1064

To help our Bleaker Parts
Salubrious Hours are given
Which if they do not fir for Earth
Drill silently for Heaven—

There are many limitations sometimes. Of course these are only restrictions we place on ourselves, but we groom certain communities to fulfill a certain appearance and dismiss the breakers of unspoken rules. Don't drop the status quo.

Paradigm.

I want to write and not write about things. I don't know.
No, I do know. I want to write without the stigma that these topics bring.

I want to write a poem about Facebook. See how much appreciation that gets.
Poetry about Facebook won't be liked often.

Write about how it ****** me off that your ex boyfriend (that I dumped, by the way) has a new girlfriend with better taste and better photography skills than me. Remember how I made fun of his ex's for that? They're doing that about me now, I stomped on his heart. I teem with insecurity thinking about it. ******* selfish, I feel like a *****.

How I'm tired of being self-depricating because I don't want to seem like an *******. I've come a long way as a person and I'm not allowed to brag about it. I'm barely allowed to take a compliment or I'll look like I'm preening.

Write about how I'm tired of being kinda ugly sometimes.

Write about how I had *** with someone, how when I told someone else, I could see them and society drawing a big "****" crown of judgement, and how that's ******. I wish we could all grow up.

I wish I could explain that my apathy is, to a certain degree, purposeful. Because looking at feminism articles every day made me feel like ****. I felt like a victim constantly, and I alienated myself from making friends with normal people because I was an extremist. I got tired of constant misery and misinformation. The feminist community was cannibalistic too, and I don't think I wanted to make friends with such hyper-aggressive people.

Write about how I want to be a writer and how I can only write three sentences and then I look at the screen hopelessly. How lame.

I'M SO ******* NAIVE BECAUSE
I want so badly to be different in a better way, but I know I'm just the same.
I want to be able to change the world and I know I can't,
it doesn't matter anyway.

I haven't been able to cry in three months. I'm tired of trying to find my brand of catharsis.

I'm going to go through with it
This just has to be done
It's all going to stop
Chasing our tail around
For The ****** Dollar
It's all the same in the end

Passionate and proud
At the burst of a cloud
Rain falls in whispers
All today and into the night

When the wild are on the verge
Of some kind of taming
Who cares who you are blaming
How much does it matter that some are unaccountable

Not that you can get away with ****** and wars

When it's time to take your artwork
And put it in a frame
The picture is yours
It's the painter who takes the claim

When it's time to die
What's in it for the stars
Maybe a big wake and
Miles of lined up long electric cars

The mountain's shadow
Keeps the place cool in the summer
Not 'till the volcano spews it's guts
Will you lay down and burn
Or vaporize just in time

It's over with the death of the Star
'What is and was will be  bleaker and bleaker
A place you'd turn your head away from

When we have this chance to change into living without borders
What does that mean a shot of the The New World Order
An evocation of imaginations of and for the somewhat rich and the richer  
A full and complete Police State, militia walk the street, Their bidding done

No way to travel but by foot
And the odd old bicycle  
Horse and mules being bred
To save the soles on your leather boots

All the waters contaminated all the crops hollow not fit for an animal

We go this way or we go that
Who will drag us down or
Who will bring us up
Vibrational  influences could save us all

We can't keep trying to tell ourselves that the Government
Has our best interests at heart because they don't
If there is war among the classes it's a way to distract us
But it needs to be done and I'm bringing my 'A' game

What have I done?
I've unleashed Quincy Valero into The Big Bad City, upon Greenwich Village for the first time
The 177 express, round trip
To Port Authority
To the A train to Canal

We missed our stop
Had to walk from Soho to Washington Square Park
But along the way we saw artists and galleries
Head shops and street performers
Hobos and junkies

"We made it"
"We in this *****!"
Quincy said as we walked through the arches

We saw a multitude of creatures
An artist drawing floral murals with chalk
Meditating Buddhists
A cello player playing for a meal
A drummer drumming for money to get back home
A jazz band
A clarinet player
Writers scribbling down whatever came to mind

We saw beautiful women everywhere
"Look, my ten, your two"
Quincy said nodding to a **** brunette wearing a sundress walking by

We got coffee at The Third Rail coffee shop
We met lovey dovey couples and a girl poet sipping espresso

Treading down Bleaker to Sullivan to Macdougal to Huston
*** shops, leather and studs, ****** and flavored lubes
"This **** reminds me of Saw"
Quincy said with a laugh
"Too much for your threshold aye?"
I said nudging him

We passed a guy selling vinyl on the street
"How much for the Charlie Parker record?" I asked
He took the record out and inspected it
"Five bucks" he said
"How long you gonna be here, like till what time?" I asked
"Oh I don't live by time or numbers" he answered
"Time ain't your mast huh?" I laughed
"Nope, you cant spell T-I-M-E without M-E" he said
Quincy and I looked at eachother with a grin
"I'll be back, if I'm not here before you leave good luck in your ventures" I said as we walked away
"Thanks brother enjoy the day" he said smiling and waving

We ate to Papaya Hot dogs
Best in the city
Then to the pool hall

Now folks, it is common knowledge where I'm from the Quincy Valero is the local pool shark
He can break and sink three *****
He can jump over your ball and get his in
He can shoot behind his back with one hand

Playing with him is a guaranteed loss
But I never cared, I just like playing
We talked and laughed about all the stupid nonsense back at home
And planned our next move

