I still have flashbacks, horrifying and spectral: of conference meetings, projectors and efficiency meetings...corporate metrics, acronymic value cards that read like a Masonic Temple's pledge.. ...honesty, commitment, sacrifice, the dutiful worship of mercury and saltpeter; also customer satisfaction.
           Those flashbacks frequent my mind alot--especially when I am ramming my co-workers into the trash compactor with the blades of the fork truck. They say " ooooh" and " ahhhhh" as if they are getting a massage. They dull my blades with their dull heads.
          I have to ram them with the blades of the fork-trucks, or they will scramble out. They still say things like, " make sure that has a tag,".....and " wear your safety goggles," making chills run down my spine. I haven't put all the workers from the " Do-Wee depot" in the compactor only corporate cadavers and not zombies.
          But I have to forewarn, the zombies are not a threat, it is a few cadavers and the "consumers" that pose a threat to me and what I have built. The zombies are producers, even only if it is moans and putrefaction, but they are good sports, and my only friends.
         Some co-workers, who I was friends with before, I have spared from the compactor--owing mostly to that the part of their brain that was corporate, either fell out on the floor, or was gnawed on by a fellow zombie rendering them good sports and not cadavers.
        I use the building material section to chain them to their previous aisles. Jose, was my best friend, he was shaped like a slug, with a huge lower lip, and slicked back greasy hair, he always cheered me up, how busy it was and how slow he remained. Him and I worked together in the ' outside-lawn-and-garden' section. Even his zombie self has kept his lisp.
          I chain him to the outside lawn and garden section, where he likes to water the flowers. He lunges at me sometimes, but the chain is thick, and Jose is still a cool zombie.
Angry Joe is out there too. He is chained to the 'reach' truck. He is always mumbling about overtime.....or " Im not staying late."
         I have disabled the riding engine, so he just stands on it and runs the fork blades all the way up then all the way down, beeping the horn the whole while. He is the only one I kept, that has some vestige of corporacy in his brain, for the reason that he watches the back gate. The consumers are constantly probing this outside metal fence gate, and Joe has eaten all of them. Don't get me wrong, Joe can be a good sport, when he is not drooling about 'overtime' or ' I havn't took a lunch yet.' He can be quite funny.
          He banters with Ryan from inside 'lawn-and-garden' all the time. Ryan is alot younger, alittle younger than me. He has a mullet(what I call a mullet and he say's a hockey cut) and verily is--before he become a zombie-- the laziest person ever, and now that he is a zombie, well let's just say, I don't have to chain him anywhere, I know where to find him.....at the back gate smoking a ciqerette backwards with his mullet on fire or in the break room. He had the most squeeky voice when he was a human, but now odd fully enough, he sounds like Tom Jones.
         " You ate my cosumer Ryan," drools Angry Joe, " No I didn't Joe, you ate your own consumer," Ryan rejoins in his acapella voice ( I like hearing Ryan's deep zombie voice).
There are others, in the various departments of the Do-Wee Store, but this journal is to relate the first most pressing concern, two cadavers have escaped the compactor.
             The store manager Joyce and her minion(the assistant manager Damien) have escaped. They were ******* humans, and remained so in corporate cadaver form. They hide from me, as I plow through the aisles with the inside forklift. I have used wire from the fencing aisle to reinforce my forklifts. Sometimes a cadaver co-worker will jump out with a price gun, drooling " where is your spootterrrr...."( a safety regulation in the store).....I run them over with great gladness, but then wishing I heeded their advice of safety glasses."Splat."
            I have my theories, on how everyone turned to zombies. It started with over-ocurring routine, which my a.d.d could have been impervious to. But I couldn't have been the only one in the store with a.d.d? But that seems the case. The first day when I showed up to ' outside-lawn-and-garden' it took me six hours before I noticed everyone was zombies. I didn't notice they were zombies until I noticed them in good spirits.
               But the first day of the zombies, was concurrent with the rise of the consumers--ever more dangerous, greedy, and audacious are the consumers. They consume everything in their path, they consume good conversation, good manners, and replace with their mark, which is this....your life with the current moment is to be sacrificed to get them what they need to continue resuming their lives. They do not enjoy shopping, but enjoy holding you in place, consuming you and your values into their value, which has no value at all, since their mind has consigned the present moment that has you and not them, to a number that always has too much value, and they will bring you and it down while you are subject to time and they are not.  
             They turned my friends into prisoners of arbitrary time; and like putting a rabbit in a dank dark basement, with plenty of food and treats and space, it will slowly get diarrhea and die.  Everyday I marked the sunrise, and I would always pay thanks to it, no matter if I was on break or not.  The nine hour day could not ruin me, but my friends being ruined, that started to ruin me.
                       And that is what I believed started all this, nature has no room for two kingdoms of Consumers. So the producers(zombies) were created from the routine of being divested of life, and from nothing they came to produce: producing gases, vile ****** smiles, human  cannibalism, hearty conversation, practical jokes, moaning questions to the infinite sky.... they were created human again, given value, and most of all, I have my friends back, and they are happy again. But, the corporate cadavers that escaped the compactor , put my creation in risk, they look to let in the consumers again, they are up to something...
             But presently with the corporate cadavers gone, and the consumers held at bay, I have my Depot of Eden, I can grow anything, make anything, and soon will be able to ferment everything, especially fuel.   Now monday morning conferences that threaten you to pick it up because there are alot of people out there that want your job( iterated by the frizzy headed gangly Joyce) are replaced with 'zombie dance parties'.  
            " Zombies, what is the first rule of zombie dance party," they reply to me, " dohmp talk bout damp party," then we make a music video.  I let loose a couple of cat's in the break room, and presto, an agile cat make's flesh eating zombies look like Micheal Jackson.  Even I get busy with them, I feel so comfortable with them; dancing to Juvenile "back that *** up,".the best dancer gets to eat the cat...sure beat's listening Joyce's depressing morning pep talks about quotas while I am watching a bird outside the front glass trying to eat a dragonfly, " Keith you paying attention."  I just want to say, " No I am not you frizzy headed gangly walking skeleton key(she is skinnier than the gang of keys jingling on her belt)."    I will find her and put a roofing nail in her temple and her plans.
                The sound of zombies walking in here is music to my ears, like gypsys walking barefoot on a strawberry patch.  I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I like it, and don't care who knows.

