Everybody’s going nowhere and I am far gone
I can’t even see the ocean the motion was all wrong
Just a sea of broken bottles and cigarette models
On the floor, so high I had to clean the sky
Never been an existentialist, cynic, or a pessimist
Just another body on the edge of metamorphosis
Clinging to a rope I hope will not snap
Like my neck if I hit the ground, oh crap!
I’m apocalyptic fresh and I can’t say why
If I do it’s a lie, see the needle in my eye?
Meditation, preparation, or a conscious legislation
Couldn't help the fact my words are often littered with abrasions
As if shock rock poetry could save me from my death
It could possibly enlighten but I wouldn't hold my breath
Now I’m frightened by the notion of a new world order
But anarchy is hip if you’re on this side of the border
I digress, what a mess if you know what I mean
But I've burned out quicker than gasoline…

it’s not everyday you get to end a 7 year psychosis
when redecorating your room to it’s “original” crimson,
having had such a simple symptom as
brain cell membranes breaking and oozing blood out,
to be misdiagnosed as mentally insane,
and when in need of help from the haemorrhage
not driven to the hospital due to the lack of *******
of having proceeded with the deed but forgetting the onslaught of law
in favour of the hurt party... well...what can you do?
move on, as i’m trying, had it been naturally based
on genetic chronology / genealogy i would have suffered in vain...
but i’m brimming with a hate for islam, and there’s nothing
to do but calm the quasi-communist protestors
in the western lands... ******* calm down... you’ll get
your freedom of speech... once you stop trying to censor vocabulary...
there’s no point learning a language if it becomes
politicised and you tell me to block vowels or consonants
in a non-kabbalistic way (which i’ll come to):
so yeah, a 7 year psychosis over a needle in a haystack...
gives me the shivers...
the many times i thought about killing someone
and feeding the emotions with not doing the act...
so many times i was almost skeletally biased to churn the
marrow haemoglobin into tendon stressor action of taking
the knife and doing halal or kosher with someone...
many a times...as many a times i saw crucifixions in edinburgh
not knowing it was going to happen in syria,
and that night when a muslim tried to mug me
in brick lane breaking down in the street of revellers
kneeling in tears screaming a prayer with tears in my eyes
of only one word: allah.
so i started redecorating my room, crimson is back from
hospital white... my bookshelf is rearranged...
on the left on the top shelf fictional books i either read
or didn’t bother to read because of the movies...
to the right on the shelf psychiatric and philosophical books...
the next shelf is a poetry “corner,” well it elongates beyond the corner...
and it’s split by a dictionary with the right bit of the shelf filled
with english poetry and some literature that’s poetic, and french,
the dictionary is planted to segregate the poetry books,
to the left of the dictionary is a book of greek myths
(did you know all greek theology is derived from the new testament
and not from the testament of orpheus or hercules or Perseus?),
then a book on meditative kabblah... then polish books of poetry.
so i rearranged the room, but i also lodged
an essayist’s book on melancholia, a book on depression
a book on an intro. to jung and a book on
schizophrenia lodged between these massive collections:
to the left all the art books... to the right all the books concerning chemistry...
so the books in between can’t really be seen.
as of today i woke with a p.s. from dreams, or a p.s. in dreams,
i woke and imagined myself talking to my mother
about the identity of al-dajjal... the false messiah,
within the conscious realm i just said the words out of the window:
fool you fool me, when mecca / medina become west of paris / london,
i’ll accept riyadh to be east of tehran / new delhi...
then we'll marginalise plateau east with copernican east
via the stars, and wander aimlessly trying to copper-fill
the sun at sunset...
he (muhammad) said the man would be of his nation,
and he said so with a warning...
but ibn saud got away weighing in at 160kg, diabetic and a brawler
with the stomach, the decadent of all that choose either sugary decadence
or some other form of mental instability in the chosen trade of stolen organs.
me? i keep my sanity with the tetragrammaton, cipher this:
this numerology *******, and it is ******* will not do...
enter platonic forms:
y is so so much more than just 25...
what will you see through y with the number 25?
what? nothing, dry brute that i am...
Y represent 3 dimensional space...
the first h is not important given the second h... which is deja vu,
which is less than what malachi insisted with the fractioned god of
the fractioned “elijah” reincarnated...
deja vu can be explained with science as one of the brain’s tricks
to sense this familiarity of seeing an elephant and acknowledging
the five blind men touching it up for comparative jokes,
the W... well... at least it’s not M... given that the trigonometric cosine continuum
begins at 1.... god is one... ring a bell? well better that than
beginning with the trigonometric sine continuum, which begins with 0...
forget numerology... numbers and letters aren’t related...
forget the dogmatism of rabbis - it makes no sense to say a = 1, b = 2 etc.
and then take a word like ape, and say: ‘ah, a = 1, p = 16 and e = 5; by god!
that’s a kabbalistic synonymity of the word... pea!’
where’s the jolly green giant when you need him, eh?
just look at what a phonetic symbol represents...
like secondary darwinism of a primate hissing to alert the presence
of a snake... past darwinism... past drawing antelopes
in french caves... in the realm of abstract phoneticism that
gave us the cognitive genesis... and made as... dare i say... a bit myopic
in a solipsistic sense.
p.s. ah... what are the newspapers saying?
slapstick humour is one of the prime causes of dementia? huh?!
yes, prime minister... is satire comedy?
how the hell can yes, prime minister be categorised as satire
if it uses canned laughter?
see that bloke over there... doing the omnivore pelican dance?
he joked so readily and active that he created authentic laughter...
don’t know where your satire is going... but it certainly left me gagging
for a springroll.
now now... absurdist comedy is too oxbridge for me...
kings and gentlemen get educated in either st. andrew’s or edinburgh...
we laugh at ourselves.
alt. to canned laughter, given that "canned laughter"
is reserved for the authentic laughter of the crowd
at a live show? what's the antonym of canned laughter
in televised satire? picky laughter... i.e. only one person
in an schoolroom of 30 gets the joke, apart from the comedian...
that lonely everest ha ha... ooh chills, frozen prawns in gravy.

