disclaimer: unedited rambling and overly long and frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.*

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"*

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage

Bald heads, forgetful of their sins,
Old, learned, respectable bald heads
Edit and annotate the lines
That young men, tossing on their beds,
Rhymed out in love's despair
To flatter beauty's ignorant ear.

All shuffle there, all cough in ink;
All wear the carpet with their shoes;
All think what other people think;
All know the man their neighbour knows.
Lord, what would they say
Did their Catullus walk their way?

Sometimes,
I get so angry, I want
to tear open my skin.

Who needs anger management
when you can give yourself
a bloodletting instead?

I want to annotate my wrists
with the names of every person
who ever hurt me--
part the Red Sea with steel.

And I'm pretty sure a phlebotomy
is the closest I'll ever get to a lobotomy
(or an exorcism).

My trauma (my fury) is a toddler
throwing a tantrum in the middle
of the dairy aisle in the supermarket.

I pluck this child--
feral and snivelling--
from my veins and throw
her over my shoulder.

I don't know where her screaming ends
and where mine begins.

Sometimes, I think all she really wants
is a hug.

This is from the mind of the deranged--
Little did I know, I had a pleasure for carnage.

It always made me intoxicated.
To conceive the crying children,

As they pray to their begetter--
For a place of refuge.

I explicitly annotate--
It's not me who you resent.

I have so much tribulation--
I wish I was habitual.

But I'm afraid I am a bit melancholy--
Which leads me to foresee.

Many deaths that are to be--
Between this fraudulent identity.

I want to create art for the rest of my life but I don’t want to paint flowers I don’t want to draw ocean waves I don’t want to photograph the sunset

I want the art of the oppressed and the needy and the weak and the tiresome, I want their words to break down walls and I want to be an outlet for better days, for the moments that create lifetimes and the stills that hang on walls in your robust mansions that are cleaned by the very people who live in the cities hanging as part of your decor, the cities of workers and lovers and people who depend on one another

I want screaming and crying and the capture of a second of time that will not be erased by your mahogany dinner dates where you talk about the politics of war from the perspective of someone who has never fought a day in their life in the war that a going on right here and right now

I want change and I want to write a piece that years down the road high schoolers annotate like the way I annotated Martin Luther King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail and I want it to ring in those high schooler’s minds until they realize what it is that is bothering them,

what is bothering them is the need for action the need for expression the need for art that is not currently in existence but is instead hanging in an uncomfortable state like an elephant in the room but guess what,

that elephant has a bigger heart than you and guess what,

good things come to those who wait and better days come to those who pray like a little boy who was robbed of his innocence when he saw a shooting in the light of day but was still given a warm meal and a place to stay

bitter cold and bitter winds flow through the blocks of city streets like snakes weaving with a hissing in their teeth but we are the magicians

we are the ones with the power to create something from nothing and you’ll never know what hit you, you’ll spend your whole life trying to figure out our trick because you are not on the inside

you don’t know the method behind the madness, and for the first time

you will be the one in the dark.

Unless you are here for a reason, your presence
  thrusting and thrusting, what for?
  This thing has no name it does not understand -
   its incompleteness, its sleuth for finality. Maybe
   when a hand is buried with a manifold of many
   others in the fall -- to initiate a conflagration
   is to remember it for the first time.
   All versions of the same absence. If you are here
   for no reason, then what for, what use does the
   body subscribe to?

  What about, say, the abundance of Balete had you
   consciously wearing your shirt inside out so as
   to feel placeness? What now that your hand
   fastens my entrails? There is no multiplying
    feeling into truth. We do not know that the Sun
    through the interstices of leaves is a small child,
    or a swift woman. No other answer but rue
    and rage, across our slanted shadows in the
     dank perimeter. Your eyes finagle to annotate
    the bow of my leg. Or the curvature of moon.
    Anything it has in their own, vicious sights
     grappling the flesh now inflamed; anything they
     will ravish completely and leave drained. A wrinkled body of a log, or a forgotten manuscript.

    These are all answers I have to invent. Intuitive,
    unwise, unsolicited. Somewhere, I had to point
     out the differentiating margin between
      speaking too much and conveying so little,
     and the finite amplitude of silence sensing out
     something in you, about you, and arriving here.
     Why are you here? What are you doing? What must I be when you are not?

