preliminary explanation

before i really begin the project i have a few scatterings
of thought that made me do this, without real planning,
a different sort of impromptu that poetry's good at,
less Dionysian spur-of-the-moment with an already
completed poem entwined to a perfect ensō,
as quick as the decapitation of Mary Boleyn with the
executioner fooling her which side the swing would
be cast by taking of his hard-soled-shoes -
i mean this in an Apollonian sense - i know, sharp contrasts
at first, but the need to fuse them - i said these are
preliminary explanations, the rest will not be as haphazardly
composed, after all, i see the triangle i'm interested it
but drawing a triangle without Pythagorean explanation
i'm just writing Δ - i'll unravel what my project is
about, just give me this opportunity to blah blah for a
while like someone from an existential novel;
what beckoned me was the dichotomy of styles,
i mean, **** me, you can read poetry while in an awkward
yoga position, you can read it standing up, sitting down,
eating or whatever you want - obviously on the throne
of thrones taking a **** is preferred - the point being
what's called serious literature is so condensed for
economic reasons, font small, never-ending paragraphs,
you need an easy-chair and a bottle of cognac to get
through a chapter sometimes - or at least freshly mowed
grass in a park in summer - it's really uncomfortable because
of that, and the fact that poets hardly wish upon you
to be myopic - just look at the spacing on the page,
constantly refreshing, open-plan condos, eye-to-eye -
but it's not about that... the different styles of writing,
prose and the novel, the historical essay / encyclopedia
or a work of philosophy - what style of writing can
be best evolutionary and undermine each? only poetry.
poetry is a ballerina mandible entity, plastic skeletons,
but that's beside the point, when journalism writes history
so vehemently... the study of history writes it nonchalantly,
it's the truth, journalism is bombastic, sensationalist
every but what courting history involves -
a journalist will write about the death of a 100 people
more vehemently than a historian writing about the Holocaust...
or am i missing something? i never understood this dichotomy
of prose - it's most apparent between journalism and history...
as far as i am concerned, the most pleasurable style of
prose is involved in the history of philosophy, or learning per se,
but i'll now reveal to you the project at hand -
it's a collage... the parameters?

the subject of the collage

it weighs 1614 grams, or 3 lb. and 8 7/8ths oz.,
it's a single volume edition, published by Pimlico,
it's slightly larger than an A5 format,
3/4 inches more in length, and ~1 centimetre in
width more, it has a depth of 1 and 3/4 inches in depth,
a bicep iron-pumping session with it in bed -
i was lying with this behemoth of a book
in bed soothing out a semi-delirium state
listening to Ola Gjeilo's *northern lights
and flicking through the appendix, and i started thinking,
no would read this giant fully, would they?
the reason it's a one volume edition is because
the only place you'd read such an edition would
be in a library, at a desk, and you'd be taking snippets
out from it, quotes, authentic references points
for an essay, esp. if you were a history student,
such books aren't exactly built for leisure, as my arms
could testify... after the appendix i started flicking
through as to what point of interest would spur me
onto this audacious (and perhaps auspicious)
act of renegading against writing a novel (in the moment,
in the moment, i can't imagine myself rereading plot-lines
after a day or two, adding to it - that's a collage too,
but of a different kind - and no, i won't be plagiarising
as such, after all i'll be citing parallel, but utilising
poetry as the driving revision dynamic compared
to the chronologically stale prose of history) - i'll be
extracting key points that are already referenced and not
using the style of the author - the book in question?
Europe: a history by Norman Davies prof. emeritus
at U.C.L. - the point of entry that made me mad enough
to condense this 1335 page book (excluding the index)?

point of incision

Voltaire (or the man suspected of Guy Fawkes-likes spreading
of volatility in others) -
un polonais - c'est un charmeur; deux polonais - une
bagarre; trois polonais, eh bien, c'est la question polonaise
(one pole - a charmer, two poles - a brawl, three poles -
the polish question) - mind you, the subtler and gentler
precursor of the Jewish question, because the Frenchman
mused, and not a German, or a Russian brute...
and i can testify, two Polish immigrants in a pub,
one senior, the other minor, one with 22 years under
his belt of the integration purpose, one with 12 years,
the minor says to the senior about how Poles bring
the village life to cities, brutish drunkards and what not,
it was almost a brawl, prior to the senior was charming
a Lithuanian girl, before the minor's emphasis on
such a choice of conversation turned into idiotic Lithuanian
nostalgia about the disintegration of the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth, primarily due to the Polish nobility.

10,000 b.c.

looking that far back i don't know why you even
bother to celebrate the weekend -
i mean, 10,000 years back Denmark was
still attached to Sweden,
England was attached to France,
and there was a weird looking Aquatic landmass
that would become a myth of Atlantis
in the Chronicles of Norwich,
speedy ******* Gonzales with the equivalent
of south america detaching itself from Africa...
mind you, i'm sure the Carpathian ranges are
mountains. they're noted here are hills or uplands,
by categorising them as such i'm surprised
the majority of Carpathian elevations as scolded
bald rocky faced, a hill i imagine to have some
vegetation on it, not mountain goats with rock and roof
for a blacksmith in a population of one hundred...
at this point Darwinism really becomes a disorientating
pinpoint of whatever history takes your fancy,
Europe - mother of Minos, lord of Crete,
progenitrix / ******* and the leather curtains
of Zeus's harem (jealous? no, just the sarcasm
dominates the immortal museum of attachable
****** to suit the perfect elephant **** of depth
the gods sided with, by choice, excusing the Suez
duct tightening of a prostate gland... to ease the pain
upon ******* rather than *******); mentioned by Homer
the Blind tooth-fairy, the Europe and the bull,
Europoeus and the swan, same father of wisdom to mind,
on the shores of Loch Lomond -
attributes a lover to the bull, Moschus of Syracuse,
who said earring Plato cured him of where the ****
should not enter even if it shines a welcome
in the disguise of Dionysius... revisionists bound to Pompeii
named Titian, Rembrandt, Rubens Veronese
and Claude Lorrain revived the bulging bull's *******
and her mm hmm mm, too gracious my kind, hehee...
Phonecians from Tyre and Io - so too the Sibyl of ****** -
and unlike the great river civilisations of the Nile,
the Ganges, soon to be the Danubian civilisations
and gorged-out-eyes-that-once-sore-colour-but-lost-sight-of-
colours-­after-seeing-the-murk-of-the-Thames...
soon the seas overcame civilisations of the rivers,
as Cadmus, brother of the thus stated harlot said:
i bring you orbe pererrato - hieroglyphics of the cage,
but not an owl or a hawk inside it -
so let's perfect speaking to an encoding by first
rummaging into learning how to procure the perfect
forms of counting - i say left, you say I, i say right
you say II, left right left right, what do you say?
VI. bravo! the Hellenic world just crossed the Aegean
and civilisation bore twins within the cult of a lunar-mother,
Islam of Romulus and Remus, a she-wolf
a canine of the night - according to another -
tremulae sinuantur flamine vestes - or so the myth goes -
a cherished phantom of what became the fabled story
of sole Odysseus with his ears open and the remnant
sailor's ears waxed shut - as if the bankers of this world,
revelling in culprit universal fancy than nonetheless
bred the particular oddities - lest we forget,
the once bountiful call of the sirens to the oceanic
is but a fraction of what today's sirens claim to be song,
a fraction of it remains in this world, the onomatopoeia
of the once maddening song, the crude *******
arrangement of vowels bound to the jealous god's
déjà vu of the compounding second H.