******* is what I live for, necrophilia is what I die for.

start
set the scene...
somewhere enclosed, close and closed
like a bed
(tight, restricted like, uh, the world all around me, how fitting
now it’s political)
on a morning
and maybe the sun will be rising,
or setting−yes−to represent the ethereal dusk of my cognition,
Say I’m with someone−don’t identify whom−it’s meant to be a mystery:
unfinished, left.

it could be you

and I’ll search the dictionary
for words to make my pseudo-philosophical, imagist, absurdist poem obfuscated, esoteric,
tanquam yet favillous; beyond recognition
So that it sounds like Dr. Seuss,
that is, a Dr. Seuss that knows Althusser, Derrida and the early writings of Flaubert.
add some random enjamb-
ment.  cut out the capitalizationandspacing. start a sentence;
end it. Section break

Oh, I’ll need more words, you know, to remind my peers of my intellectuality,
-out of place words that don’t actually mean anything:
Specificity or
literati
that’s good. Now, to end-

bring it to a close in one all-encompassing word:
(to be read over-dramatically)
pretension.

There is some genie
in our house, curdling poisonously.

I stay in the house
with a freckled old lady;
we're roommates,
unlucky enough to meet each other as life abated.

He does not live in the attic,
like a ***** ghoul; or in some
rubbing bottle like an amnesiac.

But we call the spirit lady, because the genie is vicious.

She comes to the house and says we need to move
things
around.

Her eyes are circled by some creamy mascara
into these black, skin-tight, **** rings,
like absurdist ****** targets.

Things are moved,
the genie stays, gets more vicious.

The mongerer is blamed
for bad things:
broken pots, fights over rent,
**** on the toilet seat,
lost keys.

We call the spirit lady,
this time her fingers jingle with golden rings,
her wrists sing with wrought-iron rainbows,
and says rain will send that sucker running.

So, we build little smoke pits in our house,
and take the most important things:
bills, and alumni letters from my school,
and birthday cards for her,
and burn them until it rains.

The genie calls us falsifiers.

The spirit lady comes back,
a necklace of grimacing clams around her neck,
and knocks around dancing, dancing,
a frenzy, a wildness, a knee-knocking,
throat-throtlling, dismantingly,
limb-ecstasy,
until she poops out and,
breathing heavy,
saying finally:
"there is nothing I can do for you,
I don't think I ever could,
some things are just bad luck."

She turns,
walks away,
and one of her clams drops from her necklace,
it says made in America on the inner lip.