This Is How To Be Cool:

Step 1:
Hate people.
Hating people is in.
This should build up the sense
of mystery  most
people you now hate will
be attracted to.
Don't enjoy the company of people
you now know why you
hate and ask yourself why you
didn’t do this sooner and why only most things seem the same.

Step 2:
Wear shoes.
Wear shoes as
comfortable as
middle aged men that
don’t please their wives now
that well anymore.


Step 3:
Lose sense of time.
Lock yourself in a garage
with no windows that has 2
TV’s that play different things.
Have limited water. Have friends
that you tell to buy you malt and even still
cheaper *****.
Listen to not stop talk
of the grade of **** in strip clubs at a $ per/for a
tall boy all day happy hour/s.
If you have or had a phone or a clock hide it.
If you have or had a sun dial or set of fingers
set it or them in front or in-between 1 or 2
of the t.v.s
so it or them always tells close to the same
2 times.
Never, not even for a moment, look at them.  






Step 4:
(4a)Watch.
 Watch an old man walk an ugly dog
   with a bag of **** in his hand.
  (4b):Come to 1 or 2 safe conclusions
   about why the man has ****
   in his hand/s.
 (4c):Come to exactly 2 [(4ci) and (4cii)] unsafe conclusions and write  them on the bottoms of separate chairs in an IKEA warehouse store.

(4ci)The man needs   to theoq **** at someone nearby.
 (4cii)The man has  a collection. A stockpiled **** supply.
(4d) Reference and annotate your secret **** propaganda.


Step 5:
Go someplace.
Go someplace  you
do not belong you
will make yourself unknown you
will develop a cult nonfollowing.


Step 6:
Write a poem.
Write a poem using useless metaphors to
end a poem that doesn’t seems to be about
women but  the poem at the end and inside of this first poem is about
one anyways.

Example:
You're a book just closed,
you aren’t done yet,
Your drawing yourself out
Waiting on someone else to return.

You are a sun just
set, you can’t be seen.
All the lights you left behind
have limits in the streets they shine in.

You are a photograph of a photograph
of an unfinished drawing:
a pointlessly layered mystery about
something someone somewhere
has already finished and made
better without you.

You are a woman
the least concrete image with
the least valid explanation.


Step 7:
Lie to your audience and end the
poem in an only slightly less useless
fashion then I told you to previously plan to. This is not about a relationship, this is about being ******* cool. About remaining in a slow waiding motion through yourself the planet like spin of a fire kicking up and consuming the last of the air around it, Nothing will happen to you. You will only make things more clear around you.

It's too late
They said as her petite frame
Spiraled then plummeted into the sea.
She's already ascended like a dove,
They felt no need to hesitate
At proclaiming the unfortunate's fate.

Always quick to hate
What they cannot annotate
Yet so eager to love
The greatest of us
Reborn from our ashes.

She took the leap
Not to cease
But to breathe -
Through airborne lungs
To see-
The greatest moments ignite
To fuse-
With an infinite moment in time
In one fleeting hope:
After the waves
Drew her lifeless limbs away,
After she slept
On the ocean bed,
Her words might eminently thrive
Though no one heard while her lips held life,
Their once-deaf ears would at last listen
To a phantom's composition.

please place me on the bookshelf.
you can pick me up,
read the fine print,
crease my corners,
cross out the transgression,
and annotate the virtue.
but Please put me back on the
bookshelf.

If I’m left on trains or
on benches by the bus stop-
If I’m put in places I don’t belong-
I’ll fade.
my print will pale,
my creased corners won’t recover,
my transgressions and virtues
will interrogate themselves.

I’ll become the environment
my fickle pages are left in.

so please put me back and
never touch me again.


-*if we allow ourselves to be placed in bad environments,
eventually, we will become them.

