Apatnapu't limang minuto makalipas ang alas-dose. Umaga na naman -- umaga na naman pipikit ang mga mata kong kasingbigat na ng ulap na napuno ng tubig mula sa lupa at dagat. Mapungay at napapaluha dulot ng pasakit na hatid ng walang sawang sulatin, babasahin, at kung anu-ano pang mga dapat tapusin.

Mga labi kong medyo nakabuka na marahil akala nila'y tapos na ang lahat ng gawain kaya namamahinga. At muli silang sasara, kasingbilis ng motorsiklong humaharurot sa labasan na parang nakikipagkarera, kapag naiisip na malayo pa ako sa pagtuldok sa katapusan.

Tumatabingi na ang mundo. Ay, mali, ulo ko lang pala na napapahiga na sa aking kanang balikat tila may sariling isip at ginugusto nang humiga sa kama -- akala niya rin siguro'y matatapos na sa pagsusulat at pagbabasa ngunit sadyang nagkakamali siya.

Tak. Tak. Tak.
Tak. Tak. Tak.

Tunog na ginagawa ng aking mga daliri na kay bagal nang bumaba para pindutin ang mga letra sa aking kompyuter. Suko na raw sila at nasasabik na silang muling mayakap ang malalambot na unan na nag-aantay sa kanila.

Tak. Tak. Tak.
Tak. Tak. Tak.

Tunog na lang ng pagbagsak ng aking mga daliri sa bawat letra ng aking laptop ang pumapasok sa aking utak. Ilang minuto na nakatitig sa iisang pahina...

Sa iisang talata...
Sa iisang pangungusap...
Sa iisang letra...

Blag!

.the better part of a Friday night

grim.. times... what better way to pass a drinking session than to translate some Horace... i see no other worthy time-consuming scoop of any events to follow, this:

humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam iungere si velit et varitas
inducere plumas undique conlatis membris, ut turpiter atrum
desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne,
spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici?
credite, Pisones, isti tabulae fore librum persimilem,
cuius, velut aegri somnia, vanae fingentur species,
ut nec pes nec caput uni reddatur formae.
scimus, et hanc veniam
petimusque damusque vicissim;
sed non ut placidis coeant inmitia, non ut serpentes
avibus geminentur, tigribus agni.

some first reading... sounds like chasing a chimera...

with a human head on a horses' neck: should a painter
tie the two together on a whim, and other limbs
collected from everywhere: puff up duck feathers into
a pillow or a bed cover - from "nothing"... hey presto!
that a beautiful woman from the torso up with a
fish's black tail below to boot...
on exhibition: would you, friends,
not burst burst out with laughter? believe: Paisans!
similar to this image will be the book:
in which as in an ill man's dream, in delirium,
the head and the feet belong to different
forms
i use this law and i recommend others to use it too,
but not to equate gentleness with a wildness:
with a bird a serpent, a lamb with a tiger...

angels and mermaids... what is no less or... no more:
improbable? perhaps neither...
but in the guise of monotheism... everything is still
somehow sensible...
where there was: half and half...
what angel of monotheism is a half and half
when contending for existence among unicorns...
mermaids or centaurs?
a chimera and a cyclops... **** with a minotaur...
but... such events of monotheistic grandeour are...
supposedly the better respected...
for all the respect i gave unto Knausgård -
because it comes from monotheism:
an angel is to be seen as more than a mermaid...
perhaps... if the angel is of my form...
has the wings... but for its mouth?
a pecker mask... a 50:50 share ratio of...
what a racial "mongrel" would otherwise burden his
shadows with...
a pecker mask akin to those masks
worn at the Venice carnival:
doctor doctor black plague masks...
with a muffed-up speech... as if shouting into
cotton puffed up...
esp. cotton candy...

and this is a sort of friday where i'd much prefer
translating latin... god... where did all these modern
prepositions and conjunctions from from:
into the fore?! there's only one song of worthy summary...
the specials - ghost town.

