warm-up.*

yep, and i turned a trombone into an elephant
trunk... and i didn't even touch anything,
i just looked at one thing, then looked at
the other thing, and then, boom! a synonymous
equation.

like i once said: at the quasi-end of capitalism
the far left will encourage everyone to have an artistic
expression, all the madmen also have art sessions
in asylums... art and the healing process...
please tell me when left politics begins to get
serious, the right would say: you want to escape
a job as a cashier? take l.s.d., forgot about the need
to "express yourself"... more harm than good...
but the prescription by a joke of leftist politics
is just that: become a closet artist,
or become a closet intellectual by simply donning
the groovy look of a beard and some chequered
shirt and ripped jeans and Converse sneakers,
or something, making you fit the profile of
an atypical Camden High Street shopper...

you see what i mean about art these days?
they said the same thing back when it was oil on canvas
or Dürer's carvings - people will spend millions
on paintings, that's how they understand the worth
of art, they invest in objects that the artist invested in also,
meaning buying and selling dynamics:
paint and canvases and brushes and renting messy
studios...

the modern artist overshadows all other artistic efforts,
the cheap stuff, poetry is cheap ****,
pennies from heaven... what? that's the reality...
i wish i could say: taking interest in poetry,
liking poetry, and other such statements are equivalent
to in-secret liking some pop song... given that
the pop song is actually psychologically crafted to
the make you an automaton in appreciating it.

so it's called art, the Turner Prize 2005 winner...
turned a "shed" (take a look at it,
that's a shed? how big is your garden?
looks more like a storage house on some Caribbean
island where pirates roamed in the 17th century,
given the size) into a boat, sailed it down a river,
then rebuilt the boat into a shed...

are we laughing now? no one these days can compete
with artists, there's no classical
notion of painting, or writing, engulfed by advertising:
advertisers use rhyming - the old notion of art
has become engulfed by advertising -
however good you are,
you have to be a carpenter or a sculptor of some sort,
the rest is nothing; so this leftist prescription of keeping a
creative side when living in the mundane world is sickening...
all the jobs went to Asia, a bankruptcy of production...
if they only allowed us to have meaningful jobs
we wouldn't have to hear the ******* of being prescribed
possessing a creative side...
                                                  in the quasi-end of
capitalism we're all artists... all of us...
                                                                    am i desperate
about this state of affairs? should i be?
                           i have my trombone turned into an elephant
artwork - all the best to Simon Starling,
i'd be too lazy to do something like that...
           what seems difficult to gulp down is how far
removed the 20th century is from today,
about how people appreciating art are primarily concerned
with large open spaces...
                          the idea of art these days fits perfectly
with the modern notion of claustrophobia...
it's supposed to be mingling with agoraphobia -
well, that's how i see it, who can tell if i'm right or wrong
if no opinion can actually be sustained by a prodding
conversation to deal with an opinion further?
well, we already know the end result of dialectics:
i know nothing - that's how the antique mouth of
Socrates changed, back when he invented it
i know nothing was a presupposition... leaving the
art barren, we know how it's going to end, which is why
we like strutting the peacock with sponge-like brains
of opinions.

i just look at the size of these art exhibitions -
massive open space rooms, a large piece of art, you
enter such a space and you attempt to mingle
the claustrophobia of a large crowd - and with such
a piece of artwork, notably it's size, you get the impression
of having a much larger reference in this world,
that you are more important than the world deems you to be,
well.. agoraphobia is a form of claustrophobia,
some phobias are synonymous,
                                                       a large open space, inside
a large piece of artwork...
                                             i feel big...
i live in a few square miles and don't really venture out...
well, that's apparently called life...
                 tiers of the many platitudes...
       or as i say?
keeping Shakespeare, for all his greatness is just about
making traffic... we're queuing - nothing more...
          it's not even about holding to the dear life -
it's holding to the life that passed and will never return -
making our contemporary interpretation of life
                                    a hush, when their's revived is a roar -
great trick... keep them with us long enough
so we get scared then the lions roar -
                  then watch them enter the classics domain
and become entertaining to a dozen people...
everything just seems to have a: u.b.d. (use by date)
and b.b.s. (best before date).

i'm not writing, more or less simply knitting, a jumper -
which is more than just a mere poem.
the comfort allowance, listening to delta goodrem
      and i love pop,
                      more than a rugby
player aged ~20,
                       mind you,
sometimes labouring over one
selfie with 20 Chinese to match
makes you feel oh so good -
                   it took those 20 Chinese
the same effort - pretty white girl
and blonde syndrome,
                        eastern Europe gets a sniff
and simply says: well, that' ****, isn't it?
                      the days that came with
the motto: we need astronauts more than
tourists...
                     days like these i rather take selfies
of the sleeper than write something...
                and i do...
i fiddle on the roof
                                          and cartoon the rest...
                   because that matters.
                            pristine Australian and the gimmicks
worthy of South Korean singalongs....
                                          next in line
***** duped Jews...
                                     whenever the gentleman
lost hist top-hat and the confectioner glyph typo -
                       me and an audience?
as in a day job?
                                  i don't mind...
                        d'ah la la la...
                                              and the piano....
                these days are rare....
                                                having enough words
in-tune with all others...
                                                     of such days
i say: sometimes a picture revitalises the lost words....
               and when encouraged
                                         a slip-up of beckoning...
readied for an avalanche -
                                   to make writing into
knitting a jumper or a scarf...
                                           equivalent...
in a society that deems Japanese culture
                  inquiries
                                     as the righteous standards
to avoid the jobs of nursing and dentistry -
                        well...
                               ­         we're in sure need of robotics
to ease off stress that our societies have
themselves halving demand...
                   sure, she's still there,
crazy naked and starving a kaleidoscope hope
                    of reminiscence
                             concerning a fear of spiders:
that do not weave webbing...
                                        the size of your palm...
        those ones, scary...
                                          that context of x,
between agoraphobia minor
                                                (in an urban setting)            
                            and agoraphobia major
in an countryside setting -
                           phobia: or the intricate fear
when an antidote is due because of too much rationalism -
                           agoraphobia minor:
              fear of being in an open space with too many people...
agoraphobia major:
                               fear of being in an open space
anticipating a congregation that never comes...
                       i'm enthralled by these compounds:
kindred of: lithium salts - or other compounds.
                     sometimes just a day with a selfie...
or a poem like this: an exercise in utilising language
                                  to no grand scheme of making a profit:
rather an indentation, and nothing more.