from myth to perpetuating a modern sentiment

you can jump from 10,000 b.c. to the Munich Crisis
of 1938 - 9 with a snap of the fingers,
imitating quantum phenomenons like gesticulating
a game of mime with Chinese whispers necessary,
if Europe is a nymph, Naples her azure eyes,
Warsaw her heart, Sebastopol and Azoff,
Petersburg, Mitau, Odessa - these the thorns
in her feet - Paris the head, London the starched collar,
and Rome - the sepulchre.
or... die handbuch der europaischen geschichte
notably from Charlemagne (the Illiterate)
to the Greek colonels (as apart from Constantine to
Thomas More in eight volumes, via Cambridge mid
1930s)... these and some other books of urgency
e.g. Eugene Weber's H. A. L. Fisher's, Sr. Walter Ralegh,
Jacob Bronowski... elsewhere excavated noun-obscurities
like gattopardo and konarmya had their
circas extended like shelved vegetables in modern
supermarket isles, for one reason or another...
prado, sonata sovkino also... some also mention
Thomas Carlyle (i'd make it sound like carried-away isle,
but never mind); so in this intro much theory,
how to sound politically correct, verifiable to suit
a coercion for a status quo... Europe as a modern idea,
replacing Imperum Romanun came Christendom,
ugly Venetian Pirates at Constantinople,
Barbarossa making it in pickled herring juice
in a barrel to Jerusalem... once called the pinkish-***-fluff
of Saxony, now called the pickled cucumber,
drowning in his armour in some river or Brosphorus...
alchemists, Luther and Copernicus were invited on
the same occasion as the bow-tie was invented,
apparently it was a marriage made for the Noir cinema,
beats me - hence the new concept of Europe,
reviving the idea of Imperium Romanun
meant, somehow including Judea in the Euro
championship of footie gladiator ***** whipped
narcissists, rejecting the already banished Carthage
(Libya / Tunisia by Cato's standards) and encouraging
the Huns, the Goths and the even more distant Slavs and
Vikings to accept not so much the crucifix as
the revised spine of the serpent but as the geometry of
human limbs, well, not so much that, but forgetting
Norse myths of the one-eyed and the runic alphabet
and settling for ah be'h c'eh d'ah.
dissident frenche stink abbe, charles castel de st pierre
(1658 - 1743) aand this work projet d'une paix perpetuelle
(1713) versus Питер Великий who just said:
never mind the city, the Winter Palace... i have aborted
fetus pickles in my bedroom, lava lamps i call them.
the last remaining reference to Christianity?
Nietzsche was late, the public was certain,
it was the Treaty of Utrecht, 1713, with public reference
to the republica christiana / commonwealth was last made.
to Edmund Burke: well, i too wish no exile
upon any European on his continent of birth,
but invigorate a Muslim to give birth on it
and you invigorate an exile nonetheless:
Ezra expatriate Pound / sorry, if born in eastern
europe a ***** Romanian immigrant, pristine
expatriate in western Europe, fascist radio has
my tongue and *****, so let's play a game:
Russian roulette for the Chinese cos there's
a billion of them, and no one would really mind
a missing Chow Mein... chu shoo'ah shaolin moo'n'kah!
or a cappuccino whenever you'd like to watch
classic Italian pornographic cinema with dubbing
with nuns involved... Willaim Blake and his
stark naked prophesy, pope pius II (treatise 1458)
even though Transylvania, Tharce and Hungary
shared the same phonetic encoding with diacritical
distinctions like any Frenchman, German,
or Pole at the Siege of Vienna (1683)
to counter the antagonising Ottoman - i swear historians
do this one purpose, juggle dates and head-of-state figures
prior to entering a chronology - they must first try out
a ******* carousel before playing with the toy-train...
broadcasting to a defeated Germany public, T. S. Eliot
(1945) ****** import to into Western Germany
and talk of the failing moral fabric, China laughing
after the ***** intricacies of warfare of trade,
what was once wool we wished to be silk...
instead of silk we received vegetarian wool, namely
hemp, and Amsterdam is to blame... nuke 'em!
that's how it sounds, how a historian approaches
writing a history from the annals, from circa and
circumstance and actual history, foremost the abbreviations,
the fishing hook standards, the parameters,
the limits, and then the mathematics of history,
one thing culminating into another... contra Lenin
N. S. Trubetskoy, P. N. Savitsky, G. Vernadsky
Russian at the perks of the Urals - steppe Tartar shamans
or salon pranced pretty **** boys? where to put
the intoxicant and where to put the mascara... hmm,
god knows, or by 21st calculations, a meteor;
they say the history of nations is a history of women,
then at least the history of individuation
and of men who succumb to its proliferation
is astoundingly misogynistic.
Seton-Watson, among the the tombstones too reminded
of remarkable esteem and accomplishment
with only one gravedigger to claim as father...
as many death ears as on two giraffe skeletons
stood Guizot, men of many letter and few fortunes,
or v. v., incubators of cousin ***** and none the kippah
before the arrogant saintly diminished to
a justly cause of recession, ha ha,
by nature's grace, and with true advent of her progression
as guard-worthy pre- to each pro-
and suggested courteous of the ****** fibre,
oh hey, the advent of masqueraded woofing,
a Venetian high-brow, and jealousy out of a forgotten
spirit of adventure that once was bound
to hunting and foraging... forever lost to write  history of
a king dubbed Louis the XIV...
crucibles and distastes for the state to be pleased,
once removed from Paris, forever to Angevin womb
accustomed once more, at Versailles released -
as cake be sown so too the aristocratic swan necks
for worth of mock and scorn - and the dampening rain
rattle the blood-thirst of the St. Bartholomew's Day
slaughter, to date, the rebirth of Burgundy,
of Anjou, and with the dead king presiding, to be
of no worth in judging himself a king before god or pauper...
saluer Antoine Quentin Fouquier-Tinville!
that i might too in stead rattle a few bones prior to burial
with the jaw that will laugh and chatter least
had it been to my kingly-stead a birth so lowly.
then at least in satisfactory temperament i procure a
judgement of the noble like of a *****
for an hour's worth of pistons and jarring tongues...
as if from a nobleman then indeed as if from a *****,
for who sold Europe and said: Arabia, if not the
Frenchman, the Englishman, the Spaniard?
the former colonial conquests served you not enough?
i imagine the reinstatement of Israel like
the Frankish states under Philippe-August...
precursors to a cathedral dubbed Urban the 2nd's..
there were only Norwegian motives in the Ukraine
and the black sea... Israel to me is like plagiarism
of the Frankish states of the middle-east, with Europe
slightly... oom'pah loom'pah mongolian harmonica.
some said Rudyard Kipling poems,
some said Mr. Kipling's afternoon tea cakes -
whichever made it first on Coronation St.
some also say the Teutonic barbecues -
it was a matter of example to feed them hog
and cannibalise the peasants for ourselves,
a Prussian standard worth an army standard of
rigour - Ave Maria - letztre abendessen nahrung -
mein besitzen, wenn in die Aden, i'd be the last
talking carcass...
gottes ist der orient!
gottes ist der okzident!
nord - und sudliches gelande
ruht im frieden seiner hande.
germany's lebensraum, inferiority and classification,
inferior slavs and jews, genetics and why my
hatred of Darwinism is persistent, you need
an explanatory noting to make it auto-suggestive
for Queen & Country? diseased elements,
Jewish Bolshevism, Polish patriotism,
Soviets, Teutons, the grand alliances of 1918
or 1945? Wilsonian testimony of national self-determi

I told her,"Cross your legs tightly, and start rocking back and forth. Be patient, it might take some time. Just, let it build up. Don't uncross'em and it will feel awesome. You should know yourself, what works best; rolling or rocking. Don't think about it, just relax. Use your muscles, the one(s) between your legs. Read in between the lines of everything thing I just said, then repeat it in your head, word-by-word, sign language on your lips. Your heart skips. Speeding up your heart's beat, note-to-self all over your sheets. Pace yourself, you can't cheat. First come, first serve; you can't beat. Just, listen to my voice, follow my lead. Take your time, no rush. Relax, match your breathing with mine. slow, down, take your time. Find your fingertip, with your tip, and grind. Pause, fast, forward, left, right; rewind.  Now, do all if that, one more time. But first, lick your fingertip, so your *******, rise and shine, glitterish. Your index, just slide, inside you appendix, cause I penned it.  Now, move your hips, like you are enjoying the ride. Here's a tip; curl your fingertip, like my tongue licked your upper lip; the thought alone should make you flip - ******* colored wet, that's my favorite. Just use your imagination; then go for it! If I was there, I would, make you, "Knock on Wood." Now do what Simon says, and you should be all good."  Then she just hung up the phone. So, I guess she was good.

the cold vein of IV brushes my face
it awakens me to my father's tippity-tap to his workers far away
the muted news channel on the screen by my shaved head
that shows the face of the most hated man, now dead.

i understand now that doctors are not soulless.
though they may talk too much
    and are as funny as moss.
'cuz when he asked if there was anything else bothering me,
    he looked for an extra second.

Just a few more comments to an earlier post of rhyme.
Where I touched upon how I am seeing different rates of time.
Seems a man named Einstein discovered long ago.
That there was a different perception of seeing time in flow.
He says that if you are moving toward me I will see you shades of blue.
And while you move toward me you are that colour until you pass through.
Those who have been and gone will turn to shades of red.
No I swear that I am serious, it is what Einstein has said.
So I have my answer as to why time moves slow for me.
You are all in motion and I'm stuck where I used to be.
I think I already knew this and suspected it as truth.
But I never expected Albert Einstein would be my proof.

captured in the psych ward, the delusional helper


ron cooper is having memories of his time he had his appendix at royal melbourne hospital

when this delusional marta like man is admitted to his HDU and ron had to take good care of him

by asking him, who do you want to help, the man said, i want to help feed the hungry and ron asked

how are you going to help like that, the man said, i can cook a meal a day, and if i have no helpers

i will do it myself and ron asked, yeah, do you realise you will be rushed off your feet and the man yelled

at ron, SHUT UP YA BIG WALLY and ron started having these visions of him yelling at the doctor who

wanted to take his appendix out and talked to a social worker about it and as he was doing that, the nurses

got a name out of him, but the name was jesus claus, and then the man said, my parents are heavily into christmas

and seeing their last name was claus, they called me jesus, and the nurses went away to work on what medications

jesus claus needs to be on, whilst talking to the social worker who said it might be a good idea to play with him as if he is

making a difference, whether he is or not and at lunch time, ron thought jesus was not fit for the lunch room, so ron bought it into

his room saying, here is your lunch, or helpers need lunch so they can help many people and jesus said, can you give a pass out

so i can council some of these people, involved in this school shooting and ron gave him a plastic card with nothing on it and

told jesus, that every time you want to help someone use the trillion dollars on this card, and jesus asked, how about i have a computer in here

and ron gave him a broken down eftpos machine and told jesus to swipe it in this, and then you watch the news, and they make money

it is all you, ok, jesus said, ok i will help everyone with the doctors money, but ron was risking his job, and had to keep tabs of jesus’s goings on

and another thing, ron asked jesus, we want to help you help people, so i need to know how you do it, and ron gave jesus some risperidal and largactil

to calm jesus’s delusions and in  about 1 hour, jesus was too busy helping to eat and when ron came to collect the lunch tray, jesus said

if you ant to help me, give money to the dead and alive victims of the tahiti plane crash, you see i gave them $1,000,000 and they made i and a quarter million

and ron, they need your help and ron said, ok, when i get home, i will give them some loot to save them and ron asked jesus if he wants to join this group and

jesus said, i am too busy, and ron said fine and walked away and after the group was over, ron bought jesus his lunch and said to him

jesus claus, who are you helping now and jesus said there was this kid who was kidnapped by a gangster and i have to pay the ransom out of your money

but this is fun, ron, can i have some more and ron said, ok, i will put money on the card when i get to my office,ok

jesus thanked ron, as ron went back to his office knowing that he is just feeding the dilution into him and when it became time to collect his dinner plate

ron said, my mum and dad and uncle rob told me, you can only help people if you help yourself as well, so ron said, i need to borrow your helping card and machine

and jesus said, i know why you are doing this, you are jealous of my power and my talent, i have this gift of helping people, and ron said, your not helping, you are a marter

and jesus yelled  WHY ARE YOU CALLING ME A MARTER FOR, YA **** and ron said, because you feel your helping with broken technology and this made jesus very angry

and ron had to get out of there but when he came back to jesus’s room, the TV was thrown against the wall and he started yelling at ron which made him get the needle and

inject some ******, so they can give the medication to him, and after they injected him with ******, they were forced to inject him with risperidal and largactil to help him relax and calm his delusions

and when ron left, he asked the nurses to call him, if he gets angry and at 4 in the morning ron who was burping pizza, was forced to come to his HDU because jesus was walking around with a dinner knife

yelling and threatening people and ron gave him a shot of ****** and refused to go home because he has so many drugs inside of him, ya know he could die, and as the next day passed

jesus was ok and ron gave jesus risperidal at lunch and went away and gave him more risperidal at night with largactil and then while he was feeling tired, ron bought

a hamburger and a beer and went home to lose himself in prim time TV'

