that there's a death of melody in music
and that it's coincidental
                        with a poetic death
of rhyme -
                      all precursor of:
res vanus - and a moving beyond
res cogitans -
                 building up a budding
of a frothing emptiness -
                           along with misnomers
as alt metaphors:
                   perhaps then coinciding
with a need for a glue of an imposing
maxim...
           now i want to put on a pair
of latex gloves and write like a perfect
******:
                a mahler or a penderecki ******...
where there was once
an aesthetic...
   there's only a sterilization process
that quasi "beautiful"...
   i'd love to get drunk on alfred jarry's
pataphysics... but i am compromised
by all the social engineering currently
  in process...
                if i could only find relief
in a rhyme...
                          thus rushing to engage
with an cul de sac of sleep:
with each night i prize open a prayer
of an otherwise uneventful narration
that my thought embryo has become
with the words:
let me not become an architect of dreams...
some variation
of technicality.... willful for
an etymological promenade of details....
otherwise a return to a language
summary akin to the final conclusion
of numbers: 1 + 1 = 2 via something
akin to: i ate bread: i fattened the lean
pig with a telepathy of digestion
and the absorption of nutrients...
and fibre for glue-****...

      variations of conjunctions: in
that a letter can transcend mere sound...
or a classification as either
vowel or consonant:

                  w:               in
                    z:             with...
o:            about
                          polakk slavic...
        i:                and...
                    th­ere might have
been a return to concern oneself with
the alphabet...
but what is the use of such
trifles...
                         now i'm starting to gag
on a fear that's turning my sessions of language
use: i hoped for the informal...
  i hoped for a delight of some
unfortunate circumstance:
             translating a death in public
with... the ultimate solipsism of
******* in public...
      some neu grand biting of the ice...
this eating of the ice...
                  counting one's teeth...
a completeness of a crescendo into
a heaving of procrastination:

that instagram stole from
                       the comic book...
            once upon a time: declan... tan...
gave me a comic book
for my birthday: batman vs. alien...

and that i am wearing latex gloves
while i write this: a momentary lapse
in a self-defining critique...

mind the articles in english:
a (indefinite) is akin to a telescope..
the (definite) is akin to a microscope...
mickey mouse turned magician spectacular...
i am sure of it...

i put on a pair of latex more times...
than i have put on a ******...
and that's not because i'm somehow
shy: the brothel and ******
are not... foreign to me...

i imagine the perfection of skin
in latex... what i wouldn't do...
when i otherwise...
squeeze... beelzebub's white pulp
of phlegm coagulating with
maggot brains of acne from my cheek
and nose...
          i imagine latex as that...
olive skin... that apple sunset burn...
it's beside a b.d.s.m. manual for
a total body covering
with a variation of exposed genitals...

i think of all those poor *******
strapped to role playing and uniforms...
i just want to **** a sensation
of an oyster shell one minute...
and exoskeleton slick of knee...
the next... then there's no clarity
of need or will...
      there's just this...
perverted persuasion of an unwillingness
and sabotage... tantamount...
in excavating new burdens
of reproach... for an otherwise basic...
safe and thereby senile:
striptease of a lost artistic...

              latex again... there's no concept
of dry ice... when picking up
cubes of the "stuff"... it's impossible for...
the dry... cold cube...
to attach itself liker a spider
to the rich lipid surface of the skin...

no hindering the typing...
process... but it's not like i'm about
to excavate a paragraph from this iron
maiden of a thought:
ego or inner voice or...
some other synonym as vague as
the architecture of god for
the diligent disguise of: fed on prayer...

because i have lost control of my ego...
i can't be an egoist when
i have come to assure myself...
this feral fraction of the sigma
that's me... this debilitating contraband
unit...
          to employ hands dressed
in latex gloves, to find paper...
to magically invoke ink with a machine-esque
precision...
      
       and because rene magritte used
to... take on the full attire...
of a suit... and paint: while standing up....
i imagine the thrill of gravity too:
this way... of jerking off while standing up
rather than... while sitting on the
throne of thrones and pushing out
a chestnut of:
dilating the **** a little bit more...