- Autorank Total 10 ( higher is reduced to 10 ), professional similarity 10 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.7 (of 1) -

poetry and order... yes...
yes... very much akin to rhymes...
and very formal language...
but this is hardly a "micro-aggression",
on my part...

it's funny that i never paid any attention to this detail...

hoc erat in votis

i was never into brian jonestown massacre, more of a dandy warhols' fan, but then brian jonestown released the album aufheben and pawns of the palette started picking up not only seminal citric acids and kashmir's spices, but sharp grooves of some distant geography, which of course, all in all: to my liking.

there's nothing like listening to the opening
track of the aufheben album (panic
in babylon, instrumental) and reciting a
bit of horace; should i be accused of sounding
pompous, here's horace himself

    hoc erat in votis: modus agri non ita magnus,
    hortus ubi et tecto vicinus iugis aquae fons
    et paulum silvae super his foret. auctius atque
    di melius fecere. bene est. nil amplius oro,
    maia nate, nisi ut propria haec mihi munera faxis.

    it was the aim of my wishes: a snippet of arable land,
    a garden, in the vicinity of my house a source of
    fresh water and a grove upon a ***** of a hilly eminence.
    the gods beyond their intentions bestowed upon me
    the loot of my thus lived fate. i have enough!
    i do not implore for more either in this heart of mine
    or among incense or blood of sacrificed bulls at the altar
    where worship is prescribed unto them, but only give me,
    son of May, the chance to use these bestowals.

(translated from polish, and, as would be expected of me,
involved in translation, adding something of my own,
as you can see, the latin prepositions and conjunctions
are reflective of the number apparent in the english language,
but it's hardly a concern with other words,
awaiting a unanimous - not necessarily an N between
two vowels, or because of H, as is exampled by
a great alphabetical distancing of the vowels,
or simply because of the latin tongue-twisters of
the grapheme æ and œ - awaiting a unanimous
decision of the compound words stalled by the hyphen
form, e.g. light-bulb / lightbulb (underlined as a spelling
mistake) by the oxford dictionary committee...
but let's not get as crazy as german spelling
glue... it would make james joyce pale even by finnegans
wake standards of the 100 letter word... i know... english
is a language spelled like shotgun shrapnel, and german is spelled
like a wedding cake or scottish fudge, thick and bulging;
what was i going to say? i took a step into the heraclitean
river and the river took me elsewhere, the ice cubes
in my whiskey citric barley are melting, and i dream
of venice being the modern atlantis along with the maldives).

elsewhere in a grammar lesson:

people think the pinnacle of poetry is coupling
adjectives with nouns, but of course,
given adjective & verb coupling is commonplace:
and when they say poetic v. practical,
they then say the hidden practicality of poetry
via, e.g. 'nicely said;' but of course!
we need a sombre musicality of the tongue
with so much dead machinery around us!
the elders complain about headphone "zombies,"
marching like urban myth lemmings on zebras
toward death... but have you actually listened
to those mechanical sounds on concrete?
horrid! when was the last time you heard an owl's
call in the dead of night in a forest? me!
about a year ago: three by my count.

- Autorank Total 9.9, professional similarity 10 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.1 (of 1), cliches -2 (of -3) -

the Cyber Pavlov Experiment

and my favorite "poem" in this ranking system,
which, i guess is an a.i. calculator...
i'm most interested in the professional similarity,
i can understand the concrete vs abstract ranking...
but the noun/verb/etc order?
in poetry? again... this is not a "micro-aggression"...

so, i'm on this page, and i meet my ****** pusher,
sure as hell he's pushing ******,
although it's digital, the site / street corner?
allpoetry.com i get to publish 2 poems,
but can't publish more, i have to comment,
and comment positively,
'allo comrade Stalin! then comment on
2 poems, and get this message:
Congratulations, you've achieved level 2,
and are now an "emerald cat"!
To reach the next level you need:
7 x comments, 1 x enter a contest, 1 x favorites,
1 x edit an item. • What are levels?
i am not playing candy-crush saga!
i'm not! i'm not even kidding you,
what is this ****?!
we've been ****** by paedophiles
anonymous?!
                      please get me off
this ****** grid of the Cyber Pavlov Experiment...
likes and comments and saliva and cookies...
    or premeditated minority reports -
  akin to Orwell's thought crime gestapo -
    god it sounds **** when said: g'eh'sh'tap'oh.
                    or how to use the internet
akin to deciphering and censoring established
media outlets...
                              obviously social media
can't replicate socialism, it's a media outlet,
                  but it can for sure ******* with
all the little capitalistic mind games that lead
to nothing but the Pavlov experiment -
            and that was with dogs...
try that with a ******* Gorilla and i'll watch you
cradle prosthetic limbs while
he rips your original limbs off like he's playing
                a harp:
            then you can rhyme: twinkle twinkle little thumb,
    how i wished you were attached to my hand to my arm
to my torso...
                        that's the same story
we had recently concerning a Mr. Kumbuka...
  who escaped enclosure, and proved the a.d.h.d.
        complex correlation with exposure to
sugar... ****** drank 5 litres of concentrated blackcurrant
squash replying: i'm mad at the keepers for keeping
me on a diet! i do king kong and you do the frenzied
blonde maiden.
              it's still a concern for me that they herded the poets
into an area worthy of zoological inspection,
                meaning that they base their worth on
    deplorable points system: like they're immigrants
waiting for visas to Canada -
                          comment, like, blag and blabber your
way into that new country, known to all of us present
              as Si S / Silicon State... by my count that's
the 51st, or the secular version of the Vatican.

