Before everything

i. I never knew four letters could melt
menthol candy-like, hydrochloric acid on my tongue
and keep burning it in different degrees
I had to swallow back.

ii. That there would come a time
I'd have to baptize the pain in my chest like seasons
robbing me lungfuls
on January, September and December nights.

iii. That my blood was really ink I needed to stop using
before my skin turned paper-like.

iv. That my heart had an epicenter pumping a magnitude of earthquakes
that made me tremble helplessly in its intensity;
and that they were man-made calamities
followed by harsh, heavy, whipping tsunamis
to flood my grave of bleeding, jagged fault lines.

v. That aftereffects lasted longer than treatment itself,
and that I didn't need any professional diagnosis to know
I was terminal
from the same drug that made butterfly-strokes in my veins,
whose arms withheld the only elixir to this malady.

vi. I named my sickness, my pain, my agony like orphaned children, after you--
a rare disease
the doctors didn't even know about yet.

vii. I did and I doubted
but a part of me beat signals
that echoed off the cave walls of my skull
that I knew.

viii. Before everything,
I have been warned
but I chose to listen to the soothing, wrong, hopeful voices
"He means no harm,".

ix. You began spreading like an epidemic-- a tumor to a colony of cells all over me-- until I became you;
a reflection of familiar suffering and mortality, slowly withering away.
In the end, I didn't even have you to blame
for letting me overdose from intakes
of my own ****, bitter medicine and unforgivable mistakes.

x. I guess, this was how you wanted the price to be paid.

stars and stardust fall to freedom
from the press corpse,
from the incessant demand of chemical crises.
crowds ache for love or a substitute
and false amore is what they have.
love is folie a deux-
[the shared madness of two.]
attachment is an affliction,
infatuation is disease leaping from remission,
with deadly symptoms.
red roses lead to black coffin doors,
roses dropped on floors
from vases shattered,
and life is the water spilling from the stems.

golden hair won't keep me docile-
blue eyes and a smile
are weapons of mass destruction-
cities sunk and flags risen
from the depths of inhumanity.
it's all for you, Helen, and humankind will never
perceive its aftereffects,
its hangover headache
sprawled over the world on a bad day.
little city partylights and shiny beer bottles
broken upon the concrete
covering the grass.
reflections of insanity upon the glass.

devilish, the temptress,
the succubus, a mistress
sent by Him, to spin doubt into
the spiderwebbed life of family trees
split in two by axes, divorces
to fifty percent, no-
no wedding band-aid will stop this flood.
abandonment.
neglect gets to a child's head-
can't help but wonder if
they were the cause of this.
little anchors,
keeping the heart in one place-
an anchored rubber band that demoness
stretched and snapped.
the relapse gave her whiplash, and
the stepdad whipped the boy's back, and
the boy grew up and
found a girl to take his pain to.
she gave him five stunted children,
with eyes hollow and glazed,
a mechanical response to a command.

lack of emotion only seems cruel
to those on the other side.
lack of flourish means nothing
to those who grew up to grey skies.

chains and handcuffs keep stardust grounded,
remains from a nebula which
birthed a black hole.
straight razors and pinky nails
teach fledglings to reach for the sky
and never fall back down.
glass ceilings never seemed so
breakable- tiptoe upsidedown
and reach the other side
before you fall back down to the real world.

angels have no eyes.
angels have no souls.
angels judge and leave the helpless for below.
cliffsides crumble and clouds dissipate,
and the devil lends a hand-
he is helping sinners make it up to him.
in his face sit eyes gleaming brightly;
there are teeth grinning, off-white-
he is human, though sadistic
and he understands your plight.
the devil is forgiving,
and you understand nothing, because you
are nothing.
you are nothing.

stars and stardust fall to freedom, and the devil takes in all.

three
days

among rafts
trees rivers
lakes streams
waterfalls

I walk the
fear-infested
office floors
like a king

nothing troubles
me, wade over
grim swell and
fatal seriousness

as I float on my back,
spread arms, feet,  heart,
a cloud has another helping
of an azure sky

i am mentally ill.

i have been since i was born,
or at least, that’s what i’ve been told.
although perhaps
i never knew it, perhaps
the symptoms
were triggered by trauma, perhaps
it was something that never really seemed
like an illness to me until i knew
what was considered normal. but
i am mentally ill, or mentally disordered, or mentally whatever.

and i ******* hate it.