            I fortified the outside of the store with everything within the store. I grew a garden, with all the fertilizers, and acids and alkilines of outside garden. I also use the garden chemicals to sprinkle on the brains of my co-worker zombies to change their acidity(almost like a hyrdrangea shrub). The purpose to get them somewhat coherent to play poker and darts in the breakroom. I figured out how to make explosives, with the nitrogen fertilizer and pool cleaning acid, well actually HeyZues did, he always eats both, and one day he moaned really loud  " BLOOOONDEEE " ( his nickname for me from The Good The Bad And The Ugly) and  gestured his expanding stomach, he blew up and gave me my first wound, he destroyed my dart board.   I took his head and posted it on the back loading dock, I know there are consumers trying to infiltrate when he sounds off with " BLOOONDEEEE..."  resounding through the whole store (almost like when he was a human).   I created another dartboard, I can create anything here, sometimes I think, that feeling is what........
                But the point of this journal is the two who escaped the trash compactor, Joyce and Damien. They haunted me before and haunt me still. When I leave to venture outside for gasoline for the generators(the only thing I need, not for long hopefully) they run amok. I will see new ' sale signs' in zombie penmanship, and I can see that they have hidden co-workers to have cadaver meetings, where they talk about ' customer satisfaction.'  I can sometimes hear keys jangle, it has to be Joyce, for the sound is to the cadence of her John Wayne walk, like she has been on horseback her whole life.
            Outside is very dangerous. There are many consumers out there.
                 I was outisde in the parking lot, where consumers still wallow around when a consumer asked "which product is better." I had to drop a cinder block pallet on him with the forklift; they are more adacious then my zombie co-workers. Even after a pallet of concrete is forklifted on them, they wave fliers with sale advertisments from underneath.
            Well, this particular trip, I returned inside and was startled by the loudspeaker, it was Damien's voice, the same as before, paging the hardware department. I jumped on the fast slim forklift to hunt for him. There are phone terminals everywhere, and he could be in the upper level offices. I saw Joyce's shape through the window once.
          They are up to something.
Everytime I ventured outside, the store became altered. I even saw a consumer waiting in line with the cashier machine now on. I sent the consumer to Angry Joe, who was due for a lunch break.
          There is a gap in my wire somewhere, I know it.
            I was at the gas station, getting propane and gas, when a consumer was scowling " where is the gas attendant, is everyone stupid or what?" while he was trying to figure out how to pump gas. I disabled the safety pumps, they do not shut off, and do not coincide with numbers, you hold the handle it pumps out as much as you need.
              He was pacing around like a little kid denied recess and suffering from sounds of frolic and kickball--dragging his feet due to the fact he had to pump his own gas, I heard a scraping metallic clicking noise. My eyes were caught by a bright glare on his shoe tread, I gripped my nail gun..... then he dropped the hose and walked back to his car with gasoline gushing as his wake. I saw what it was on his tread, I had no time to flee....it was a push button grill ignitor with the orange tint of a " Do-Wee" label on it......" ****."
              The last thing I registered was the consumer saying " ahhh don't touch me," apparently talking to flames. I woke up in a ditch, the big fork truck and my gas station destroyed.
I limped back to the " Do-Wee" store, and utter horror greeted my singed and surprised eyebrows.
              " Grand Re-Opening, 50% off everything." I squeezed the trigger of the nail gun, the nail harmlessly echoed off the parking pavement at which it was aimed. "They set me up at the gas station. "
               They had to do better than that to separate me from my zombies.

             I entered through the store in a nun-plussed state. I woke out of my unbelieving stupor with the sound of Jose's voice. " Welcome to Doooooo-Weeee....can I eat your...."
            "Jose it's me, who chained you to the entrance?"
         " Dammian, Keeeeeth, they are waiiiting....here's a newsletter...." --he smacked me across the face with the newsletter.
        " I don't want that ****.....' as I clutched the newspaper the loudspeaker went off in Dammians annoyingly over-polite and late-night-voice.
       " Attention shoooppers. all prices are feeeefty percent off, ask our associate Keeeeeth for a 80% discount, he is the skinny deleeecious looking kid with spicy skin, and a boston red sox hat on."
Hundreds of consumers pivoted their heads to my direction. " Hey, that kid has a Boston Yankees hat on."
         " Run Keeeth," zombie-lisped Jose.
           Fifty million imbecilic questions assailed me at once......" can I return this sprinkler for a jacuzzi.....can I get 120% off.....can you come to my house and fix my television for free"-- it was unabashed audacity, survial of the most annoying and repetitious; and the corporate cadavers have let this consuming flood in on me and my poor zombies.
           I needed to find my steed, my inside forklift. It was not where I left it near the entrance.            
        Surely they have sabotaged it. " the riding mowers," the thought uplifted my fading resolve. I darted past wallowing consumers before they could get my scent. I heard a consumer, " you obviously don't know what Im talking about," talking to zombie George, who was munching roofing nails.
         The consumer grabbed me, and said "here he is, this is Keith, he is wearing a Phoenix red sox cap"--panic bit into my brain, this consumers grip was implaccable. The grip that holds the steering wheel tightly driving nowhere fast, with anything in that interstice of commuting, not worthy of manners and the least of which being a friendly wave to 'go ahead.'
           They formed a wall of uttering stupidity, escape was cut off. They scratched at me, hissed, tore at my flesh and screamed demonistically in my ears. I caved and and called the hoard m'am and sir, they choked me, and loosened their grip only so I could tell them " Im sorry, sorry for your inconvenience, take my life and personality as tribute, take my imagination rendered prostrate by these sceptic corporate words that this mouth emits, betraying my personal form, the human element to this lifeless purposeless machine....destroy me, for finding the infinity between letters of corporate law and none between nature's laws......"
        I was almost unconscious, giving a speech to imagined hooded phantoms......" destroy me, for valuing friendship and imagination, and seeing infinity, in the shadow of a letter, eternity in the numeral of a number, and for defying the order to see things as others do....."...." destroy me, for seeing that people are unhappy and trying to uplift people for the sake of seeing them smile....destroy me, destroy my smirk, and add a lifeless smile to my corpse."
              I heard a horn, the riding floor mopper/buffer, it was Ryan, he commandeered the machine with precision-like drunkenness. He knocked down the consumers like twenty pin bowling. " What's up ***** cat," he possibly said, and I climbed to my feet.
         I walked to the riding mowers, and turned the key on the floor model. I sped the main aisle, with caresses of consumers that would be deep clawings at a slower speed. I dodged stupid question, and swerved from unabashed frugality. I turned up the tool aisle, grabbed a battery nail gun.
              " It says batteries are included, but are they included?" I answered with a 12 gauge nail, and resumed my course to the upper offices, that for too long looked down on me and my friends. I climbed the stairs and entered. The office was abuzz in corporate banalities. " Hello, this is Damian how may I help you.....oh helloooooo keeeeeth, one minute.......sir hold one second thaaaanx."
                I aimed the nail gun muzzle at his ugly overly polite mug." I finally found you, I will get the store back in shape Damian...."
          He cut me off, " no yoou woonn't, they are pouring in, we will meet our quota for the year...."
        " Me and my friends

“You’re turning eighteen, you know. Have you thought of the things you’ve done with your life? Don’t you think it’s time we get you a life?” Recently, I had coffee with a friend. He looked at me from head to foot in mid-conversation, and made this comment. As always, he managed to drive me into deep thought. After much contemplation, I now realize how much I have truly gone through. I also realize the reason for this paper: I want to tell you about my life. I want to prove to you that people like me, who are afflicted with cerebral palsy should not be demeaned, but rather looked up to for how they face the challenges life brings forth.