- and because this is not ancient rome
and that, "somehow"...
the gynocentric model of...
surrogate fathers even if complimented
by the status of emperor is beside
a question of the old / new norm...

roses bleed a colour such a near impossible
gesticulation at the beholder's eye...
a robed bishop of lavender...
scentless roses...
          give me a flower that...
impossible... the sound of a weeping
willow... rustling... being
rearranged by the rummaging of a wind...
clarity of the closure of sensation
come the petal...
this desire to find... the plethora of
***** as akin to flowers...

           my rotting crease of:
are you looking for paper...
are you looking for paper...
      i look for edible paper with a taste
of blisters... and nails...
like it might be disguised in
papyrus...
              
    give my heart enough strain...
and i will heave a mimic
of certain avenues being solaced
as having been fashioned for some:
agreeable loot of eyes...

sometimes the articles in english
are never used...
the corpus of restraints...
not that it matters...
the restraints are such
that the transgressions mean so very little...
except for a theatre of the absurd...
cruel becomings and symphonic
whirlwinds of the absolute cause...
like riddling a pyramid as a tourist...
rather than... heaving an excavation
of a height of a mountain...

to envy mountains is to construct
pyramids...
  it to also scatter ambitions toward
the primordial and always first:
looting of a sand dune pitch...
                 to compensate the tides:
one of rain and the subsequent
              sea...
or... the grains of sand...
and that deserted place..

          efficiency in the workplace
as a concept for purgatory...
and so many borrowed themes of pressures...
in a society of unit basis:
this greasing of a leather that's
not a pair or trousers or...
       which will become apparent...
a pair of disused latex gloves...

  such a paranormal fear of this...
otherwise possible yield of base:
                                       cradle the dilemma
of a yoke... without the white
protein hive...
         **** a lemon...
forgo the ***** gesture and...
limit: because there's a hybrid
in "question"...
      
otherwise... shrapnel base to base
basics...
some variation of the closed off secure...
adrian leverkühn:
the near impossible
"dialectic" of a oink's anatomy...
the pig foretold the limbo
of a sheik's compromise...

nearing death and a juice of
grey / variation:
nearing death and the juicing
of grey...
                  my no nearing...
death is such a devilish heave...
                 language has to half...
such beside nuance worship of
impromptu / beginner's luck...
  my samson and.. that *****'s riddle
wedded to a D...
            
                     E.L.P.:
emerson lake & palmer...
trouble with acronyms...
conjunctions are sometimes used,,,
while wearing latex... ghosts!
exoskeleton winding up
a giggle.,..
          my nearing a loot
of an oeuvre..
       childless creases of a fabric of
atoms...
this hierarchy of mirages...

                        asking for a friendship
with the moon...
a lacklustre of the three dimensions
of the old speckled hen...

a three legged dog...
                 my own father...
of which i make both sorrow and *****
having found no replica...
this tamed grandiosity of worded
junctions...

               snorkeling is somehow akin
to snoring... here i perfect...
a dickensian plot-hole in "laziness"...
but not really...
         to tame the crab bucket...
to tame: "above the hive"...
a question of why... wisteria might bloom..
seemingly, independently...
yet coincidental...
base repertoir of grades...
      completely useless when
sole verb projects are employed..
    
       i have reason to vain-belief
in the use of: a dreamless attire for the credo:
that's ambition...
bit i fear i'll sooner advent
an anger and a death... before..
i can be allowed a stomach...
and an allowing / alluring concern
for... persaverance...

         like it's a gilding...
an unfathomable first prized...
                     Edison-esque project...
           was there / could there ever be...
a scrutiny of a lightbulb?
                 a mountain reeked of a scent
of havoc...
      the confines of canyon
that of an all-encompassing tomb...