The genie left a few weeks later.

none of you understand what i’m saying is i’m not like any of you never married never parented children never owned real estate don’t believe in government the law hate rich people not afraid to lose everything risk life for the chance at a better life yes i graduated from Philadelphia dental school practiced medicine several years dashing handsome cordial Georgia physician yet knowing i was dying then of tuberculosis i wanted to feel alive know danger taste possibilities ******* greedy ranch and railroad barons all you cotton gin grist mill moguls loud mouthed Yankee carpetbaggers bounty hunters self-righteous snake oil preachers with your fearful farmstead flocks what the hell do you think Big Nose Kate and me were doing in Tucson why i risked my life at Tombstone’s OK Corral i’ll tell you why because we were desperate beyond your comprehension long-drawn-out careworn hours twisted in desperation insufferably plodding nights so desperate Kate relieved me daily yet in back of each our minds we understood we were both slaves to ancient unfair corrupt economic system that provided enough whiskey to cope desperate for money allegiance shelter frantic enough to face loaded guns aimed firing at me it was hell on earth glaring sun beating down desert dust blowing burning eyes bullets cutting everywhere 1880’s revolvers lacking accuracy even with expert gunsmith modifications young men riddled with bleeding gunshot wounds in 6 years i was dead age 36 hey Kate was no cakewalk she was a ***** who knew how to play me flirting charming admiring exaggerating her strange Hungarian lust encouraging provoking prostituting on her knees back tummy fingers mouth managing somehow to become acquainted with Arizona Governor George Hunt then surviving to age 90 you modern day sleepers who read this rambling cower at airport security passively submit to insidious militarizing culture invasively inspecting camera scanning for cuticle scissors nail file weapons all ludicrous absurdist theatre while real bad guys can easily tape 3 McDonald’s plastic knives together or ball point pen pierce pilots passengers throat arteries skyjack planes hijack bus trains you are no safer than you ever were before Homeland Security Czars foreign wars where we don’t belong riding has grown so weary courage ruthless longing vexing generating entire industry of airport security corporate mall tariff duty free shops inflated restaurant menu prices liter bottle of water $4.99 welcome to America **** me now or **** me later who cares what i look like what i wear if i’m dry shaven smell like goat if i cough up chunks of lung spit tuberculosis germs on polished floors just so long as i pay the toll fee and don’t go shooting off my mouth

Theravada or Zen?

It used be Theravada
Little did I know of Buddhist scrolls
Just a couple of commandments
obsessed with death
and a-clinging to enlightenment
Everything I did was with dharma and importance

Then it went to Zen, anything goes
absurdist, all for enlightenment
except overly polite ritual hymns
What’s up with that
when you don’t fear death?

Now I’m sort of back to Theravada
With a hint of roots Zen, Bodhidharma
But devotedly, I’ll take none of it all
Why believe in enlightenment?
Just appreciate the fall
changes

...**** It

Donald Trump's presidency
Is one of the greatest achievements in art I have ever experienced
And Trump is a true artist
He takes words from the page
Like corruption, disenfranchisement, xenophobia
And brings them to life
Highlighting fear and paranoia so clearly
Contrasting the blacks and whites
Emphasizing anger
While reminding us we're mere infants
In the digital age
And warning us of our seniority
And capitalism's

We all like to think life has meaning
Until we hit an animal with our car
Then that's just the way things are
And I'm staring at an absurdist painting
Of a child driving a car
Through a herd of sheep
As I watch a heist film
Where the robbers turn their guns over
To the mentally unstable guy in the group

Trump is a national artist
Placing riots on the map
And drawing infernos on the Internet
His art forces an opinion
Everybody has something to say about him
And it's all true
Even the pages he ripped from his own cabinet
Tried to villainize him in their script
But he was already an anti-hero
The humor is that the mud slung onto him
Is dirt kicked up from his own tires
I guess if you surround yourself with hateful people
You're surrounding yourself with people who probably hate you

Trump's art is deeply conflicting
He reminds me of the people who want me to live in shame
Yet he embodies the individuality that separates me from that shame
His insecurities remind me of myself
High school is the White House in the eyes of a kid
And I had secrets I wanted to share
But felt I couldn't
I learned things
That changed my entire perspective
And didn't think people would understand
Afraid of being assaulted for my indiscretions
I hid behind a boisterous personality
And a nonchalant attitude
Trump's art evokes sympathy and hatred that feels so strong
When he holds a mirror defining our worst qualities
To a man viscerally opposed to his own reflection
The confliction of emotions
Is the hallmark of great art