- Autorank Total 2.3, professional similarity 1 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.7 (of 1) -

but now... i'll just post the most "pop" poem from
here-on-in there... for that hard-on autorank...

clues as precursor:
- Strong words: army, audience, beef, box, brick, canvas, cubes, eating, fan, fares, football, lines, match, minced, outside, people, poem, poets, river, scrabble, scroll, short, slab, song, steak, striking, stripes, tartar, tomatoes, wave, writing  
-Weak words: albeit, always, answer, any, bad, be, become, bothered, circa, coherency, could, critic, deliberate, effect, eh, elsewhere, enough, escape, event, form, gather, get, had, happen, hardly, impact, intent, international, invent, long, merely, mind, modest, national, never, nice, nothing, perhaps, personally, presume, question, rarely, reason, recluse, repeating, repetition, somehow, sometimes, started, subconscious, subsequently, succumb, tender, thinking, translation, treat, understand, version, very, want, was, well, what, will, worth, would
- Cliches: to be a, i want

****... too early for an autorank...
so here's a pre-scriptum i wrote for...
what i wanted to feed the autoranking system...

this poem has circa 11 thousand views, "elsewhere"...
and i just... would like... to see the score for it...
the very and repeating: twist on the rotten tomatoes' score
"leverage" between audience and "critic" scores...
i gather that the autorank on this canvas is not...
somehow "deliberate"... i presume i have this slab
of minced beef... and when i put it through...
i'll get... a nice cubism version of a ripe steak: medium rare...

then again: i was always a fan of rare...
mind you... it's never raw, it's not tartar cubes...
it's rare... like the person eating... a rarified recluse example:
like a recluse of a rarified worth of all examples given...
this noun/verb/etc. "coherency" score...
perhaps this a.i. scrutiny hasn't bothered to answer
to no asked question... people can still "un-scramble"
or... un-scrabble bad grammar and understand it...
nothing ever has to be: brick on brick like a long
winding river...
it sometimes can arrive at us...
"lost in translation"... some people speak some
languages with no ill-intent...
they just can't escape the pedagogy rubrics of
subconscious grammar layer upon layer upon layer...
is this... a reason to subsequently rhyme?
personally? i treat rhyme as a phenomenon...
a phenomenon that has to happen rarely...
and when it does: it has to be a striking "pose"...
but enough of the pre-scriptum...
i want to see how this poem fares in the autorank filter...
albeit, this given: this pre-scriptum will have had
an impact on the score...

line repetition, eh? the lines are too long or too short?
what was that poem... when you could somehow
invent: "thinking outside the box" of any form,
or when tender poets started to succumb to the cascade
effect of writing - to merely fill-up scroll speed and space?
it's hardly an event like the mexican wave at
a football match... or how...
the white stripes' song: seven nation army
has become the international... well... that's modest...
the national (english) football clubs' anthem...
when a goal is scored... or whatever you like, otherwise...

or cliches... really?!
how about... oh... i remember this one most fondly...
visual poetry...
fallen... by... jörg piringer...
and unlike any modern painting...
this one really does require a description,
as cited on poetryfoundation.com:

/jörg piringer works in many forms, including visual, digital, and sound poetry, as well as music. In "fallen," piringer combines a visual sensibility with computer programming skills to tumble text from the English translation of The Communist Manifesto into a pile at the bottom of the page. The result is a mass of letters stripped of their original meaning and representing the failure of an idea./ Geof Huth

and no, by no kind reprint...
perhaps modern painting is what it is...
because... there's an alternative, like fallen?
if you can "paint" with words in adverts...
and paint i imply: stress the psychological impact
of coca-cola written in circa: formal scripts -
(why no italics? you can't... just can't,
write a colon and in italics after...
the colon represents emphasis,
as does the italics... tautology or something -esque)
derived from 17th century handwriting...
or... say... volkswagen... written in blackletter &
lombardic scripts... esp. circa 1935...
while all the propaganda posters were on
display...

given all of this? well... do i have to somehow:
bemoan how terrible modern art is?
cubism is not cricitißed - but dada is -
or let's call it... the most bloated
menu of culture citationand)
Barnett Newman painted this masterpiece,
‘Onement VI’, in 1953.
it sold for close to US$44 million...

i can't say such painting is "good" or "bad"...
after a while you just have to call a spoon a spoon...
a knife a knife, a table a table...
onement vi? blue canvas with a straight line
down the middle; form? rectangular...
and that's when thinking can take place...
i gather than modern art is trying to depict:
primodial man acquiring geometry...
after all... only recently i cound the difference
between the western man and slavs...
how the afro-european now lives in germany
and the west... including italy...
and how the indo-european lives east of germany
in some parts of scandinavia and greece...
a totally new discovery...

but... but... i can compensate for modern art...
with what is visual poetry...
if jorgen schmoorgen can do an abstract of a communist
manifesto... here's my take on...
John Constable... because... frankly...
i have yet to properly deal with this particular piece
of writing - as it's fresh... to subsequently aspire
for... a j. m. w. turner... not yet... not yet...
as ascribed to Juba...

the poem itself is... good grief...
always the same with me...
i go to kenya and i'd want to **** all the ivory
beauties...
a mother is in hospital and all the nurses
are black and i'm like...
what a clean and sterile environment this
is... unlike my today which began
finding an acne dot on my little richard...
(i get the joke... spotty ****)...
having to defrost a fridge freezer in
the shed because:
'z przybytku głowa nie boli'
oh yes it does...
not when what someone deems to be
"enough" do you have to count the trivial...
unnecessary things...
which is not a shame regarding my ***
winning a pulitzer price for... never mind...
i claim lack of sun...
black privelege... impeccable skin...
and... ivory beauties...
n'est ce pas?
alternative i have found an outlet to...
it's become brutally boring...
*******...
i found it... in... japanese gravure...
i had to... esp. when 1970s italian *****
classic died... and everyone is doing
this act older than beer and the giza
pyramids... phellatio and you're like:
so when did the ice-cream dream go away...
the peeling the banana...
and all this ******* gagging begin like
there's everyone with their third tonsils
removed... where mouth is no different
from *** or **** to be RAMMED!
lucky for me i still have my third tonsil...
which means i can drink cold beer in winter
and not get a soar throat...
- lucky for me i still have my *******...
god... if i didn't... i don't think i'd have
the "moral compass" to "get away with it"...
unless i was a woman with a web-cam...
in which: it almost becomes akin to reading
a book... it's like: it's there for the sole use of
pleasuring yourself or... as i like to call it on
throne of thrones (the toilet)...
first you do the no. 1, then the no. 2...
then you start doing the no. 3 to see...
whether you've done no. 2 completely...
it sometimes happens that having an *******
dilates the **** to the point where:
there's a shady **** loitering in the "back"
somewhere... which would explain ****-erotica...
in reverse to the act of ****-erotica of being
penetrated... i.e. in this scenario...
finishing doing a no. 2...
after that? downhill a quick side-step for
a no. 4 in the shower - baptism...
but... yeah... the men that shame men with
regards to *******?
they must be circumcised men...
shaming other circumcised men...
i think to think how a circumcised man
could shame an uncircumcised man for this act...
that's like... circumcised women...
shaming uncircumised women...
for jerking off with a web-cam...
uncircumcised women and...
explosive libido... whatever the stereotypes
are... circumcised men...
uncircumcised men...
there has to be a: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar joke around here somewhere...
i'm trying to find it...
but i have found that: circumcised men
shame other circumcised men over *******...
while the uncircumcised men are like...
if only i were a woman and had a webcam...
if society had a niche consumer base for that...
"sort of thing"...
i'd be making money from one
genocide of a fraction of myself ever so often...
i.e. it's killing when the ***** is owned
by a woman (sensible... sensible...
i don't mean the former chinese 1 child
state policy of: statistics at all costs...
even at 8 months old)...
but if that's the case...
then a session of hanky-panky...
sterile... washing under the ******* etc.,
i'm practically doing erotica-genocide
slim film no. 3890... ever since it started aged
8... when i discovered Onan...
way before the white nation army came out
from the hades of the *******...
how the ******* of ***** has nothing
to do with the ******...
the muscles and nerves are wired so to the brain...
that i'm pretty sure a castrato feels
the same...
**** chicken shaming...
it must be circumcised men against
circumcised men: ******* missing olympics...
no wonder... you peel a ******* potato...
you have to throw it in some water
to prevent it from darkening...
that's of course: prior to cooking...
so you have to find the ****** cushion
brigade from time to time...
a "sword" without a "sheath"...
rust or egomania or: motivational talk talks...
because Kant was never going to be my:
bachelor of the year for the 215th time in a row...
kierkegaard famously didn't marry...
erectile "dysfunction":
not a real problem in my own company
or in the company of prostitutes...
but a serious ******* problem among
the "free women" of western europe...
it's like one of those vague "superpowers"...
women speak of turn-ons and turn-offs...
yeah: i too have my limp switch too...
somehow... this "thing" is not automated...
it's not like spam-mail... it doesn't always:
"rise to the occassion"...
the mood swings of my *****...
i'm starting to think that perhaps neurology will
explain more about my brain
than my suma summarum will ever tell me
about this excess of the 21st digit (which
of course includes the 10 precursor toes)...