                 to have to riddle
with a rubric of skeletons...
             maya niqab... maya tow
a mouth that doesn't speak
or a nose that doesn't distinguish
a lobotamy from a prose...
new basic invasion of iraq...
  which is no new iraq:
i just devolved onto the topic of...
the rat that stank...
with a gravity of spectacular of...
wishing for the atom bomb...
wishing for the atom bomb.

la la la la
is this what love feels like

or what I want it
to feel like when it comes
slam-bamming in

the snigger on the stairs
first saxophone note

my throat
knows the right words
speak
of succulent fruits
count the seconds
it takes
for our fingers to crumple
in warm baths

look
toothbrushes together
own side of the bed
I have a side
where I sleep
in the madness of you

la la la la
I can’t sing
but I must have swallowed a pill
or a bucketful
of elation
look at me go ha ha

does it crunch as an apple
is it flat pack furniture

cup of coffee
in the same café
steam to sip sip sip

my temperature spiking
blood thunderstorm
in my ears

coloured hair
new language
list of I’m becomings
you’re becomings

oh darling
not pumpkin never pumpkin
lyrically I’m losing it
love like this
or not at all my love

maybe a shelf
without books

maybe a house we paint
or a song
how it starts

The form
the flux,
the constant
becomings

the duty,
distraction,
the running
of motors,

the quotas,
the breadline,
the rising
and shining

the hiding
a stupefied look
in your eyes

you sing on and on (and on) in the foreground as
the meter aches and constricts; with its power, beauty, antipathy
searing distances between us, hearing the becomings of null somethings

we reunite with the blankness
of pristine white passages
to break free from inertia


I cannot describe my infatuation with a split second
the embrace, the longing of wordless writers
and their unacknowledged cruelties

grieving over all this birthing
objecting to their own last words
the fresh blood of teething &
the prodding of our sores

Saint sees the sun—
In every leaf and river,
Grow in bloom of sparkle,
That flows to earth
And sea, changing
The globe with rounded
Eyes and simple cloths.

But there are those—
Who label themselves
Sinner, by indifferent
Tongue of words they fork,
Vision that opens in dark,
By base industry and guile
Know their own worths.

Saint is old beginner,
Each day are missives
Of tears and joyful acts
To beauty and simple light
Becomings, pilgrims unleashed
By chains of hand and whirl
Of sun golden daisies.

you sing on and on (and on) in the foreground as
the meter aches and constricts; with its power, beauty, antipathy
searing distances between us, hearing the becomings of null somethings

we reunite with the blankness
of pristine white passages
to break free from inertia


I cannot describe my infatuation with a split second
the embrace, the longing of wordless writers
and their unacknowledged cruelties

grieving over all this birthing
objecting to their own last words
the fresh blood of teething &
the prodding of our sores

Saint sees the sun—
In every leaf and river,
Grow in bloom of sparkle,
That flows to earth
And sea, changing
The globe with rounded
Eyes and simple cloths.

But there are those—
Who label themselves
Sinner, by indifferent
Tongue of words they fork,
Vision that opens in dark,
By base industry and guile
Know their own worths.

Saint is old beginner,
Each day are missives
Of tears and joyful acts
To beauty and simple light
Becomings, pilgrims unleashed
By chains of hand and whirl
Of sun golden daisies.

.
Saint sees the sun—
In every leaf and river,
Grow in bloom of sparkle,
That flows to earth
And sea, changing
The globe with rounded
Eyes and simple cloths.

But there are those—
Who label themselves
Sinner, by indifferent
Tongue of words they fork,
Vision that opens in dark,
By base industry and guile
Know their own worths.

Saint is old beginner,
Each day are missives
Of tears and joyful acts
To beauty and simple light
Becomings, pilgrims unleashed
By chains of hand and whirl
Of sun golden daisies.

Saint sees the sun—
In every leaf and river,
Grow in bloom of sparkle,
That flows to earth
And sea, changing
The globe with rounded
Eyes and simple cloths.