    I remember that day. I was a baby and my eyes didn’t move. They refused to follow the finger my aunt moved back and forth. I just lay there, unmoving. My family didn’t really give much thought to it until a few months later when I began to be extremely dependent on others when it came to simple things like getting up from a fall. Right then, they knew something was wrong. I was taken to the hospital a few weeks after, and true enough I was diagnosed with cerebral palsy, a condition that caused me to walk on tip-toe and my legs to look like sticks due to weak muscles.

   The hospital became my second home. By the time I was three, I had grown immune to the stale smell of disease and death that greeted patients at hospital entrances. I sat in wheelchairs and was a patient to three different doctors and physical therapists. Physical therapy was, and still is to this day a gruesome routine that I didn’t look forward to. Those sessions lasted for three hours, starting off with cold ultrasound gel being smeared slowly on my thigh muscles, slowly progressing into the limb-twisting that drove me into screams of excruciating pain, and then finally ending with attempts at “walking normally” with steel bars for support. Soon after, the doctors discovered that physical therapy alone was not enough, and recommended orthopedic surgery.

   I underwent seven surgeries in three different countries: the Philippines, Thailand, and Greece. Although these surgeries gave me the opportunity to see the world, they were not at all full of pleasantries. To this day, I remember how each surgery went: being laid on the cold operating table, feeling as though my body was a pincushion as needles were forced into me. I shrieked at the sight of blood and nurses tried to calm me down, talking to me in languages I didn’t understand. Soon, my vision blurred, my eyes shut and I couldn’t open them. A tube made its way down my throat, and soon I was going, going, gone. Hours later, I woke up groggy, and the sleepless nights in the children’s ward started. Tears clouded my eyes as I stared at the ceiling or the walls covered with Disney characters grinning annoyingly at me as I was under the mercy of painkillers that didn’t even seem to work.

    As I got older, I began to question why things were the way they were for me. I began to raise questions why a certain child in my class could do things that I couldn’t. My early years of schooling were the most challenging ones to face. Like me, the other children didn’t realize how it was like to be in the situation I was in. Bullying and name-calling was common in the schools I attended. “Slowpoke” and “snail” are only some of the few names I was called by. Sometimes, children would even go as far as “crazy” and “*******”. They mimicked the way I walked and called my attention, asking me who it was they were pretending to be. Often times, I did what I was told to do at home and stood up for myself, firing back with a witty, sharp remark. Other times, I chose to ignore them instead.

    On the first days of all my Physical Education courses, I’d try to blend in with my classmates hoping that the teacher wouldn’t notice that I was incapable of doing the routines. I tried to get away with it, to no avail. As soon as I got found out, I was tasked to watch everyone else’s belongings, clear up scattered basketballs, or score a game I really had no knowledge of each meeting. I remember how it felt like to be a benchwarmer, while all the others were doing warm-ups or playing sports. I didn’t look at their faces much, instead I closed my eyes and listened as their laughs echoed their enjoyment into the air. That, or I looked down at their feet, watching them jump, listening to the thumps as their shoes hit the ground again. They made it look so easy.

   During dance rehearsals, I’d stare down at my own shoes, dirtied and scratched from constant dragging. I’d feel a sharp, imagined pain in my stick-thin legs, and imagine them moving to the music they’d be dancing to. Gently. Tap. Tap. Tap.

   While I admit that I felt a lot of resentment towards this disability in the past, I now find that there isn’t really much to resent about it. I have grown so much as a person through this disability. It has become part of who I am and how others define me. It is true that I have missed out on a lot of the things teenagers my age have gone through, but how this disability has enabled me to see life actually happen, to discover life’s true essence, and most of all, touch the lives of people I have encountered in the past and those I continue to encounter, makes me feel as though I have not missed out on anything at all.

   As I end this essay, I’d like to leave two challenges. If you happen to afflicted with cerebral palsy or any other disability, I challenge you to be proud and fight. Do not let others look down on you. People will demean you, if you choose to demean yourself. Do not wallow in self-pity. Instead, strive to turn your misfortune around. Touch lives of the people you meet. Inspire.

   On the other hand, if you do not have to struggle with any disability at all, I challenge you even more. Do not take your “normalcy” for granted. Do not look down on people with disabilities; instead aim to broaden your understanding of how it’s like to live life in their shoes. Everyday, realize how lucky you are to have what you have. I ask you the same question my friend asked me in the coffee shop that afternoon: Have you thought of the things you’ve done with your life?

Intro: You know, I don’t care what you’re saying about me.
For I’m not an insecure ***** like you but I do got to thank thee.
For if it weren’t for thy vile venom spitting I wouldn’t have a reason to enact my lyrical terrorism!
So, you only have yourself to blame for this ****, so don’t say I didn’t warn ya.

Verse 1
Uh, yeah let’s talk about it!
Can’t contemplate, the vicious state that contrary to popular belief I’m not a basket case!
Can’t misuse the time I got so here I go to vanquish these fraudulent thots!
Started an unfocused freight train that charged towards the lucid dream because I couldn’t assimilate!
In that time, I was so focused on changing everyone’s snot ridden hypocrisy about reality being Camelot.
I know I’ve also ****** up a lot but that’s something I had to face!
It’s not any of your business so stop ripping off my skin then rubbing in the salt!
I still have a goal in mind to destroy discrimination that incriminates my people,
by putting em on the hot seat.
So now that every one is up in arms I got my chance to aim at the sweet spot!
Everyone is hungry to be the fittest but not everyone has time to think how to be the smartest.
To strike will the fire’s hot or wait for the embers to spark and settle is the true test for an artist.
Who cares about the lines when it was never rightfully drawn in the first place?
Who cares about what spot or space is for you when it’s all been delegated to the privilege of a certain race?
I can only undergo so much disgrace So, sorry but I’m not willing to have my people’s history erased!
Free speech is going to be a ***** for some and a tool for others, I guess it all depends on that person’s poker face.
Inequality is frequent not just in Canada or The United States but every country, province, and common place.