It’s the mornings you wake up and the heaviness of your eyes are nothing compared to the heaviness in your chest. It’s the moments throughout the day you’re surrounded by all that love and adore you and you are still drowning in the loneliness. It’s the nights you lie awake wired with a megaphone prompter set to the highest volume in your skull repeating all of those thoughts you swore you’d never say aloud. It’s the seconds, the minutes, the hours, days, weeks, months that you feel as if you feel nothing in attempt to feel everything and you’re trying so hard to get to the surface of land while you’re drowning in the middle of the ocean, too heavy to swim. You see where you want to be and as you move every joint in your body, you’re going nowhere but down. Down. Down. Down to the bottom of your heart, down to the bottom of your stomach, to the bottom of your toes. The fuzzy feeling of a television on the fritz the black and white static going in and out, the blurry vision of nothing while all is in front of you and yet you are still sinking, drowning like the fish that can’t swim, you’re still watching that grayscaled fuzz and listening to the muffled up noises on the television that you can’t clearly make out while the remote is in your hands. That’s the worst part about it. That’s the ugly truth of it all. That our struggle, while it entails pain and chaos, we have the controls to change them. Our stories are complex. Maybe we can’t change the characters or the rising actions. It may be possible that the ****** is our of our control. We can’t do anything about how we got in the middle of the ocean, or how we turned the broken channel on, But within the falling action of it all, we can get ahold of it. We can grasp at it, tug on it, and we can morph it into our life jacket. We can build it into our own remote controler, we can change the perception of it all. The plot twists, the cliffhangers, those are what we can encompass and embrace, what we ourselves control and can incorporate to change the story. It is set in our mind’s eye how we perceive and annotate a story or poem just as it is set in our mind’s eye how we perceive and annotate our own story. Because in the end of it all, it comes down to what we are doing about it. Are we the ones putting rocks in our clothes so rather than our floating, we proceed to the very depths of suffocation? Are we the ones that pressed the volume button on the remote in order for the static to grow higher and higher to the point of deafness? As you reflect on your story, are you reading your metaphors right, are you interpreting the imagery and creative visualizations in a way that shows beauty within the ugly, are you appreciating the art of similes and detail that you were able to create throughout whatever your story entails? Or are you so engulfed in your ineptitude to look at the whole picture as just that, with no interpretation of it all? You only read your monologues rather than the dialogues within. You sparknoting your life. Have you ever taken an exam after sparknoting a book and it’s only when you have the lines of the paper in front of you that you realize that you know nothing? That’s what you’re doing when you only dwell on the obvious of your life. You’re not searching within to fill the plot holes and answering questions that are worth answering. Take advantage of syntax. The descriptions of the water, how cold it may feel emotionally and physically or why you can’t seem to turn the channel of your television when it’s only placing you in a realm of distress. You see what everyone sees, you know what everyone knows without ever understanding. It’s the words in between that tell a reader what to feel and why you feel that way. You’re cheating yourself out of individuality and the acceptance of a resolution worthy of acceptance. So as you write the rest of your story, write it in a way that will make you content with the ending. Give yourself an ending that you are satisfied with, that makes it easy to close the book and start on to the new one- because remember, you are not the only one reading it. Be proud of your story. Give your character the lifejacket. Give yourself the life jacket.

Under the waxing moon
Where safety is secured in -
the throes of madness
Where ambiguous , vocal figurines annotate abject sadness* ...


* Reversus de pit ignis Ad .. .. Amen: alleluja habitabo in medio populi mei misericors deus in misericordia* ..

Dear Reader,

I give you permission.

I give you permission
to scar the spine
of this book
from the countless
times you will
crack it open.  

I give you permission
to highlight
and underline
and doodle
and annotate
these pages
until they have
no room to breathe.

I give you permission
to accidentally
drop
wet
spill on-
backpack-shove
the cover.

I give you permission
to dog-ear the corners
when you've lost
your bookmark
(and your way).

I give you permission
to break in these words
with the same
calamitous,
neurotic,
frenzied
passion with which
I wrote them.

I give you permission
to make this
Poetry your home.

Good evening streetlight
You've been promoted to a star
Your white light shall bathe this -
planetary cul-de-sac come dusk
The asphalt and grassland inhabitants will journey -
from afar , attracted to your beaming , -
mind consuming elegance with eyes -
wide open an mouths ajar
The katydids and crickets will chatter jealously as the -
moths and mayflies endlessly circle
Tree frogs will perform concertos in thy name
Aviator grasshoppers will annotate thy location -
across the great magnetic plane
Your benefactors will sing your praises
Poems and stories will tell of your divine -
energy and grace* ...

take back
what was planned

i'm new again.

annotate
my
fate

before it's too late

Sincerely *******!