But there are those—
Who label themselves
Sinner, by indifferent
Tongue of words they fork,
Vision that opens in dark,
By base industry and guile
Know their own worths.

Saint is old beginner,
Each day are missives
Of tears and joyful acts
To beauty and simple light
Becomings, pilgrims unleashed
By chains of hand and whirl
Of sun golden daisies.

.
Saint sees the sun—
In every leaf and river,
Grow in bloom of sparkle,
That flows to earth
And sea, changing
The globe with rounded
Eyes and simple cloths.

But there are those—
Who label themselves
Sinner, by indifferent
Tongue of words they fork,
Vision that opens in dark,
By base industry and guile
Know their own worths.

Saint is old beginner,
Each day are missives
Of tears and joyful acts
To beauty and simple light
Becomings, pilgrims unleashed
By chains of hand and whirl
Of sun golden daisies.

The chain
of becomings

Opened
to here

When do we
know...

Maybe Never

Maybe Always

...anything

Seems like
both

Always sometimes

Needing
more often

Shackled in ambition,
sweet loves tied through in
sorrowful yesterday’s
searching for warmth as in birth;
a thousand becomings,
a thousand boundary lines.

Uncertainty
fretting over your midnight fantasy
wishing to just catch a glimpse
on the becomings
but life was never a simple entity

Expectation
full of the doubted notion
maybe we're still high on emotion
but still, we should go with determination
that's how we move forward in motion

Future
keep us feeling unsure
but if you'd seen the picture
it will lose its mysterious demeanor
as that's the beauty of every adventure

Twas just a thing like Eden
That slipped from off your face,
White lilies short in season,
God's best and fallen grace.
Birdsongs greet the morning
Then quickly take to flight,
There's pain in late becomings
Through the dim and fading light.
Tis short though, the price to open
The weight of Heaven's door,
To mend what time has broken
Returning home to love once more!
R.

to have invested so much in that it would have
to yield so little... it's hardly a making
of a degradation...
   but it's also a looting of the most believable:
         pretending to be a member of a club:
         blistering at the crux
of "being" ordained... the kippah for a bowl
of grue: green and blue... or perhaps oats...
      semolina with milk... then again...
i just wait for the: first come first served...
and that's how... the guise of hyper-inflated
publishing works... it's a shortcut
in the chemical labyrinth of the ol' Brian:
i.e. the brain... since there's no
"grand scheme of things": who isn't waiting for
a dickensian paragraph...      who is?
    feed me some more sputnik ***** and
golgotha wine and i'll rattle you with a juggling
and audacity that's: pure rhetoric on paper...
but it's not what's somehow the last
possibility... of my peers there are no
robinson crusoe remainders...
no cul de sac echoing back footsteps to this:
if life was a necessary hyper-inflated scrutiny of
repetition that's  well proportion for:
the army of the sea vs. the army of the cliffs...
           brief interludes with mongol fire...
or the ottomans...
        extending epochs of the wind and...
  glimpses of the far east
within the confines of the haiku...
otherwise: to thank the greeks for democracy...
but then the reply concerning alexander...
fairness exemplified... given enough years
and fudge-packaging a stupendous
grey area of dunce and gimmick comatose relief...

  alizee - moi ******....
        so little of fwech and euro-trash
first becomings...
      my own toes tied to the over-sexed like:
jerking off blind drunk while
extracting the least
fathomable entree of a... a loaf metaphor...
          
      such that the last known depravity
is an analogy in:
in the kingdom of the blind...
the one-eyed are king...

or giving limbo status to a peacock
strutting... and the drool associated
with biting into a lychee perversity / persuasion...
  
it's otherwise such a formidable roundabout
of the common parle of...
   a mediocre apple...
exemplified should push come
to shove when transformed into a cider...

but when so much is being allowed...
so much is made inclusive...
it' beyond fathom...
that there is such an adamant stressor
to make counters with...