Verse 2
You want the real, raw, unfiltered Classy J well here you go!
Uh, Tell Trudeau to kiss my *** and stop ******* Trump’s ****!
While you’re at it can you tell your father that he’s a ******* stupid *****!
Also, totally forgot but can you tell Kim Jon un when he’s shafting you that he’s a ******* Buffoon!
But’s that’s enough about ******* politics let’s talk about ******* rap artist’s who think they’re hot but really, they so tacky and obsolete like the Zune.
To mister bi-racial we get it you’re into being superficial but’s honestly with you being so focused on being a ****** your delivery showcases the truth that you’re really a cringy ******.
Just face the fact dude that people will only see ya as a juggaloed Dolph Ziggler.
Uh, Now on to the next!
Dear mister Young moolah imma be front, you look like diseased uvula with the lyrical skill comparative to that of an elementary grade schooler.
Now to address the biggest flacky ***** in the game the not so slim shady.  
Here’s the matter Mr. Mather’s you look like a hobo who ***** guys off around the corner,
maybe that’s why you always diss homos.
Because youse a **** trapped in your mommas’ closet,
and if wasn’t for Dre’s hand up so far up your *** you wouldn’t be as popular of a puppet.
Oh ****, Shady you so focused on Doctor Dre and acclaim to fame that you forgot about Hallie.
****, and speaking of Hallie, I feel for you girl because just like you I also didn’t have a dad there for me.
I’m a man of war so every rapper got to get their **** together and better be prepared to me seriously.
For Imma slit their throats and turn em inside out rigorously, and I make sure those tardy cats will rule the day they ever had curiosity.

Verse 3
Just remember my people were here before you, and will be here after you!
And I’ll be here to destroy any of you who dare to pursue native issues!
Or if I’m just bored and feeling like killing you!
However, if I forget about dealing with you, I’m just to busy to properly give a **** about you!
It’s not just revenge, I see it as using justice by retorting with my wordplay to cleanse ya like shampoo!
But I’ve spent enough time dissing freeloaders, for it gives their ego’s too must **** exposure!
I won’t coaster to these composers, for a chauffeur can’t gain an advantage over a soldier!
I wont lower myself to these grouchy Oscar’s, who hunt for Grammy’s;
or as I refer to these events as pedantic half ***’d statements for excepting grandiose toasters.
Why bother, for it’s so annoyingly stupid that I would rather waste my time watching a movie featuring Adam *******.
So, **** this glass ceiling that defines and dictates what makes up a talented rapper.
I may not be a ******* goat but at least I’m confident enough to go out in my birthday suit and retain my composure for being dapper.
That’s the synopsis of my classy brain, and though it may be insane I’m willing to ride this hurricane!
To make sure you know my name, but yet not let myself get engulfed in the flames.

"The problem is..."
he drawls
"that it is'nt us who see people differently from you,
but you see things different from us. We are not the problem you are.
You see the basest humans when we paint majestic creatures,
we tell stories of superheroes with no faults,
we expect our boyfriends to mirror night skies in their comfort,
and speak like Kerouac. Kiss our scars like white girl tumblr pictures."
"People like you," he says;
"...Dont ever **** yourselves. You're used to the disappointment. Your used to kissing your boyfriends sweaty upper lips and smelling...just that. You clean up the puke on bathroom floors without complaining because you know what people look like from the inside. That's why your art will never be good. Thats why today in class when I asked you to paint a human body cut open, you drew a colorless man with his organs splaying out of him, and *******" he laughs..
"I have to fold petals into my boyfriends armpits just to stand the sight of him
our ******* is'nt *******,
its *******. Supposedly.
When I tell this story later,
I'll leave out the spit and saliva and how the human body
aint that pretty, especially *******. Even 6 ft 3 chiseled muscle of it, ill write metaphors about his eyes and similes to his fists,
you will tell us about the humaness of his breath and how
it annoyingly kept you up at night,
you will speak of storms but not of the ones in his eyes.
The ones in your belly
when he farts during *** and you will
describe every putrid detail, like the fact that waking up in the morning aint so pretty,
morning breath is something we dreamers leave out in movies. And, it must be exhausting
living here seeing things how they really are, but atleast when you expect disappointment, theres room for surprise.
People like me expect the good and are disappointed when its ****** on."

Everybody thinks Bobby stays in bed all day and that he does absolutely nothing. “Indolence in human form” is what they call him. In reality Bobby ponders one of life’s greatest mysteries day and night, he’s a student of being. “I Don’t fear A.I. rebellion” Bobby tells himself as he reflects on the futile and expedient nature of subjectivity. After many months of wrestling the behemoth that is Nihilism Bobby concluded that there was no intrinsic value to anything and that there was no reason to do anything. “You can’t derive an is from an ought” Bobby thought to himself. In that moment Bobby reached a new epiphany. There is no way of valuing anything in an objective manner, so therefore he couldn’t construct a dominance hierarchy of personal values, and thus he couldn’t justify getting out of bed or do anything for that matter. Bobby had justified his laziness.

Bobby never stopped thinking, Bobby wondered whether or not he should keep on existing. Since there was no objective value to anything, that, in turn meant that he had no value either. Bobby, human as he was, he was a rational man first. He wasn’t bothered by his own otiose nature. With this is mind he started to entertain a new thought. “Does a rational man choose to not exist?” Bobby thought to himself after pondering on subjective value. “Subjective value is our only hope for justifying existence!” Bobby exclaimed to his ceiling in his dim-lit basement room.

Rational as he was, Bobby still liked existing, it was something he never managed to explain. Apathetic in nature, he still felt a desire to be. The dichotomy he had become felt annoyingly quintessential. How could he, a rational man, not shake such irrational thoughts. After staring at his feet for some minutes he bequeathed himself to his human nature. “I’m but a talking monkey” he sighed.

Now a wiser man, Bobby shifted his philosophical gaze. He reasoned subjectivity, how could he maximize his experience, the only thing with potential for true, albeit subjective, value. “What stands atop the dominance hierarchy of subjective value?” Bobby wondered. After many journeys to the depths of his Being Bobby realized that love was the highest value. “What else is a better antidote to the chaos of consciousness?” Bobby asked aloud as if he wasn’t alone in his basement.

