Poetry is just scratches on paper
forming dramatic words
by an overemotional character

Poetry is certainly
not a pen that digs trenches
for the blue blood to follow
draining a soul to a sterile existence

Who Needs Poetry Anyway?

Poetry is all
roses are red
violets are blue
blah, blah, blah
I'm so in love with you

Nobody cares about books
Notice how the poetry section
in the bookstores continue
to diminish with every look?

Poetry is certainly not as profound
as the inert words
lay gutted by the rapper
which boasts his materialistic empire
that his target audience consumes
yet cannot honestly digest

And you'll find the album
in an abundant display
set in the center of the bookstore

Who Needs Poetry Anyway?

Poetry is just something studied
from history books to obtain credit
A time before the internet
and a true social status
Before days rapt in vanity

Poetry is certainly not a self sacrifice
to explore the wilderness of the heart
and the shutters to the mind
An outlet to tread another day

Who Needs Poetry Anyway?

Hey girl, I’m a mess.
You’re a “private ****” with a holster
I guess.
I’m a private **** undercover;
I jest.
All I want is to **** and be heard.
I’m sure I can go without the latter;
Just **** me like I matter.

It’d be easier if you’d have your life figured out.
That line goes for us both, I suppose.

I keep thinking it’s easier to drive her away,
I’m not enough.
So I’m looking through a window, at a woman I don’t really love.
Wondering if she’s the secret key,
Like there is one.

I suppose that’s why **** is so easy, right?
You come with me.
It doesn’t matter what I have in my pocket,
What the bad things I did today were,
Who the **** I am.

I’m just a private ****.

this doldrums,

it mediates between being something decent, a memory that holds leftover leaves
a sicly stomach for other purpose than than to remind the skeleto, or the bony crawler.. that midnight is approaching and it is the hour to find the next shadowy reserve

this doldrums is where I simply lay in the telephone machine, since it is ticking anyway and I don't see the use in following the clock, or the bunny rabbit, or the heart, or what have- you

painfully contented and jaded, is my cigarette thin enough yet?

my wrist watch has stopped ticking, too

and I wear it anway

on classy dinner dates

i live next to an englishman that objects to laughing
in the night, i can't contain it, i can't keep it canned,
for all the cruxes, jealousy hasn't
been swept aside by a tsunami
into the unconscious -
sure, i can be courteous -
    communities are weaved from
reciprocating a desire for such a lass;
what do i get?
      nervous oliver sparrow -
              and i can't stop being fidgety -
this new norm is what breeds extremism -
mi6 is all-over my package,
    rarely does a men get to live twice,
and with a second dosage does he get so much
burnt bacon feathers, because a second life
regulation said: only between 9-to-5
and with work colleagues -
                thing is: if i actually sit down and
eat some food with you, i have respect
for you.
            bonsai tigers inherited lizard eyes
and see ****, i mean: not much if it doesn't
**** and twist attracting the eyes to
map out the orion constellation.
                   and i know what sort of society
breeds the charlie ha-ha-hab-dough Aztec sacrifices,
   i basically say ******* listening
to beck's feather in your cap -
          i joined the john cleese ministry -
it's goose step and it's swan's archy-barchy -
         it's a raven arched blade that's also a spine...
for all their graces, birds are greatly blessed
           by being humbled on the trot -
              birds are the best experience of seeing
a humbling... and indeed man: his thoughts akin
to wings... tied down by the tonne-load of limbs
          and pianos, and harps, and hammers,
and road-signs, and all manners of navigations...
so if we're jealous of birds having wings,
  so if we're jealous of birds having wings...
      i'd prefer to watch a 1000 priestly ravens
congregating onto an altar of a loaf breadcrumbed
  and littering a walt whitman patch of talk...
        once airborne...
             a ******* bunch of teutonic messerschmitts...
yes, blame the epileptic for the piccadilly circus of lights...
       and a red light district that's hardly a chance
to meet a woman insomnia-bound to her genitals -
   floral patterns aflutter anywhere?
            that sort of Oxfam i'd gladly pay towards...
not some populist mush poetry...
                 i'd write a Swabian ode to her pair of
nighty-nights that never do...
                  in those sort of scenarios i never have
to get an ego-******* inversion...
          my ego has no need for valentine's day,
anniversary day, christmas day with the family...
it basically means my ego doesn't need to be *****,
protruding... there's no need for any
existential architectural establishment...
      and you know what first impressed itself
on my mind when i took that damnable coach trip
for the first time to England?
    the film Philadelphia... starring tom hanks -
losing a toy soldier...
                               i'm not gay, i just think
that feminism has grossly exploited the madonna-*****
complex of women... and i can't solve that,
  that thing belongs to women, not me...
    it's hardly a need to mea culpa myself all
the ****** time... apathy ferments a lack of pathology,
and this is how i stand: corpus erectus.
            should i stand differently? i'd have
a heart's worth of an oyster.
                        anway... apart from Hamley's toyshop
on Regent's st.,        there was the first sight
                 of a double-decker bus,
  and then... the continuum of the moody grey skies...
          moody blues... moody greys... apparently
there are 50 shades of it...
                       yeah... murky grey or how god became
lazy and said: no purple, no red, no green, no blue,
           no rainbow... just grey.
                    grey really is an anomaly within
the context for the existence of colour...
   it really does lullaby the eyes into a melancholy,
but this anglican melancholy could never be
scandinavian... there's a wasp impregnated in
an asp on the tongue of these isles...
          there's nothing sadder than an angry melancholy...
lo and behold... i'm fathering it... having acquired
the language that's not really mine to begin with.
   the alternative story is
        a really hard working mexican in dire straits,
smuggling himself into america, working his ***
off in a convenience store, forgetting spanish
forgetting native mayan...
               the comparison? he gets a nice house...
i get a poem, like this.