i hate it
because i cannot think logically most of the time.
i hate it
because whatever chemical imbalances
are inside of me
make me want to scream
and bleed
and punch the walls of my home
until there are more holes than stable ground. i hate it
because me having to speak in front of
my ******* friends is cause enough to
cry for three days, because
my friends don’t understand why
i am ecstatic
around them one day when sadness
crushes my skull the next, because
my friends don’t see logic in a matter of feeling
that doesn’t make sense to them let alone me.

i hate it because
i cannot give a logical reason for this.
i hate it because
i don’t understand why i am the way i am
or what i did to deserve this.
i hate it because
i don’t understand my illness,
i don’t understand how people can
just go out into the world and be happy,
i don’t understand what it’s like to
have something go wrong in life
and react in a way considered to be “healthy”.

i hate it
because my younger brother sits
in class and suffers from his own depression
but refuses to speak up
because he believes his depression
is absolutely nothing
compared to mine,
when to me
it is everything.
i hate it because
he might be cutting himself open
every night
or at least wanting to

and

i hate it because
when i texted all of my friends
as i sat sobbing on my front porch
at ten pm
on a school night
with a bottle of pills
nestled safely in my jacket pocket,
several of them thought it was a suicide note
but none of them cared enough to push further
in my answer of “i’m fine don’t worry about me goodnight”.
i hate it because
the only person who noticed it thoroughly enough
was my ex-boyfriend,
who i scared half to death
when i told him “i’m sorry”
and “i loved you a lot before we broke up”
and “you’ll understand”
and he replied with “oh my god
please don’t
please don’t
please don’t”.

i hate it because
i ignored him.
i hate it because
i wanted out.

i hate it because
the sky fell through the earth’s floor
like shattered glass and the blood-orange
sunset bled towards the grass; i hate it because
i lay softly on the earth of my front yard
and allowed the blades of grass to soothe me
towards the afterlife; i hate it because
the world spun and spun and spun and
my vision blurred and
my heart threatened to beat so far out of my chest
and i could not stop my breathing
but i kept on taking more pills like a child eating candy.

i hate it because
when i realised i wasn’t dead,
i cried.
i hate it because
i had thirty two new notifications
from my ex and the people he had contacted
to see if i was dead
but most of them were from him,
all missed calls and texts and
heavy breathing on the other side of the phone
once he saw me calling. i hate it because
his hands were shaking
and i was talking
and sobbing
with an ex love
on my front porch as the sun and moon switched places
with half a bottle of pills in my system
and the taste of blood in my mouth
instead of talking to my friends
and family
and people
who were supposed to care about me.

i hate it because
the next day i had a pulsing headache
and a suicidal mindset
and all of my friends were cracking jokes
about how they believed i was going to **** myself
when they had no idea
how hard i’d been attempting to do so.
i hate it because
i smiled and lied through gritted teeth
and cried in the bathrooms
when a teacher pulled me aside to say -
he thought something was
“off” with me. i hate it because
i still wanted to die.

i hate it because
i can’t think straight most days.
i hate it because
sometimes everything is okay
and fine
and i can breathe without the alien invasion of
“panic attacks from the planet post-traumatic stress disorder”
and cinnamon doesn’t trigger memories
i would like to forget.
i hate it because
people don’t take mental health seriously
enough to understand why
i leave classrooms in the middle of the day
or why some kids miss school for
two weeks without explanation or why sometimes teachers
with dead eyes are more dead inside
than the human skeletons dancing in the science classrooms.
i hate it because
teenagers make suicide jokes
near people who are dying.
i hate it because
i don’t know if i got out of bed
last tuesday or how long it’s been since i last showered
or if i still love writing as much as
i used to
or if it’s just habit now.

i hate it
because my illness makes me hate myself.

i hate it because
my illness
does not define me
but it sure feels like it does.
i hate it because i cannot explain my illness myself.
i hate it because i hate my illness
and every part of it that creates me, shapes me, moves me
like a ******* puppet.

but ******* it all
if i am going to let it ****** who
i am supposed to be any longer.