as i haven't read marquis de sade in a long while...
and i'm not touching any modern erotica,
and ******* bores me
and how japenese gravure is the next best
all-spice of brain fever...
and how: if this little harlot went to sudan
for her nitty-picking a tartan lover,
or if she decided for rwanda...
i have to guess the fiction and fantasy...
for me, at least... has to rely on...
a bull in a porcelain shop...
or as the kama sutra says:
a rabbit **** is hardly going to ****
an elephant ****... lengths and depths...
all round!
which makes you wonder...
genghis khan must have been...
or has to be... the ***** envy shitlord
of a whole lot of people with the surname
Khan in pakistan.

How to make friends over a beer
How to make any modest room beautiful with fairy lights
How to consecutively loose three university ID cards, replace them and then simultaneously find all three misplaced cards in the bottom of the same bag.
How to blag your way onto the university bus without ID
How to make a family out of your friends


When to give constructive criticism.
When to hit the cafeteria for discounted lunch items
When to let house mates off for making the kitchen a **** tip
When to realise that the reason your soreen cake keeps going missing from you food cupboard is not in fact because there are some soreen cake loving mice,  it is in fact just your house mate  who “just thought you weren’t going to eat it”
When to plant an onion in hopes of an onion tree.


Where to kick a corrugated door for a taxi
Where to get the best tray of jalapeños
Where to get a magic tenner
Where to sit in the lecture hall so you could only be partially seen
Where to find your confidence
Knowing I’ll never be able to pay off my university debt
But knowing it was priceless

Found myself centred around this river
As if it were my life, its shallows deepening
Into falling curves and rocky
Foundation, yet cluttered in part
With stagnating ****, at other times
Flowing freely and softly engaging me
Without its steaming torrents.

The waterfall thinks it can engulf me and
I consider it at times denying it identity
But sometimes it speaks loudly and refuses
To whisper....’And so you’re there’ I say, and here
Its raging response tumbling me into depths
Out of my control..... or so it thinks.

I emerge for air and breathe in deeply
To sustain me, for when I speak
It is with something resembling coherence
To blag me time from the place of harm
Where it dips sharply and crashes onto slithers
Of icy uncertainty, I begin to wipe my brow clean.