My dear Mimi,
     Hey baby, are you an electron cause I feel a covalent bond between us. Did you fall from heaven? Because you're the only ten I see. Wanna know my favorite color? Its you. Hey girl, how about me and you go to Tennessee because when you fell from heaven it hurt. Smooth. I'm a genius. All these pickup lines and I'm still on the floor. All these chargers and you're still not a lithium battery. Why the **** is this so cheesy and inaccurate? Maybe its because Everytime I'm near you I get nervous. I start to shake. I start to become anxious. I start to worry. I start becoming self conscious and insecure because I want to be perfect for you. I want you to want me all the way. I want you. I just want to look at you because I see the stars in your eyes. I want to hold you because I feel the burn of your beauty and wonder on my fingertips and up my arms through my shoulders and down to my appendix, because to end at the heart has been said before. I can't explain it. I guess I just...love youuuuu. *kissy faceheart*****

ENDNOTES:

(1)  ll. 1-9 are preserved by Diodorus Siculus iii. 66. 3; ll.
     10-21 are extant only in M.
(2)  Dionysus, after his untimely birth from Semele, was sewn
     into the thigh of Zeus.
(3)  sc. Semele.  Zeus is here speaking.
(4)  The reference is apparently to something in the body of the
     hymn, now lost.
(5)  The Greeks feared to name Pluto directly and mentioned him
     by one of many descriptive titles, such as 'Host of Many':
     compare the Christian use of O DIABOLOS or our 'Evil One'.
(6)  Demeter chooses the lowlier seat, supposedly as being more
     suitable to her assumed condition, but really because in her
     sorrow she refuses all comforts.
(7)  An act of communion -- the drinking of the potion here
     described -- was one of the most important pieces of ritual
     in the Eleusinian mysteries, as commemorating the sorrows of
     the goddess.
(8)  Undercutter and Woodcutter are probably popular names (after
     the style of Hesiod's 'Boneless One') for the worm thought
     to be the cause of teething and toothache.
(9)  The list of names is taken -- with five additions -- from
     Hesiod, "Theogony" 349 ff.: for their general significance
     see note on that passage.
(10) Inscriptions show that there was a temple of Apollo
     Delphinius (cp. ii. 495-6) at Cnossus and a Cretan month
     bearing the same name.
(11) sc. that the dolphin was really Apollo.
(12) The epithets are transferred from the god to his altar
     'Overlooking' is especially an epithet of Zeus, as in
     Apollonius Rhodius ii. 1124.
(13) Pliny notices the efficacy of the flesh of a tortoise
     against withcraft.  In "Geoponica" i. 14. 8 the living
     tortoise is prescribed as a charm to preserve vineyards from
     hail.
(14) Hermes makes the cattle walk backwards way, so that they
     seem to be going towards the meadow instead of leaving it
     (cp. l. 345); he himself walks in the normal manner, relying
     on his sandals as a disguise.
(15) Such seems to be the meaning indicated by the context,
     though the verb is taken by Allen and Sikes to mean, 'to be
     like oneself', and so 'to be original'.
(16) Kuhn points out that there is a lacuna here.  In l. 109 the
     borer is described, but the friction of this upon the
     fireblock (to which the phrase 'held firmly' clearly
     belongs) must also have been mentioned.
(17) The cows being on their sides on the ground, Hermes bends
     their heads back towards their flanks and so can reach their
     backbones.
(18) O. Muller thinks the 'hides' were a stalactite formation in
     the 'Cave of Nestor' near Messenian Pylos, -- though the
     cave of Hermes is near the Alpheus (l. 139).  Others suggest
     that actual skins were shown as relics before some cave near
     Triphylian Pylos.
(19) Gemoll explains that Hermes, having offered all the meat as
     sacrifice to the Twelve Gods, remembers that he himself as
     one of them must be content with the savour instead of the
     substance of the sacrifice.  Can it be that by eating he
     would have forfeited the position he claimed as one of the
     Twelve Gods?
(20) Lit. 'thorn-plucker'.
(21) Hermes is ambitious (l. 175), but if he is cast into Hades
     he will have to be content with the leadership of mere
     babies like himself, since those in Hades retain the state
     of growth -- whether childhood or manhood -- in which they
     are at the moment of leaving the upper world.
(22) Literally, 'you have made him sit on the floor', i.e. 'you
     have stolen everything down to his last chair.'
(23) The Thriae, who practised divination by means of pebbles
     (also called THRIAE).  In this hymn they are represented as
     aged maidens (ll. 553-4), but are closely associated with
     bees (ll. 559-563) and possibly are here conceived as having
     human heads and ******* with the bodies and wings of bees.
     See the edition of Allen and Sikes, Appendix III.
(24) Cronos swallowed each of his children the moment that they
     were born, but ultimately was forced to disgorge them.
     Hestia, being the first to be swallowed, was the last to be
     disgorged, and so was at once the first and latest born of
     the children of Cronos.  Cp. Hesiod "Theogony", ll. 495-7.
(25) Mr. Evelyn-White prefers a different order for lines #87-90
     than that preserved in the MSS.  This translation is based
     upon the following sequence: ll. 89,90,87,88. -- DBK.
(26) 'Cattle-earning', because an accepted suitor paid for his
     bride in cattle.
(27) The name Aeneas is here connected with the epithet AIEOS
     (awful): similarly the name Odysseus is derived (in
     "Odyssey" i.62) from ODYSSMAI (I grieve).
(28) Aphrodite extenuates her disgrace by claiming that the race
     of Anchises is almost divine, as is shown in the persons of
     Ganymedes and Tithonus.
(29) So Christ connecting the word with OMOS.  L. and S. give =
     OMOIOS, 'common to all'.
(30) Probably not Etruscans, but the non-Hellenic peoples of
     Thrace and (according to Thucydides) of Lemnos and Athens.
     Cp. Herodotus i. 57; Thucydides iv. 109.
(31) This line appears to be an alternative to ll. 10-11.
(32) The name Pan is here derived from PANTES, 'all'.  Cp.
     Hesiod, "Works and Days" ll. 80-82, "Hymn to Aphrodite" (v)
     l. 198. for the significance of personal names.
(33) Mr. Evelyn-White prefers to switch l. 10 and 11, reading 11
     first then 10. -- DBK.
(34) An extra line is inserted in some MSS. after l. 15. -- DBK.
(35) The epithet is a usual one for birds, cp. Hesiod, "Works and
     Days", l. 210; as applied to Selene it may merely indicate
     her passage, like a bird, through the air, or mean 'far
     flying'.
__
The Homeric Hymns in the Hello Poetry collection are provided by:
Online Medieval and Classical Library.
Source site: http://omacl.org/Hesiod/hymns.html

Hey lovey-dovey christian, run and get your NIV
Read to me some verses, read them just for me
-
Show me how you live, "not by bread alone" [1]
But by every single Word, from God's Holy Throne
-
Especially if it's written, black words on paper white
Read them from the NIV, yes-sir-ee you fight the Fight!
-
Do you have a problem? Can't you find the verse?
Why oh is that? Your "bible" is accursed