Other humans, Bobby knew they existed, but he never really spoke much with them. There was this one man he once knew though, Will was his name. Will was an odd fellow. Even though he didn’t owe someone a single thing, he would still always help everyone. “There’s a natural law of karma” is what he would always say. As Bobby recounts the memories of Will he starts to question the irrational nature of karma. “Is karma measurable by science?” Bobby blurts out as he stretches himself out in his dusty bed. “All human processes can be calculated, granted we posses a powerful enough calculator.” Bobby said as he muffled his mouth with a pillow. Bobby considered his own proposition and after some minutes he yelled “If all can be calculated, then so can emotional in- and outputs!” as if he was standing in front of an audience. Bobby came to the conclusion that if those values could be measured then karma would be a mathematically substantiated concept. This thought made Bobby’s heart beat just a bit faster, but only just a bit.

Sleep was something not even Bobby could be too lazy to do. Bobby had passed out for some minutes or hours, he couldn’t tell. When he woke his mind wandered back to his unfinished mental quest. “How to maximize the amount of love in my subjective experience?” Bobby groggily said. He widened his eyes, “eureka!” he screamed. Will, he himself, and all of humanity were all connected, socially. When Bobby realized this he quickly reached his next conclusion. If he wanted to maximize his own subjective experience then he needed to maximize his output of the highest subjective value, love. Karma was a natural law after all, a mathematical one. Being yet wiser again Bobby started to ponder the ways of love.

“The more I love, the more subjectively pleased I become.” Bobby thought to himself as he adored his human nature. Now that he had found a rational way for value, albeit still subjective in nature, Bobby smiled. He knew that, although there was no intrinsic objective value in anything, there was still value in subjecting himself to his consciousness. “It makes me feel good, so why not.” he said victoriously.  Armed with karma Bobby ventured out from underneath his house. The sunlight on his skin made his sense tingle, for the first time in decades Bobby felt alive. People were shocked when they saw the once indolent man indolent no more.

Over the coming years Bobby had changed and the people with him. Bobby had become a pillar of support for his community, spreading his years of indolently bred wisdom. The people had started to call him Wise Bob. Now with Wise Bob’s stultifying lethargic behavior gone the people followed his lead by example. Wise Bob was no leader though, he was still but a student of being, but with a slightly larger Being. “Not wise enough.” he told one of his many friends. Wise Bob still felt his objective insignificance in his heart, but no longer as a nihilistic threat. His futility gave him meaning. Bringing order to the chaos of consciousness gave him responsibility and thus meaning. This meaning made his life worth living. “The collective human condition will fight off our dragons.” Bobby professed.

Bobby was a rational man, but a man still.

The thing that's annoyingly tragic is,
This cactus has plenty of adjectives,
So why can't I rhyme,
Like I do all the time,
And find myself right where the magic is?

I can't figure out a limerick,
About a cactus and its ******,
God-**** it, it's stumped me,
I've been trying for centuries-
Or has it just been a few minutes?

I feel so lost and I have misplaced a part of me
Looking for answers in the rubble of emotional debris

How do you rebuild hard earned confidence
Smashed and swept, leaving no remnants

How do you stand on battered knees
And put on an expression that shows no crease

How do you recover something you barely just found
Something that exists neither above or below ground

Try not to limp because the world doesn't really want to know
If you braved through where thistles and thorns grow

They don't really care; In fact they might grow tired
Of the same dirge I insist on having repeated

I'm feeling the repercussions and myself I do blame
For expecting of you nothing less of the same

Only thing I can do is what I do best
Is to revel in overwhelming grief and fallen crest

Be annoyingly frail and exceedingly feeble
Soon may regret because some may deem it intolerable

Get up and chin up or I'll have more to lose
Still retaining the gift of breath I so choose

Pleading into thin air to quell the pain
As I try to piece myself all over again

I want what you have
I want your dreams; the ones that scare you shitless
I want your secrets; the ones you can’t share with anyone
I want the thoughts that keep you awake at night; the ones that excite you
I want the ideas you want to share; the ones you know you never will share

I need what you have
I need your arms around my waist; the arms that will never be there
I need your lips pressed against mine; the lips that mine will never touch
I need your ***** smile smiling at me; the smile that will never look in my direction
I need your stupid ugly khaki jacket around my shoulders; the jacket that will never be near me

I wish that I have what you have
I wish I had your idiotic confidence; the confidence that I will never get back
I wish I had your insanely smart brain; the brain that has put up barriers against me
I wish I had your annoyingly inappropriate jokes; the jokes that you stopped telling me
I wish I had your ability to captivate the world; the captivation you no longer use on me

I yearn for what we could have been
I yearn to have an unconditional love; one that will never break
I yearn to have uncontrollable kisses; ones that we are unable to stop
I yearn to have cheesy promposals; ones that make everyone jealous of us
I yearn for extravagant valentine's day gifts; ones that make me want to scream and cry

You don't want what I have
My dreams; the ones that will never happen
My secrets; the ones that will tear people apart
My thoughts that keep me up at night; the ones that can even terrify me
My ideas that I want to share; the ones that would wreak havoc on everyone

You don’t need what I have
My thick messy hair; the hair that constantly falls in my face
My ***** brown converse; the ones with the laces falling apart
My empty grey eyes; the eyes that stare straight at you watching you ignore me
My annoying voice; the voice that says ****** comments to protect herself from your friends

You don’t wish to have what I have
My brutal honesty; the honesty that burns bridges
My crazy distrust; the distrust that worries my mother
My unbelievable pessimism; the pessimism that causes people to leave
My need to control everyone; the need to control that consumes all of my thoughts

You don’t yearn for what we could have been
You don’t yearn for unconditional love; not with me
You don’t yearn for uncontrollable kisses; but with her
You don’t yearn to give cheesy promposals; you would do anything to be with her
You don’t yearn to give extravagant valentine's day gifts; you would give anything to be with her

No matter how much I want...need...wish...yearn for you
You will always be wanting, needing, wishing, and yearning for her more
She is the pulsing red dot you are moving towards
I am barely more than a blip on your radar.

Hey you, Mr. Bad Influence,
Who the **** do you think you are?

Strutting in here with your stupid, too-tight sweater, smug grin and reeking of mary jane's latest perfume.
I, for one, am not impressed by your ***** hipster/bad boy/deep and artistic attitude.

You're like one really bad habit the world forgot to break.
You're a good liar, and an articulate debater,
the kind of guy that makes you want to tear out your hair
because their very existence is so incredibly perplexing.

In the worst ways possible.

I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU.

You are junk food.
You are addicted to dying and make it annoyingly attractive.

You're all, "I don't care what anybody thinks of me."
You're all, "Challenge accepted."
You're all, "Look at me, I'm talented and smart and totally make it seem like I waste it on unconventional activities and tempt other people to do the same despite the fact that they might not have the skills necessary to pull that **** off."

And I know that everybody else probably thinks you are some, great guy but I,
refuse to buy into that
cool and detached act.

Because you, are not some great guy, Mr. Bad Influence.