a late harvest in Brigadoon
plucked from good earth
by strong hands
hauling
uphill, until
a gentle
*****
rewards
a stiff
back; easing
a grateful
burden
that levitates
famine

[ bushels ]

now
ziggarats
in a root
cellar

a Sumerian skyline
of parsnips and rhubarb
with fennel minarets

where Gilgamesh slept
in a pantry of pagan loot
underneath a corner room
at the very back
of a round
house.

where four seasons bunk with an almanac

mason jars of pickled beets
breathing their own blood
hanging gardens from the ceiling
of the Underworld
like fliers of missing children
on telephone poles

i go outside and wander off

you stay home

I stood as still as I could.
Trying to hold in my breath, trying to turn invisible, trying to melt into the wall I steadied myself upon. My heartbeat thumped in my ears drowning out all other sounds.

Were my feet nailed to the floor by fascination? or was it disgust? The knot in my stomach laid no reliable argument to these rushing emotions.

My eyes followed his hands; the way he gripped her hips, the way his fingers traced her jaw. My eyes also followed his lips; how he pressed them almost reverently against the base of her clenched neck.
I watched as he inhaled her scent like he was being squeezed out of breath.

She struggled against his grip. Her eyebrows knit together in an unsightly frown. She halfheartedly pushed him off her weak body. It almost looked like she didn't want to resist, but her pride pulled her away from yielding. She was shaking, her form disheveled, yet it wouldn't sway him.

I felt a stinging in my eyes, that all familiar burning I experienced when I felt that twinge of paranoia. That burning paranoia that plagues me now, as my worst fears are embodied.

How could she easily dismiss him like that?
When I lay nights awake craving his skin, his breath, his words.

I have spiraled out of view, just a faceless backdrop in his hopeless love story.

How could a person hate and love so much at the same time?
It just goes to show that the world doesn't work that way, it works to crush you. All these emotions spurt out at once, as a lesson for all the lucky fools watching you.

the internet wasn't originally intended as the playground for the young, who have no reason to convince themselves of a need to either dogmatise proper spelling, or proper diacritical-punctuation... hálo humpty-dumpty! utter that hark like a dragon!