[1] Matt AND Luke 4:4

++++

Matthew 12:47 -- removed in the footnotes
Matthew 17:21 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"Howbeit this kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting."
Matthew 18:11 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"For the Son of man is come to save that which was lost."
Matthew 21:44 -- removed in the footnotes
Matthew 23:14 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devour widows' houses, and for a pretence make long prayer: therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation."
Mark 7:16 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"If any man have ears to hear, let him hear."
Mark 9:44 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched."
Mark 9:46 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched."
Mark 11:26 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"But if ye do not forgive, neither will your Father which is in heaven forgive your trespasses."
Mark 15:28 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"And the scripture was fulfilled, which saith, And he was numbered with the transgressors."
Mark 16:9-20 (all 12 verses) -- There is a line separating the last 12 verses of Mark from the main text. Right under the line it says: [The two most reliable early manuscripts do not have Mark 16:9-20] (NIV, 1978 ed.) The Jehovah's Witness "Bible" also places the last 12 verses of Mark as an appendix of sorts.
Luke 17:36 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"Two men shall be in the field; the one shall be taken, and the other left."
Luke 22:44 -- removed in the footnotes
Luke 22:43 -- removed in the footnotes
Luke 23:17 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"(For of necessity he must release one unto them at the feast.)"
John 5:4 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"For an angel went down at a certain season into the pool, and troubled the water: whosoever then first after the troubling of the water stepped in was made whole of whatsoever disease he had."
John 7:53-8:11 -- removed in the footnotes
Acts 8:37 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. It's deletion makes one think that people can be baptized and saved without believing on the Lord Jesus Christ. Sounds Catholic. What are you NIV readers missing?
"And Philip said, If thou believest with all thine heart, thou mayest. And he answered and said, I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God."
Acts 15:34 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"Notwithstanding it pleased Silas to abide there still."
Acts 24:7 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"But the chief captain Lysias came upon us, and with great violence took him away out of our hands,"
Acts 28:29 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"And when he had said these words, the Jews departed, and had great reasoning among themselves."
Romans 16:24 -- COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. What are you NIV readers missing?
"The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen."
I John 5:7 -- Vitally important phrase COMPLETELY removed [also deleted from the Jehovah's Witness "Bible"]. In the NIV it says,
"For there are three that testify:"
Compare the NIV reading with the following Jehovah's Witness reading--
"For there are three witness bearers,"
What are you NIV readers missing? What does the real Bible say?
"For there are three that bear record in heaven, the Father, the Word, and the Holy Ghost: and these three are one."

it's like going against your own wishes
you know she's no good for you
she's hurt you in the past
she'll do it again
how can she even say i love you
maybe i should of went with her when she asked me
but i had just gotten out of the hospital
and my thoughts were not sane
i've got to run away
i've got to do it quickly
and i chose her
but it's been over two months
and i'm not sure that she's even there
if she is
she most likely has a guy living there
with her
i don't need a confrontation
i don't need any more pain
not this century
i gave her four chances last century
so i really don't need it
i love this witch that torments me
it's like a marriage without being married
in today's world
most couples cheat on their spouses
how can i expect her not to do the same
i'm sure she will
why the wait
my leg is cracked
my arm is lame
my appendix has a hole in it
spewing blood and ****
behind my left nut
and my heart valve is dead
ha! my heart is dead
what irony
life's little left handed money wrench
my heart is dead  
it's like going against your own wishes
you know she's no good for you
she's hurt you in the past
she'll do it again
how can she even say i love you
maybe i should of went with her when she asked me
but i had just gotten out of the hospital
and my thoughts were not sane
i've got to run away
i've got to do it quickly
and i chose her
but it's been over two months
and i'm not sure that she's even there
if she is
she most likely has a guy living there
with her
i don't need a confrontation
i don't need any more pain
not this century
i cave her four chances last century
so i really don't need it
i love this witch that torments me
it' like a marriage without being married
in today's world
most couples cheat on their spouses
how can i expect her not to do the same
i'm sure she will
why the wait
my legs cracked
my arm is lame
my appendix has a hole in it
spewing blood and ****
behind my left nut
and my heart valve is dead
ha! my heart is dead
what irony
life's little left handed money wrench
my heart is dead  
it's like going against your own wishes
you know she's no good for you
she's hurt you in the past
she'll do it again
how can she even say i love you
maybe i should of went with her when she asked me
but i had just gotten out of the hospital
and my thoughts were not sane
i've got to run away
i've got to do it quickly
and i chose her
but it's been over two months
and i'm not sure that she's even there
if she is
she most likely has a guy living there
with her
i don't need a confrontation
i don't need any more pain
not this century
i cave her four chances last century
so i really don't need it
i love this witch that torments me
it' like a marriage without being married
in today's world
most couples cheat on their spouses
how can i expect her not to do the same
i'm sure she will
why the wait
my legs cracked
my arm is lame
my appendix has a hole in it
spewing blood and ****
behind my left nut
and my heart valve is dead
ha! my heart is dead
what irony
life's little left handed money wrench
my heart is dead

it's almost beautiful, we created the thing called
money, in order to turn tribalism
into a myth of Eden (alone, stark naked) -
          it's almost as if we deviated from
creating it and asking for family values,
            but never got them,
       i'm trying to imagine a Russia where
Rasputin wrote a book
that might have resounded with Nietzsche's
ubermensch - but thankfully precipitated into
world war i & ii... fancy the interlude:
a cold war i, now the cold war ii...
you should be happy, to be honest, it's the best
status quo you'll ever get...
but **** me, 1970s disco craze: even i'm
like Mozart-who?
               a little notebook, and my getting
drunk thoughts in it, funny how drink intellect
knows all too well about the: diminished responsibility
white flag -
              as with the **** chokes come the
drunk-and-writing-a-poem jokes,
                                i'd say blame Al Capone!
you know how many diacritical distinctions i could
insert into that surname? diacritical marks
are ulterior forces at-be when all punctuation goes
*******, not sentences, but words -
Cá       ponè - cockney slang Capone on the phone:
        we had fun: because you really don't say
Cáponé like you might say a torero's olé, do you?!
me? i find it grand to paint syllables with
diacritical marks, i mean: it's not even a blank canvas,
shame the semi-colon isn't minded in distinction,
but still, i already know that poets are scared of
punctuation, hence breaking the lines and not
engaging in a paragraph... tying shoelaces seems about
fine when it comes to modern poets,
talk about knitting jumpers, or scarfs by grannies -
sold as doing that same activity on shredded wheat cereal:
- = a hanging pause (suspense);
       , = necessary pause (or the expected
in a rhythmic cyclone);
   then i say to all my would be assassins:
you'll be doing me a massive favour, to be honest.
at times it really is the age of trusting entertainers
and not the media and certainly not the politicians -
it's almost stating the obvious.
i was in St. Petersburg for a month, and every time
i wanted to go to a danceclub to dance she refused me....
me and my naiveness in thinking that people could
actually be seduced by good...
      i don't mean being exposed to a tsunami
among the other elemental congregations of Shiva
there goes my belief in people being good to each other...
shoom! gone... bye bi!
(origins of dyslexia? maybe).
                                 she took me to the opera and
she started her snarling condescending approach to
the new-rich girls in the next booth...
     **** me, relationships leave me so ill-equipped
i actually find it staggering that i had any...
                 i must have been really naive in believing
that people could do good that i ended up
   a hermetic pessimist or misanthrope -
i never expected to be one, or share the juices of such
a calibration of humankind:
but it's funny how a movement overstates the cartesian
sum and never the cogito,
and when you by chance encounter the actual cogito
organising a movement, you represent nothing
representative of the movement's sum,
because the cogito is actually so staggeringly
divergent from being affiliated to the (e.g.)
         French revolution's guillotine locomotive.
when utilising only one hand in writing?
a black notebooks is written into at a rhombic degree,
yep, slant.
        i have two or three decent points to make,
but, obviously, i have to utilise verbiage to state them,
let's compare that to building a thousand homes
before the leaning tower of Pisa comes along
and people say: wow! in the immediate sense i
will require compensating that exception with
enough social housing for the tower to actually be erected:
that's natural: regurgitating maxims from no experience
would be an equivalence to an exoskeleton:
no experience, no harm... and where's the fun in that?

(interlude no. 1)

almost 15 minutes in an opera house, long enough
for the march from your seat into the street and a smoke,
  i still can't understand while people adopted money
for the demand of talking to each other via pebbles,
we are in our billions and made it so demanding to
only appeal to the few for company... i mean, should
i be sad? we made our company so unbearable because
of engaging in the concept of money that we later had
adapt to books as the conversations we need to have
among people we can't even talk about the weather to.
people always think that talking about money is
shallow... as if it's some really necessary version of
the crucifix (which to my mind sounds like a name for
a charity and the need to be thankful for it being there),
then again: something so geometrically pure
hanging over us and then comes Rodin's the kiss:
that really is a miracle - walking on water can hide itself,
turning water into wine (40 days & nights in the desert would
do that to you, every time you rehydrated, any liquid
would be intoxicating).
             oh hell, i have the notebook narrative,
i need to take a break after having written the unexpected
intro, and subsequent interlude.