My words pour out,
like a gutter reaching its breaking point,
splashing down and creating quite a mess no doubt.
But everything else is wet from rain so it is not seen,
The next day everything is clear as day,
The gutter now has an awkward lean,
And the slightest wind can cause it to sway.

for those that may not be aware
I suffer from a disease that doesn't visibly appear
I suffer from a disease known as epilepsy
it's my burden, and I'm not writing this for sympathy

one question that always is asked and repeated
what does it feel like when a seizure occurs? can you beat it?
I think I'll sum this sensation up the best way I can
so please forgive me if this poem is bland

What's the most exhausting thing you've ever done?
whether that be marathon ***, or running in the blazing sun?
take that sensation and make it twenty times worse
now there's the physical aftereffects in this very verse

Now for the mental feeling of solid lucidity,
a full but empty feeling that can't really be explained
only experienced really, and that doesn't sound sane
it's like being drunk yet sober, high but haven't smoked
but all the while, your brainstem is being choked

You know, I've realized it's impossible to describe a seizure completely offhand,
but count yourself lucky if you aren't prone to them,
even with this burden, I'll make my life grand

remove the gratituous ending
from this shallow fantasy.
let me exist in the middle,
see the forest for the trees
and not the meltdown, pretend like
it won't all eventually
burn
leave me in ashes

i am victim to her sinister skin
numbing my former intentions
i have no eyes for consequence
i will stay, shaky, in the present
i am ignoring the signs
this path
i'm running
along will
lead to
my demise

the walls still bleed her jade eyes
the weight of when i was trapped
in her midnight vise
(i still am)
blinded, stone-cold, and still i weep

strip my heart with a fountain pen,
the scalpel to her inky revenge
untangle her sorry mentality from mine
do not worry about the aftereffects
when i cease to be tangible, spill my regret
so i won't be bothered to
when i come back down.  

when i prove myself worthless, i can say
it was all worth it
at the time  
when she catches me, i can say
it was dreadful in her arms
but i left myself nowhere else to go

stars and stardust, we were
from the press impelled by the loneliness  
from the incessant at the bottom of crowds.
we ache for our numb bones
and false amore on top of the love-
folie a deux covers under
the shared madness- artist's hands.

attachment is trying desperately-
infatuation is "as if"
with deadly symptoms- us inseperable.
red roses lead to "as if i could"
with roses dropped, so memorize and recreate
from vases shattered, sculpt us together
so life is forever and not just golden hair,
my labor for your blue eyes,
and as fleeting as your weapons.

cities sunk and yet i, ardent, watch
from the depths of countenance.
it's all for you, i know that.
perceive its aftereffects and
we will lead its hangover headache,
divergent until you're sprawled over your serenade.

The flashback burns
My retinas
Until even with my eyes open
All I see is the grusome scene
I thought I'd left far behind me.
The panic sets in,
And my leg begins to bounce
Up and down
Under the table
As I try to hide the sudden onset
Of heart-stopping panic.
I should have known though
That no matter how infinitesimal
The change in my moods,
You are the most sensitive barometer.
Your eyes glance at me
And I know if I don't look up,
The piercing stare full of concern
Will bore a hole in my skull.
So I glance up into eyes
I never asked for,
Never deserved,
Never knew I needed in my life.
Your eyes hold no questions but one,
"Are you ok?"
Your eyes hold no promises but one,
"I'm not going anywhere."
I don't say a word,
Yet you know,
And so
I'm enveloped in a bear hug.
My heart slows its manic staccato beat.
My breath resumes its almost even rythm.
And I feel the broken pieces of me
Begin to fuse themselves together again.
When you release me,
The warmth lingers in my bones
As an injection of time-delayed
Antibiotics to ward off
The aftereffects of the flashback.
And for the first time in a long time,
I know I'm loved.
And Love is the greatest balm of all.
With Love
Every wound will heal,
Every pain will disappear,
Every scar will fade away,
Every bitterness will become sweet.
Love conquers all.

I want to unscrew the window grill and crawl out
To the vastness of the world
I want to throw stones at your window
And tag you along on an adventure
Make a space ship in the garage
Travel to parallel universes
Shoot the weird *** aliens
Even if it's all just the aftereffects of marijuana,
I'd like to smoke some with you
What do you say?
Will you be the Rick to my Morty?

Gussa Ka Sailaab Sai
Nahi Darta Hu Mai.
Darta Hu Tau Sirf
Bana Banai Rishtai
Ka Bhai Jaaana.

Afraid I am not
with the Floods of Anger.
But Scared of the AfterEffects
where Relationships
will be broken and swayed away.