We went to The Blue Note, the best jazz club in the city
The Dizzy Gillespie All Star Band was playing that night
But it was too expensive for both of us so we went on to St. Mark's place

More head shops
More *** shops
And book stores, clothing stores
Punk things in Search and Destroy, record stores
All that good stuff

It was getting late
Back to Bleaker to start drinking
First stop, a little pub
The bartender was a gorgeous blonde, sweet as could be
We ordered two beers
She seemed to be having trouble with the tap
"Sorry guys it's a little foamy, next rounds on me"
We were amazed by that because back home all the bartenders couldn't care less if we got a whole mug of foam
We clinked glasses and took that first cool icy sip
So nice on such a hot day

"Ya know dude, this is it this is perfect" Quincy said
"What you mean?" I asked
"Well this is a great time, I'm on vacation right now and were here exploring and relaxing and enjoying the moment, this moment" he said with his beer hovering over his mouth

Quincy always talked about "This"
This moment
This time
This feeling
This thing

"This" is that time when you're in the moment
That moment of complete and total encumbrance
When you're wrapped up in what you'r doing because you love it and you're happy
The moment you live for
The moment you want to last forever
This moment
This right here
Not then, not before or after
But right now, this
We lived our lives trying to to make this happen every second of everyday
Living it up

Quincy took me to Artichoke Pizza
And my God, it was immaculate
A nine in wide, nine inch long and half inch thick slice of heaven
It was a mixture of crunchy, gooey, savory goodness
I highly recommend it

Then back to the bars
Wicked *****'s
Triona's
Off The Wagon
The Bitter End
GMT
The Red Lion
Cafe Wha?
1849

Beer
Wine
***
Whiskey
Scotch on the rocks
Bourbon

Smoking electronic cigarettes down cobble stone roads
Passing hipsters, college students and tweakers
Locals and tourists
"Out of my way you tourist *******" I yelled frantically pushing my way passed them with Quincy trudging behind

You can always spot a tourist because they got their cameras, their ***** packs and their head looking up saying "ooo look at the building and that one!" taking snap shots in awe

We walked to The V-club
As we walked up to the entrance a little old lady in a wheel chair called out to us, "Are you two brothers?"
We laughed and said "no, were best friends and next door neighbors"
"Oh, well you too look very similar, very young" she said
"Yeah we're both twenty one" Quincy said
"You live around here?" I asked
"Right over there" she said pointing to the building across the street
She told us about how the building was falling apart and how all the law students got booted out leaving the little old lady and one other person living in the nine floor heap
"Back in the day there were river rats in their the sized of cats, but now we only have mice" she said
"I'm being moved though, whenever the land lords and the officials decided where" she added
She had some sort old senior citizen perk that allowed her to be taken care of
She then started to spit some of her poetry from thirty years ago, perfectly from memory
It was full of truth, insight and hope
We were floored by this wheelchair bound geriatric
She was a a retired barmaid, a poet, and an ex-lounge singer
Her name was Tracy Warren

The three of us walked into the V-club
I ordered a glass of Pinot Noir
And Quincy got a draft Brooklyn Lager
While pulling out a stool a spilled my wine all over the wooden table
"****" I said as everyone in the bar watched me put my face in my palms
I got paper towels and cleaned up my mess while the bartender leaned over to Quincy and said "If you don't tip me that will be your last drink ever in here"
"Okay" Quincy said as he walked over to me laughing at my expense
"If it was Burgundy I'd be in tears" I said with a half serious frown

I went to the bartender and apologized and asked sheepishly if I could possibly get a refill

"You spilled your wine?" he asked with sarcasm
"Yeah" I said
"And you want me to give you another?" he asked
"Well, I mean I don't know if that's okay or not that's why I'm asking" I said
"We don't, it isn't okay, you have to buy another one" he said with the most insulting tone I've ever heard
"Okay" I said with disdain

"**** this guy" Quincy and I both said
I left the remaining wine dripping off the table
Quincy ****** all over the bathroom
He finished his beer and we left without tipping that bearded-high and mighty- *******
We said goodbye to Tracy and she told us to enjoy every moment and to get home safely

We went to one more bar, had one more drink and headed home
But on the way to the train we got stopped by a ***
"Hey you give me money I know you got it" he yelled at Quincy
"Na man, hes broke trust me" I said to end the oncoming confrontation
"No yous lying i know it" he said
"Na, see those shoes? I got him those shoes, fifty five bucks" I told him
"Stop putting me on" he yelled
Then some white knight hipster wearing thick rimmed glasses and a green flannel stepped in and said "What's going on here? You picking on my friend?" While putting his arm around the *** mocking him and making trouble for us
"This ******* won't give me any money for my troubles" he told the hipster
"Come on man, give 'em something" he said to Quincy
"Dude, he has no money he spent all he had today" I said to the hipster and the ***
"He's a trust fund kid, he gets it from mommy and daddy" I said winking to Quincy
"Trust fund kid?!" the hipster said
"Trust fund kid!" said the ***
"TRUST FUND KID, TRUST FUND KID" screamed the hipster, the *** and myself laughing at Quincy making a scene
Then me and Quincy just walked away throwing our heads back howling at the full moon, drunk and exhausted heading for the subway  

The subway to Port Authority
Our legs, our feet and our ***** were killing us
We just wanted to sit