You who didn't so much teach me to talk as train me to say things your way

You who I hear in my head
As an infection of implication and inflection
Contorting my thoughts so I can't think straight

You who got me to gouge myself out with doubt
And handed me a scalpel

You who watch the dissection disinterested
Stopping me only to annotate "interesting" parts of my mental anatomy

You who taught me to prattle in Latin so the microscope you made me shove into my skull only left me looking alien

Until I only see homosapien, hypochondriac, hypocrite
Not the human

And my thoughts are obscured behind a fog of who's thinking them

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.

posited puzzling apt aperçu...

While pondering particular
theme to address
amidst tangled wide, whirled
webbed mental skein
today November third
two thousand twenty two,
unexpected Möbius strip
tease conundrum unforeseen,
yet as avid aspiring wordsmith
only now I became keen,
which unflagging vexillological,

theoretical, rhetorical, philosophical...
narratological, linguistical, judgmatical
historical, fantastical, didactical,
and bibliographical predicament
may not suddenly find me
flush with green
i.e. profuse legal tender,
but merely thought provoking
puzzlement addresses following quandary
stuck within gray matter of pate

impossible mission to differentiate
jagged fine line between
passion and obsession
case in point strong
affinity to write of late,
cuz yours truly susceptible
toward compulsion that doth not abate,
and mind boggling to wed healthy
love of language analogous as mate
nsync with psychological trait,

viz excessive compulsion
diagnosed years gone
by courtesy professional
mental health specialists, did annotate,
and I admit behavior impossible to satiate,
thus generating aforementioned query
how does one (me) segregate
productive interest versus excessive,
née fanatical all consuming -
affinity towards English language

I loopily, quirkily verily narrate
oft times burning midnight oil
(albeit figuratively alluded
to wicked mister Arson Wells) witness
as logophile doth painstakingly toil
bajillion cerebral threads to uncoil,
whereby utilizing figurative tweezers
uprooting, untangling rhyme I embroil
(even using ****** Doo conditioner)
metaphorically beneath mine royal

hirsute (Scottish) matted topsoil
ultimately bringing in top gun
uncannily resembling gargoyle
shape shifting between
comical characters such as
Popeye and Beetle Bailey
at lightspeed as if
greased with Olive Oyl
so watch out Bluto,
get ready for turmoil!

A Poem: Swapped my Love

I found Love
Like a gold digger I cherished it with the heart of a dove
I never wanted a separator
My parents plan was an alligator


Unknown to my granulated mind
They wanted another queen from behind
I love you my sweetheart with all my heart
I love you like the leaves loves the trees in its cart


Awestruck at the sudden change in arrangement
All my life, my Dear, I've always dreamt of a Loves movement
Between our glued hearts never to be apart
I never knew mum and dad kept an affluent queen in a cart


Away with affluence, I want love
They didn't want my views, they burnt it on a stove
I tried so hard to reach you
Their prowess on my mind made my fatigued fingers fall behind you


They want money, I want loves honey
They want fame, I want a queen, not an attorney
I wish I could turn the hands of time
So, I'll go for the One I love in my prime


Their decision has made me regret
A pain I can't annotate in respects fret
I wish I had no parents
Why should they be the supervisor of my loves rent

I found sweet honey in its comb
They gave me money in its tomb
Ah! I wish you would understand my love
That my parents have swapped my love.

© Daniels Pen ™ 2020.

When i said i am an open book, i meant that u should read me as i am.
i didn't mean that u should annotate me add ur own understanding, make assumptions, label me  or call me names.
say my name as the cover page is titled.
please don't take out any pages in me just because you don't like those pages.
do not make ***** by spreading rumors about me, say it as it is in the book. Please don't judge me based on who read me,  how could you judge winter by its ability  to shine like summer.
And ooh i forgot i also come in audio for those who cant read or see.
add value in this open book by covering me, with love  and don't destory me by summarising  me.

to you,

I’d like to believe -
that meeting you was fate,
that it wasn’t just a deranged connection, neither will it ever be a coincidence of sorts.
to me you’re unlike any other.*

Knowing you, was being home.
A place to rest my mind against yours,
A place to be surrounded by the breeze of your thoughts and wisdom.
Where every story you told me was like an age old letter kept in the crevice of the walls,
untouched,
perfectly enveloped;
How is it that amidst a sea of wandering minds, you find a mind that wants to wander yours?