Words are explosive.
And we drop them without feeling, never knowing the aftereffects and never caring.
Sometimes these words tear through like bullets, and suddenly our bodies have become war zones.
We are fighting with verbal weaponry over everyday things,
"The dishwasher should've been emptied."
"Your grades are too low."
"You hate me? I hate you too."
I've dropped the F-bomb enough times to rival a thousand Hiroshimas, with worse destruction to match.
The tears in my mother's eyes, the anger in my father's throat, the returning hate in my brother's voice.
We've turned linguistics into lashes,
goodbyes into grenades,
inside jokes into IEDs.
We are slowly killing ourselves and everyone around us with mouth-made machine guns and silver-tongued bullets.

Over time, our words start to lose meaning.
The more we use them, the lower the shock value, as if we've become accustomed to seeing missiles fly past our windows during breakfast.
"I love you" becomes an everyday thing, a once destructive phrase that left mouths open and knees trembling, but now contains the emotional value of a Kleenex, that can be replaced by another, just at the tips of our fingers.

My world is a war zone but I want peace.
I crave to have meaning.
I've been through enough fights to know now that I should think before I speak.

I want to capture my words.
To run through fields and bottle them up in Mason jars, ensnaring them between my hands like fireflies,
taking them home and only letting them go out when they need to, so they don't lose their shine.
And when we're sitting there, laying in each others arms, sheets tangled into an underground jungle, I take the glass jars down from their shelves and slowly unscrew them.
They settle on your skin, twinkling stars embedded into your body, reflecting the light through jail-cell eyelashes.

We must learn to turn our backs to the world's war zone.
Only then can we fully love.

Even when I know that it wouldn't last
I still am trying hard
Enduring the moments of despair
cursing the fate for being unfair
Strong believer of miracles, filled with doubts
praying for rains, fed in droughts
Embracing the tear soaked pillow as if a lover
Drinks touching my lips turn sober
Thoughts on swings as if a child
defying strokes as aftereffects of the ride
I still believe that time is life's leveler
I still believe that one day everything will be fine
I still believe that miracles will happen one more time
I still believe,
For all I have is,
Endurance to perceive
Wait to feel
Walk till endeavor.
Forever.

It's been years since we left
Not just us but also the place where us existed
If places moved on, I would have taken ours with me
Would have claimed it to be mine in the aftereffects of the separation
Would have fought for it in the court of places for full custody
All the nooks and corners would have been mine to embrace
They would still have you in memory, and that's what we would have had in common
We both would have been craving for your presence, but too stubborn to let you in though
But for better or worse, places don't move on and that's what we indeed have in common

Give me your smile
like dew drops of rose―
the tears like pearls.

The flight of swans―
writing a secret message
for the forlorn earth.

Celebrating the return
of the lost river―
after the torrential rains.

A boat sails
in bright moonlit
dark waters of the moat.

i enter,
entranced,by the aboreal entrance of the lush and
verdant place,
in which you
choose to exsist
the mist, smelling of
earl grey tea and
ginger cakes.
beckons,
me forward,
thru the curlique trees,
with lemon and limedrop
leaves
and drifting clouds of,
bright sunshine flowers.
in my wake my footprints
become little ponds with
goldfish toes.
ahead, i see you,
all shades of green
swinging,
lacksadaisically
to and fro...
in a hammock,
on a hummock,
between two aged, sandlewood trees
and in your hand,
you hold an island
of purple sand,
and polka dotted,
umbrella trees.
at your feet,
a crooked street
of pastel, pixie condo's
all curves and swerves,
with mushroom roofs
and teardrop windows.
your voice,
like that, of a finely,
strung cello
sings songs of welcome
to my jubilant heart
and i stop and think
you are a curious fellow.
i sit myself down,
with care
for the pixies fair
and soon fall asleep
to the lullaby of the aforementioned cello....
...alas when i awake
your no longer there
and i wonder if
you were,
just the aftereffects
of too much cake....


.....but wait
did i just hear
a pixie,
giggle,
a smiggle
up there,
behind my left ear.


...i so hope
              that i did....
                                don't you?

i want for you all the good things
the things that i cannot provide
and when you notice that i'm watching
i will start to run and hide
and when your sister starts to stumble
on a pornographic page
i will kiss you in the hopes
that it will quell your seething rage
for me the meaning is uncertain
but it certainly contains
aftereffects behind the curtain
editing from our own brains

our self-restraint is so unsightly
it starts to slither through my mind
behind my eyeballs touching lightly
i'm slowly starting to go blind
and the madness is a mixture
of the melancholy glee
and then the heartfelt hatred sprouts
and grows with my philosophy
into a plant that's filled with pollen
for your allergenic eyes
one you think that you can handle
until you stop and see the size

don't know...

    i suppose i unfolded an umbrella,

lodged it on my bed,

and fell asleep under it with

                my cat;

woke up,

   having simultaneous muchies

with him,

   and did the most humane

thing imaginable...

    let him out to grasp the july

night...

       and then... burned a few

rowan tree leaves...

         while sniffing-up

                             the burn-offs.