Releasing me from its fooling ways preventing the air
Being squelched from me; take it easy with me
My mind desires you to behave and let me be
Don’t fool me into calm currents only to be tossed
Amongst the white watery crash of boulders rounding
Beneath me, sharp shards covered by your caressing hands
That persuades my innocent eyes to close
To the raging force of veiled kindness

I can remember the ripples of softness that would
Cover my palm with coolness
That dappled in sunlight, reflecting my face
Asking me to admire the stillness
And I believed in the sereneness of the ebb and flow
That sheltered me in fineness with absorbent lining
Reminding me of life absent to the steep slant
Towards the shelled out wreck of my world...burnt out.

Started off simple you were smokin joints with your mates,
14years old hangin around at the school gates,
a juvenile delinquent,little pain in the ***,
a father at 15 grew up way too fast,
the Irish system failed you,kicked you out at 16,
moved in with your girl,a baby raised by 2 teens,
no real education so crime is your path,
tried your hand at a blag+ended up in pats(Irish Juvenile Detention),

So whats the matter sonny? life's not like the flicks,
criminals get caught,so get used to the nick,
but **** it now you're 18 thinkin' you're an O.G.,
and when you end up in the joy(Mountjoy Prison) you say listen to me,
got your apprentices in robbin,sellin poppin off fightin,
feelin like a crime titan,think you're Irelands mike tyson,
do a few more blags court dates count up,
another girl gets pregnant so the problems mount up

"I've seen the needle and the damage done, a Syringe in a Vein is like a loaded gun"

You could get a job,but **** that work's for dopes,
you spend your days dodging court dates,bangin' out dope,
snortin coke with your mates,all hard as nails,
while the real crims sit back and count their sales
all you are is a customer,forget the smiles,
there'll be another fool parted from his money in a while,
your mate johno flipped out from a long coke binge,
now he's sittin in the john o gods(Christian Rehab centre),shivering and cringin',

That'll never be you,you got a real game plan,
got a cousin who's a driver on Securicor vans,
so you hire out a shotgun,on with the bally(Balaclava),
hit the van in broad daylight,and run for an alley,
but guess whats waiting? a Special Branch team(Armed Gardai),
get the **** on the ground! is what they all just scream,
now you're banged up bigtime,a 10yr stretch
got your first bag of gear(Irish name for Smack) from a kid named fletch

CHORUS.
"well every cloud's got a silver lining  these years,
the only silver you see is tin foil for your gear,
you gave your life for a buzz that passed way to soon,
its only now you get to see the dark side of the spoon"


well its release day,Seven years down the line,
three years in remission for good behaviour time
went in the Joy a teenager,comin out a man,
with a habit that's longer than a nuns,*******
went from hash and pills to a sharper doom
your life's over,now you're on the dark side of the spoon
so you slip into the underworld,but no more blags,
robbers don't trust junkies,and your hooked through the bag,

you whine about your bad breaks,how you coulda been big,
cos you're a shadow of yourself man,smack is a pig
you're too busy to contemplate,its rob,rob,rob,
and your arms are fulla craters,so there's still no job,
you got your girl hooked too man,ain't you great,
you look at life through eyes gummed up with hate,
social welfare have put you on a methadone course,
but that ***** just as bad,it just makes you worse,

your lifes flying by now in a haze of drugs,
morphine,Oxy,blueys(******) anything for a buzz,
Skip on a few years...**** what does it matter,
days pass like mist,the gears all that matters
your girlfriends screamin' ,babies long gone,
for both of you the needle sings a sad sad song,
look behind ya - your progress is as straight as a die,
another Irish ****** ****** up your life til you die,

The smack dealers are laughin' ,Politicians don't care,
you're a skinny,pale sweaty robbin' smack nightmare,
you gave away your whole life for the solace of a spike,
it didnt cost 4million,its cheap,it cost a life(the Spire in Dublin cost 4 Million(at least) to *****, and is coloquially known as "The Spike")

who the **** can you blame?,you made your own decision,
when you first creased a vein with a simple incision,
infusion of the drug is all you care about now,
the Dark side of the Spoon,there's no way out now

Well every clouds got a silver linin' but these years,
the only silver ya see is tinfoil for your Gear,
gave your life for a buzz that passed WAY too soon,
life's over now, you're on the Dark side of the Spoon
Chorusx2,fade.