i have something more volatile than atoms
to construct an atom bomb and
cite Oppenheimer -
i have letters as atoms, words as minor
twitches, and language as Samael:
the death-breathing harvesting resurrector...
  i call the film *a beautiful mind
a perfect case of a beautiful propaganda
machine that backfired...
  if that mathematician who died "tragically"
in car-crash was anything to go by
with having his negation of ease hijacked,
exemplified, magnified to scare the public,
then Gabriel must have been a really sweet
soothsayer in Muhammad's ear...
   because someone with that kind of imagination
to conjure up people should have never
worked for the emerging C.I.A. or F.B.I.:
but Walt ******* Disney... to be sure of it:
Bukowski run parallels with the story:
staying drunk: to keep up with the sober-imaginative
collective: i would have done the same...
can you believe i've passed the 50h mark
on not sleeping under a self-imposed
example of what's barely a scratch of the
siberian gulags?
                   can you imagine that i...
simply had a fetish for it? imagine being awake for
over 50 hours... and having a nearing-****
audacity to not fall asleep for a minute?
can you imagine the military rigour of such
an endeavour?
   must have been self-taught and therefore, very
much indie: selling to the highest bidder.
oh please don't take my literal Monday's worth
of vocabulary truthfulness on it:
i'll play truant on it:
   i don't have people-friendly devices to keep
up with gossip, the rule is:
you can only go mad once,
you can play double jeopardy with madness...
    talk going mad a second time...
        i'll talk about recreating carnage park
in essex... you know what's scary about
that horror movie? it happens at high-noon...
there's nothing eerie about the night...
with the night i think the solace of death
and the never-ending and the never-shifting queue
of names, dates, and the ultra sensitive invocations
of faking epitaphs, i mean, inscribing things
on graves the people who "own" the graves
never had the capacity to say, in the first place.
but you know what scared me about
the film carnage park? the first horror movie
based upon Hitchcock "resurrected" -
but it was never about it... there's no close-proximity,
you actually see the culprits face...
   the idea being: humanising the man executing
moral justification by tugging the guillotine
or pushing the switch on the electric chair...
it's all about moral ambiguity,
hence the horror is all about daylight,
daylight representing the quasi-assurance of your
own judgement: and could you do the justice
by bypassing all jurisprudence paperwork?
  daylight is important in this movie...
                 nothing is hidden, nothing is romantic,
because the man in question is a ******,
he's not a torturer... the invocation of agoraphobia
is seminal! no... subliminal! Greeks invented little
fears and allowed them to be wedded for magnification
given that theatre is extinct... little phobias
create big budget exploits...
   but this is a first of exploiting agoraphobia...
       and agoraphobia could only be exploited in
high-noon... when i think of night these days
i think of the j. r. r. tolkien romance novels of
what man once had... adventure...
these days? plain talk? tourism.
                            i never could think it could be done:
but apparently is has been done...
           the ever distant voyeurism is also gone...
how can anyone be voyeuristic in an agoraphobic space?
   you're basically knitting and deforming
a large space into a pixel... there's no sadism either,
no loch ness barrage of torture methods,
only what man employes to capture animals...
   it's militarism: solo...
        the true essence of a renegade:
   antidote to indoctrination...
             exemplified by the fact that no matter what
mask you give the horror, the mundaneness of it
doesn't go away: because it's not hidden,
  the placebo horror scenario -
          we fake hiding from it... horror these days
is medicinised by fantasy... which is the abhorrent
quality of our times: over-assurance...
    our times are too self-servient, too self-assured...
too comfortable... we're championing
arrogance, calling our predecessors incompetent
*******... oil on the flames? maybe...
                       we prefer to imagine dragons than
see actual dragons among us...
                       that's why we seem to begin with
congratulating dinosaurs into having begun
   as abstract spines that the serpents of our times are...
us? to our inheritors? brains in pickle jars.
we have already started the process of pickling ourselves
by extracting as much as we could from our being
and encoding it into artificiality...
        anyone with a global invasion tactic can easily
tap into this "economy"... it's not an encyclopedia...
it's an economised unitary model readied for
exploitation for invasion...
       do i share the film's culprit paranoia?
well... i share his defence of environmental study...
but having provided the most adequate striking-point
             with the utmost drama of cyber-warfare debate
and all counters against ourselves...
            would i choose this maniac over a wall st. yuppy?
          what's that... vomito ***** vs. huey & the news?
if only i was paranoid after having watched this
movie... i'd see it spread akin to the bubonic plague...
but it's apathy that's the bubonic plague:
since it's the most effective safety-mechanism virus...
you get that docile look and try to suddenly say huh?
with surprise, but you get a choking sensation
as if you just swallowed a hazelnut.
      people get these fantasies about other evolutionary
lifeforms... it's not ******* c.i.a. crap about
      everyone working for them being called mr. &
mrs. smith... just so they can dodge bullets
   and buy milk at their local supermarket...
                      without being asked for autographs and
selfies... and have you ever seen a film critique engaging
with a character that says very little, and then
hysterically laugh, with a sense of music akin to
playing front 242's album 06:21:03:11 up evil?
      the true test of horror is music... the visuals can
be Marquis de Sade in Disneyland... and no number
of groans will do it... if the music has
         transylvania's chant of the chastity of anti-sodomites
written all over it... you're in for a knee-jerker...
the diabolical thing about this film is that it
has the double-effect whether it's watched at night
or during the day... the first horror movie that
doesn't invoke close contact between predator and
the prey, along with not even making the night
as something orthodoxically necessary to craft
                                      horror thematism.
well... plus it's a testament to existentialism
in the case of the hostage being "unrightfully"
attested in a crime... the existentialist would
simply conjure up: possible bait / excuse and
unwillful thinking necessary for his own
             victimised self-reflecting-counter-via
the reflex-of-against-self-discriminatory-collective-input...
radical­ised into a reflex puritanism:
   abiding by cohort norms was not enough
                for the cohort minimum:
                    pyramidal elevation was necessary,
               and there was no human explanation
beyond certain matters, all else was justified
in the three digressions: diabolical, angelic or genius:
the madness only came when one claimed to
hear instructions from the devil, or from god,
                        or claimed to be a geniusº.
  disregarding the two fabrics of a self,
the one prior and the one post collective-input
    regarding a doctrine needing a "self", an "individual",
nevertheless: but a pawn.

      ºthere's no articulation of god, which is why
we have no article ascribing a definite or an indefinite
nature toward him, which is why paupers reduce this
argument, debase it to the level of pronouns -
the reason why we cite a genius and the devil...
is because only angels have names...
                              even the fallen ones...
           for they have a misnomer of god, as we have
a misnomer for many a good things.

I'll wait until dark
to buy myself a bottle
please, night, come quickly

more than the water,
she ripples concentric.
alone.
but who isn't?
it needs to be written.
she needs to relive it.
again.  
it's her prison.
now the world and her daughter
decide how far she'll go
amen.  
heaven's risen.

you chew on coffee beans to cleanse your mouth of this
one long silence
it is open like a wound
it festers

when your breath condenses in the cold air you feel its presence
with icy hands it holds yours
it is patient
it is strict

chewing gum is not sufficient; it is sweet, it makes you wonder
about sugar crystals
they grow like bones
they are brittle

but the taste of blood, of coffee, of chocolate with no milk is good
you can remember without remorse
you can sit and think about dreams
without letting them in

and all your pain can stay subcutaneous
as long as you don’t speak

the thunder talks to me
and tells me to be afraid
of it's glory
and power
and boom.
it tells me that if I don't want to see the lightning,
then I must close the windows and draw the shades
and turn my back.
The thunder sounds
even when there is no storm.
the thunder is always there within my heart,
warning me of the lightning,
telling me
to close my eyes
cover my ears
stay inside
and stay afraid.
always.

It’s dark.
From what you can see through your eyelids,
But there is nothing but the darkness…
Just completely nothing,
Nothing around at all…

Lights low,
Eyes sown shut,
No one can see,
Not even yourself,
The harm and chemicals that race threw your veins,
And even if they could…
No one would know how to help.

Even with your eyes shut it’s unnecessary,
You know the feeling,
The fake darkness,
The sunshine that throws the dust around,
It’s not real.
The sun that moves the dust,
The sun that shines on only the wretched
That sun that shines on your depression,
Making it brighten to full volume…
And then the blinds snap shut,
So fast…
You don’t even know where those thoughts went.

Chemicals that your body is used to,
The chemicals that make your eyes shine,
Make your hands shake,
But nothing that you had to take,
No substance is involved,
Just the feeling of flying then shooting yourself down.