The venom
sinks in, deeper and deeper
the veins constrict
the heart races then fades
To keep up is impossible
it spreads quickly
Just as fire ravages fields
it burns through the body
paralyzing every limb
shortness of breath
the world silences
in a breath, it stops, the world stops
for one person
for many
for everyone
what is this, this is not death
This venom, is not from
any snake, no reptile to be found
it is human
it is a human torture
Sometimes over so quickly
but the aftereffects last forever
and ever
'till death do us part

Is it venom

or is
it


*Love

I am jealous of spiders
Those small, poisonous creatures

They don't care how small they are
Or how weak they are
They fight for their life despite the conditions

They hunt their prey without hesitation
Without pity
Without fear

They can enter any room
They don't need your permission

They all know their purpose
They all fight for their purpose

They catch or become food

They can create their world however they want
No one tells them how to connect their strings

They are clever
That's what makes them deadly
They are small
That's what extends their limits
They are selfish
That's what helps them survive

Their tiny-dark eyes
Those small marbles that extend their vision to places the human eye could never reach

Their infestation of twisted legs
Those agile limbs that move them with surprising speed and balance through any kind of frictional surface

They exist in every corner
Creep through every opening

They could crawl up your skin,
Plant their deadly kiss under the tissues of your outer layers,
Leading you to an agonizing swell of chemicals that tare and torture your nerves and muscles

The aftereffects are as countless as the number of their species

Pain
Nausea
Headics
Paralysis
And if you are lucky enough,
Death

You could have one of these
You could have all of these
They don't care

They are spiders,

And for them

You are a their predator

And their next victim

What do we know of tomorrow
See a balance between
positive checks and negative threats
So many potential pathways ahead
The sense of protecting self
To sharing one's wealth
Look after your health
Certainly certainty can't be free
Awaiting those with fools gold
Surprises to shine
A wave of collective debt
Do not spend which cannot be met
Benefits kept credit is swept
How far ahead do our actions prevent
the aftereffects of consuming the rest

And I know;
That in the brisk, dewy mornings
And the late evening hours,
Just in the cusp between day and night,
I'll look back.
A gentle smile on my lips,
A slight dampening of my eyes,
Back once more, to these honeysuckle memories.

Such tender moments and remarkable company,
The remembrance sickeningly sweet at times.
As phenomenal as they are in their occurrences,
I know the aftereffects will be much more grand.

Wormy gorgon of the fugly garbage gorgon's has a very sad an' lowly life indeed. She curses an' antagonizes a cancer fighter instead of sending her sincere good wishes an' a heartfelt expressed Godspeed.

On her best day, she exemplifies all the characteristics of a mean spirited, moronic jag off misanthrope whose only desire is to plant a very bad weedy seed. Her angry tongue splinters an' then bullies.
My wish is t’have fingers of tumultuous jostle you – attempting to throw you hard toward kingdom-come…

Human suffering,
“Can this drama, the supreme embodiment of the human condition, possibly be okay?”
My stomach knots.
---------------------------
Often not much has changed in our actual life –
Yes, I get into the same bed each night trying to go to sleep,
Thinking that if I look away,
You might be gone by the time I look back.

(This has been) a Creeping ode to the aftereffects of a small minded twerp…

by "ooznozz"

Aftereffects of a car long driven by
Haunted by the remnants of life
'The desert at night
A lone standing sign, it reads joyously
"45 Miles till the city of Sandy"
And day to night
September to May
It reads the same **** thing
And that's all it'll ever say

The rain is so frail, beatific
moment, dim precipitate on my bare arms
and wondrous half-light washing across the city sky.