The tall grass swayed as I ran through the fields of time,
Looking for places to run and hide,
I could not subdue the voracious ghost,
Had tried tried to mend it- but it only broke me
Tried to fight it- but it turned me into a monster
In the end I became a tad wiser
What you cant face run from it fast
Life is a race anway, cant go back now
Today running away from yesterday
As days start to fly like free birds in flight
And tomorrow from today, while the sun goes down.

I noticed that my veins are blue
maybe that's the reason why
my insides have no clue
and my hands keep reaching out while I cry

over and over and
over
in an instant
silent
again
already
really?

I think this time I broke a record
how fast can you lose?
All those poems, while may be deep, still seem to fall short
and the right thoughts I easily diffuse
For

an answer
a clear head
a simple feeling
a loveable thread

Yeah, that is maybe
what I want exactly
for you to threaten me
with pure intensity

Where do all those empties come from anway?
Am I so full that I count for two
And only the shallows look my way,
are you one of them, too?

He never got a good body
Or the woman of his dreams

No money in his account
I guess I'm just a loser it seems

Oh well

There was never any future
For him in this country
Anway

College, and more education
What does it matter?

The American dream
Has gone away

Corrupt banksters
And Politicians too

They ruined this country
For me and you

Our ship America
The great moral monstrosity
Is going down

Separate yourself
From this corrupt nation
Or you will drown

so i'm sitting there, on my windowsill, drinking a blackbeard
(dark *** & ms. pepsi), and solving a sudoku...
existentialism can, really get you kicking the paranoid bucket,
esp. if you read something by jean-paul sartre...
was it him, or was it someone else, who said:
to be, is to be seen...    no wonder, the need for fashion...
                              or might as well call it ****, given it's
coming from france anway...
oh but my "neighbours" (i'd say neighbours if i actually
talked to them... so much for the hope of "integrating"
into english society, when your neighbours play idiots,
or mutes, and you could die in their presence, and then they'd
talk... but only about the stench of a rotting corpse
two weeks later)...
                         anyways... so i'm solving this sudoku and that quote
hits me... someone, might actually be watching me,
  voyeurism is a thing these days, apparently, borrowed
from the 20th century french existentialists...
       but i can't help it after a while... so i'm mumbling to myself,
3    8     5          4    6  9     1     7    2    
6
1
7
4
2          
8                                                               ­            (1 2 3
5                                                              ­              4 5 6
9                                                              ­              7 8 9)...
the mumbling bit comes nearing the end of the puzzle
when you do count: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9... as enforced by the brackets...
  but then laughter arises from my filthy gob...
            i'm not, rain man for ****'s sake! ha ha!
i'm not even going to answer that by saying: oh yeah, i'm 'ard
downing some *** and pepsi...
                              i just like drinking... it's the sedative property
of alcohol that some... well... most people have yet to discover...
        saying that... most people won't...
  so they'll turn to barbiturates... or *****... or marijuana...
   oh hey... nietzsche lamented this scenario...
                                he was high as a kite on barbiturates
(personal life detail)... and he implored to be taught by
     dionysus... to be a disciple of the god of wine...
                       some people really don't know how to drink,
they go off the tangent, it seems a steady diet and then
an inject of "empty" calories in drinks which makes them
           go off the rails, and turn into
                                   absolute bonkers *****...
               this would have been his last and only invocation:
to become a disciple of someone who could school them in drinking...
i'm not too sure about dionysus-ultra, i.e. hitting the rums
    and whiskeys and vodkas...
     you know that story about spartans, right?
   they used to drink wine, but diluted it, half & half...
   and when they wanted to shame an alcoholic
   they gave him the full measure, and marched him down
the street of lacadaemon, kicking him up the ***...
    very much translated into putting a dunce's cap on
someone, and making him ride a donkey, sitting backwards...
                but you can sense from the extract of his writings
(ecce ****?), that he became fed-up with the barbiturates...
   miserable ****** wanted to learn how to laugh
                                         while drinking in his solitude;
and i'd tell him just as much: most people can't laugh
when drinking by themselves... the miserable ***** while never
learn, to unlearn their idea of drinking as a case for
stupid pranks, grizzly ***, and in general... a bad scene on
a night club's dancefloor.