The chemicals course threw your veins,
Making twisting and turning paths
Threw every part of you,
No blood, just this nuclear fission making your eyes roll.
Sleep comes easy,
But it’s not really sleep,
Just enough to regain your strength to peak threw that window shade.
The darkness of the room, the black depth of your curtains,
The mechanical glow given off by the tv,
The news rolling almost as a portal to an outside world,
A world you are not comfortable with.

Your eyes press down the keys,
You take another dose of distain
And flip the power off.

Smoke drifts into the air,
Maybe from an apartment downstairs,
Voices scream at you to move,
But once your eyes open to nothing,
But fire.
Raging in a circle around you.
You have no escape but to hide within yourself…
The outside can not be trusted…
It’s not real…

Instead of giving your heart or part of your soul to a person,
It’s trapped on the other side of that wall,
You’ve been caged with no walls…
The fire isn’t real, and neither are the walls,
There is nothing.
No one
At all…
Just the sliding of your consciousness in and out,
And the draining of your comprehension.

A jump, a start…
Silence,
It’s in your mind,
A blow of wind, a scratch of death,
Inching closer to you….

Frantically searching for yourself…
But just deeper and deeper inside of thoughts you sink,
Drowning, thoughts of reality choke you until there is nothing left…
Just space…
Space that never runs out.

One day the curtains could be thrown open,
The blinding light,
Maybe a comfort for one not ready to see,
But at least it’s an inch closer to life.

The hardest thing about closing the door is
watching the silver lining drift to the floor,
ground to dust and swept under the rug,
floors are much quicker to let bygones be.

The hardest thing about closing the door is
the screech of hinges boring through skull
like worried whispers heard before that
made the iron oxidize.

The hardest thing is clicking the lock
and seeing both keys on the table top,

then clicking your heels
but you're already home,
just seeing how empty
it is on your own.

concerning the pop. narrative -
   i'm a wordsmith after all -
someone gives me the raw materials
of islam and (a rainbow) of affixing -phobia
and i can't seem to hammer
the **** thing into shape...
   it's, foremostly: a pseudo-phobia.
a misnomer of the phobia compound.

for a people who have an "irrational" fear
of islam, it seems strange that the same
people gave birth to some form of rationality -
let's just call it islamophobia
  not an irrational fear - but rather:
                      and irritation -
the irritable fear of being suddenly forced
into the extremities of living the daily life -
when something unexpected happens -
mind you, the people who have been forced
into these situations: stop their want
for adrenaline in a base jump, from an aeroplane,
or bungee jump off a bridge.
   islamophobia is not a "phobia" as such,
it's not irrational - it's just irritating -
but then again you don't actually believe
a spider to be a irrational creature (arachnophobia),
  you don't believe an open space with lots of people
   (agoraphobia)
  to be an irrational circumstance -
you're facing yourself being irrational in
both circumstances -
    since the phobia hides an actual rationale -
islam?
        that's much harder - since you're
being "irrational" while someone is actually
being "rational" -
               when in fact there's no escaping
that contra of you being "rational"
   and the muslim being "irrational" -
not one side is either *rational or irrational:
the spider and the open space filled
with people already stated:
                 you're being irrational;
the fear of spiders is irrational -
   but there is no rationality from the perspective
of the spider: what does a spider
know about rationality? jackshit!
        there is no such thing as islamophobia:
because you're not being irrational about
what has its own rationality -
     its own monologue and intra-dialogue...
whoever coined this stupid word
is as dumb as their rationality allows them
to make enough people use it;
it's only an irrational fear: if there is no
                 rationale behind it;
point being: there's rationale behind islam,
ergo there is no such thing as
islamophobia.

The ocean
Is fearsome.
Water blankets much of Earth.
But I prefer land.
The water,
Home to monsters unbeknownst,
To depths uncharted.
The water,
That can ****,
Destroy.
The water is powerful,
And merciless.
It is oblivion,
No means of direction,
Of hope.
I fear the ocean,
The wide open blue.
It suffocates.
I need land.
Feet firmly on the ground.
Wat'ry walls won't wash away my sins.
Only my hope.

Five hundred and fifty...
that's how many square feet I have,
all to myself, the kitty,
and the dog, but there's no bath.

Yet, there's plenty of room for solitude.
It seems to be the easiest thing to resume.
Not saying hello is socially rude,
but what they don't know, is that it feels like doom.

I can’t look myself in the eye
I can’t gaze upon my face
Reflections are my enemy
Pictures are my fear
Poisoned by standards
Intoxicated by privacy

I stand here wondering
I stand here asking
Will I ever be unmasked?

Mask my face
Mask my name
Mask my home
Mask up
Don’t forget it
Don’t let them see
Don’t let them know

Break a mirror
Punch a wall
I don’t want to see
I don’t want to know

Red wine
Rainy day
Stay inside
Stay away

Don’t leave and you’ll be okay

.well, among all the other phobia contenders? the funny ones, even i sometimes succumb to an arachnophobia, the reflex reaction to an extremely large domestic spider... a slight ****, no rhetorical base... like: what the ****?! the simple beauty of an irrational fear, since a phobia is an irrational fear... but... islamophobia? what the **** is irrational about that? no one seems to talk about islamophilia - unless of course in the convert community of ginger ninjas from the York-shire, or some other Rotherham *******...