You made me realise that love is easy, that it’s not rocket science and that it isn’t complicated,
That we tie ourselves up in difficult knots
and that love is simply, as easy as it sounds.
To me, you’re familiar -
a past life, a divine intervention or probably a second self as you call it.

You make me want to read you and learn you and annotate you,
with my silly stickies and neon pens, and
fill you up with all my flowers hidden away in dusty old books.

Somedays, your sweet words ask me to write you a poem,
about the whirlwind my life is right now,
and I want to tell you about it;
about how on days when I’m walking the streets of this unfamiliar city
and I look back -  
I don’t see the traces of my footprints.
When I come back home
exhausted from the weight that my shoulders could ever uphold -
I find no feather of tranquility to tickle me out of weariness.
When my unhinged, running at 3000 thoughts per second brain
seeks frantically, a resting ground -
It is only ever stomped on with battering noises and formalities.

But how do I tell you, that I can endure a lifetime of lonesome dreary days like these -
If it means that every night, without fail
the warmth of your pacific voice would caress my soul,
That the only thing worth thinking about
is the idea of your presence around me;
even in spirit.
That on some level, I’ve imagined a world that exists in my head entirely built by you -
The expanse of the deserts,
poetry for streets,
walking on water,
monuments for homes,
and you.
but how do I tell you?

Sometimes I feel stuck between the layers of the sky,
A void, nothingness.
The clouds below, the space above.
It’s like I’m floating in mid air, and at times I like it that way,
But I know that eventually I need my ground to steady me;
To let gravity pull me down with all its might, as it should -
But when I put my weight on the earth
Where do I go? and to whom?

I find myself in an endless loop of uncertainties.
Almost as if I’m stranded on a desert of yearning and longing;
and your embodiment is simply a mirage,
falling in and out of the abstraction of us.

In my infinite monolithic dreams -
I see you standing at the far end of the sea
where the sky meets the land and forgets to leave,
and I am like a light stretched out, dispersed in the breeze;
I can almost touch you, but you could barely feel.

At times I read in-between the lines;
I find urgencies in your words as if you’re reaching out,
and maybe you are, but how can I know for sure?
So I sit still, with your mind and my heart -
I sit still and let your words consume me endlessly.

I’m torn between fragments of momentary bliss,
my nights end with the mornings,
and you fulfil my empty heart.
This imprisoned joy, this strange sense of belonging, this purpose of being.
Everything, everything.
These moments of shifted colours;
How long until it’s taken away from me?

On nights unguided by the moon
my thoughts fail me, constantly.
at every bleak attempt made to unlearn you,
there’s a reflection of you on the ripples of the sea.
at every bleak attempt made to unlearn you,
a melancholic ballad takes flight from my heart,
at every page of every book,
in between the lines of Hemingway,
at a peaceful walk
on a silent night
at every step of every way,
Unknowingly, unexpectedly, somehow, through some way
your light follows me, everywhere.

I think holding on to hope, helps.
& I think if I hold on to it like the way that I do -
you won’t be so far away from me;
that your spirit will finally take shape,
that it’ll finally have eyes to hold my gaze,
that it’ll finally have strength bigger than
mine to carry my being.

But if ever, our worlds cease to collide -
If ever your voice blurs into oblivion.

Know,

That your subconscious is eternally linked to mine,
That wherever you go, and whatever you see -
I will walk parallel to you,
even if we’re distanced through space and time;
All my of reality will merely exist in theory, and I’ll accept my grief for gratitude.
I’ll hold your eyes close to my heart, and see whatever you see;
Even in another world,
I’ll only walk parallel to you.

There will always always be a little bit of you in everything I’ll ever love.

All the happiest part of my heart will only ever be yours.
Only your name, and your memories, your words against everything else I’ve ever known.