so, i'm on this page, and i meet my ****** pusher,
sure as hell he's pushing ******,
although it's digital, the site / street corner?
allpoetry.com i get to publish 2 poems,
but can't publish more, i have to comment,
and comment positively,
'allo comrade Stalin! then comment on
2 poems, and get this message:
Congratulations, you've achieved level 2,
and are now an "emerald cat"!
To reach the next level you need:
7 x comments, 1 x enter a contest, 1 x favorites,
1 x edit an item. • What are levels?
i am not playing candy-crush saga!
i'm not! i'm not even kidding you,
what is this ****?!
we've been ****** by paedophiles
anonymous?!
                      please get me off
this ****** grid of the Cyber Pavlov Experiment...
likes and comments and saliva and cookies...
     or premeditated minority reports -
  akin to Orwell's thought crime gestapo -
    god it sounds **** when said: g'eh'sh'tap'oh.
                     or how to use the internet
akin to deciphering and censoring established
media outlets...
                               obviously social media
can't replicate socialism, it's a media outlet,
                  but it can for sure ******* with
all the little capitalistic mind games that lead
to nothing but the Pavlov experiment -
             and that was with dogs...
try that with a ******* Gorilla and i'll watch you
cradle prosthetic limbs while
he rips your original limbs off like he's playing
                a harp:
            then you can rhyme: twinkle twinkle little thumb,
    how i wished you were attached to my hand to my arm
to my torso...
                        that's the same story
we had recently concerning a Mr. Kumbuka...
  who escaped enclosure, and proved the a.d.h.d.
        complex correlation with exposure to
sugar... ****** drank 5 litres of concentrated blackcurrant
squash replying: i'm mad at the keepers for keeping
me on a diet! i do king kong and you do the frenzied
blonde maiden.
              it's still a concern for me that they herded the poets
into an area worthy of zoological inspection,
                meaning that they base their worth on
    deplorable points system: like they're immigrants
waiting for visas to Canada -
                           comment, like, blag and blabber your
way into that new country, known to all of us present
              as Si S / Silicon State... by my count that's
the 51st, or the secular version of the Vatican.

Early sun the birds' tongues sends a-wag;
Gorse pyres force fires in through open window dragged,
Like rogues blag a cabin below the deck of a wandering ship,
So smoke woke being stowed on the lip of a morning wind.

Taking my time,
Light I descry,
To wake in a while.
Warm bodies that lie

Beneath a banyan balcony, a muse of colour calls to me.
A sari much less touched than seen, but touched to see
My chest used to be used not as a pillow, but my trunk
For you, blown skin willow is drunk on your best.

Taking our time,
In the night slowly by,
But waking under a spun sky,
Miles now divide and I'm

Not spending night
Be still full of time

IF you ain't got no strength or courage
get the numbers, learn concealment
IF you have a small sword, learn how to use your tongue
it can reach far and wide.
IF you don't have the distinct hue that shines
get camouflage and be all things to all men
IF you don't have the intellect or statue
blame all else but yourself
If you lack confidence and self assurance
get in a crowd and blag it all the way
IF you are guilty of a crime or any wrongdoing
lie, lie, and lie again till you yourself believe your lies
IF you are fearful, insecure and inadequate
discredit, de-grade, defame and scandalise your superiors
REMEMBER
For the weak and powerless
ATTACK IS THE BEST DEFENCE
and NUMBERS AND BULLYING IS OUR SECOND DEFENCE

I've been hit
All of us have but in different ways
Depends on how you recover
Waking up and that feeling of utter dread
Where do I look, are the answers in some book
The wife may know or do I ask my lover
A turning point where all is seen in a brand new way
The justice, the injustice, the must have must haves
I'm only here once
A front bigger than Brighton, always on the blag

Maybe I deserved that thump of unfair life
As been a naughty boy and relished in the past
God has his ways, I'll catch you one day you *******

But the hill has a summit as for which I now climb
I toppled, I lent to far, I took my eyes from the prize and crashed that ******* car
But these matters are just a hiccup, a step in the wrong direction
Strive on young man,
Having eliminated those who now do not care
Throw at you what they want, spread your tales online,
For social media is there for us all to bear

But no,
Hold that light of what really still can come
As you ignore those mutters from the downtrodden and those on the everyday rat-run
The horizon has a future yet to be discovered now feeling almost new born
Hold your head up high, banish the clutter that really doesn't matter as you carry on,

Through the Storm

JJB