[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero

Initially she began contacting me over the course of a year or so and increasingly over the last few months she started visiting me, helping me, caring for me and occasionally employing me in different ways.

She’d just had a break up a few weeks before, explaining that things hadn’t been right in the relationship for some time!

She presents herself as respectful, thoughtful, gentle, kind and considerate and after what seemed to be a very short length of time; unexpectedly declared that she had feelings for me; regarding love, admiration, desire and some other adventures.

She then began to bombarded me with love talk; occupying around 70% of my time gaining my trust, I was swept off my feet; she took a great deal of interest in me, learning everything about me, what I liked, where I would go, always asking what I was thinking feeling, how she could help and I was flattered and she was charming, though a little awkward at times.

As our friendship grew she started sharing her back story, including some tragic life experiences; she vilified her past lovers, and ex-partners and branded them as crazy, or bitter liars and troubled souls; slowly gaining my sympathy, whilst securing my allegiance, and keeping me on side; keeping me close; drawing on my compassion loyalty & trust!

During intimate moments she would sometimes seem a little awkward, false, over enthusiastic or a little insincere, and I made allowances for this given my knowledge of her backstory.
Re: (tragic events & experiences)

She began to choose and buy me clothes; outfits, take me shopping, gradually altering my outward image and appearance.

She introduced me to her friends; but was careful to keep me and them at arms-length, I realise (((Now))) that she was building an alternative profile of me in their minds and that the people she introduced to me rarely exhibited the behaviors or characteristic that I was led to expect.

She soon started to embroil me in her own rituals and compulsive behavior's, explaining that tasks needed to be performing in very specific ways to prevent her getting distressed!

She made many promises : ‘The hook’ It was my expectation i.e. waiting for some of those promises to materialise, that kept me hanging on the hook; As this increased her control and I think exited her too.
(Next to none of her promises came to fruition!)

She gradually had a hand in almost every aspect of my life i.e. my home, my work, my friends, family, my finances, the way I dressed, the food I ate and many other things besides, much of which I didn’t realise until our relationship was finally over. and I was left empty.
(In every way)

She often took immense pleasure in duping, individuals or companies out of something through theft, shoplifting, or getting something for nothing, a profiteer, a chancer!

To question or challenge her authority would result in seeing her facade slip and watch her decline into meltdown. It's at that point, she would lose composure, and I would see her irrationality come to the fore; revealing the real person underneath; childish, contrived and very fragile; It’s as if control is the glue that holds her together, without it she just falls apart, during this time she can’t be consoled and it’s impossible to calm this escalating situation; in fact; at this point that she would attempt to regain control by ‘gas-lighting’ me, she would distort the truth; re: who said what; in an attempt to damage my self-esteem, to make me question my own mind, my words, my intention and any actions, apportioning blame, pointing fingers, making me feel guilty, use rejection, or using hurt, sorrow, tears, shame and even threaten liable or legal action, and then use *** to pacify or regain control over me and my actions.

These episodes would appear often; though irregular and without provocation, I would always be deemed at fault!
I found silent compliance was less stressful than engaging in discussion.    

She never took responsibility or made any apologies for her conduct.

She would set me tasks, and go out a lot, and lie or bend the truth, as to where she had been; I never once challenged this behaviour!

When the relationship was finally deemed over; I was both devastated and relieved.

I began to see my new position in the cycle; as she immediately begin to vilify me in order to give credence to her new backstory, I felt very confused, disorientated and emotionally fraught, shell shocked! questioning, how much of our relationship was true and how much was a lie? For everything I thought I knew was now knitted together with a very complex web of loyalties, lies and half-truths.

Her pattern of repetitive and controlling behaviors have seemingly remained unchanging throughout all her relationships;
(I was covertly contacted by many of her previous partners and various other casualties since leaving her, and they offered shared many familiar experiences.

Within two weeks of being apart (ostracised) she informed me that she had fallen in love (And that my replacement) some-one she admires, someone kept just within the circle, a mutual acquaintance and she even thanked me for bringing them together.

My assumption is that: The grooming of her new lover will have commenced some time ago; her M.O. (Her pattern of behaviors, her techniques have remained fixed.)

She’s incredibly self-conscious, her biggest fear is that other people will find out about her true demeanour, as her image and appearance is everything to her. She's afraid that people will shun her for being so very, very different.
She is a wolf, that’s not to say she is a malevolent creature par-say; she is awesome, beautiful and beguiling in many ways, but you don’t want to be pray.