We could not for the life of us find our gate
We got misdirections from officers, other public transportation patrons
Thank God for this one janitor for pointing us in the right direction out of our wild goose chase
And ***** the guy who I asked "Hey man do you know where I can find the gate for the 177 express?"
And all I got was a blank indifferent stare
"WELL **** ME RIGHT?!" I yelled in his face

Finally we got on the line for our bus
We saw some weaselly looking guy cutting the line until he got booted to the back of the line
As he passed us we both looked at his and said "Weet, get meerkatted scumbag"
He had to wait for the next bus, whenever that was

The bus ride home felt like an eternity
But we made it
We had to walk down the unpaved dirt road to our street

We did it
We took on The Village
Sailed through the bars
Walked the streets
Met cool, hip people
Made memories
And now we have stories to tell

1738

Softened by Time’s consummate plush,
How sleek the woe appears
That threatened childhood’s citadel
And undermined the years.

Bisected now, by bleaker griefs,
We envy the despair
That devastated childhood’s realm,
So easy to repair.

If I could simply overcome
Possessive nouns and vowel sounds
I would not need to study ******
Heavy lies’ beheaded crowns
But you make martyrs with your charter
School exclusive service sector
To systemically condemn me
To the destitution nectar
Of the corner story *****’s
Potential Cinderella caged in
The statistics of the mathematic
Overdose equation
Comatose’n like a Holy Ghost
Of tranquil ranking party skanks
Whose tanks plan out the projects
For the boys still shootin’ blanks
And then the slavers liberate
Some nation-state of god forsaken
Oil barons salivate
To taste the poison Apple’s stake in
Stock in stuffer markets takin’
All the products people makin’
Privatizing profit-docket lawless
Mother Nature rapin’
For some scarcity disparities
In wealth I can’t attain
You keep me feeding on the bottom
From the top, you make it rain
So as the brains continue drainin’
In amenity dependency
I tinker with the inner-machinations
Now the enemy
You’ve made me out to be you see
My generation’s future’s bleaker
Than the past in full HD

I miss thee, I hath to admit
I want to witness again thy stunning smile so sweet
And how th' sun always kindly, and generously, touchest thy dark hair
Then shalt thou breakest into endless jokes and childish wit
'Fore rising a tender smile, as we greet each other by th' circular stairs.

I bet thou art still remarkable and stupendous as usual
Thou whom I'th known since last grey fall
By th' ponderous sleeping lake; in th' midst of a burly night;
Thou stared through me with a pair of unfathomable eyes;
as though thou couldst makest everything in my heart-better and right;
and yon, yon colourlessness of th' night, shinest so beautifully as butterflies.
Thou wert, indeedst, not th' paleness I had dreamed,
thou wert not bleak, thou wert not mean.
Thou still shined brightly though chilled and dimmed,
thou wert damp, but sunny-just like th' nearby shuffling trances
to which I had never been.
At times thou canst seem lazy, ah-but thou'rt indeedst not!
As just I do, thou liveth thy life from dot to dot,
thou leapest from time to time in my story,
thou, though far away, somehow always seem near,
and be sitting here idly with me and my poetry.
Thou might be close not to my ears,
but I canst listenest to thee; as thou eat and pray,
and as thou waketh, to every single inevitable day.
T'is life, which canst somehow be bitter,
shalt at times corruptest thy happiness and thy laughter;
wringing thee into false devotion and meanness,
but be sure, my love, t'at I shalt be thy cure;
I shalt be thy unhealed passion and all-new tenderness.
I shalt be thy first salvation, honesty and satiation;
I shalt be a scarf t'at giveth thee warmth, and thy hated mediation;
hated and dejected by t'is dreadful world, my love,
t'is world which knowest not t'at love is everything above.
And I shalt be thy heaven, and holiness,
and thy greenest grass when it is too dark,
as t'is world hurts and drivest away from frankness;
and within its grim sacrifice, lettest go of its single spark.
Ah, thee, thy innocence is just like my own soul,
but it is what makest thee divine as gold;
thou art ever pure, and incessantly pure,
and thy jokes and ventures and preachings flawless and true.
And in t'is weary life-which is sometimes faultless but unsure,
thou always makest me feel honoured;
makest me feel brand new.

Ah, Kozarev, thou art my immortal twin star,
and thy lips my sophisticated fragrant moon;
thou art my umbrella in yon idyllic heaven afar,
fade away not, but thou drifted away too soon!
My love, but sketchest again our undying night,
t'is time with a new ***** of light,
and giveth me comfort within which,
and flinch no more, for I shalt not flinch.
Thy genuinity is my nature,
thy childishness is my cure;
for t'ere are no more lips as naive as thine,
though t'ey oftentimes seemest spotless,
and t'eir toughness, seemest fine.

Ah, Kozzie, only fate t'at shalt makest out paths eventually align;
fate who hath sent me sweet prophecies, and a truthful bold sign.
Let me be thy grace, and thy sole, immortal lady;
let me be such craze, so t'at thou shalt always be with me.
I shalt be thy doll, and thy very own addict;
I shalt nursest, and cherishest thee every day of the week.
And joy, and its miraculous delight shalt be ours alone,
fallen fast asleep by night, and renewed by upcoming morns.
Together shalt we teasest every passing minute and hour;
and treatest all 'em nicely, just like how we deemeth t'at laugh, of ours.
And when nightfall greetest, sleep, my love, sleep;
thy red, innocent cheeks shalt I kiss; thy greatest dreams shalt I keep.