You peer pressured me into falling for your smile.
You tricked me into getting caught, red handed, hoping you felt the same.
You dare me, every day, to trust you a little more and I am only so strong.

I don't do dependancies.
But I've thought about taking up smoking just so I can taste you on the exhale,
I mean, just so I'll  have something to miss that isn't you,
I mean, you're not even trying and I'm already hooked

You need a ******* warning label.

You are, frustrating and dangerous and toxic enough to stunt my growth;
I will never have another day I won't find you in my poems.
I wanna miss you right.

You are so wrong.

You are not some. Great. Guy.

Boy. You are everything I never wanted.
And yet I find myself here, missing you
Before I've even left.

I saw such a thing of beauty near the aisle--
She was shimmering,
Her teeth was shining
And with that she wore the perfect smile.

One day, she wore a white dress.
Like an angel in the sky--
Perhaps, she could even make me fly!

We were soon to part and--
I couldn't let it pass
So I've decided to say, "Hey,"
Hello to you a thing of beauty.

She smiled and laughed at me--
It was annoyingly amazing.
It was like a fantasy, fantastic.

Her laughter, what a beautiful start.
She's lovely, like a sparkling star.
I didn't expect much at all--
But from nothing to something; it's a beginning.

Days have passed and each day I miss seeing my thing of beauty--
Each day my duty is more adoration for you truly.
This thing of beauty that I once could only stare at;
Is now somewhat a part of me that they can look at.

Once, this thing of beauty called out my eyes.
"They are shining, and sparkling!" She said.
For I, myself, didn't even realize this so
But I wondered, is that such a bad thing though?

In that very moment I knew,
that maybe the both of us were scared.
It was indeed terrifying,
but only because it was real.

With reality, mistakes are inevitable
and to her I may be unbearable.
I am to blame for my shortcomings,
To win her back, I'd do all sorts of things

Mistakes have been made,
goodbyes have been told.
Hope is what remains ---
for this heart that unknowingly complains.

Chocolate colored Toms, Cool Blue and Navy, too,
North Face jacket, give me some individuality
I wanna feel ethereal; violently, annoyingly
happy. But the sky is as black as lonely cancer
without a soul mate; I know what it's like
to kiss as you erase her.

Hauntingly, melancholic instances ingrained
into my gelatin mind and
stayed.
And the smolder
from the brand on my shoulder
frayed.
I wish I could alter my reflection,
but the mirror I've bought,
somebody else
made.

trust in the shape of a key,
good god how corny is that?

satisfactorily nonsensical, a Pharisee phrase,
so offal illogical,
it borders on the poetically reprehensible

who has time to state this stuff,
pretend it is worthy of something respectful,
work it into a Nobel Prize awarded script,
nominated for "really bad ****?"

an ordinary hardware key, brass gleamy,
and the squealing grinding noise
heard while a blank progenitor is reimagined,
so so annoyingly ludicrous in this century
of plastic replicators but the noise,
comfortably familiar as a sound of
things being made

run thumb test over the cuts,
as if your thumb should know
what order the points and bevels,
the toothy gap spaces should be,
the correct disorderly order of the teeth

there are very few locks on a farm;
indeed the front door key
has not
been seen
in many a year

what's that you ask?
ok ok - I get it - in harvest time
it is early to bed and earlier to rise,
conclude this mystery key,
red winter wheat needs laying down,
stop your word seeds germinating

there may be few locks on a farm,
everything rusts so quickly anyway,

but stop to comprehend just how many locks
the human body employs  -
at least 613,
maybe many more,
and only one master
for them all

a shiny gleamy thing,
strangely,
its cuts and grooves seem to
spell a word
trust

go figure

1:05am in the city

Chaste Love,
Youthful but so careful with fear,
Of falling too far,
To only be stricken with tears.

A chaste love,
Far and far fetched,
Falling quickly for the ideal,
But never so quickly for the catch.

A boy I had always sought,
Never knowing I had sought one at all,
Until, like thunder, you came crashing,
Tearing, and annoyingly ripping,
At all these stone built walls.

A boy I had known,
A boy I had known to never be the end,
A boy, only if I’d known,
My heart would always give it’s best to defend.

A stupid boy.
Dumb in many sorts.
Who threw around accusations,
And judgement of many sorts.

A boy who struck fire,
To an often dead and frosted heart,
And at many time,
Tore it and ripped it quite apart.

Stupid boy, who came quite frankly,
Stumbling in my world,
Who danced on my patience,
And laughed when my anger curled.

Who understood my indifference,
When I did not,
Who looked at my inside,
When I could not.

What stupid boy.
That time can’t seem to forget.
What stupid boy,
That’s place no one can fit.

What stupid boy.
Whom abandoned the only heart who knew him best.
What stupid boy,
That brought a broken heart to it’s best.

What stupid nights,
That poison my once chilled heart,
What stupid feelings,
That tear and shred this world apart.

What stupid man,
As you moved on to bigger things,
What stupid man,
Loosing a love you’ve never seen.

What a stupid girl,
I’ve quickly become,
Surrendering to a heart that’s once again cold,
Instead of the heart,
That stupid boy ..taught you to become.








-K.B

Mile after mile
the endless motorway
spews out its metal contortions

hum your V6 engine
rock with impatience
under branded lime-green
sun strip protectors
brimming with breeders
of brooding black BMWs
7-seater convertible prowess
gleaming off-roaders
go faster striped boy-racers
silver slick steamroller Range Rovers
revving executive supremacy
nestled annoyingly
behind a Grand Jeep Cherokee

all stop in motion
by a pedestrian button
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.

So many people
in so many cars
gas guzzling
un-muzzled bulldogs
drooling to be first
the excesses of acceleration
the freedom to roam
to gloat or to garner

well you can all stay in line
with the press of a button
and a finger like mine
Moses in green spandex
parts the Metal Sea
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.

Missing someone is an irony
It makes me sad or annoyingly happy
The feeling is sweet yet so bitter
The lost moments of one another

I remember the day you first held my hand
Reliving the moment when we were walking in the sand
It felt so good that it almost made me cry
I'd never forget that even if I die

You are the best thing that ever happened to me
Being a complete person that I could ever be
Since you came, my life has never been like this
You've brought in this place of wonderful bliss

I just wanted to let you know
That girl, I would never ever let you go
Even if it costs me forever
I will still hope for us to be together

I am a mash-up of mishaps, strange facts and movie quotes.
A cacophony of cool dancing tin hats,
and concerned-looking men,
watching in white lab coats.

I am the hungry seagull searching for salmon,
dodging waves and annoyingly landing on ferry boats.
Dropping gifts to the sunbathers by the  shore,
they never seem to appreciate.
Until they do, I will just drop more.