it seems to me that language can never be sampled,
sampling language
is anti-scientific,
because it breaches an objectification of things,
which sad,
    are the Balkan states Slavic, Christian or Turkish?
i'm asking because a Greek said
it's Byzantine, and then lapping allah illha Allah
turkish took to Istambul...
*how best to defame a god with ensnarled capitals,
each, levelled,
                                only Islam will reign under the
praise of my name, which alone, will sing my praise.
   to move mountains, one must move throngs.
          to move people you expect them to become
mountains: or sun-tanned noon
  having been charcoaled into obliteration.
     one thought: an ottoman janissary: and vlad
the lesser crucifier and the adamant
impaler, who said that homosexuality shouldn't matter....
   imagine the comparative pain...
i can't: therefore i won't.
                     thus the black scripts of notation...
better than uttering original maxims,
          as in... better to engage in transcendentalº
dialectics
     ºin ref. to Nietzsche: the masses do not hold
an opinion on sanity: hence my concordance
with "him" - and insanity in individuals (self-dividing
                      duos in calamity of one):
insane individuals are rare: but conglomerates are
the norm - thus an agreement of shared truths
that has no debate to support it, because it has been
"plagiarised",
   the transcendental aspect is the lack of dialectics
(replaced with diacritics),
     and also the historical novelty of shared observation
with a disparity of a century's worth of history:
governing still the caveman and the modern man,
            as if the two were mutually compatible.
that one could rewrite the other, and so too true in
reverse.
   i find it harsh having to relinquish the authority
of language, as my own it used,
but only when school-friends suggest it, those
with ******* family members do i foremostly
experience it as my own: well... thanks to you
i'm not a plumber because your father detonated
the atom bomb and never bothered checking what
the gorilla did next with the grand censor of fertility
to protect an aesthetic...
           but then again: you were always Irish.
oo! well: sodomite that oops... it'll be worth something
in 30 years' time. strange how it must read...
Holocaust deniers also have the same lysergic trip.
             insanity in individuals is rare,
among groups it's the norm, within a framework
of Nietzsche: thus an agreement of shared truths,
that has no debate to support it,
because it has been "plagiarised" (necessarily experienced
more than once),
   ºthe transcendental aspect is the actual lack of
dialectics, and also the historical shared novelty of sharing
of observation (the tsunami cult, the earthquake cult)
with a disparity of range toward the century-range...
   philosophy infamously aks purposively
unsolvable questions: or questions that require many
more questions... or what is known as a transcript
of Aristotelian awe: of those who commit to error
with that science of pure wording, to spur people on;
philosophers are the adventurers in error:
only because this engages them in providing a "gravity"
locus... for others to hone onto and correct...
(oh how i'd believe had there been a Koranic surah
on the mindful hoplites)...
         purposively erroring: philosophy;
philosophers are pioneers: birches... scientists
are all but oak: auburn well established.
       but what of transcendental dialectic that expands
into shared truths (as experience) within the dual-disparity
of nearing death and the dawn of the 20th century
   and never-nearing a life at the dawn of the 21st century?
excluding dialectics and diacritics has given us
such a society, where everything is nearly snowflake
lucratively dissolvable and gentle...
                   few people utter truths,
even fewer utter truths than need to be debated...
             for the over-lord truth is mono, or glue...
        but still the tactic of avoiding certain truths
for the necessity of sitting in an armchair rather than
on a cold pavement... for in their pluralism
they express as many universal traits of non-experience,
as they subsequently express enough
    particular traits of experience
(translate rhyming into philosophy and you get this...
going cross-eyed in allocating an understanding,
summarised by the word zez).
hence the unwinding: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -):
    of time, and how to encourage abstracting
worded coordination into an advanced literacy rate,
that'll fail, because literacy is power that requires
labouring anyway.
  because you did say "encapsulating a zoo"
readied to perpetrate a staging of a freak-show.
examples: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -)        are zeniths in
the narrative compensation to nothing -
        in literature a surprise turn of the plot,
a summarisation, as such stand-out moments,
or quotes: here is a version of encoding verbal
"mathematical" synonymity -
         i too would wish to create a language
that doesn't abide by the language of miles,
but that of metres, but then there's the thesaurus
distinction between metres in deviations of
centimetres and nano in close-proximity
          ruby, crimson, burgundy, bled throughout the week
until pale grey and with an epitaph.
      language never brings us together,
it never did, we all wished to be cats and have said
meow... but we rarely and will never say...
that's nearing toward shame...
  i absolve humanity of the original sin...
                    if sinning was so original i would suggest
other forms of compensating it rather than prayer:
i'm thinking of the original shame...
it's that story of a serial killer who believed he
had no universal traits concerning him,
he had no systematisation of conscience,
he denied having a sense of guilt...
          it's hard to believe such things,
given the ceiling is the universe...
        it's hard to become a rat in a solipsistic maze...
that's ****** had to believe...
                   to deny having universal a priori
is also to deny particular a posteriori...
                           even though nothing really happened
apart from god laughing and man yawning
and the devil crying. it's very hard to believe people
these days, even though they deserve it,
                    it's hard to summate oneself in being
able to;
  thank god philosophers didn't complicate simple words
with remnants of Latin like psychologists did,
there's the prior (a priori) and there's the after (a posteriori),
or the two within a-: without a prior (to) / priority -
                  or without an after / an imitable vogue / trend /
    zeitgeist.
          can you write something like someone disclosing the fudge
of what's technically an arithmetic summary?          
no intelligence is being undermined here,
         what's being undermined is what's critically an optical
   java transitory period.                                                    

(int­erlude no. 2)

the laziest philosophers always write about the word
philosophy without actually philosophising,
you can say as much when saying: i'm thinking about thought.
of all the professions, philosophers don't know theirs...
it's true, if you do it, you do it not-knowing / unconsciously.
modernity does in fact overprescribe the word genius
because it doesn't give practitioners of philosophy any
credit in the slightest of actually being recipients of
life... every time a thought spawns from nothing
the limitation of expressing it is: you don't exist;
soon enough you hang up having any competence in language
and say to people you thought you knew: adios amigos,
good luck: then you wonder why they're so
prematurely depressed, and then you forget about them
and think of a million Chinese carpenters:
simply because it's less depressingly so.
     do you ever write encapsulating a rhombus on a page
with your literary / wanking hand? i know i do,
write in a notebook askew - or that's what's called the
future of absurdity: i'm thinking about thought -
some later claim morality, and some later claim god -
        that should sound more simply as: ought i?
    but it doesn't... hey, here's to self-projecting ****** -
it's not even that good people invented god,
  it's that evil people did...
                  which is always a bit ****** having that
microchip in my abstract mind (the brain) i sometimes
try to get rid off while acting as an atheist for pop super!
       does that sound highly idealistic?
it probably does... have i an influential counter to it?
n'ah. thinking about thought without the either or of
ought leaves me asking outside the box / transcendental
questions about what self is ingested by that
Pontius Pilate... talk of the "true" self and talk of
the "false" self: who the **** is the narrator then?
are we all bleaching our handshakes these days to
give a handshake?!
    some men would claim to be the husbands of that
insatiable "woman" that's Sophia,
         who, after all, is better equipped to satiate 3
men, than a man to satiated 3 women:
the trinity of ****, vaginal: oral - funny that,
how perfectly that plays against all those years of
practising to a demand of the churches': kneel!
i'll just watch you **** him off while Mary Magdalene
spread the schematic that resulted in the Islamic
******* analing the "respected".

(interlude no. 3)

just can't be bothered mate...
  never did so much charity work pour into
      herr Herrman's charity chest of
the never thought of set of poems.

- and a day later, just a blank,
what a formidable evening,
why do i queue for even a trombone, violin,
       a viola, trumpet or a sax to add to my voice?
but in musicological terms: that's exactly what i'm doing.
it's hard to not see this as a cure:
with 16,713 views matta's echo babylon is
truly the antithesis of Prokofiev, or any other,
as might call it: windy character.
        classical music was bound to tornados and
zephyrs - modern music is the epitome of rhythmic
sampling, drum eroded violins,
           and other things happened, too.
rhombus within the framework of the hand-written prior,
on tiny scraps of rectangular paper,
because it's easier to write like that: slanting
and therefore for the imagery of cascading -
and as the pronoun revolution dies down,
                    and the voices go unheard,
   people will start to think about thought
and later thought per se for transcendental purposes...
     because choice will be ejected from
having competent access to it: namely?
   i can't see those **** the ***** protests seriously
if people can't take to shooting guns,
          i mean real rebellion... obviously i'm egging
on the situation and spraying gasoline on it
(obviously), but if the French give you the statue of
liberty as a present, you get to look at the appendix,
and start thinking: where are the guns, so
it looks like a genuine protest? i thought the idea of
being able to own guns (by the people), was to suggest
that if the government was electorally undesired,
people could start shooting... the tongue isn't
a

Be patient, it might take some time. Just, let it build up. Don't uncross’em  it will feel awesome. You should know yourself, what works best, rolling or rocking? Don't think about it, just relax. Use some muscle, the one between your legs. Hussle; ruffle and tussle, it’s like trying to make a puzzle fit; sometimes you gotta wiggle it a bit, a little bit.What’s wrong, you looked puzzled? You red, so into it. lights out; so intimate. Now try feeling between the lines, you have to focus a bit.  Forget what you read; and what's been said; you won’t go blind, it’s all in your head. The only time you should lose site, is when you re-sight this vision in your head; closed eyes, on your loveseat, sofa or bed. Just repeat it in your head, like Simon said. **** around and hit the right button, you might wet the bed.  My sign language tracing over your lips, repeating what I said.  First come, first serve; you can't be beat. Just, listen to my voice, follow my lead. See, you don’t need to see men, to succeed, you got me.So. take your time, no rush. Relax, match your breathing with mine. slow, down, take your time.Touch your fingertip, to your little tip, and grind- press down harder, yeah, that is it.. Pause, fast, forward, left, right; rewind.  Now, do all if that, one more time. But first, lick your fingertip, so your *******, rise and shine, glitterish. Your index, just slide, inside you appendix, cause I penned it; very specific.  Here's another  tip; curl your fingers, like a tongue would flick your upper lip - the thought alone should make you flip. Now your *******, soaking wet, that's my favorite. Just use your imagination; then go for it! Your heart will skip. Pace yourself, you can't cheat.  Sped up your hearts rate, to your beat. You might have left a note to yourself, but I’m the one that wrote it all over your sheets!

Follow the colored lines
down the corridors
one by one
they diverge
abrupt right angles
a sharp turn
into acute psychiatry
a long gentle curve
into imagery
we've seen before
we've been here before
this time is different
and the same
old places
and brand new
parallel worlds
perpendicular paths
follow the lines
of this
Kafkaesque
supercollider
hurtling us down the halls
through the partitions
particles collide
and time stands still
which path do we follow
to bring us back
to the beginning
a whole universe
of possibilities

Screeching tires, blinding lights, smashing glass.
The whole ordeal took maybe 5 minutes.
Drivers slow down to peek and observe
Then speed down the road.
But, when you’re laying there in the glass and noise.
It’s not the same.
The paramedics came.
Remain calm.
Breathe.
Don’t close your eyes.
Stay with us.8
Breathe.
The only thing I can think about is my license.
Two Words

***** Donor.

They’re missing from my ID.
I didn’t check the box.