Kozarev, and fliest me again to th' melancholy Sofia,
wherein our peace shalt dwellest, and be cheered and alive.
But let me first fetch my old, talkative umbrella;
for Sofia shalt be full of rain; but one t'at makest it safe, and thrive.
Ah, Sofia, our little haven like yon nearby oak chatroom,
old as it is, but still-tenderer t'an t'is ever lonely gloom;
I bet Sofia is still warmer t'an t'is fraudulent war of my heart,
though it is, of now, far and sat by a land wholly apart.
Oh, Sofia, in which our love shalt be adequate, but still-inadequate,
for our love is more benign, ye' at times-more capricious t'an fate.
And it is raw, but ripe, like a mature cherry;
it hath neither tears, nor hate, nor brave worry!
Ah, my love; but again fly me, fly me, t'ere-
for cannot I waitest to live my life with thee;
and so promise t'at I shalt not bend, nor go else anywhere,
so long as thou shalt stayest, and liveth thy future years with me.

Oh, and I shalt forsaketh thee no more;
and disdaineth thee no more-thou art my sonata!
My delight liest in hearing thy sonnets be told;
thou sitting by me 'fore moonlight, down on th' starlit piazza!
Ah, Kozarev, please no longer makest my heart sore-
I am sick to death, I detestest t'is grief to th' core;
Burnest my heart's cries, and indulgest me in thy arms,
I shalt brimmest in thy glory; and gratefully lost, in thy charms.

As th' world turnest so weak and rough,
we shalt be th' sole ones to fall in love;
but our idyll is one t'is envious world cannot gather;
as it growest bleaker, as it turnest worse.
But Kozarev, having thee by my side shalt be enough;
and my days shalt be no more sad, nor tough;
Thou art th' candle, t'at lightest up th' life within me,
thou art th' candy, t'at livenest up all my poetry.

we're just as superstitious as our ancestors, we create fiction from superstition, we get the hots for haunted houses, the black dot on the bible like pirates... it's just these day, a person finding a £20 banknote would get superstitious about buying 20 lottery tickets with it, rather than a bottle of whiskey... and yes, our story-telling skills have diminished, it's more like dietary regimes these days... we pushed subjectivity so far down the drain that we're not telling stories anymore, we're simply regurgitating objectivity, facts after facts... less talk about surviving a tornado twirl and expressing the excitement from surviving such an event, and more: next! pocket that story, box it with the bar-code: adrenaline ******... we're not story-tellers anymore, we're on the verge of losing all plots... being exposed to polished narrations of Hollywood (hardly the case of being worried about doppelgangers, that was obvious in the 20th century) - as said: we like being bombarded with facts, we've stopped claiming narration for a commuting drive... we are the encyclopedia ~generation... well, we're way past being defined as a generational phenomenon... hence the quiz shows...  we started to hate the excitement of the subjective perspective, the parts were "we will never know", jealousy on this scale really killed it off... we weren't there, therefore it's untrue... coupled with this objectivity of: none of us were there, therefore it must be true... plate up ladies and gents! we're once more reduced to regurgitating facts, we're actually forced to regurgitate facts, we have no chance to score with emotions or personal thoughts... people only want to hear objective realities of our lives... we want uniform coherence like under Uncle Stalin... no deviation... none! i wonder what story will come from all this objectification... the usual, current affairs story, i blame feminism partly for this... the objectification of women lessened, and in came the objectification of everything else, as feminism has done, shoving its nose into everything from philosophy to history simply on the basis of numbers, and as to why there aren't enough women here, and not enough women there... my mother is a housewife... my father comes home with a satisfaction that at least one member of the family will not be stressed... add a second partner with stress and career ambitions and fairy-tales, and that's a house on sand-dunes... personally i wouldn't want to marry in any case... plus, feminism doesn't encourage the house-husband idea that Sweden has adopted... well... you'd think that the idea of househusbands would take off once feminism took off... apparently it didn't.