I am the spinning cactus made of rock.
I am the wealthy, rich millionaire
who sleeps in cheap hotels
and wears odd socks.

You are the last bit of toothpaste
you squeeze out of the tube
before throwing it away.
I haven't brushed my teeth all week.
What more can I say?

I am the broken toy tossed under the bed.
I am the breaking glass, the slamming door,
the words misquoted, misused,
and more than often misread.

I am the one who bites off
more than they can chew.
I am the one who tries and
tries and
tries
to
forget you,
but can never quite seem to.

I am the one who stays up late
sometimes,
to ponder, wonder,
and write these confused, riddled rhymes.

Today is Sunday,
and yet it's already tomorrow.
In my mind, there is no time:
But there is sorrow,
and bursts of joy
and glimpses of hope
and snippets of happiness
and times where I cope,
but most of the time?
Nope.

But today is alright.

What is wrong with me?
Am i Too skinny? too fat?
Am i too tall? too short?
why cant i be happy with me?

what is wrong with me?
Am i too dumb? annoyingly smart?
Do i talk to fast? or prehaps to slow ?
am i too loud? or too quiet?
Why cant i be happy with me?

what i wrong with me?
am i too sensitive? am i heartless?
am i self-ish? or a little to selfless?
am I not silly enough?
should i be so jealous?
Do i care what people think?
Is this really where i wanna Live?
Am i stuck with this job or do i love it?
Should i have gone to school?
Is this the person i shoud be fighting for?
Do i need to go to the doctors?
Why cant i be happy with me?

whats wrong with me?



I just cant be happy because of ...me

Some people cast a renewal on themselves
And i ponder almost annoyingly if Witches really do exist
I guess they do when people only have one thing on their mind all the time
Such an empty shell and i don't even want to go inside it
Even if you paid me
She only cares about her looks and wants nothing to do with any man unless he's loaded
He only cares about getting in her pants and off to the next one
They act like they're the best thing to happen since we first walked into Mesopotamia
I just can't stomach any of it
Admit the fact you're going to be just like everyone else when you're dead
Sorry, am i putting truth inside your head?
This is a vitamin that doesn't taste good
Gladly sponsored by me
Where are the human beings?

given the balthazar incident, to end the babylonian party
along with cuneiform, and prior to that the extinction
of ancient egyptian, both could have continued,
none the more "ridiculous," i.e. complex than chinese,
and given so much heat came against the hebrews
for their supposed christ killing badge of honour
(there is a modern equivalent, he's called dynamo,
he's a magician... the three magi... where's the wise
bit?), i greatly surprised that the latin alphabet survived
and was not fated for extinction through divine intervention
of some sort.*

perhaps rome was a wreck, tooth marble crumbles
and spicy tatters itchy with lice,
but the itch took a **** girl's cat's eyes
innuendo filled with distance and neglect
apart from neglige ushering in fancy and fantasy
but not the: oh, i forgot you were there.
but then ezra's french is there, and i bitchslap back:
perhaps the ordinances of rome were lost,
the gladiator's podium replaced by a bulge of rugby tackles
and necks with bigger circumference
than a model's lettuce and m & ms diet waistline -
but i have you know rome is alive & kicking the trashcan,
god spared it, took to accenting the original borderline
locals with the french, being the most annoyingly
spelled - no distinct units i have to know -
no distinct phonetic units i have you know -
keep the peasants buttered too eager to slap
ivory into lard to gee up with glee the anti-ageing cream,
i'd kept the power in the tongue,
but that power origination is long long gone,
everyone's a mythical typo mischief with such words
from the plum tree dropped as:
tout ça en arrière -
that c that's an s, that edible cutthroat loose eh dropping the -re,
when it's not a stressor in the mud of an electric current shot
through to the marrow for death's cackle i'm
saying a few words over and over, again:
perhaps rome is in ruins, but at least it's tattooing ink
did not switch to runes. rome's in ruins but not in runes,
too many matchstick men in counting with a longbow man's
free hand churn to throw the dice and arrows into
the french infantry: five's a quarter
and an icicle of index and middle; up yours!
well some say, poetry: white man's rap. i say that too,
although i'd rather think it through with rubrics of a rhombus
turning the beatnic conception of a suede savvy square:
to be a chirpy bunny cool in the city of hangmen walking
to fresh knot toe ties on the flea market of bargaining pensions
for offshore interest in champagne and ****** by the crate.
so tell me if rome was given a bogus backup
had the babylonians kept their cuneiform and the egyptians
their rosetta twins with jackal and hyena and osiris audible in silence
for the eyes - but because the norsemen came with runes,
the great intervention came, provençal -
hence the holocaust culmination from the rune men,
down in shackles we heard the idiots' marriage to the old ways,
to revive the runes and loons and bugs bunny,
but the power rift never took shape - came the divine intervention
to strain accents into perfect, and distinct,
came the "wrath" to salvage the beauties of the ancient past,
just because you couldn't hebrew a program into software
like you could write in mandarin the moment the lightbulb went out
with more than one image: buzzpoptst with our spectacles -
wet drum slick i say, mosquito in a balloon.

i'm not sure how to explain the way i love your fingernails
or lack there of
the way you tug at your shirt collars
and walk like you're tough
i could tell you how your hair reminds me of cotton candy
and how your lips taste just as sweet
they way you drink your water so annoyingly
and make fun of my "baby feet"
i adore the fact that you don't hold my past against me
and how you laugh at my absurdities
i like how you can't eat chocolate
because i eat enough for us both
and how i had to teach you to make scrambled eggs over the phone
i could list your analogies that make sense
but that would be zero
and i'm not sure if i dreamed you up
so i could call you my personal hero

I hate nearly everything about you.
That stupid dimple next to that stupidly gorgeous smile.
Your repulsively silky jet black hair that feels so horribly wonderful between my fingers.
From your obnoxiously beautiful deep complexion to your sickeningly dainty hands, I can't stand any of it.

I hate the way our bodies fit so perfectly together.
That feeling of eternal happiness and comfort when I see you is absolutely revolting.
The way you smell so terribly excellent makes me cringe.
Why do my hands always seem to search for yours, in some grotesque display of love?

But, even though I hate all of these annoyingly beautiful things about you,
The fact that I don't know what you think of me is what I hate the most.

