...
i think i'll call this my modus operandi -
my caterogical imperative...
my cogito ergo sum...
         so it's settled:           sui deprecandi;
the biggest joke of all is that...
i can't fit the sterotype of being an eastern european
plumber... which is a shame...
given that east europe is... somewhat near
the the Urals... and...
of course... the czechs have had it easier
having capitulated... and they did because...
bohemia was their old pocket in the holy
roman empire...
piffy details... pitiable attention to details...
who's who in the game of:
what's to be bettered by it being corrected...
i hate this game...
then again: the best i ever said in school
was... a punctuation "oops":
- ****! ****!
- ****, my ***... in that common colliqual of:
what's it called: not really?
unless i'm about to endanger the native speaker
residence of language...
or that i need to be corrected: i'm all ears when it comes
to a typo...
the pride of the monolinguals...
call it pride... call it stubbornness -
but if i didn't retain my own "nativism" i would
have to probably resolve to speaking to my grandparents
in a gesticulating braille hybrid -
with an index finger pointing at air...
spotting carbon dioxide particle..
         guilty as charged... always paranoid about
whether or not i have succumbed to a tautology.

to know and to be certain that you exist
in someone else's world
minutes or hours away
is incredible - yet completely illogical.

to know and to be certain that someone thinks of you
when you're not there is an absurdity - and yet entirely wondrous
even then, still, your fingers ache to grasp the intangible reality
of revelation as to when and where your two worlds will collide again when you are apart.

and upon that collision
will there be time to stand and watch the seasons change?
or will it move like lightning - in seconds it is gone
and you have missed it.

will days be weary from verbal abscission or will hours be shortened
by love's implicitly?
furthermore, will night's be stormy from words left unsaid
or will minutes be lengthened by confluence of two souls?

those moments
when souls are bonded
when their eyes find yours
when your breath catches
when your voice falters in your throat
those moments
when their lips press against your skin
when your eyes close
when your hands clasp
and your heart hammers
those moments when

you cant tell whose heart is is synching with who's -
those are the moments you crave.

there is nothing more innocent than someone who can stop you in your tracks with a wave - and take your breath away with a smile, jumpstart your heart with a word, and ignite a fire in your stomach with a kiss.

the absurdity of those moments is incredible - yet completely illogical.
so tell me, what does it really mean to be certain?

When might it have started? When did this whole thing start?
‘Beginning’ is too hard a concept, it is too natural a word,
It is too common a daily lifestyle that too many cross over it like
Butterflies in the midst of summer, like little waves in a pond of
Lily leaves.

Do you know how a leaf falls for Winter? Do you know something
Just similar to abscission in plants? Do you know how the clouds
Say ‘Hi’ to their neighbours?

Right now, the leaves are not fallen. The wind blows. And the leaf
Shakes. The leaf is tense. The leaf cannot see. It is a bit chilly.

So I would like to open what is a heart and what is an eye. Have
A light radiate through a slit, and warm the room and chambers
Inside.