Darwinism is at odds with pop culture, i see these people
striving for fame like they might be buying penny sweets
in their hundreds, and what i find surprising
is that so much fame is being dished out,
me, jealous? yesterday i found
a twenty quid banknote on the street,
today i bought four beers and a bottle of Grant's
whiskey and i felt that: i owned the world -
yes indeed, a circus act - that's usurping
style of the khaki stormtrooper uniform...
a colon is also emphasis, without the italics...
it's not about grocery lists...
so many writers out there who put
the labouring over punctuation to others...
so many dyslexic still passing through...
mate... if you and me were *****... you'd
be tissue paper material, no, not even a ******
blockage waiting for the plumber...
or the ******* that sold condoms puncturing them
with needles for excess success rates of impregnation...
see, i peel the skin off, imitating Abraham's
madness at the excess, and cockerel
the **** like sunrise... all *sheered;
then i put the skin back on... so much for improvements
that desired God's approval... might as well
cut off all the cartilage: nose, ears, nails
(i swear they share the same category... oh wait...
nails and hair... well, n'eh bother, cut the rest off
until you enter the realm of plastic surgery).
so yeah, Darwinism is really the guillotine at
the moment, see them, watch the shepherds herding
them, they created something a Marxist would
never ever understand... the fame class system...
not some rebellion of strong idiots
working the plough field fighting noblemen bored
in their salons with ****-*** their only
exercise and solution to the boredom of a busy world,
mind being in such a world...
or do as i do... half of scotch through...
second jazz record playing in the background...
jazz doesn't translate into headphones,
you need the space...
what worries me is its trans-generational absence...
jazz is the classical music thanks to slavery,
it would never have been born in Africa,
forget it... but it bothers me it wasn't manicured,
kept pristine like some Renaissance painting...
it quickly morphed into Eminem and Vanilla Ice
and all that rap that wrapped it up...
fair enough, i can give credit to joshua redman
and his back east... but that's about it...
so as i sit sipping my Mississippi scotch of whiskey
and cola, having listened to
sonny rollins' ballads, i'm onto kenny burrel's
midnight blue... it's the sort of high culture
that's easy to cultivate... but i'm not the man you
want to revisit the Beat Movement chemistry,
i care very little to talk over the jazz with my poetry...
no wonder talking over classical music ever worked,
hence i contend to parallel myself with Bukowski
in that respect.. i shut up and write,
imagine myself on the Faroe Islands, very far
from what makes me uncomfortable,
the nearest thing to Eden, some remote place,
a village of 20 people where everyone knows
how long they take to a **** and at what hours
(given there's only one toilet) - and yes, the brackets
are also useful to make an emphasis, so example, : and ( )
all combine pretty well.
but they really are losing a one-sided battle,
given historical Darwinism, excluding our modern
perks to get into the raw caveman antics
it can be sometimes very demeaning to consider
both attitudes, simultaneously or correspond or even
excusing our modernity with intrinsic sushi (the rawness
that breeds no home comforts) -
and given the whole popularity culture...
you expect people to remember anything in
the next 100 years? the opening of a century is never
going to be enough to allow for that century's momentum...
i might be living in the 21st century, but all
my influences are bound to the 20th...
and that's where i'll remain, a beggar with a rich man's
vault of compact disks... clutter and a library...
unable to reread the books i've read (unless in snippets)...
like that tale of Neoplatonism and Plotinus
and that relationship with Christianity, but the job
that Nietzsche put in to criticise it came short of
what the actual religion did to itself, the archaeology proof
destined at Egypt, finding works there and not
in Israel along with the Dead Sea Scrolls...
fascinating how they cut Isaiah in half and the historian
Josephus placing the innovator of the Sermon
during Nero's reign, and how Nero is the first reference
to the 666... well, you know, once you zero out the preceding
years, and start again... telling the time will hardly
matter whether b.c. or a.d. - what with Darwinism
and the big bang, the Copernican west... well the Copernican
"west" - what a crazy carousel - get me off!
and indeed, with certain words...
we have encoded approximations to what each words
denotes... the brightest gem in the vault is
Hades... you don't say it as Ha A.D.H.D. -
you say hay and then you say dees, like bees -
yes, whether the d is a below the equator
and is summer in december, or whether b is above
the equator and is summer in july...
so you encode Hades but actually say: hay-d-and-many-e's -
still can't figure out how to denote a plurality of
letters with the punctuation marks given by English...
at present i'm using the inadequate possessive article
route - Peter's, Mark's, the mountain's...
the article goes off radar when there's plurality
in the thing ascribed possession: mountains' heights...
hay-d-and-many-eeeeeeeeeeeee? get the picture?
or hay-d-and-ease - baffling language,
i feel like some aboriginal looking at it from Ayers Rock
going: kangaroo the **** and didgeridoo?
no wonder the tetragrammaton is the tool to decipher
this phonetic encoding... there are too many chiral
symmetries in this tongue.
so again... i don't know why poets don't bother
to repeat themselves, on what they first concentrated on,
like the many water lilies by Monet,
or the self-portraits from varying angles...
or how modern fame, in concept, condemned itself
to c.c.t.v. and a brick wall as to how history is
experienced with mainstream Darwinism...
how quickly the guillotine chops the head off,
the finicky base for democratic applause...
and how in 100 years people might wonder:
well, Plato ain't going to be usurped, Plato will be
treated with the same faithful bias
as a blank blackboard, the established norm...
(that's all e.g. to say, it's not necessarily the
acceptance of such a norm) -
we'll still be ushered to normality by starting
from either the bleak big bang, led to an even bleaker
and bigger bonk... or we'll be cavemen admiring viral
infections - and fame and aspiration to attain
it will truly become bleak... for in these days
fame isn't competing for being remembered...
it's competing for being seen, again the c.c.t.v. model...
and given our overexposure to datums (the Oxford
authority is a bit slow to recognise that... well,
unless of course the same meaning can be achieved
with the word data... unnecessarily datii?),
advertisement being only one such source...
and would i consider the self to be an illusion?
i'd consider it on equal footing with π = 3.14159...
a piece of information, not to the fullest extent
a delusion... meaning i wouldn't discredit it completely,
given that so many people fall for it's existence
when plagiarism tempts us to swing with it...
and that there's the private, the public, the showcased
use of it... but it's still so ****** annoying
to have the lazy crew use the northern barbaric
reference to that pronoun and discredit it by treating
it as merely a useful prefix for compounding words
together to express automaton behaviours, and to have
to lie back on the psychoanalytical sofa and have to
deal with the atom of: ego, superego and id...
                                     (neutron, proton           and
the many that that that      / its its its -
the id is actually a scalpel in psychiatry - the cursor or
vector or quiet simply as stated already, scalpel,
incision maker -
                               the superego? also known as moralising
Nietzsche's übermensch - nein! klein Adolf
kann nicht spielen mit du heute);
well... might as well enjoy being trapped in
the stone ages from now on... because in between the cavemen
and ourselves, our contemporaries just called them
idiots (most notably the journalists) -
yep... only idiots separating us from caveman...
i must be double the idiot of wishing to be back
in the Dumas' France, or at the height of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth, when the Poles, second only to
the Mongols held Moscow.