you couldn't possibly make
watermelon ice-cream...
you could... make... a sherbert...
an ice concept of pop!

ice... pop... brittle is a necessary
adjective...
              brittle ice...
                       tooth-pick loot...
a carpet of concrete slabs...
        i do remember being prepubescent
while also being sexually "active":#
i masturbated
before i could provide the sludge
for moloch's altar...

    even if you were to guillotine
my testickles dry i'd tell you: there's a sensation
that's a priori to the actual
provision of *****...
           but that there's a muddle
of an a posteriori connectivity...
to make these affairs synonym...

for all the prized conventions
of leftist liberalism... and this... pauper...
this... it's impossible to not want
to... grimace: sour **** ******* a lemon:
       with the words...
why, not, so... supposedly... inclusive?
                
  it's impossible to join
the left politico with a hard-on
because... it's not the pyramid scheme...
and: as i have seen a *******
get drop-kicked in the face
giving out flyers: supposedly anonymous...

           no... very impossible!
it's not like...
  i would ever watch the end of Wimbledon...
and see the duke of kent...
prince edward KG, GCMG, GCVO, CD, ADC
is not! des Esseintes!
clearly! most evidently!
third removed, a cousin of the narrative!
but under no scrutiny of
the public eye... given the trophy ceremony...
inspecting the ball boys and girls...
like one might: inspecting
a horse's teeth...

who's fooling who when the "plebs" are
making scrutiny of:
the welcome pedophiles from: on 'igh and oink...
i sometimes wonder as to why...
perhaps pedohpiles find the grown
woman... too... intimidating...
too... blasé... some variation to test
personal memory cinema with a rigour
of archeology?
          a grown woman can be
such a biological fixation:
an impasse...
                          what is... a return to youth...
i remember being kissed for the first
time when aged 7...
   the erotica of prebubescence is hardly...
that... genesis primer
of *** and hormones...
and... being led by the current of influence
of those that failed...
mimic ***...
              ordeal of a body yet
to be made subject to...
coercive chemical soup...
   or what teenage girl are sold...
when they are told... teenage pop culture...

to shelter a kiss before the hormones...
it's like... being a gemini twin bound
to the expression of a typhoon...
                         the sensation of clenching
a breath... and that loss of brass
when the image confinement machinery
of consciousness "relaxes"...

        as such... i want to understand
the depravity rather than the immediacy
of a reaction to it...
that, the latter... pushes it
into the extremity of moloch
baby ****** cannibalism...
which is beside... anything
a marquis de sade mind might conjure...
the ******* must find
the adult woman intimidating...
in that... she is a transcendence of
reproach...
      she's not the safe material
of juvenilia of teenage summer love
stories of teasing the ****** of
same-*** loot...
        
                      aren't we somehow
allowed some complete...
god-like... freedom of thought?
esp. if there's no... moral (th)ought
translation?
                    can't we... in a democracy...
enjoy... our own... despotism...
nabokov-putinism and therefore...
retain a return to:
a cohesive... sensible...
a democratic society...
but if all we can... in thought...
in air... but not with ink...
in blood... a scribbling hyena cackle...
on pseudo-paper...

              for the act itself...
esp. with toddlers...
          countless examples...
but we're "talking" borderline...
schoolyard antics...
                                the hormone brigade
before a woman becomes
intimidating... demanding...
a widow...
                           a pure **** bride
misnomer / metaphor...
                
i am sympathetic to the theatre of thought...
because...
i known the pre-ordained shackles
of restraint that allow me to...
decipher a waistcoat as imploring...
buttons included / buttoning up inclined...
a tie has a methodology of tying involved...
as do shoelaces...

it's socially normative / expected...
               however: how i curate the despot
ego... and how i please... to showcase it before
a willing crowd of digestive major...
is my and my audience's choice...
third parties are excluded since
there was never a subscript of a signed
understanding translation...

      i want to be, at best... completely...
misunderstood.