...and if you were to talk to any Urdu speaking
Pakistani?
    he'd tell you: i hate the Wahhabi movement...
perhaps in Saudi Arabia it is mainstream -
but outside of Saudi Arabia?
            just plain old hypocrisy - banning music,
but still singing an adhan...
          why not murmur the call to prayer
like a bunch of ******* Catholics at that point
in the mass, where the congregation almost
sounds satanic, murmuring the credo -
   the i believe in...
blah blah... go to a Polish Catholic mass...
   and wait for the moment when they start
their satanic murmuring of the credo -
          i just don't remember if it's after
    the body & blood transfiguration -
hmm... poetry in motion, hanging on a thread
of metaphor...
         but irrational fears are funny...
         it's not even: not all the spiders...
well, a baby spider is like a baby muslim....
       "just" some, some...
             whatever, tell that to the Manchester
matriarchs who lost their granddaughters...
         claustrophobia is a funny fear,
      agoraphobia, yet another,
      and the list goes on...
              it's funny not from the perspective
of mocking the individual,
      but the fear per se...
                         and if I really were islamophobic?
would i trust a Turkish barber to shave
a part of my neck, while he molded my beard
for the Istanbul look?
                      don't think so...
    but... concerning the Turks... esp. because
of their talented, absolutely top game
barbers...
                               the year is 1683...
and Louis XIV and Emperor Leopold are
playing courtesan chess over Spain
   and Portugal...
                  in comes the Ottoman empire,
and besieges Vienna...
         who bails out the Holy Roman Empire?
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth -
with Jan III Sobieski at its head...
                   see... Poles have had many ruff
& tumble encounters with the Turks,
   after all, the Turks owned much of southern
Europe...
          now take that, and move this into
the current year...
     they're Muslims... but... WE SHARE
A COMMONALITY... A HISTORY...
   AN UNDERTAKING OF / FROM THE PAST,
translated into the current year,
   and subsequently the future...
              i already said once upon a time...
is it really "islamophobia" if i'd rather favor
Turks and the ****'ite?
           forget whether Islam is a religion of
"peace"... they're not perfect,
   did the ******* Sunnis forget that their religion,
like all others, is schismatic?
       there's your ******* perfect -
but you have to give them credit,
   on account that... well...
   Muhammad didn't keep his word to Ali...
and that the schism happened so fast...
     not at least 1000 years it took for
the East-West schism of 1054...
          bam-wham thank you Ahmed...
plus... if you look at it... no ****'ite terrorist...
only the ******* Sunnis...
            the Turks imploded on themselves...
that's why the grandmothers of Poland
prefer the imported Turkish tele novellas
over the Mexican ones...
          so... if you want to avoid the bumper sticker
of Islamophobe...
              (a) what is irrational about it,
        when it's not a quirky, irrational fear?
  (b) find yourself a Turkish barber.

I awaken to find my mind either a complete blur, a fuzzy, foggy place, or a place of a maelstrom of thoughts, ideas, and emotions, some from the previous day, some from even before that. Electrifying anxiety, paralyzing fear, crippling doubt and depression are the orders of the day, when I fully awaken. I eat, then take my pills, to get my thoughts in some semblence of order. I go through the day, feeling trapped by problems my medications cannot control. I find myself either blaming everything and everyone else for said problems, or ripping out my own entrails as I blame myself - one extreme or another. I have visions, dreams, hopes of success, but then my depression, or whatever it is, kicks in, and wipes out those dreams, reducing me to a mess of shattered hopes and dreams. This is why I spend most of my days on tumblr, where people see me for who I am, but even there, people judge and discriminate against me, for whatever I have. On tumblr, I have friends that I roleplay out various characters with, different personalities, sometimes variations of myself take shape. Tumblr is the only place where I can seemingly have a reality in which I have control. The Internet is my portal to reality, my line of defense against what could be described as agoraphobia. But I still desire the company of people my own age, physically, rather than electronically, but I do not have the same interests of most of them, and am scared to death of doing so. The very thought of meeting a large group, or even an individual, sends me into a panic attack-like state, then I fall quickly into a state of depression because of that. I hate myself for that anxiety, the awkwardness I have. Loathe is the correct word. This is why I hide behind a computer screen. It may not be perfect, but I find it easier to interact online. I do not know how to translate how my characters act to my own actions, as some have suggested for me to do. I have been told that I need to choose to get out of this hole in which I am trapped. It is a struggle every day to even get enough energy to care, much less try to get out of the hole. The only way out is by climbing a steep cliff, covered by snow and ice, cut by the howling, bone-chilling wind, with only two hooks, in my hands, to claw my way out, fighting the falling snow and ice, occasional rock and hail, sleet too. There seems to be no place to make a camp, where I may rest, only the long, arduous, grueling climb, my vertical trek, my seemingly Sisyphean task that awaits me. A choice that may seemingly **** me. People have suggested that I turn to the supernatural, but that is a fool’s bet, a folly of hope, a wish of the people who build their castles in the sky.

i. arachnophobia; fear of spiders. more common in females than males, why at night you choke on the idea of her fingers on him, long and thin.

ii. ophidiophobia; fear of snakes, fear of being crushed alive by commitment, why in the mornings you never left your number, why you don’t call her back, why you regretted it later.

iii. acrophobia; fear of heights. why she stays out of circuses and away from people like you who would make her fall in love.

iv. agoraphobia; fear of situations where escape is difficult, fear of the plane that takes her away, fear of the open crowded space of your ribcage where paintings of her still constantly hang.

v. cynophobia; fear of dogs, fear of the graves where good noses could dig up the mistakes you have made, fear of a girl who made you want to get a puppy and settle down somewhere finally.

vi. astraphobia; fear of thunder and lightning, fear of being alone in a house that always sounded like both, the stormclouds of your histories always brewing behind flimsy doors. fear of finding her there and having her kiss you in the rain. fear she’d never come back to you again.

vii. trypanophobia; fear of injections, fear of drugs, fear of the doctor who looked into your heart and told you that your shaky hands and bad dreams were a sign that she’s crept into your sleep.

viii. social phobias; fear of social situations, fear of your father’s white knuckles on the wheel while he says, “no son of mine is a ***** like this,” fear of her mother’s judgement, fear of not being enough.

ix. pteromerhanophobia; fear of flying, fear of remembering how long it’s been since you actually felt alive, why you trembled whenever you held her tight, why one day she frightened you so bad that you left in the middle of the lonely night.

x. mysophobia; fear of germs. why you knew you’d only get her covered in dirt. why looking at yourself in the mirror always seems to hurt. why you will never be happy without being hers. out of this whole messed up world, she was the only thing pure.