The aliens are coming to put weight on your feet





You see I haven't got any social skills, and I haven't got a decent job
But still people like preaching to me, and they will relax so annoyingly
As if they are really sick of you, or something similar like that
It's alright to be normal adults, and do normal Things
But it's when you preach, and you seem to have even my folks
As cooler people than me, they aren't cool, they don't want to do anything good
The only reason they went on a cruise is because I thought of it
I am cool, and i have fun everywhere, and I party and relax
And take lots of great pictures, yes, that's so cool
I seem to have an adult relationship with other people
But to my family, I am just a little kid, but I ain't a kid
And I feel the aliens are around trying to make my feet feel very tired
I see the aliens are biting my feet, and taking the tips of my feet
For a little spin, yes I am sitting in my living room
Being chewed alive by flesh eating aliens, yes they have abducted me
When I go anywhere with my parents, all the cool people talk to my parents
As if they are cool, and you can say, they're not, I am cool
I don't want people to bash me, or something
They think I ain't normal, and I say that's true, I ain't normal
I am abnormal, especially when normal is drinking beer
And eating more junk food, than you can poke a stick at
And also I think normal also to everyone is  being stupid
And I think that sounds cool as long as it is clean stupid
And not going out robbing banks and stealing cars
The types of things that aliens force you to be
The aliens were getting caught in my body making
Me say that I was 323 years old, and I was born on Christmas day
And the aliens made me say that 23 times in one day
To shop assistants and people down the pub as well as over the web
I even said it to close friends, and they got sick of me, yeah
Then I said the reason I said it, is if you add my ages together
I will be 323 years old, which I didn't say straight away
And it confused him a ****** lot, he kept saying
Stop saying you're 323 years old


Sent from my iPhone

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
A dire lack of coffee
And a groggy feeling that stays with you
Sometimes throughout the day
Telling you how lovely it would just be
To find a bed and immerse yourself once again
In a dream where things would be better -

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
The sun bustling through your windows
Hitting your face annoyingly with a
"Wake up! There are things to do."
And you check your phone and the ring it makes
Buzzes through your ears and you just want it to stop, stop, sto-

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
When you wake up to birds which poems say to appreciate
But really, you're not in a Disney movie
They chirp too much and it hurts your brain, unlike what the poems say
And it doesn't help when you wake up to urban noise pollution
And you can only wish you didn't have to wake up to this at all
To responsibilities, checklists, and a living hell -

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
But there are indeed a great few
What I found out recently, what loving could do
To this sleep-deprived heart of mine
It seems that coffee, darkness, a lack of birds, and silence
Are no longer needed to get me off this bed willingly
Because I've found the reason to

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
But when you realize you're waking up to a reality that holds this great few
You begin to see the beauty in tiredness, light, birds, and sounds
That you've never seen before until now
Because just like how there will always be bad things in life
There are good things too

Love.
Hope.
Cookies.
Cats.
Smiles.
Your favourite songs, books, and poems.
Your favourite shows.
Your favourite poetry site.
Your favourite coffee.
Your favourite food.
Your favourite voice.
Your favourite people.
Your favourite jokes.
Your favourite smile.
That certain somebody you're thinking of right now -

I know.

And it takes waking up to see that.

So although there aren't many good things to say about mornings,

I suppose...there are enough to get us through next one, don't you think?

"It's going to be snowing"
I hate it when your doomsday predictions are right.
But now that you are, I wish you were here.
And in the dark with a sharp wind I'm blinded
and driving home, alone.
When I flip on the high beams, it looks like hyperdrive kicked in and we made the jump to light speed.
But there is no "we" and I'm alone, going home, at thirty-five
Which feels a little risky.
If you were here, you.'d tell me to slow down... So annoyingly.
But, at least it would be your voice
With 20 degrees in my vision field, the world may just as well have evaporated.
And driving home without you, it feels like it too.
If I was a hound, I'd smell my way through this night.
like infrared for my nose.
But all I smell is the half eaten banana and the cheap pine car scent
hanging from the rear view mirror like its some thing anyone would want to look at
Why did you put that there?  
Why do I make these trips alone, without you?
My hands are sweaty. I can tell I'm gripping the wheel too tight.  
I'm tense and losing perspective of the road, my speed,
the snow flakes on the windshield start to command my attention.  
I'm looking only 18 inches in front of me.
I need to relax - pretend like I'm drunk so if I wreck, I may not get hurt as much
I wish you were here.  Your fear would ground me.
Instead, my fear imperils me.
We're that way.
Better together, in a snowy night, on a lonely road.
Heading home.
.

a gentleman never drinks in the morning,
he begins drinking in a well-established afternoon
hour, preferably after sartre's hour (3pm),
after much of the day's beehive activity is
finished.

woke at a glorious hour of the morn's sun,
crisp wintry shades and contortions all around,
started to make a swedish meatball recipe:
meatballs (d'uh),
garlic, onion, bay leaf, a pinch of salt,
peppercorns, ground all-spice,
grated nutmeg, milk (eye-measurement),
beef stock (half a litre of water), mushrooms,
quarter of a glass of plain flour, the herb dill,
and as before: like reading a book of fiction -
watching the "plot" thicken,
although almost poured down the toilet
after a panic over the addition of flour
turning into fudge bergs, but obviously
cooking requires time for the things to fuse
into one... now i remember why i enjoy
cooking as much as organic chemistry experiments,
same ****, different cover.
then i wasted the time... until i made myself
a sharpshooter (mix of whiskey and coca cola,
although the ratio of whiskey winning over
the cola, hence the sharpness distinct) -
blimey, i have to invent a new drinking vocabulary,
like this one time i was alone (as is usual for me)
at liverpool st. in a pub, got talking to
this half-irish-half-iranian kid,
waiting for his girlfriend that never came,
he was bouncing off the walls at the embarrassing
situation:
- so where you from?
- essex, unfortunately.
(blah blah blah)
- no, but where are you from originally?
(a standard line of dialogue in london,
a. where you from? b. no, but originally?
c. where are your parents from?
****** me off, all the ****** time)
- well... some people tell me i look like a german.
then i was saved from the dreary conversation
by a couple, a black guy and ivory skin brunette.
- what you drinking?
- *** and coke.
- ah that's a **** name for a drink
(itemising the visage, black beard)
black-beard! *** ** ** and a sailor too.
the window open, the windowsill perched on,
sharpshooter in my hand, listening to zero7's
when it falls... a day pocketed;
but while making svenska kottbullar
i was listening to metronomy's the english riviera,
and with the song *the look i couldn't
stop comparing it to taylor swift's shake it off,
i don't mind, the stand-out track is still she wants;
but i'm still annoyed by one pedantic detail
i have to... SHOUT ON THE TOP OF A MOUNTAIN!
i get the greek aesthetic orthographic meddle
between omicron and omega, the sigma
at the end and in between letters of a word...
i get that... but why, did, they, have, to... make
upsilon (υ) and nu (ν)... so annoyingly similar,
esp. when italicised! huh?!