Snap out of it
You're fine
You have medication
Did you forget to take it?

What's wrong?
Why are you so sad?
What do you mean you don't know?

I have medicine
But that doesn't cure me
It's not a magic pill

Well you must not be trying hard enough
You must not want to get better*

What do you mean I don't want to get better?
You don't think I'm trying?
Do you think I enjoy living in my own personal Hell?

Do you understand,
What it's like to have depression?
Do you understand,
What it's like to be angry all the time,
For absolute no reason?

Picture this
You can't move
Your bones are made of lead

You want to shred you skin
Like paper in a paper shreder
Because you hate your apearence
Your skin crawls looking down at yourself
Or in the mirror

You want to rip out your vocal cords
Just to feel the pain
Just so you feel SOMETHING

You want to scream
And lash out
Throw chairs
Flip tables

You don't want to exist
But you don't want to die
So you're stuck in this in between space
Forever

So if you think
For even a second
That I enjoy this
You are sadly mistaken

I may be on medication
And it was a little over two years ago
that this all started
But everyday is an uphill battle

And little do you know
I fight it ALONE
I don't ask for your help
I don't ask for your pity
I don't ask for anything

Because I know what you're going to say

So I guess it doesn't matter anway

i'm way past taking a ****, i actually had a neighbour
who was a police office -
last time i checked, i had barely any beef
surrounding the symbiosis of close encountered /
shared space... anway(s)...

1. the taxi

alcohol poisoning, a club near my school,
seven kings,
       warm *****, a nightclub with carpets
lining the dancefloor, rather than hard wood,
shady as ****,
drank a few shots of warm *****,
ended up stumbling to a bus-stop,
(once again, the british don't know how
to drink *****... you, store, it, in, a, frrrrrridge);
came off the bus, stumbled, collapsed,
lay unconscious on the pavement for
god know's how, woken up by polite
officers... i slurred as much politeness as i could
fathom... i never thought that a police van,
with the cage & all could be turned into
a taxi... ******* drove me home...
mind you: i've heard horror stories of drunks
in poland being driven to police stations,
and being charged for an overnight stay
in sobering cells, which charged you as much
as a five star hotel, no cushions, no real
bed, perhaps a slither of "bed sheets"...

2. the loss of virginity

i really did lose my virginity to a pair of handcuffs
for ******* in an alleyway...
i walked in, did an "ontario splits"
and ** ** **: 'ere came santa boppy...
handcuffed me as i knelt on the ground,
shouted at me in a state of: much ado about
bravado... i felt scorches of words (+ some spit)
raining on me like some egyptian plague,
lucky me, i was calm enough to explain
certain things to him: one, namely?
well, it's not your alley, is it?
a female officer stood there taking notes,
oh **** yeah, those handcuffs do sting a little...
but i'm a conventional drunk, namely:
the rare, docile kind...
     imagine my surprise, as i sat in the police
van, and the handcuffs were taken off,
and i was released...
   evidently there were bigger problems elsewhere,
i was just a drunk ******* in an alley.

3. taxi take no. 2

happened in harlow (essex):
  two bottles of wine,
      a few flowers chewed on and downed,
a poor dance to queen's bohemian rhapsody,
puking into the toilet,
being taken out by bouncers,
reclining on a bench, and then politely asking
the officer: sirs! could you... please...
take me home?!