Dear God
Look at it
Up there
No hand made device
Could possibly compare
No building can truly overcome it
The sky the sky
Such a thing
Just a glance at it
And
I feel it stareing into me
I feel it grasping at my soul
Feed me small creature
It bellows it roars
Oh god
Is this what it's like to be high.

It takes one to know one swift fell swoop
like a bat out of hell and certainly the belfry.
If you've something to prove to the birds and the bees,
I won't bat an eye at your rhinoplasty.

I'll take two hoots, 'cause I sure won't give them.
Find somebody else to get up and go;
I cry like I fly like a carrion crow
and I've two left feet and no time to tango.

It takes three strikes 'til it's not just company
any more — it's a crowd and my agoraphobia
is making this worse, so I might disperse.

If you don't quite care, let's put two and two together;
playing pretend we're birds of a feather.
I could commend, but that's such a no-no;
you're more like a doornail to me, less like a dodo.

And if you don't much mind, I might just take five.
I'm chicken-livered, but at least alive
though I feel like a dead duck, dusted and done.
I won't be there, I'll stay fair and square,
right back at square one.

Now can you see how this is cyclic?
Makes me feel one sandwich short of a picnic,
up the wall, and driving me sick.
Apologies, I don't mean to nitpick,
and I know I've a number of bees in my bonnet,
but I've zero interest in your haiku and sonnets.

So here's one for the road,
turn by the way the devil drives you home,
and one good turn deserves
another.

studying the a.i. concept of / via the internet...

i talked to siri once... she didn't reply,
instead she sent a message to all these people
that only said: slow down...
   yeah, messaged her... she wasn't the blonde
turned super-redhead i was led to imagine,
but at least she reacted in an unexpected way...

siri? oh, that microsoft a.i. project?
     i play word games, not world of warcraft...
luckily we can be said to be architect of some kind,
   or at least that's how keep a sane head when using
the internet... or simply bypassing all major
outlets that encourage certain messaging services,
like the telephone, the media... the pope...
  i'll write my little ******* verse
         for someone who doesn't implement
censors... not unless it's wattpad, that has
a genius code that doesn't allow you to ctrl + c
and then ctrl + p...
           that's probably the only good thing about
that website...
   if all website had the secret to not allowing
a ctrl + c, that would really be basis for
intellectual property, and what's otherwise the basis
for jurisprudence in the ultra-modern era...
        the fact that most websites don't use
a sentence of code that implements a ban on
ctrl + c says a lot... i mean: a grand canyon's worth
of meaning about theft and plagiarism and what not...

yeah, but you see... given the + of wattpad,
it's hard to understand why someone, a really ******
poet can complain to the authority of the website
for having a conversation with them
on the basis that you simply do the 20th century thing
of a hotmail chat room within the frame of
the acronym a.s.l. -
          but merely concentrating on the l -
so you... well, imagine where they're writing from...
i suppose there wouldn't be a problem asking
them if they have pets...

yet how this thing behaves on a musical level...
you start listening to a macbeth soundtrack,
you switch to listening to the exmachina sountrack,   <-- p.s. ref.
and you want to listen to a particular song,                      to unnecessary
in this case: #6 -                                                                       italics
    so a bit like writing a symphony and calling                    thus
it: in #A or... that's A-major, isn't it?

   and to the sound of wasps' in a flurry...

    it's about how the algorithm behaves when you
take that one song out from a link to the entire
sountrack, and what other suggestions come along,
the immediate sense of archeology of past choices /
preferences... e.g. robert plant's darkness darkness...
hedningarna's räven, ghost b.c.'s year zero...

the only thing that's artificial is the fact that someone
smart enough to code wrote the program,
           on the basis that i didn't have the capacity to write it
in order to not muse about it's behaviour...
  
i have keep making these repetitive interactions with
the internet, it's this thing completely devoid of
any sublayers this world might have -
  well... if we didn't have internet banking i'd
clearly say: life on the internet, and real life...
    there's bound to be a "    "         in that sentence,
i'm just not sure where to put it...
      i stopped believing there was a distinction,
given how huge the human population is
and the needs to travel... for what? coffee and cookies?

for those of us who still remember life in the 20th
century...
                         what was i, in 2000? 14?
   i was a kid back then, and i'm sure people much
older than me think fondly of it...
         there was so many things to touch, to feel,
to smell...
                       i don't have this classical 20th century
or beginning with nietzsche *nostalgia*
for ancient greece... my nostalgia is subtle because
it revolves around an organic structure of
my own memory, nostalgia for ancient greece
is quiet frankly, *inorganic*, that gets passed down
via philosophy books... my nostalgia is for the
end of the 20th century... not so much being a child
or anything as crass as that...
                    but that there was this fluidity in the world....
hanging out with people in car parks,
               going to the high street...
                  agoraphobia took over from that...
and that's the best thing the greeks ever gave us:
a list of phobias...
  but then why would i be right about that?
given that polite society doesn't engage with
dialectics... with **** schizoi A bashing this opinion
and **** schizoi B blasting that opinion...

recent videos i watched? a funny compilation...
     i have to admit that *sia's* early output is
staggering... she's like this matured version of
*katy b*...
                     can you imagine that some of us coming
from the 20th century had the sole ambition
to work in a music shop?
                          oh look.... that's flushed down the toilet...