***** Donor.

The paramedics are talking.
Mumbling.
They’re underwater.
That’s not good.

I want to be an ***** donor* I say.
They pause.
One moment.
Dave looks at me.
His name is embroidered on his uniform.
Is uniform the right word?

I want to be an ***** donor.
I say again.

It won’t come to that
Dave assures me.
His smile is weak.

***** Donor.

Write it down I say
Firm.
Dave shrugs and takes out his clipboard.
I watch him write
***** Donor.

I sigh, relieved.
Anything else?
Dave asks.
He looks at his partner
He’s covered in blood.
My blood.
That’s not good.

***** Donor.

Yes. I tell Dave.
He gets his pencil ready.
He smiles.
It’s half sincere.
He’s worried.
Last will and testament smile.
I want to be an
***** Donor.
Got that.
Dave says.
The lights are blinding.
I smell and taste metal.
That’s not good.
What to say?
Everything. I want to say everything.
I think of my mom
Clutched hands
White knuckles
Sitting, pacing, crying
The waiting room
Green and white, calming colors
She is red
Her face from lack of sleep
From crying
Stark against the calm walls.
I think of my mother and breathe.

Take everything you can.
Take my body
I don’t need it anymore.
Take it and tell my mother the
Good
It will do.
Take my feet
And tell my mother
About every mile they will walk.
Tell her they will dance in homes
To silly music
and skip through fields
And trudge through mud.
They will scale mountains
And swim through oceans.
They will burn on hot asphalt
And curl up in Satin sheets.
Take my feet.

Take my hands
And tell my mother
About every handshake
Every high five
Every hand they hold.
Tell her they will be covered in paint
And chocolate and dirt and clay.
My fingers will run through hair
And sand and silk.
They will give hugs and caresses
And love to show they understand.
Take my hands.

Take my eyes
And tell my mother
About everything they will see.
Tell her they will see
Sunrises and sunsets
Mountains, oceans, and airports.
They will sparkle with laughter
And shine with tears.
Tell her that someone will
Fall in love with them
And they will grow
Old and wise.
Take my eyes.

Take my ears
And tell my mother
About all what they will hear.
Tell her they will rock out at concerts
And hear lullabies sung for children.
They will find magic in the spoken word and will hear love and hate.
Tell her about every heart beat,
Sigh of content, and bolt of laughter
They will hear.
Take my ears.

Take my nose
And tell my mother
About everything it will smell.
Tell her it will catch wisps of
Perfume and Cologne
Mingling with coffee and bread
From a Paris café.
It will crinkle at the smell of skunks
But open wide at the smell of rose.
Take my nose.

Take my lips
And tell my mother
About every sweet kiss.
Tell her they will whisper
I love you
And really mean it.
They will stretch with laughter
purse with disdain
and never make a duck face.
They will speak slowly savoring
Every syllable of sound
And tumble fast over flirty quips
Take my lips.

Take my lungs
And tell my mother
About every breath of air they get.
Tell her they will feel crisp autumn winds
And heavy humid summer breezes.
They will heave and pant in laughter
And in despair.
They will catch and gasp and get the hiccups.
They will bellow leaving
No song unsung.
Take my lungs.

Take my heart.
Please take my heart
And tell my mother
About every single beat.
Tell her when it moves fast
Or slow.
Tell her it will be consumed
With passion
And blaze with ecstasy.
Tell her it will grow
And grow
And grow
And grow
Tell her it will never forget her.
Tell her it will give someone
A new start.
Please, take my heart.
Please take my heart.
Take my kidneys, liver, spleen, stomach, and appendix.
Whatever you need take it from me.

***** Donor.

I want to be an ***** donor
Because I want to live.

I live in this fantasy world,
you see.
An imaginary time of lent,
in my total control.
One where instead of giving up sugar,
and sweets,
I am able to give up my emotions,
all of them.
I need to forget what it was like to
be happy.
I need to learn how to be angry with you,
not yearnful.
I need to psyche myself into believing...
this feelings ends.

If only for fourty days and fourty nights,
I'd give my love for you up in a heartbeat.

If only you were like my appendix,
then I could tear you out and somehow live.

But I'm left with you as a literal piece of my heart,
I bleed slowly everyday we aren't together.

you're a vestigial appendage
like my appendix

you are there
but you don't do anything for me
you just are, there

i wouldn't die without you
you're not necessary, necessarily

i can't live without you
you're a part of me, partially

you're so significantly insignificant and essentially unessential
we are potentially going to have to end it
we have potential — "no" — lets end it

i'm so happy i never get to see you
i'm so unhappy you called
you're like a fantom vibrate
i can't believe you actually called

we're a vestigial appendage
like an internal hemorrhage

holding onto what's healthy and alive
dig it out like a cancer
bury it deep inside

Z is useless
Like an appendix
It's not like English'd collapse
if you threw Z to the dogs
(you couldn't call it a sacrifice):
we'd still communicate
we'd still fornicate

it's like if your doctor cut
your appendix and threw it out
you'd still eat and ****

so, useless Z -
like many parts in the human enterprise
like your religion, your ideology, your prejudices:
it's there,
in the human system
but each a Z;
part of a strange assembly

Without the souls of Trouvere, will he aspire to spheres from where he can replicate himself in the ductile state of the ceremonious Energeia...? The naive action is univocal as the first practice modulated in inclinations and lexical motricities, where they die within their fears, failing to hope and convalesce their desecrated wounds congruent in concepts of Energeia, as an arbitrary neologism to move what in itself is not self- scrollable. Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run barefoot for those who banish needs on the parental scale of his range. Succeeded by the need of Energeia towards the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, and supernatural substantialities that transported him in the Epistle even to his desiring hands, but in natural causes, and kinetic emotionality in the destiny of the principles of a movement that dialogues by a spinning spin; alembicated in particles of displacement time eccentricity, towards itself in the synonymous statics, providing intrinsic angles to be associated with the rotation of time and Epistolary demands so that the quantum light can relate the energetic spiritual emotionality, with the own dissociated relationship in the spaces of appearance; where it is to be believed that there is a moment of bias provided in the emotional-movement rooted in linear memories of the temporality of the Hellenic mental axis. Everything is proper in the coordinates of the speculating, which is adduced and duplicated in Poielípsis or unveiled generation of relativistic emotions. For this reason, Vernarth naughty importunates this metaphysical precognition, alluding to particles that generate dissimilar inclinations in lapses until reaching the threshold from when Stratonice partially divided its material and spiritual origin into stationary diversity, in meditated phases that will not take place nuclear, but in the polymathy of its exteriorized threshold, and of the emotional mass of its free and passionate matter that concerns its strident and impalpable Macedonian origin.

From this moment on, the intuition corresponds to the angular reinforcement of "Poielípsis", in this way the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere becomes present, as pseudo images of the Diadochi, involving magnetized radial movements that will lie in the spheres of physical value., in the garb of the Gerakis and Petrobus, who strived in the sense of the energeia of the Epsilon neologism, not to restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the being towards a mono-sense in this causal, of such alpha that it says the paradoxical, demonstrating the diversity of optics. Faced with this diatribe Vernarth from the naturalness decides to empower Souls that are part of both topics according to Vernarth, it is to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that apprehend the light of genius that coexists with both. What the entity justified us in unfolding will be delivered by divine intelligence, so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming presence of Stratonice still withdrawn in the atmosphere of the Voielípsis (substitute scale of relativistic emotions of Vernarth). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of trends in the specifications, which could be attributed to dimensions of the Trouvere period of souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments, as if they deliberate the naturalness of an expression of who It does not philosophize if something has to detach itself or grab hold of creation to privilege the natural, re-arguing affection when professing, if there is time to express it, so it is intuited what the virtue of muttering simultaneously in the laborious, and in what does not progress. The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to dress the Voielípsis, as an analogous addition of quantum causality and of temporal and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas, heading towards the prop in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls of Trouvere will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics, to deposit effects of the incredulous versatility in themselves, in the sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of San Juan Apóstol, but in subterranean concomitance, under the same axial coordinate that is sustained sub-geological. Namely; They will coexist as long as the Mandragoron of the Duoverso and its Voielípsis are established, but three hundred and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of the Profitis Ilias.

The antithetical line is the verifiable germinability of those vertical events of the plinth settled by the Souls of Trouvere, containing the germinable starch of the growth of the ergonometric stirrup of the Zefian Bolt, which from zero elevation to 308 meters above the Aegean level will form a mega extra parapsychological bilocation, which will be gestated in its uniform vertical chronological numbering, with the pre-Christian Pythagorean and post-Christian representation in the coronation of Carlo Magno, mentioned in royal visions by the Apostle Santiago, in the versant apology of Pythagoras as an entity supra divine, envisioning the scenographic depository, and fragmentability of these three components of this start of the Hellenic Magna in the hydrographic, sub-terrestrial geological and residential basin of the Souls of Trouvere.
The upholstery of the Pythia of Herófila attacks the subtended of the flying buttress that supported the volcanic cavities of the Sub-Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls of Trouvere by its disoriented cognitive dissonance, generating paradigms that traced stones that formulated Aquarian sounds, in a dominant tonality by the minuscule machine of light, more distant from the incommensurability that escaped eclipsed in the resplendent major note that becomes monarchical by the hypotenuse of a rectangle in three subdominant angles. This brings about the thaumaturgy of Pythiais, the mother of Pythagoras who, together with Vernarth's Poielípsis, forge retentive songs given the scarce natural light that was only born from some of Trouvere's souls called Poielípsis, in stories of the oracular Delphians. The Poielípsis remains encapsulated from the thaumaturgy of the banal anti-desires that would make it mortal, for a hypotenuse that makes the gift of poetic prayer tangible, prompting the Bio axiom, by fertilizing scaled suspicions of repeated mortality in the banner of risk. Stratonice well points it out:

“The signal field has been prophesied today for the Apollo tripod. Having to reencause itself in three parts of the support of the oracles, and in clairvoyance in the pre and post Christian insemination of the gift of the word that redeems man from sin, sub-tenant of the flying buttress, from the interface of the supra trinity of sin as a blood element, and difficult to evade or avoid. Here the Hegemonic energy of Alexander the Great has been condensed in the arch of ideas, pointing out that the diseased body of Antiochus; my father…, is supplanted by that of the to happen all the trances and difficulties that are assumed after the hazardous departure in Babylon. Therefore he has to bring all the corollary prophesied in the death of my grandfather Seleucus in the hands of Ptolemy Ceraunos. Wanting to dress up the irrevocable interference that occurred in Judah by his Diadocos gangs, opting for the effect of his offspring, therefore on his spiritual stretch of energetic residual and static mass, ad libitum that will end when unleashed in his son. All will already be consumed in the pathogenic body of Antiochus, and of the love for my mother where she was abducted, and possessed she sees by retaliation from Alexander the Great for proven insubordinate ethical demands. "

Stratonice walks with the sendal that should be translucent by Santiago of Compostela. As an intra-everlasting geometric raconto, subduing fears that slide through the sendal of the dogma of the architrave, where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetarianism or freedoms that turn green in fears that do not illuminate life. eternal, perhaps from the same Matematikoi who doubts a basis for Adfinitas, to understand limitless limits, taking Pythagoras to the soil of Crotona. Always, someone who is ignored of the linguistic power, he plans to rewind spheres that still weave crossed angles, placing himself in scores to consider as an irreplaceable past. The soul of Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception, in the halters of the livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated hypogeum where the high position was, to stir to the embankment where it will merge with the Zefian arrow. This liquefaction should purify all storage of cognitive and circumscribes of those ancestral, becoming reincarnable pre-Christians, who transmigrate in the need of osmosis of universal unity. Atonal music will transmigrate molecules to great sidereal distances, being the same replica of the other eurythmic, in multi-trigonometric periods, vivifying the fractional number residues as souls of the same numeral that finally perish of Pythagorean digits, perhaps at the angles of the Phalanxes of Vernarth or in the oblique crucial moment that slumbers in an elegy, flourishing in those beings that do not Live...! Already under-treated, they will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive and deprived of their morbidity, in a dissociated cause of immortality that will distance itself from the forbidden abstinences, in liberating exercises of any count that ponders in the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae, on the divan of the joys of serving his doctrine, which saves himself, and which will save the Messiah, for those who in the soul have no sacrifice of a lamb that grazes..., nor on the pedestal that goes ahead in the centuries..., pasturing what nobody was capable of ?. The second triad of the oracle of Apollo of the Souls of Trouvere reveal Charles the Great, favored by the Apostle Santiago for the protectorate of Compostela and its spiritual regency, invited Charlemagne from Aachen, in 33 consecutive years of dispute with swords, stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne placed himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence.

In the second segment of the concave wasteland of the straight ascendant of Trouvere, he crowned Charlemagne emperor of Rome and the Franks, predicted by the Apostle James, in defensive papal struggles and in defense of Christianity. In this paradigm it appears how they are transmitted from the dead ungraspable world, they unite here in the axon of Poielípsis for the sake of the times that occur due to the anonymity of a silence that augured to link, and to know within what the endless intrinsically organic movement is, as well as the biological cosmos in the discovery of the Jacobean route. In what better region than the Dodecanese, he will be fused by twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago brother of Saint John the Apostle. Dating back to 778 AD, spreading to Hispania. In the ****** and constant fight against the Saxons, Carlo Magno, entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees, as a preview of the aforementioned Jacobean Route, everything raged witnessing their overwhelmed squares in the fueros of the Trouveres, who were Pythagorean elite soldiers, who had been bilocated in this post was Christian, preceded by the perfidious Basque in the forests, subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to continue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. All escaped from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront, the dynamics will be reflected in the Songs of the French Gesta, to enter the Jacobean Route on the way to Santiago de Compostela, when the Calixtino Codex, in its book IV o Historia Turpini, the apparition of the Apostle Santiago to Charlemagne is told in dreams, pointing to the Milky Way as a way to find his tomb, which must free them from the Saracens to be able to venerate their relics with the enamels and medallions that they issued in the Apostle's crypt in Compostela. The souls of Trouvere, are beings that enjoyed a short life in the Pyrenees, they enjoyed the fortune of originating a liberator of post-Christian inheritances, mechanized by the exquisite citation of Pythagorean antiquity, behind indigo faded in red blood cells, to dress the sendal of the figure of Faith, freed behind those who should have dressed her as a Codex Calixtinus.

Five sections rose along the straight line of the Trouvere pyramidal axon, the base of the liturgical appendix that honors the multidimensional space, with antiphons for the cult of Carlo Magno on the underlying Patmos. Santiago was lacerated in the Holy Land far from his Brother Apostle Saint John, but he came to meet with the Trouveres who came from the rugged Pyrenees. Santiago passed the Strait of Gibraltar and reached Padrón, which is about 20 kilometers west of Santiago de Compostela; there some angels took him to the place where he actively rests. In a boat he arrived..., and always by the Mediterranean he will now reach Patmos, still acquiring the iconography that attempts to find Charlemagne, and a codex that would unite pre-Christians like Pythagoras and Aristotle united in the relic of the taxpayers transformed into three maritime rivers, concerned with a predicted belligerent episode, to say that all roads lead to Patmos, like Locus Sanctus, of all the shepherds who heal their sheep in which they are not of others that are populated with souls white, for the good of others. Thus the souls of Trouvere from the Pyrenees revealed themselves as predecessors of the raiding of the shells 308 meters below the Profitis Ilias, in agreement with Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia, where the passing of the centuries would tell him about the Jacobean Route instructed in confronts, and concordances with the airones of the Trouvere, protected by a rectangle in three subdominant Pythagorean angles in the dissipated darkness of the golden indigo of Theoskepasti, in the meridian of Kímolos.

A brook runs through my Grandmas farm,
That used to carry gold.

My Grandpa
-Benjamin-

Did not yield the land,
To the British, who wanted it dammed.

In 1968, they took him in,
To have his appendix removed,
And Grandma never remarried.

My Aunt Alice,
Was a witch.

She flew in on broomsticks
We never saw,

But heard in the barn,
Where she parked.

She brought foreign sweets that didn’t
Crack our lips,
And told us naughty jokes.

-Oh Pope the *******,
Please pass the Custard!-
We’d squeal and never tell,

And feel all grown up and,
Conspiratorial.

Grandma says she died running with
The wrong pack,

That she was knocked from the sky,
By a cross.

Later we learned,
It was a broken heart that did it, that

Grandma wouldn’t accept a,
Jewish man in the house,

So she killed herself.

Mary was dead when we got here,
Her tree is the prettiest.

It’s a large yellow poplar that
Trembles in the slightest breeze.

She was a violinist,
A frail, little thing, who

Is fading away in family photographs.

Irridescent sparrows trill,
Beautiful harmonies,
From skinny branches,

Shielded by the most delicate,
Drooping fronds.

You see, my Grandmother has three beautiful trees,
Growing in her garden,

One for Benjamin, one for Alice, one for Mary.

My grandmother used to sit under these trees.
They’re feeding off the bones she says.

best days better left behind bereft of joy
fighting in vain for fleeting fulfillment
instead seeping bile from punctured
***** appendix found septic too late
even still now hungry for real life like
stomach tapeworm eating purpose
lost along the way now empty, grey
when did time get away from us all
leaving bitter little paisan us's
stripped bare of long dead dreams
like Christmas morning c-section strippers
five dollar bills stuffed in withered *****

Take away your knowledge, Doktor.
It doesn't butter me up.

You say my heart is sick unto.
You ought to have more respect!

you with the goo on the suction cup.
You with your wires and electrodes

fastened at my ankle and wrist,
******* up the biological breast.

You with your zigzag machine
playing like the stock market up and down.

Give me the Phi Beta key you always twirl
and I will make a gold crown for my molar.

I will take a slug if you please
and make myself a perfectly good appendix.

Give me a fingernail for an eyeglass.
The world was milky all along.

I will take an iron and press out
my slipped disk until it is flat.

But take away my mother's carcinoma
for I have only one cup of fetus tears.

Take away my father's cerebral hemorrhage
for I have only a jigger of blood in my hand.

Take away my sister's broken neck
for I have only my schoolroom ruler for a cure.

Is there such a device for my heart?
I have only a gimmick called magic fingers.

Let me dilate like a bad debt.
Here is a sponge. I can squeeze it myself.

O heart, tobacco red heart,
beat like a rock guitar.