4. a wrestling match

sat in the middle of a public arena in the night,
between a stretch of clubs & pubs,
drinking a beer on a bench...
two officers approach me,
  and i start to mock-wrestle with one of them
with both of us holding the same beer can...
- you can't drink here, in public...
  that was self-evident, i was drawing people
away from spending 4x as much on the same
beer i was drinking...
so we wrestled for a bit, then i allowed him
to win the "arm wrestle", and while he poured
the content of my beer bottle into the gutter,
i asked the other one:
   can i have a map of the restriction zone?
****... he gave me one... you can drink in
public as if you were on mainland europe,
outside the realm of the 5 roundabouts
of romford...

        obviously i was referring to
the curious incident of the dog in the night-time,
have i read it? no, i haven't read it,
but i thought about it in threes, even though
i managed to conjure four examples of
interacting with the pol-ease: ice ice baby...
i have no problem, given the fact that
they were my taxi at one point,
an arm-wrestle over a bottle of beer,
a potential taxi at another turn,
    and a much asked for loss of virginity
like a peer-pressured teen girl with a pair
of handcuffs.

Look at you!!!!

Standing in front of that mirror
With that ugly akward shoulder

Never hugged
Or cared for

I do my duty
I do not believe in retirement

Life on this miserable
Earth rock

So beautiful
Yet terrible
Wonderful
And agonizing
At the same time

They prepare the drone army!
Empires prepare for war

Do you remember the hard times
The hard times in history

There could be a hard time coming
For you and me
A tortured soul
In different ways

I tell myself it will all be okay
Even though my shoulder
Never goes away

There are stronger
Tougher men
Not many with a bigger heart I'd say

I feel so much pain
And yet all I have is love to give

Why, Why, why is my body this way
Holding a pillow at night
There is no loving woman on this day

Hours and hours
Spent at the gym

Everybody talks about Him
"God this, God that"
Saying His name everyday

Well, I take the Lord's name in vain too
And I am sorry for it, okay

My akward body
Nobody cares
Sitting alone in this chair

The therapist went away
The physical therapist
DIdn't fix my shoulder
It's just how things turned out
I can't have things my way

Stop whining about your shoulder!
You may say
I don't blame you anway

It's just a small problem I suppose
For a loving female friend
I would give a yellow rose

ι.

you might call them terrorists, or islamic fundamentalists... me? i just call them sand-*******, or camel-jockeys.

ιι.

imagine the movies from the 60s... esp. cleopatra... see that long roman armshake? they don't actually shake hands, they pause in the middle of holding each others' arms, just below the elbow. this practice was translated, but in a verse of insult, not the shakespearean (romeo & juliet): flicking one's thumb against someone... i.e., lodging your incisor into your thumb on the inner side of the nail and then flicking the thumb from the grip of the incisors lodged in the nail gap... anway... this is the elevation of showing the ******* at someone - *tu sie zgina dziób pingwina (here's where a penguin's beak bends) -
                     and all you do is fold your arm and point
with your protruding elbow... to basically say *******...
         i call it the last roman revelation,
         the long handshake being one,
                and the protruding elbow of the folded arm
as the higher form of expressing the *******.

ιιι.

this is the state english "existentialism" is in, in an article written by a ms. day... she uses the reference of a vowel with diacritical "tattoo" (marking / stressor) as an ambiguity, i.e. she calls ā (an A, with a macron "tattoo") as a long "a"... that could **** anyone off... long "a"? that's canadian short for asking for approval? the ****'s matter with you? ah... no diacritical marks in general, in the anglo-spreschen... i can't even be bewildered by this expression, given the facts of a lack of prolonging a vowel / breath, akin to speaking africaan (africān) when stating: **** i'm ******... let's go to the turk for a kébāb.