We are all artists
The lines we write or the strokes we brush
Are in our actions
And Trump's canvas displays
A life filled with accomplishment
Inspiring me to live my own life
But I still wake up in cold sweats
From the American dream
That anybody can be president

Clearly an absurdist.
Small stakes for what his word is worth.
The hare let the tortoise beat him accidentally on purpose.
Everyone loves a good story.
When ego is beyond everything
how can you care about fame and glory?
Victory feels silly.
Like a brand new bride without her ring.
Losing only hurts the pride if they allow themselves to feel the sting.
I am far from winning,
but farther still from admitting defeat.
When that rhythm hits me,
I'll sing along and move my feet.

The stellular supernal of
Translation exalting the
Absurdist rudimentary
Vale of tears; the place
Death was born blanketed
In twilight's eternal
Oblivion, breaking
Immortality-
The propitiative law
of Medes and Persians
From time out of mind,
'Whom the Gods love die young';
The amaranthine race to
Drink from the retentionist
Cup filled by Medea's ichor
Imbrued kettle readying for
The harrowing of Hell.

Eleete J Muir.

What if I told you I cannot breathe
For I know one day I will not
would you understand me?

Let me explain...

I get out of bed and sigh
I make my bed and laugh
I return to bed on time
I get out of bed and sigh
I make my bed and laugh
I return to bed on time
I get out of bed and sigh
I make my bed and laugh
I return to bed on time

For I know one day I will not

i'm wandering along a beach and i just killed the Arab
i'm waking up one day sophomore year and i'm deciding that it will be the last day of my entire life as i tie my shoes to go to school
i'm at my mother's wake and i'm trying to care but i just can't and i'm okay with it
i'm walking down the hallway and no one is making eye contact with me because they are afraid or disgusted or don't care or all of the above
i'm using some of my last breaths to yell at the priest and feeling no remorse
i'm making conversation with my last period teacher and smiling for the first time all day
i'm looking out at the crowd about to witness my death and feeling the gentle indifference of the world
i'm relating more to a sociopathic man in an absurdist novel than anyone i've ever met and i'm
not worried about it at all

you write like a tricycle that hasn’t been touched in thirteen years.*  as an infant, you were no more than a dot denoting an absurdist birth.  adolescence was in the blood left to your mother.  self harm is the gateway wound to pilgrimage.  you can’t say god is everywhere in the presence of god.  factual events have ruined the world.  you are here because hating you is forbidden.

You were here before…
Searching for something,
Your hands fumbling from spine to spine
Inferno, Paradise Lost, Michelle Obama,
Bertolt Brecht. Glance to see a figure serving coffee,
You will amount to nothing. You or I?

Life is a series of disoriented imitations…
Strange noises slip from your throat,
Strange because… you see…
You're intelligible. Bertolt Brecht.
Something more absurdist… but no…
Sisyphus. Observe him push a boulder
Over and over… Sartre…  ****.

Why do you believe a reference
Reflects intelligence? Stupid boy,
You're a pseudo-intellectual.
Why rage against the standardisation
Of mediocrity if you yourself are
Mediocre. Why use enjambment on
Lines previous for convenience?
See the banal intolerance of your poetry?

You were here before,
Stroking spines… whatever that means…
This was about a feeling…
But even that is null.
Bertolt Brecht rots and laughs…
A small child picks fruit.

Resilience.
I wish
I had
that
thing.

[PREMISE: SOCIETY KILLED THE TEENAGER]

>>WHAT WOULD THE TEENAGER DO?
OPTION A: SUCCUMB THEMSELVES TO DEATH AS THE SOCIETY’S PREY
OPTION B: DO NOTHING
OPTION C: SUBVERT AND RETALIATE TO **** THE SOCIETY BACK

They told me that
I would lead a bright
future ahead of me;
that I would soon
be a valiant knight in
shining armour.
I said thanks but
I lied.
Truth is, I
don’t want to let
them know that
I’m not even sure
I would even survive
until the
age of
eighteen.

Car crash and
interstellar collision,
please face
me.
This place is a
deceitful space
of discordances.
If only I used my
short life
to propagate
revivals to
everyone,
what world would
wait ahead of me
when I’m
awake from the
death?

One day I
came home with
wounds from
fighting.
He asked me
how often did I
treat my
wounds.
I said it was nothing
for I am used
to it.
He then objected.
“No. I mean the wounds
in your
heart.”