I am at the ship's prow.
I am no longer the suicide

with her raft and paddle.
Herr Doktor! I'll no longer die

to spite you, you wallowing
seasick grounded man.

according to the social disaster disclaimer I’m folded into
I’m essentially a stupid kitchen joke and a statistic of abuse
cause in America whenever we see someone else
choking on public schools and rules
we kick them when they’re down,
cuz apparently cruel is cool
the world is gonna burn, and we forgot the golden rule,
I should be more concerned but
I know i'll just go continue without you
knife, butcher, this is a hunter culture
carve apart, fall apart, throw your daughters to the vultures
wish you never met this year, wish you never met this lifetime
but, it's just human nature to check the basement
see what crimes you might find inside
to peel apart the paradigm and feel the wall for a light
I know your first instinct is to shut your eyes tight
but if you want to know, you gotta open wide

so if they call you ugly, understand you are a mirror, they’re peering into and sympathize
that's another stigmatized child feeling vile after so-called civil society spat them on the wayside
and if you've ever felt radioactive in the spotlight then you understand the way anti neutrinos decay,
moving at the speed of light in spite of unstable nuclei producing beta rays
well ***** it, i will wear all my shortcomings and benevolent reveries with pride
you told me not to lie so i stopped writing about those infinite why's
and what truly happens after we die. i started writing about life.

those who did stick around for the trickle down are the people i realize aren't fickle, now
i don't flinch when a strangers shoots me a frown, i just laugh to myself; i'll get out of this town
i'll swallow that bullet and rip my mouth open
I’ll cut down your Trojans with each verbal round
i can't stop Rome from burning, and I can’t suppress this yearning
but i sure as hell can take Nero's crown
I will draw an army of waves from the Tyrrhenean Sea
pluck my lyre instead of expiring, why not enjoy the heat?
you have so many rotted adjectives for me
but i know i'm not, i'm a noun and i always will be

this hesitant resident living in a glass house of evidence
impatiently anticipating dunce cap vengeance isn't it evident?
you are constantly vigilant and aware of entitlement
yet you find yourself, intent on grasping the advent of your descent
into this environment
not afraid to admit that when you feel, you crack the pavement
not pretending to be angelic, sprawled out coughing up your appendix
procuring the puzzle pieces, rudimentary ligaments and appendages
and you don’t even know who’s pretending anymore
so you sit at the pier, think about jumping off shore
always stuck in the system and frightened to vent
fearing this consistent emotional dismemberment

tell me when you find the box where my heart sits
my head beneath the guillotine where my grief splits
brief pieces of sweet dreams, teasing me if I don’t seize it
no longer fitting in my cracked ribs, like degenerative diseases
I can’t swallow anymore scorn for your entertainment
they’re turning me into a neuro-amputee with every arraignment
feeling like a hazy ******, bona fide public offender, a opened letter returned to sender
on a really bad day that somehow turned into a week
and you still can't shake this discomfort, now that you know love’s not cheap
so you've stopped agonizing about destroying the feeling
instead of stealing in, you just let it creep and seep
I’ve started stopping myself and i've stopped starting to give up
i won't let a feeling keep me from being free

The blood clot is
back. Up to old
tricks. A halloween mask.
A heart attack with a laugh,

One day. that old
**** is gonna kick,
Leave me with his water gun collection .
Body in the ocean

                                                          ­                Someone built a giant cave
                                                            ­  inside of me last night. When I was sleep-
                                                          ­            ing someone built a cave in side
                                                            ­     of me last night.when i was sleeping.
Someone built a giant cave inside of me last night someone. Built a giant cave inside of me last night .
                                                            
                                                                ­             Body in the ocean.
          
Now it's ocean everywhere it's
flowing  but nothing flows.
The ocean is still now
so still it is a salt lick.

Body in the ocean.
Chopped off his own scalp
sever'd Body after Body in
the ocean. Skinless. Battered. Beaten. Bested. Busted appendix. Internally bleeding. Externally bleeding. Bleeding from the mouth. Bleeding from the eyes, ears, and throats.    The devastating side effects of self-
anhila-
tion..
                                                                ­        
                                                                ­        Every one laughing at the bl
                                                              ­                                                                 ­  o
                                                                ­                                                                 odclot

A piano I was born to be. But not just black and white because my fingernails are blue except for three of them. I feel safer in fresh white sheets and 8 foot deep water than I do by your side. You are a dangerous convict who has never committed a felony but you are also the vulnerable grandmother who has a mean right hook.

One time I sat and watched a tree fall and **** the ground almost, shot it right in the center and left a crater for critters to crawl. Adult hood should be a lot more scarier than my childhood. But it isn't. Fear of the Inevitable is irrational because God is inevitable and so is Buddha and Jesus and any other deities. Speaking of diets, my mother went on one and lost a lot of money (weight, too) because I could have told her for free but parents are a weird thing because they always say they're looking out for you but instead all they do is look down (or up depending on how tall you are). I'm 5'3" but I like to think I'm 5'2" but I act like I'm 6'4" but I feel like I'm 4'3".

And every day is a struggle when you aren't the same height as you feel.

The gas in my car goes quick and so does my temper and my friends. When waterfalls crash another boat is built to break. Whoever created the car also created the car crash and that deserves a round of applause because it is beautiful and destructive and just the way i like it. I'm a ******* so when people tell me to cheer up I take it to offense, but a fence gouged my stomach once and I told all my friends it was my appendix which is an appendage you don't need like your heart when it turns cold because no one can thaw ice without melting it to a puddle.

I...
I...
I can't find words
to properly observe
my absurd
feelings.

I'm dealing with
A lack of a fifth
appendage.
I'm missing my thumb

Well...
Well...
Well like an appendix,
I'm useless
for your senses.
Sensing

your numb to me
your like Nestle
chocolate is addicting.
and soothing

But...
But...
But I went to rehab
where I met Ahab
who was on Jihad
cause of some white girl

We realized
were hypnotized                          savages
victimized by
self-reliance
the key word being lie

Now...
Now...
Now were stagnant
spaced on various fragments
adorned with magnets
to the walls

surrounding
counting
drowning
*in cement

I've been kicked in the head and punched in the face
was cut with a knife and bled around the place
My ankle's been twisted, my eye has been black
my knees have been skinned, my skull has been cracked
My appendix exploded, my kidney got stones
my ribs have been fractured, I've broke a few bones
My back has been burnt, my finger's been ground
Try harder you *******... I'm still around.

does it quiet down quite like the boat built for thrones. quilt in a flashy pattern to hone those that moan in distress to a tone that goes without oars. Ours Uranus envied. tightly like the slipknot that slowly brought the cone to breath.  The cone held depth but no more than the test we cheat and skip fast like all the rest. arrest me nay but may it be known there was no one that groped this 20 dollar bill tighter than any other mans addiction. hopefully one day we believed. but probably a night, this endless feed would fulfill its fight. return to a swarm but perhaps alone, remove the breath that basks afloat this bone.

quick to a dust.

proud as sun.

your goodbye, a smile. and a wink that was won, maybe you felt it. close and come near. but maybe distant, hidden, and nonexistent was it, like your fears. slipped from the pool off the diving boards divorce. we felt its return to fame as a belt on the mane. all was quiet on the sunlit stage. silhouettes to a frame and my cranium to the cane. like a gap was made. in the space, now what remained was a scar on my head where the hair was shaved.

light and it worked.

but still had doubt in our dour faces, tears tumbled out.

and then soon, we become confused.

were the lights on the streets those of the moon? when could we find them slip through the grass. on a tired binged morning would I sleep at last? was it past the noon in the night we prayed. is that the question? is there any redemption, am I too tense then, for the 9-5 man to realize his wage? is the question the question or the answer we seek. it pressed against the kidney we guessed, and then flipped we questioned was it the appendix. or the pancreas. kings cross saint pancras would suggest rest was not the best option.

we sought cooperation. none we got but maybe a salt shaker flipped, one grain above the edge,  95 proof, 51% off the ledge, weight against, the bourgeois rent, patience spent, and the place went. weary eyed gentleman. welcome then to the court. you should have all received then, the letters we sent in envelopes  with stamps and other bores. spiraled with a speed down the barrel we swore bent. but soon, evident, to be straight like all the rest.

Is it hard to breath fire?

I always wanted to know.

quick like baskets.

cross legged with the ivy
silhouettes come clear
the wear isn't there
and it seemed never was ever as thin as a hair.

Souvenir/To Remember

Je me souviens innocence, but not what it feels like anymore.
Just that first french kiss, enough to do my childhood in.

Tu te souviens buying your first bra.
Unsure of whether to wear it or not.
Confused about the clasp and all its pregnant meaning.

Il se souvient collecting kisses blown from his mother.
Storing them in mason jars covered in stickers.

Elle se souvient picking watermelon from her daddy's garden.
Rolling them inside when they weighed more than her.

Nous nous souvenons keeping secrets from our loved ones.
Waiting for God to punish us.
Living with the guilt that followed.

Vous vous souvenez a time when the appendix was not just vestigial.
Remember a time when you did more than med school.

Ils se souviennent the night they met.
On a segregated 8th grade dance floor.
Their cheeks red from all that not asking.

I Eat

I eat fingers, I eat toes,
I will even eat a runny nose.
I eat arms, I eat legs,
I use blood in my scrambled eggs.
I eat eyes, I eat ears,
it goes down good with some cold beers.
I eat hair, I eat skin,
lots of good meat on a human shin.
I eat kidneys, I eat livers,
if you don't like it, cry me some rivers.
I eat guts, I eat brains,
Their already dead, so no one complains.
I eat *****, I eat *****,
it tastes better than some milk and a cookie.
I eat veins, I eat a heart,
eating an ***, always makes me ****.
I eat ****, I eat lips,
I will even eat artificial hips.
I eat moles, I eat warts,
I would even eat you stained shorts.
I eat appendix, I eat gall bladder,
on a rope or on a ladder.
I eat small and large intestines,
prison has taught me no lessons.
Some call me a ruthless cannibal,
I started as a child, when I ate then animal,
I'm like a zombie that isn't dead,
maybe its because I'm ******.

I remember how it felt and every dark and angry pain,
the feeling of tender soreness from every ache and throbbing sprain.

I remember ruptured internals and the fire of an appendix burst,
and the excruciating agony at every touch that was loudly cursed.

I remember the touch of many physical pains that left me feeling sore,
But nothing hurts so much as that last time you left my door.