ιv.

western fascination with buddhism, the peddle-stool that westerners treat buddhism for a prop to hide their nihilism? what's a westerner's answer? in a cartesian format, counter res cogitans, i.e. res vanus;
and that's it... no mention of the spirituality of not thinking for a moment, very much akin to wishing to have written a fictional narrative as a form of escapism; so why buddhism, and not jainism, to be influenced by?

v.

ooh, **** me... hardly a strange comparison, but a *** and ms. pepsi sharpshooter... ****, white *** slithers down your mouth like a serpent without shedding its skin, that dark *** promotes; i think i'm going to swtich.

vι.

so regarding ms. day's saturday supplement article, the observation by huysmans (against nature) was correct... the aristocrats' greatest privilege isn't wealth to be exact: it's the capacity for being the greatest weirdos, unfathomable fetishists of materialism, and that's the transcended form of their ****** dubiousness, regarding the act of a swan's (actually noble) matrimony; ever heard that story? swan pair up for life... if one partner dies... the other swan remain in a perpetuated "limbo" of widowhood... for some reason, time expands, everything slows down for them; "aristocrats"? demented dogs, ******* your leg; ******* are weird as... well... ****!

just one song,
        in all honesty...
                  sādé's (excess,
   i admit) -
   (sade, sad days,
   however you
   want to accent it)
      smooth operator.
clearly you don't
pronounce that as
   marquis de sad(e)...
more, like a
          shade...
and if
    sade adu (the singer)
isn't a bit like
   claire forlani
   (the actress, meet joy black)
with that quasi-asian
     squirm / i'm ****** /
i just woke up /
           day-dreaming /
              i'm feeling sleepy
look in their eyes...
  then i'm also colour-blind
    the song title is a
give away anway.

To speak on things one knows nothing of
takes either hubris or innocence: I lack
neither now. I just speak sometimes,
                       I don't know. Nevermind
me, the amnion was not blue, I chase
nothing, I will not **** myself, I will
not drown- I don't like that
kind of music anway. I am not blond(e).
                       Sometimes, though, Frank
got me and I can't sit down for days.
Not in the ***, just an ocean, always,
sometimes. Nevermind. Baby blue.

What if I prayed.
What if I got down on my knees and said my grace.
Would it even matter anyway.
Would I even know exactly what to say.

What I sang.
What if I belted every note to see God's face.
Would it even matter anway?
Would he even hear my echoes taking place.

Because I don't believe in love.
I lost touch from up above.
I don't believe in anything anymore.

I'm going down, round
and round
Spiraling down,
I'm going down, down, down, down,
Downward spiral.

i.
Your secret messages become even more secret in a hidden part of my room, in my heart, in my mind. They never see sunlight, but they don’t have to. Things are better loved quietly, in the dark without the interruption of light--the truth. Messages become more meaningful under the moonlight, anway. You write me love poetry in what’s not said, you paint me images with the swirls of your type type typing fingers. We create a moon world. We create many moon worlds. We name them after jupiters 53 moons: io, herse, europa, thebe, leda. We plan to name our dream children after these moons. We don’t discuss the likelihood of our dreamlets. We don’t realize it’s because if we look at this during the day, it’s rotting.

ii.
Is the way you look at me in the merriam-webster’s dictionary? Is the way you brush your bony fingers on my hairy arms taught in grammar school? How do we define forever? Do we have forever? Do we even have today? We’re school children with no concept of linear time and a perfect understanding of infinity. We’ll never stop for the recess bell.

iii.
We sit in the bath. The water is hot for our baptism, cleansing our sins and souls and troubles and worries. We stare. The steam disrupts our vision, blurring our bodies into a two headed monster. Isn’t that what we are? Monsters? We sit in the bath. I think of that line from The Bell Jar: “There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.” I quote it, but you don’t get the reference. You’ve stopped getting my references. We sit in the bath. You tell me I’m special to you. I blink. I don’t believe it anymore. We sit in the bath. We stare at each other, the steam stinging our eyes. You pull the drain for the water, but we go down instead.

iii.
You push me away. I push me away. You push me away. I push me away. We stop pushing. We never moved.

ii.
Is there a synonym for you and me? We only exist in synonyms, in other versions of ourselves.

i.
I light my prayer candle for you. I whisper a prayer for happiness, for you, for me, into its embers. The flame climbs the wick slowly. Four of cups, reverse strength, the tower. I pull tarot cards until my fingers are paper cut to the bone. Past, present, future.

ii.
I read you love poetry, but not mine. I can’t capture the feeling of lying next to you like cummings. Do you carry my heart like i carry yours (in my heart)? I carry your heart like a school boy carrying your books.

iii.
Do you worry about me like i worry? Do you wear your guilt like a sweater? Does it envelop you like a blanket on cold nights? I wear mine like perfumed lotion, it sinks in all over my body and becomes one with me. You love my smell.

i.
Can i stop hiding you? I want to climb to the highest mountain on Io and let everyone know. There’s only you and me there, but that’s all who needs to know. I love you.

ii.
I love you.

iii.
I love you.