Do I trust myself with CNS depressants, or am I just deterred
by the thought of those more eclectic GABA aftereffects.

i'm an egoist like i might be a spider -
a quizzical pointer and a loiter of hubris:
that word again...
   i must have mistook hubris for hiatus -
i see no future for the arguments
concerning genes -
         beside: solo project i -
                and what will continue is
the concept of a species -
i am quiet thankful that i don't demand
the face of the slobbering gods to be
of a particular inclination -
     in that: i was never fond of english:
philosophy - once the parameters
of darwinism became established:
there was no longer any blinking involved...
or at least missing the abyss -
the abyss forgot to manufacture dreams
and the darwinistic enterprise wanted
me to peer into it with unflinching metaphors:
and scarred details...
that a man might refrain from
potentially petting an arachnid...
   then again: i'm only a cat person because
******* are one thing...
but parading with genitals of dogs
is just another daydream -
      once upon a time:
                   it wasn't like the darwinistic adventure
came with a cute poetry akin
to the copernican revolution:
cited: he stopped the sun and moved the earth...
perhaps to borrow from history:
when people were wrapped up in
a "solipsism" of their own species -
           that not much from "elsewhere"
could be borrowed, tailored to
a mimic... incorporated... slyly suggested...
the full bodied and ****** consequence
of the old lies and emotions of squabbling
men and ferocious women -
beside this current neuter:
flimsy generic loaning of insect:
             ontology?
                for what was deserving for men
to imitate: a rhetorical crux / pinnacle...
that would never become a cocktail of
more robots more a priori nibbling at
the old unfathomable god:
a god outside of a polytheism that can
only become a brain-freeze and a tongue tie...
it's not that darwinism isn't... a truth beggar...
but you can't exactly make incisions
of an existentialism with darwinism -
how the 20th century becketts got "away with it"
is beside me...
but i can't be a man no more
a brick when i'm facing a comparison
from an alien revelation of insects:
to **** is to be eaten - just as much...
hell... i wouldn't mind being eaten
as long as i couldn't be milked...
         i am truly alienated by the task of
preserving genes:
there are a billion chinese and a billion
blue indian raj examples to pick... from...
it's not like the species will die...
i am no atlas and this solo project
is bothersome to have to question: to begin
with...
  i never liked darwinism because
i knew it would go far beyond a mere
observation: it had to be incorporated -
the behaviour of lions or of insects -
          after all: i am not subject to my own
undeciding human...
                  any more than i am:
objecting to: the crowd pleasing objectification
snooker or borrowing from:
these ambivalent critters of pouch shadow
and a thought...
             i'd want to summon
the old gods but there they are...
no subject matter ignites their need for
a presence...
            they might as well have secluded
themselves on the gentle silence
of a scratching orb trace to tease saturn -
i want to find the crows mystifying -
i do - but that doesn't help much...
i don't want to delve into life that's not
immediately concrete -
i followed a whiff of making concrete
but then i knew: ****'s the real stinker
and the juice...
                    i played a ****** when looking
at a spider feast on a moth...
days prior i was inviting
moths to the nursery of my bedroom...
- you simply can't create a cosmopolitan
allure for cafe existentialism with
priding yourself on darwinism -
it's not wrong it's just: i don't want to
borrow from the very base, crude:
psychopathically teasing tendencies
that... well... deviations from mammalian...
if "we" borrowed from elephants alone...
from whales...
were we oh so solipsistic prior...
yes... we must have have been...
we domesticated horses...
we domesticated dogs...
   we created bonsai tigers...
             we probably petted poster / glue
nibbling goats...
we forgave the cannibalism of chickens
when one could meet the stump
and axe: a golgotha like congregation
of drinking blood...
         a violent old god...
death and jester but a pretty innocent
apple...
now a benevolent god and a fruit:
a bundle of metaphors and metaphysics -
it's still the old trick of poetic cannibalism -
i'm sure that if i worked on the apple...
i'd get a cider from it...
am i cured from the curse of the wine -
what if my body is a rumble of whiskey
and a potato chip?
  is my corpus "antichristi" this...
wheat "buckle"... what if i can turn
the bread into a consecration of meaning
with... a ******* gnocchi or a noodle: bundle?