As much as my
inner voice
reverbed,
telling me to
love him.
I couldn’t
because I’m
not the kind of
person that anyone
would love
and I should
just not love
anyone as well
for I
would just
end up feeling
disheartened.

They caught me.
I was entombed.
I incarcerated myself
inside the
disputes I created
inside my own
head.
They caught me
because I am
not a
slave of
their
societal norms.

I spent days
wondering why and
how could I
still be alive
despite all the
numerous amounts
they attempted
to excruciate
me.

—————
——SYSTEM HAS BEEN DISRUPTED—
——SYSTEM EXPERIENCES MALFUNCTION
——
__
2083208 4988 32973
39743
39493

I am.

d e t h r o n e d.

Wish I was your anything, Highdiver. I am not, right? I can’t go on anymore.

I do love you or maybe I did. Or never did at all.

Wish I could revive at least one soul in my short life.

But I couldn’t. I’m sorry Highdiver.

Almost all of my heroes are dead.

If I die, would you regard me as your hero?

Yours truly, the one who revolts in disruption as your Alice.

—

I’ve come to realize that nothing has ever been inherent. Not because I’m trying to manifest an absurdist or nihilist stance, but because the truth just is.

At one point I couldn’t find love to purchase
I thought you ended those searches
but now I’m getting nervous
thinking I might be allergic
to your nature absurdist
and I can’t swerve this
feeling I’m worthless
stripped of all purpose
boils start to burn us.

I’ve got an eczema
sense of a
relationship
rashly lips
can’t kiss
who they wish.

I can’t leave the house
or your eczema breaks out
you scream and shout
and make me doubt
if your love is devout
when you treat me like trout.

Stress boils through my skin
after you tell me I win
and leave my house of sin
leaving a gift in
an itch
given by a witch
to make me twitch.

You’re the itch that rashes
causing unnecessary scratches
leaving a width of lashes
on my skin in patches
your personality matches
the blistering ashes
of my skin that detaches.

I keep itching
I keep scratching
to be switching
from your thrashing
into comfort
to numb hurt
of dumb words
creating thunder.

A doctor gave me a prescription
to avoid your dereliction
and feral diction.
He gave me an antidote
in a plan of hope
helping me cope
with saying nope.

The rash lingers
like poison fingers
choking me
woefully
draining life
like rain at night
I pray for light
and wait inside.

I found cortisone
in the form of a home
with a man
so I’m in demand
not your empty hand
red from the brand
of all the discomfort you withstand
now that you’re itching like sand
seeing I’m no longer ******.

The army is here my friend.
Can you hear the songbirds?
I'll rise again and overflow.
I'll haunt the corners of your mind.
Set the flesh on fire, strip it down
Grease your insides with my guts.
The belly of the beast holding my hand.
What are we even good for?
Don't scream anymore.
I can taste the air. I can taste the flame.
Moment by moment we will find it.
Second by second we will descend
Ascend.
Begin again.

I hope you're happy

And don't you just think
You are so great

With your husband
And your new child
On the way

And your nice home

And your American dream

And what about me
I told you companionship
Was important to me

I enjoyed sharing my poems
You just left
And didn't give me much notice

You won't spend
A second of your life
I'm sure
Thinking about me

Remember the poem
I shared about
Mary Wallstonecraft?

I think you enjoyed my poems

And I wanted to hug you
And feel warmth

But I couldn't and
Now I'll never see you
Again

And it doesn't matter
And nobody
******* cares!!!

You were my companion
And you left

Oh well
I just don't ******* care

Just imagine
I am imagining
Tomorrow

On my yoga mat
Maybe eating some crunch carrots
Watching a squirrel hop around
Yum, yum, yum
Crunchy carrots

And maybe I'll cry
And maybe I won't

I don't cry
I laugh
I laugh at life
Because it is
Completely absurd

I think I am an absurdist now
HAHA!

The truth hides in fragmenting filaments
of differentiating perspectives,
thus transcending an individual definition.

All is one, as one is all,
and there is no way to distinguish,
other than to look inward.

However, in looking within,
you may find complexities so enigmatic
they question the very nature of the self.
These are our individual conquests.