god... i hate sarcasm, it's such a dry comedy,
i might as well walk into a desert and pretend i'm
a cactus.

oh right... youtube videos...
   that rare combination of
*the amazing atheist* and transgender dating and
if that's bigotry...
      i already stated the "video" i'm watching now
exmachina #6... no, nothing robotic imagining the music...
more like wasps... or termites... evidently something
sinister... but then again gradual,
nothing like an avalanche... and there is a part
of me that would like to usher in some purposive
imagery... but then i'm being fed imagery
and i'm trying to refine what it could be by that track...

oh right... and the last video...
   this is such a francis bacon moment, how he
found beauty in violence...
    me... i'm more into seeing a brotherhood of some sort,
something that can be shared, moulded,
     something elemental, and vaguely orientated
around western values of free speech...
             anything but a vague humanity,
this constant need to individualise...
     to speak about things where the only taboo left
standing is violence...
                    there are age restrictions, of course (oddly
enough, missing in galleries...
but you know: if you ever masturbated over
an Agnolo Bronzino painting... you might talk
something as refined as the link i'm about to post)...

       youtube - Russian streetfights
                                         Russians VS Muslims...

what's amazing is this sense of togetherness....
              i can't call it anything but baconesque
after watching the david jacoby adaptation of
the artist's life and work (daniel craig being the muse
and tragic suicide)... it's almost as soothing as sitting
on a beach and watching the sea...
                                       being an only child
gives me this precursor of opinion... to think of a large
family, moving synchro like a wave.....
           it is the sea, truly... it swells and absorbs
                            the earth, teasing, gently nibbling
on it...
                      well... at least that's how i use the internet;
and so much more gratifying is the case
where i make the conscious effort that
  is in equilibirum to the made effort,
                        rather than just a passive care for
number, and a video; unless of course i'm fooling myself
on that *** note...

to finally see violence as the last standing taboo
                            and all others so openly disclosed.

p.s. what's with this website's * / _   ?

sometimes it just takes a clear sky to clear your head,
i can remember the days of waking up
to earl grey of england, thick, bulging clouds,
none in the shape of cauliflowers,
or as some would claim: castles made of clouds;
it would just seem like a nuclear holocaust
happened - and that's how it really is,
the body's barometer, thankfully it's there,
and i can blame something outside of myself
and call it a mood, or a ****** cognitive narration.

unlike today, clear sky, crisp wintry blue,
slightly hazy on the edges of my vision,
and slightly pink, monet pink,
thin pink, nothing that could be compared
to a grapefruit pink, a fluorescent pink,
no... thin pink, thin atmospheric pink
teasing purple while dragging a bit of orange
behind with it.

and my breakfast, a cigarette and a glass
of quasi-skimmed milk,
ah, quasi-skimmed - ever so often coming
out of school i used to buy a pint of
full fat milk and drink it before getting
on the bus home... those old bottles of
milk that the milkman still delivers
      in the night... you could still buy them
in shops... haven't seen a bottle like
that in a shop for ages...
    last time i drank a bottle of milk like that
i stole one walking home,
left a pound and took the bottle...
  quasi-skimmed?
   it's the tobacco hangover...
the phlegm needs to stay down...
milk lines the throat, while i smoke and
taste iron from cigarettte...
quasi-skimmed:
   semi-skimmed milk and a top of water...
at least the colour is still pristine ******
white... unlike the skimmed milk in red
cartons that looks: grey, or bruised...
but the effect is the same, but hardly.

yet what's the prompt though?
it's too early to be writing something sober...
just a word i used yesterday concerning
a book... anti
                                       c, h, i, r, s, t...
doesn't the concept usurp the third person of
the original trinity? i mean, who was he supposed
to be? pure animality of a dove, a symbol of peace?
these days philosophers say that the third person
isn't a person at all... but a suggestion of a community
of believers, a bit like the islamic *ummah...
for centuries christianity was founded upon
the principle that the holy ghost was a person,
some kind of mediator between the son on earth
and the father in heaven... and perhaps even a transitional
tool for the son to embody the father via
the move from the earthly realm to the heavenly realm,
a "philosopher's stone" if you like:
christ's body of flesh and ash on earth, turned into
some ethereal body-substance in heaven...
    but these days, well, that link has faded,
the concept of community is gone...
         every older person will be cited as having said
that at some point...
     is that an argument to suggest that the holy ghost
was always a person, i.e. the paraclete?
well... if that be true, as c. g. jung suggests...
the notion of the paraclete ever arriving would usurp
the authority of the pope...
                or any eastern partriarch...
but then there are the philosophers who say that the holy
ghost was never a person, but a concept of a community,
a body, indeed, as any person might have:
but a collective body of believers...
   but given our modern times, or esp. the example
in england: there is no community of believers as such,
that has disappeared a short while ago,
the number of attendants of the church of england
has wavered to a slight nudge in %...
        evidently what has died is not god per se,
but the community established by the creed -
                  god is dead, well: a third of him...
in that context i completely agree -
   then what is happening has already been happening
for some time...
   and he sits at the left hand of the father...
no one else, but the antichrist, and with him
the spirit of the times: the zeitgeist...
       the one that states: revolutions and counter-revolutions,
for the ones one dispersed will shower upon
those formerly affirmed in ethnic and base root
of their lands to subsequently disperse.
    for has not the concept of the antichrist dispersed
the concept of the holy ghost?
unless of course one is to believe that the paraclete
is true, but rarely spoken about in mainstream
theology...
                at least in england, a third of god is dead,
that is: the holy ghost: a body of believers: a community
has vanished... for one, the urban environment has
killed off the once held belief that people could
live in small communities...
                                 we're all practically strangers
around here, even if we've lived next to someone
10 metres away from us for 10 years:
there's really no point making alliances now,
nor ever.
               the best we've accomplished with the death
of the high street, is a very nice looking prison...
our neighbours sometimes drop packages of
delivered goods that can't fit through the letterbox
while we were away...
   it's almost like living in someone's agoraphobia
la la land... that said: if that third of him ain't dead...
it's definitely sick, or in the process of dying...
adding the fact that for some the islamic ummah
is so tempting... because it actually is a community...
well... what do you know...

              time to get seconds of my breakfast.