..............there’s such a clamour
         so much choring
    memory thread
I sit
armchair
rocking head
receiver of motion
    bleaker of putty trauma
                creator of mammary craving

.....best take up knitting or wood carving

the fortress of thought
(in strict connivance with a bewildered host)
compiles the 'person idea'
protects the fragile calculator
               from biting at its own exposed
                  and useless self mating psychology
               from glutting on its own tail 
                   and merry going mad
                        in a tune of hoops...

..stammering to achieve valuation

for our decent management
projector
may you continue operations falser still
defeating our own polygraphs and making fools of our internal courtrooms

i sit on this chair
things go still
thoughts occur elsewhere
am i left to not be ?....................

I can see light through the wall,
as it is wearing thin with age.  
It makes it even bleaker to exist here.

I wrestle with myself
tonight

I fight with my darker half,
my bleaker thoughts,
my niggling doubts

he throws punches,
jabs at my ribs,
socks my eyes,
kicks in my knees

sometimes he hits me too hard,
in too soft a place, and I snap

I erupt

my rage boils over

I barrel back at him,
fists and feet blazing,
my arms stretching out
and then back but never
ringing true to flesh or
bone or anything

there is no way to fight
him because he is right

he’s a master at turning this
all against me

he knows what I know
(how hopeless this life
thing is) and he reminds
me each time I fail and
each time I am just weak
enough to believe him

he loves it when I try
to prove him wrong

(because I never can)

I wrestle with myself
today

I fight against the certainty
that death is the end

that darker half,
those bleaker thoughts,
my purposeless existence
and each constant
reminder

I wrestle with him
each day

he grabs my collar,
shakes me about,
spits in my face, and
calls me a coward

he laughs and
waits for me to burst
into that perfect
inferno

but I don’t, most days,
certainly, not tonight

he’s not getting to me
tonight

so I get up,
wipe his filth off my face,
shrug my shoulders
and leave

he smirks, knowing another show-down
is only a bad day or bad moment away

The more cars on permanent auto-pilot
The bleaker it will get
Don't get me wrong, the positives are definitely there
But let's see the dark side of the moon here
I want to be honest
So don't get too shocked
I can be a little blunt like the dollar store knife
The truth is
If you let this invention exceed far enough
There will be more texting, drunk driving and road head that will occur
The third one usually makes people laugh
But i know it happens
Ask around
You can't say it's a myth
If it wasn't truth, i wouldn't write it down
I promise

you sit there
in that desk chair
or at your table
at the coffee shop
day after day
hour after hour
because it's all you know
past present future
the world outside
is growing bleaker and bleaker
but that's why they made blinds
close yourself in
remove from your life
everything except this
no school
no job
no money
no contact
just you
and a desk
and a head full of things
you don't completely understand
the road isn't always pretty
in fact most of the time
it's down right ugly
and maybe it will do the same to you
but in the end
after all of the flowers wilt
and the tears stop coming
people will talk about you
"**** that boy really went
all the way"

Bodies moving in the glass
But, alas, the snow falls
Outside the globe
Who knows?
While inside
This side, like flowing tide
Points and pirouettes
Reflect in shapes like snowflakes
More unique
A picturesque finesse
But bleaker in the light
Than under glow of moon
Because they know
The show
Lacks something from
The airport shelf
Becoming
Something greater than the self
Silent ballerinas dance
Underwater glitter
Fancier than windows taller than the sky
And why
Can't they appear
And here
We disappear
In light among shadows

Two seedlings grow up on the same plot of land
Wonderful black soil, not loose sand
So their roots gripped deep, so tall they could stand
So face to face they grew, each one knowing the other
As they shot up, their love soon bloomed one for another
They so longed to touch and entangle
With their branches they wanted to hold and mingle
And all the way to their roots they wanted to feel the tingle
Their love grew strong, and so did their trunks
They were watered and cared for each day by the monks
And the years slipped by when one final hour
Their branches could touch with a little wind power
A few more years slipped by and they now could embrace
And they were happy they had been planted face to face
They stood for centuries happy and content in their place
Sadly they thought that this bliss would last forever
All life problems they swore to endeavor
They held each other through storms and sunny weather
Until one day his roots grew weaker
With every passing year their situation grew bleaker
One night a storm blew in and their situation was dire
The wind blew him over and lightning set him on fire
She lost some branches trying to hold on to him
She knew deep down to her sap that now her life would be grim
Without him by her side she started to cry
And with every eternal year that crept by
Her limbs no longer reached for the sky but drooped down to the ground
Cuz that is now where his charred remains could be found
She reached for him with every single limb
Her weeping went on each day of the sorrowful years she was filled to the brim
The monks took care of her but they could feel her great sorrow
They prayed everyday that she would stand strong till tomorrow
One day an old monk took a close look at the tree
And decided the pain had changed her so much that her name now is different by decree
So my child when you lay your tired head on your pillow
Remember her and all her seedlings are now the weeping willow
She's there to remind us of the loss of great love
That not even her seedlings could rise above