To not be, but to become.
To live on without ever truly existing,
is to prove to the universe you are listening.

i'm detaching from it all
i don't know
does that necessarily mean death?
of one thing or another, i guess
this recent disillusion
blind confusion
over what love was real
who i am and what i stand for
and i feel
i can't believe anything
so what's the point, of believing
what's the point of anything

Crawling backwards through my dusty spiderweb of neural connections, I am projecting comedic tragedies

Call me crazy, because you're probably right

Absurdist fantasies of long lost dreams and an empty train station smelling of **** and departed railway cars

It's time to turn it around and
crawl out of my tunnel of silk

I will explode into butterfly
from the silk in my belly

Spit me a story, Oh Old One.
I am astounded by the revolutions
you have memorized around the sun.

Stellar vortex, find me twirling
through the disconnected
and unreached.

Remember me

Zippy sez:
“Shark repellent Bat Spray!"
“Shark repellent Bat Spray!"
“Shark repellent Bat Spray!"
At least three times a day day

Between lug-nuts and Valvoline
He shows us the in between
Polka-dotted yellow-red muu-muu
Absurdist existentialist
Shows us how to do-do.

Trusting Erik Satie
I introduce myself to
Her
As an absurdist.

the senseless sensorium
lodges whispers tympanically
they speak of Capgras delusion
alone in a full room with hope
spindling on an automated function

talking heads spitting trivial
commence antiquated response
****** en masse keeps you from barking
don't partake in Ramadan
you'll end up an absurdist

"Billy asks too many questions.
Must be a case of premature gestation.
Just give him 300mg of something stronger
than gummy bear vitamins til he's cycling
between attenuation and remorse."

... they gave him 25 to life for beating a dead horse.

Why is God killing me
So willingly?
He’s filling me
With a ***** disease
Brought by biting fleas
Who do as they please
Until I’m on my knees
Begging for release

Sneezing wheezing
My phlegm is breezing
Through air that’s freezing
Trying to teach me
To act more pleasing
Can I kick this sickness
Brought by wickedness?
Or will it punch me
Into lunch meat?

To be in His vicinity
Is to have divinity
So why does He get rid of me?
Could it be the viscosity
Of all my atrocities?
Or the viciousness
Of my wishes wished?
Or my visceral
Scissor hold
On growing old?
Despite my reverence
I fear his benevolence
Involves my severance

The difference between dying and trying
Has me in bed crying
Fever frying
Medicine buying
From salesmen lying
Saying add pills
Of Advil
And mad will
To not be ill
My plague remains still
On Sisyphus’ hill

Can God cure me
Of this absurdity?
Almost certainly
But by hurting me
I learn to see
He uses pain to teach
The one thing that’ll reach
Through the ******* I preach

My gut round
Shuts down
Lust found
That must drown
In a dust cloud
Of an allergic assault
To an absurdist result
Of catching a cold
To examine my soul

He gives a heart attack
To the heart I lack
As part of the pack
Ignoring God’s path
And finding His wrath
Once He chooses me
To lose and bleed
The flu He feeds
To pull the weeds
That ghouls breed

So cough medication selection
Becomes a time for self reflection
At least until my health inspection
Shows no feverish detections
Of the feeblest direction
When the evilest infection
Is joining Satan’s section

to be awoken from the apathy / herd mentality
and to have to take to,
familial / individual / / / / group
pathologies, in that famous "metaphor"
I.e. the blatantly obvious crux of:
    take up your own cross...
     people fear not what they don't
understand, but rather what not longer
allows them the three wise monkeys excuse...
people lie about being apathetic
   excusing themselves as being
  a-pathos, i.e. without pathology...
      man is a social creature in that he is
as long as he has made the collective
apathy a non-existent pathology of his own
self not be allowed theatre...
   and then cringing at the extravagance of
artists?
         to agitate a "person's" apathy
is to prey on the weak in the herd,
which not the predator but the herd deems
outcast, leftover...
       even though the predator is not that
strong either.., the weak prey on the weak...
until an average is fathomable
in an absurdist street theatre in mimic
with advert slogans or: neo-blitzkrieg
    transcendence of medium.
people are never offended
    in the sense that they are woken
by having hidden their inherited pathology
into an equilibrium of a-pathos,
      an illusion of denial,
   rather than a delusion of doubt,
never fascinating the emotional
turmoil of the act of doubt,
making the act if faith, synonymous
with denial...
                  this is only a sketch...
like any olympian, the idea is to pass
on something, even if it's but a glimpse
at the end of a tunnel.