Alone in despair,
Awake but don't care,
Sense of agoraphobia,
I would show ya,
But the circumlocution,
Made us lose communications,
From the overtired notion,
Of who is right and who is wrong,
In a neolithic view of strong,
Indignation is the result,
Of why we're dumb not stupid .

headphones...

   no, really,

headphones...

there's a massive difference
between playing a record
outside the realm
of headphones...

yep, headphones...

because headphones are great,
sure...
    drowning out the mechanically
maniacal sounds of
the drone sound of the hive
of cars, and other clutters
for the ears...

but...
     put a record on,
on a windy afternoon...
**** i'm old...
2009...
the year that the **
released their debut, self-titled
album...

now i'm starting to think:
am i claustrophobia prone
listening to music
on my headphones?
well... not when i'm performing
a juggling act on
the street, whereby i'm
countering agoraphobia
with listening to music
on my headphones
while i walk the open spaces
and sidewinder roads...

i just forgot how good music
sounds, when it fills,
occupies a room...
it's almost like returning to
the status of a fetus...
then music... resonates...
when music, expands,
vibrates,

and when it couples with
the shuffling sound of the wind
passing, swaying, flirting
with the trees?

i'll give the English this point...
the **'s debut,
or alt-J's debut albums...
there's no punk counter
to the haunting, atmospheric
fission of ****** the **** out
of memory...

but i do feel reembodied,
which is not disembodied...

headphones...

    no, not a car radio doing
1 on 1 time while strapped
to a linear projection of movement
and subsequent custard of
stand-still trapped in traffic...

i'm talking:
   music on the stereo...
blasting at volume 16...
incubating you in a room of sound,
with the window open
and the orchestra of the wind
to boot / boost the whole
point of: listening to an entire
album...

mind you... the concept of the album
focused on what the modern song
is / lasts...
    3 minutes, or thereabouts...
so? the album had to add a bit fat 0
to the consensus...
      roughly 30 minutes' worth
for a success story...
             with regards to an album...

no... this is the first time i've experienced
this sort of transformation,
battery dead, last resort...
not exactly papa roach territory of
teenage angst outlet necessities...
more like a sly bagel from
the Gants Hill Jewish bakery...

**** me... the resonance with this album,
when music fulfills the confines
of 3 dimensions,
rather than the 2 dimensions of
headphones...
  
     the background noise back-up...
the cackling magpie,
the wind brushing the trees or at least,
orchestrating an attempt of
confusing itself with the breath of man,
while supposing to play
a woodwind / flute...

so confined: this precision making...
it's like with every passing second
i am born, i am dead,
i am reborn, and death...
            becomes this trivial
choreography that only attempts
to perfect my mortal: stature;
such a humbling experience...
        i pity the people who gesticulate
a furthered accomplishment
of subservience toward a prayer.

Old telephone lines like fossils prehistoric, outdated
So many cOnversations by glowing screen
I could have been something you were really good at
Rhymes and rhythms shared over many mediums
Canvas, air, virtual, paper stain love
It's always the words that stick around
A mind can change anything into what it wants it to be
These pages turn yet still they remain unchanged
Tattooed, scarred into lyrics and get away car(d)s
I miss you
Whispered a mantra across the thin skin of your spine
Tingling the hemispherical split of right and left
Blind on one side, defective
The vision of freedom all at once clear then blurry
Catorax agoraphobia with a hint of I-will-not-open-for-anyone
Wish I could get the taste of unrequited desire out of my mouth
Burn clean the haunting of murky waters
Your sharp incisors still emerge from those depths to keep festering the wound

After last week
I think I fell ill
with agoraphobia
Or perhaps my mind
retreated
turning hermit
and hidden
Maybe my thoughts
were trying to convince
my mouth to become
mute
My heart could have
tempted my limbs
to refrain from making
my routine tired
sloppy movements
out of bed
It could have been your
words
They could have gotten through the cracks
of my protective skull
and paralyzed
my inner spirit
to connect and inspire
and fly
Or maybe I was turned into a vampire
over the course
of the dreary long
tar night
Count must have snuck in
under the tiny slit of my door
and drained the life within me
forcing me to refrain
from light and the beauty
of a newborn day

Whatever it is...

I don't want to hear a single
syllable uttered
in my presence
Not a single w-o-r-d
hurled into my environment
like a sneaky soapy "I" or "me" or...
Today all I want is to
barricade myself in this
gorgeously empty room
and believe that I am the only person
on this planet
and that I don't owe a
a ******* thing
to anyone
especially

conversation

Agoraphobia

I lifted my glass of red wine, towards the lamplight as seeing
it through a dreamy haze, what I saw was a ***** glass full
of finger marks; couldn't blame the barman since I was alone,
and dreaming of being an actor.
I was on stage once – a friend of mine was an actor- it was
terrifying I forgot the lines “dinner is served, my lord.”
I saw my friend act in a movie, made in Portugal he was Lesley Howard
and was perfect in his role.
This is about agoraphobia which has blighted my life and has disappointed
many by a promise to show up and not going, feign I got the date wrong.
I told that too –tom Hardy who swore he could cure me hence my little role;
Well, Tom died.
My wife has gone to a party, and I'm looking after the cat, it does
not know how famous I could have been.