- catholicism - well: perhaps born into it...
but i'm missing the confirmation language
that even the great atheistic tinker and tailor
and: how biology and the rule of
the thespians killed off the alchemists and
poets...
            let's just pretend! let's... let's...
just... pretend...
             years later i can finally appreciate
Al Purdy...
   i know what put me off...
the notes in a copy of his: rooms for rent
in the outer planets...
i need to buy some rubber
to erase these pencil details...

             female handwriting -
i know it... the letters are al bubbly...
they're not akin to chicken scratchings...
bubbly ******* of toads...
"unsentimental view of nature"
a real "treasure trove of antics"...
what put me off: what always puts me off:
a need to annotate poetry:
to teach it like one might teach
a bunch of young Frankensteins
a lesson or two in anatomy...

that language so already sacred in it
being scarce has to endure...
a postmortem of additional details
of: that it can't be left alone like
a floral insignia on a base dulling of
Hittite brown:
     a bark of wood the colour of cardamom...
the argument of: well...
those egyptians were so advanced
back then... even the Iraqis...
hell... the Greeks were advanced peoples
too... looks like they took a *******
bicycle to hiatus land!

burdening me with a past and:
that darwinism doesn't really life...
a concept of / a "concept" of the Avignon
Papacy...
  i'm strapped mr. gill and mrs. gimp all
latex to a spider and some
******* chimp'zee bonanza...
           no one teaches dogs to swim...
in a priori dimming they: know
a duck from a water...
   they know a pancake from a victoria sponge:
hypothetical:
borrowing from the 1960s:
a hitchhiker in the form of a mushroom
apparently opened my eyes
and i am now: the ego-son
of the fungus with potential to:
amass the same sort of gorilla build
architecture from... scraps of...
a plethora of vitamin sources...
i'll eat the deer...
the tame the boars and shave them
to attain crick bacon...
the ******* gorilla will laugh a blank
autistic look at me:
weighing in at a K.O. from...
papyrus and twigs and perhaps
a concept of: straightening bananas...

this slow sludge of walking "backwards"
from **** sapiens to **** similis -
this opposing venture into
anti-literature -
it's not that the mirror of hopes
is now a glass grieving from a lack
of shadows...
  no one wants to find themselves
beside: an exfoliation of tongue...

once more: the church bell of the uvula...
the brain the sponge...
my liver the punching bag
of an alcoholic opponent -

    that bukowski is some this that and
the other: and he knew:
the pressures of 100 years...
that there was also this Al Purdy...
and i too made my own wine -
pretending to blindly support
a Vest Ham -
             way way out west in the east:
that i did see a tease of Venice but
that i probably will never venture
south of the thames to
this cut from the home counties
of: how Burial (dubstep)
originated...
strapped to a mythology of the north...
Thames: a river without a clarity
of mountains:
how the Thames cannot
be celebrated akin to the Vistula
or the Danube...

              murky grey fonz -
this lingering tide amass of custard...
england's last lacklustre exertion
from the 1960s...
some kingly riddle ransom of
crimea associated for the purpose
of crimson -
a taming of purple in the hue
of hooded Burgundian -
  my solving tiresome base for
eyes -
    it's not that Greenwich mean-time
could ever be "important" -
insomniac polyphony of the hours
in passing...
   is more beside the equator...
some topsy-turvy pancake a butter
lofty toast:
that toasted rye that toasted
sourdough... or a ciabatta slice...
             is more and more than this
arrogant prize of english worship
"Blumenthal"...
        
a bonsai tiger's eager inquisitive prompt
from behind a door:
retreating like a lasso or
a folding of bedsheets -
or an ironing of unironic jeans...
some things to be worn should
be best unironed -
   notably jeans -
          azure: clarity chippy of:
variation:
   death's desire to come along
the purpose of lost purples:
in denim like a...

              arbeit macht frei will
forever stand the test of time among
the workaholics...
it's as little infamous as it is:
the currency of keeping with
details of a towing of two un-opposing
factions...

these service jobs and their lowering
of physical exertion:
substituted by gym maintenance -
service jobs and the "work" of...
loitering the hours in...
                 these service jobs and the clocking
in of hours: eternity begot the yawn...
adam begot the scratching of the head:
god conceived of the hierarchy of
taking the knee:
satan borrowed a circus and
a seizure for the future of
ronin imagination...

   can a fire itch?
        i'm pretty sure the licking of ice
can be allowed a fathom of both
an itch and a burn and:
       towing glue...
pockets of dry water staging coups of
crystalised details
of attention *******...
  
and a: between...
   the suffocating mantle piece of...
morbid avenues:
the t.v. robbed the zombies
of their pitiful dues...
machinery hatchling detail...
                  a burden of phallus and
a hammer...
crude "avenue": a **** the size
of a nail...
all life a coffin an scalp that snow
is also dandruff -
and there is nothing of a limit to tow
a continuity -
the species will survive...
the species will survive:
there are enough "stupid" and *****
people to preserve it...
more ***** than "stupid"..

             they are not to be...
coerced with submissions on the grandours
of religion...
having to preserve their appetite
of disinhibition...
they are to be kept on their own
worth of: kept perpetual:
there's no siding of the **** similis project
akin to the lizard kings with the meteor...
so it happens: the moon was sleeping...
when that little nugget of: oops...
****** up the tides and sleeping
patterns of proto-happenings...