i used to get this feeling
that the world was really great
i remember playing hopscotch in
the driveway with the
sun shining
like the most
beautiful
thing
a beacon of
light
from god himself
i remember dancing
in the backyard with
the sprinkler on
water
flying
skirt
jumping
neighbors
smiling
i was
happy
i used to climb that one
tree at the
park
i called it
mine
one day they chopped off the branch i
always
sat on
not mine
i wanted to be a
dancer
ballerina
enchantress
mom said
no
not
good enough
not enough
money
do something
practical
i just wanted to create
magic
and touch the
stars
that was when
the sky got
blacker
and
the world got
bleaker
then i looked
at other girls
long
legs
thin
arms
soft
hair
pretty
face
me.
thicklegsfatarmstangedhairuglyface
better
o­ff
dead.
pale skin spiderwebbed
with red
red words
red lines
pink scars
dead eyes
all of a sudden the
world
wasn’t that great
then came
the pills
the
tears
the bed
dead

Now is not the best time to explain things
I've only just started piecing it together and I'm already growing impatient to let it out.
We all dream, keep your defenses.
It doesn't matter if you can't remember, or you simply choose not to, your mind works while you're asleep whether you want it to or not.
Monks are lying *******.
They dream of more **** women than Hugh Hefner dreads to.
It's a cognitive world within your own. You control its limits, you rule its boundaries... you bend reason. Your very own simulator. A poetic response to your inner turmoil and imbalance. Capable of flow, direction and evaluation. Something to teach you while you're sleeping or entertain you while you're easing.
But more often than not I end up on the dark edges of my mind's shriveling synapses, desperately trying to make sense of the erupting chaos within. A strategic backlash of reality with grim undertones. Void of logic or pertinence to anything even remotely related to my life. Almost senseless.
Dreams are for the innocent. Nightmares are reserved for the wicked, or so my elders said. But when you grow up, your nightmares grow with you becoming darker and bleaker with experience and knowledge that you've consciously or sub consciously gained with age. A cacophony of thought igniting every mental nerve until the shock reels you from your hell.

Lately, my dreams have been lucidly obscure. Irrationally dim.
Two, three, sometimes even seven, one after another. Within the span of a couple of hours my mind is thrashed by the recurrent horrors of imagination. Uncontrolled and violently debilitating, I lie weak and drained in bed every afternoon. There is no mourning in my day. Enveloped by its melancholy I am forced to reset my train of thought. The overture of this madness spits on the spark that would otherwise lighten up a new day. It's become a chore to wake up and lie staring into space trying to recollect reality and separate newly forged memories, that shouldn't even exist, from those that should remain. I'm unsure if my eyes are even closed when I am fighting this sub conscious war. Fever dreams are a walk in the park. This is the real deal. A reverie on acid in the river Styx, and Charon is Jesus.

What follows after the liberation is a mess of things. Disorientation and apathy subtly set in. A million questions with no answers and no one to ask but the mind. A mind who's whim even I myself can't fathom. So my tasteless day is decorated with deja vus I shouldn't feel and nostalgia I can't. If I don't pull myself out sooner than I do, I'd be lost in limbo til dusk. Then in the dark I will find more demons running astray. Some at the bottom of a glass bickering away, some in the crevices of the walls preying on consorts and others in the harsher solitude of unsought company wearing smiles to their dismay.

Whatever be the case, I will ultimately find my way back to the bed and into my head, and once again, this motion picture preview I will dread. Another page from the book of agony will then be read leaving nothing unsaid.

He met a girl called Mary Jane
she made his fears become
either ghostly apparitions
or waking nightmares
he didn't prefer one over the other
he knew that there was no difference
He met this girl
the summer before ninth grade
and she showed him a life
full of unseen wonders
the beauty of apathy and laziness
He didn't need anybody else
only that beautiful girl
she made him good,
made him better,
made him calm,
made him him
Dancing beneath a flickering street light
he soaked in the peace of the world
until it rose above him
a shaking mass of bleak nothing
which at least hid the world
of even bleaker negativity
Mary Jane was a good girl
but he had outgrown her sway
he would miss her
but truthfully,
he also
would not

Heavy clanging of funeral bells greet
newer, bleaker days in the same turmoil.
Men and Women alike run fast to meet
greener grass sprouting out the same black soil.
I cut laugh lines into my pallid face
and throw my head 'neath freight trains each new morn'
I find little solace or change of pace
in carving the page to express my scorn.
My dark fantasies of death and sorrow
plague my night and cast shadow over day.
The other souls are simple, vain and weak
that shuffle on wires with little to say
and no fighting spirit of which to speak.
For each smile, there runs a bitter tear.
Just let me sleep, wake me when Death comes near.