    - as i am having "my" kitchen refurbished...
the surrealism of a fride-freezer
occupying a space in "my"
living / civil room -
where the t.v. is this altar of mundane
sacrifices...
at least there's still a concept
of a bedroom and the need for
a bed and the thorough avenues
of abating sleeplessness...

       i dare to sleep because i have
no wish for a *** life that's
a demanding expansion of...
custard-**** of an alter-ego of paragraph...

biting the ******* of
a schadenfreude category:
by the time she becomes an exhausted
**** in the pornographic clogging
of exhausting the machinery:
there were some organic components?
there was a "riddle" of
a lumberjack and a carpenter..
associated to.. ahem... wood?
i want to wish for a plain & simple
trucker analogy...
but then the agony of
conjuring up a chair & table...
and a rocker... and one of those
serpents of moses...

    god blessed grievances
to make elaborations with mahogany
that it would never become:
tantalizing marble:
                            
in a periodical inconvenience of tome:
this time: my lacking...
i will never find it an easy ride
to appeal / appease the
morbidity of the throng...
  having to tow a romance
of england...
a little detail a little of everything
and everywhere...
a pact with celtic / ginger
*******...

    ooh! hot coal... i am an european
5ft8 dwarf... a 6ft6 african goliath
is picking my cotton...
and i own a whip: and i am:

       nie z tego rodzony...
                            it's my little alien
planet of: but it's not important
right now: 100 years from now
when... my contemporaries are
a wish for sanskrit in both
itch and dust...
      
                biGGer... beTTER...
tease the doubling of consonants...
i'm tired i'm just simply tired
of excusing my contemporaries...
whatever they wanted to be
achieved: they have achieve it...
i'm proto-****** little cog little
blister: tamed mustard...
my little nowhere this "here"...

                good enough...
   a variation of aleister crowley bids
you...
      a night knitted with dreams...
and no... pangs of the horror of doubt...
closure for the things eaten
raw... a beef superstition
surrounding... what came to be known
as a tartare steak.

        god - to appease a minor public...
this little ******* gauge of a little public:
this carthage beside a blooming rome...
no... i'm not: excuse me...
i'm not native: this tongue is acquired...
i will not be mentioned in
the colonial anals as
this ******* imbecile of coercion...
this past without ridicule this past
with: goliaths toying the junctions
of exhausted base q. to an "i." unfathomable
first...
               runner junction...
i'm becoming tired of either
side of this bothersome argument...

hail babylon! hail an impeding tomorrow!
**** the 100 year from now.
best of me: no fear mongering
game to tow genes as me too:
a gamer invoked...
humanity survives...
the individual dies...
perhaps a beethoven is riddling
the hive with nuance...
humanity survives:
the individual dies...
i probably wasted my life on
ambition...

   then again: i didn't waste it on
a delusion of a societal project of
poly-                 multi-culturism -
                     i wasn't born on the Faroe Islands...
i had to come about an itching for
life: ventured for a cleaning and a kippah
for a tonsure -
i came across a grief of scalping -
i came across a curry...
i imploded an empire and sent out
invitations and became...
day by day less and less of London...

i ventured out of London and i found myself
in: inbreeding territory -
i became... sick from the homogenous  
zebras of parlance...
   black on black: white is white...
       it's a sickness from detailing
the aftereffects of gravity when having
to sort-out: a belief in the promenade...
            
   whatever... 100 years from now...
i will need to be dead:
for my writing to be elevated from
mere hobby to... this suffocating pride
and orthodoxy canon i want
it to exfoliate in...
then again: no...
                  then again: i am not in a position
to leave behind a pyramid...
i might leave some rattle and bones...
but most certainly not the toils
an wavering of others...
for... a flimsy prospect of: transcending
ambitions...
best played out as truant...
gobshite a god-envy
of a rhetorician's envy...
         stutter to excavate punctuation...

   yes... tomorrow and that: again...
and come sleep come death
come... the tiresome first breathed...
red and ginger...
ginger a tinge or orange ******* with
brown... this precursor of
loiter: a dirtying of earth with ash.