I thrash around in the undertow
Conveyored out to sea, fully aware I can save myself
By simply standing up
Instead, I stay in the ocean of lies and fuckyous
Struggling to keep my head above water

I like to think of myself as a strong swimmer
Captain of rhyme and reason
But here the waves deliver blows to my head
And the further from shore, the bleaker my future becomes

The safety line is broken, no going back
To the warm beach where we sat, jobless
And you wore my bracelets while the sun gave us life

The sun, who now taunts me from above
This disorienting, fluid prision
Never again will I watch those educated hands
Immerse themselves in the grains of sand overlooking calm water
All I have left is endless blue
And these spongelike lungs soaking it up

My weary muscles relax and I disappear over the horizon
Toward the red sunset

A bleak day
and bleaker still
Rain pocks the pavement
and my windowsill

Come heavy winds tonight
they say
casting eerie shadows
as the trees will sway

The earth will shake
with thunder and doubt
But make no mistake
That's what life is about

Each storm brings the promise
of life and decay
You may die tomorrow
oh, but you're alive today

And when fear holds you
and darkness persists
please remember, my dear
that true love exists

You frivolous heart, what bounds you break,
You torturous mind to inflict such an ache,
Have you not learned nor felt the sting of such thought?
That weaves its new pattern, for a new mind to wake.

The wondrous onslaught of untried design to take hold,
As a fresh pair of eyes perceive a new pathway, bold,
Wait, yet you know this world brave and new,
Spoken of, no, lived in a story once told.

Are we creatures of pattern and rigid confines?
Or do we linger, intently, at the edge of hope's hard lines?
Oh ineffable conquest, unfathomable veil,
My courage waning in the shadow of bleaker times.

Though elusive, a way I am able to see,
Its evading nature forcing a strain upon my mind and me,
Am I free to escape this passionless pit?
Relinquish fear and abandon what was once identity?

he’s got this look like he doesn’t know how much he’s into them for and the kicker is he’s alone. I’d subtitle him as nervous but it wouldn’t be ample. we’re brothers, 4 years between our bleaker anxieties. he talks with his arms and I see my father at age 32 and my father sees me and winks. brother he knocks the table wood that separates us with both knuckles and tells me he’s gonna need luck in both of these and he shows his open palms. he begins to gag and I **** but he shows me again his palms. I lean back in my chair and pretend I am in a very small space and pretend I am cigarette smoke. I see the oval in his throat and then an egg and then the egg broken on the table. my brother he loses his cool and bites his palms and futilely tries to set the table afire with matches, some light some don’t, no matter. he tells me he usually catches the egg and telling me calms him. still, it’s some trick and I say it. not a trick, he says, but magic. he drowses right there in front of me and my subtitle is ‘****’ because I am scared. we go inside to the dog we’re sitting for and I retire to the guestroom where I check the eggs in my bag to make sure they’ve not broken. I go into the bathroom with one of them and say down the hatch. I spend the night on a hard bed and care for my stomach. my stomach and not the egg.

Dark days just got darker
The future now bleaker
Our rights soon weaker

Temperatures up
Sea levels rise with
Judicial surprises:

Rights curtailed
Guns for sale
Executive privilege
Press repressed
Marches now riots
Meaner tweets
Free speech costs
Groups targeted
Families disbanded
Profiling preferred
Embryos policed

Emigration in order?

You remind me of someone I used to know.
Such familiar eyes, but yours are emptier.
You remind me of someone from my past.
Such a familiar smile, but yours is faker.

You remind me of a time gone by.
Such familiar memories, but yours seem bleaker.
You remind me of a different path.
Such a familiar story, but yours grew darker.

You remind me of someone I wanted to be.
Such familiar dreams, but yours just shatter.
You remind me of a hope once known.
Such familiar feelings, but yours became duller.
Mirror, Mirror, I know this girl, but I can’t recall her name.

**** to the bone
inhibiting you is the “gospel”
you’ve only ever known & it’s been
preached down your pureness
now the moon is bleaker than ever
scars decorating your chest
& sin’s throned your shadow
how come your eyes are even turning blacker?
you’re distorted like the sheep they’ve lead
and the confession you attempt to shed
oh, how loaded and heavy
it trips over your vocal chords
“pray for me,
for you possess the sincerity to heaven’s doors”
entrust & I shall vow to you my open skull -
your bucket of absolution
which you'll feed on ..
the path of truth
till its final morsel — the void & bones
of a hunger-fed wolf

Demons walk this house of mine
They do it at night from time to time
They frighten my guests
And startle my pet's
My cat just sits and stares
My dog her teeth she bears
They just push her aside
She runs and hides

They walk last night again my floors
So I got up and shut the bedroom door
Of course they do what they alway do
My door they pass right through
I tried to ignore them as on my bed I sat
But not tonight they would have none of that
They were there to chat

What do you want, I asked with disgust
They spoke with the tongues of cosmic dust
We are here to watch and savor
Your situation will soon be much graver

Three shadow men in front of me stood
Glowing eyes stared out from under their darkened hood
One pointed at the table, one at the razor, one at my hand
Time it slowed, the hourglass lost it's sand

Then they said, we are here for you our dear friend
My hand started to shake, and then extend
I gave them a determined look
And pulled my hand back although it shook

You can make me cut, you have many times before
I know it's the smell and taste of my blood you adore
You can even make me take my life
They laughed so hard at that, We only want to bring you strife
You silly human child
It's not you blood we desire

Although we do like to watch your blood flow
What we want is the pain to grow
It's just a plus to make you bleed
But it's on your human soul we feed
And your agony makes it all the more sweeter
So your life we make sure it's so much bleaker

I ordered them out of my room
I demanded they take their gloom
They swiftly moved, pinned me down and entered my head
And now I'm wishing that I was not food but dead!