Full circle:
I too have joined the ranks of the discredited; labelled a liar, troubled, bitter and crazy; she contacted members of my, family, friends and some fellow musicians; and a few folks shared some of these conversations accusations with me.)
I suspect that she may even attempt to vilify me with authorities or threaten some form of legal action; as she has to other lovers in the past.

Despite everything I'm still drawn to her charismatic boldness, her awkward ****** power, her intelligence, and so…I have blocked all means of contact to curtail my own almost pathological interest, for despite everything that’s transpired, her lies, her infidelity, her deceit and appalling behaviour, I'm still drawn, intrigued, bewitched, beguiled by the person hiding underneath the façade.

Now the dust has finally settled; I’ve somehow remained sound of mind.

I don’t feel guilty or loyalty anymore; I’m aware that I’ve been manipulated into thinking and acting in ways that don’t truly represent my character; and that I’m just one of many people seduced by a sociopath; (((another natural human variant)) a person devoid of empathy for others, an entity that’s developed a narrow set of skills and mirroring behaviors, that allows her to blend into mainstream society in order to feel safe, secure and in control.

She would have preferred to keep me hanging on, like many other dependents, adding me to the hareem; a bank of beguiled individuals that she occasionally calls upon to perform simple tasks, or perhaps to monitor and re-assess her clever handwork.

The last time we met she opened with nervous politeness and finished with pleasure and veiled cruelty.
I left feeling drained, uncomfortable and quite fazed.

I’ve written this diary account to help further understand what had transpired during this complicated relationship.
(I’ve published it here with no names, because I think it’s worth understanding, it’s not a warning or a vengeful act.

In any case, Her next lover will ignore any pre-warnings as just bitter ramblings, as most individuals are driven by the natural pursuit of love, which consists of caring intellectual loyalty, *** and romance rather than following advice of some seemingly bitter ex. ( And rightfully so)

Good kind or exciting people further enhance the image and status of a sociopath and they will orbit your small shiny star, tapping into your  valuable energy before  slingshotting into a larger, more attractive orbit of a lager star.
Sadly love, *** and desire is simply a tool for manipulation and gain, it's all about prestige.

I wish her well, like every creature.

Expect high drama.

I wish we lived in a world
where we were bombarded with messages of hope
that encourage us to grow

instead of being bombarded with messages of futility
that our worth lies in meaningless products
and how and what we consume
we are told to conform

I am more than my material possessions
and how much I get on my paycheck

everything is so sweet
like cotton candy sold in the night market
just like vanilla ice cream that melted on the tongue
tonight the sky was bombarded with fireworks
rainbow colors are scattered everywhere
stars have friends
they celebrate

finding gravity on a bicycle...

surely... given that most people
don't write a ******* hemmingway...
and there's no william buckley jr.
doing the interview...
and there's no norman mailer...

and that: no one really bothers
with kierkegaard and that:
kant "famously" didn't marry starry crap...
why didn't i have kids
and start a family?
uh... dunno... mother's best lie...
or the best lie a neighbour brings
with her... whenever you're
being a 2nd witness without
the 1st witness being there...

and she says an "also" with regards
to her son having the same luck
with women...
when the comparison comes:
a koala bear versus a gorilla...
bonsai tiger!
like a koala is a ******* bear
to begin with...
cuddly soft-pouch toy-ah-thing!

but there's that great feat!
finding gravity on a bicycle...
my mother helped me with that...
and that famous fail of
a rotondo... well... more or less
a cricket ground egg shaped, oval...
or a rugby ball...
the shoulder on the salto bike
hard... rammed into a car....

as a child you were supposedly well
loved...
and this is modern poo'etry i hear about?
here's to: john sounding like johny...
will sounding like *****...
richard sounding like: **** and not richy...
it's cute... matthew... matti: finnish...
leonard is: leo oh leo...
why art we all not named: Li Lo Po!

of course everyone managed to spot
the tetragrammaton vowel catchers that's
hey'zeus! no... not the bloke strapped
to the mannequin of tailoring...
oh no... not the crucifix pendulum
"for us all"... by blood... by cross...
who is to exfoliate on the crucifix...
better than some well scouted for materials
on a mannequin canvas for tailoring
a suit?
the guilt?! oh the guilt!
well... thank god this metaphysician would
never address the material realm of
enjoying a... dabble with... wool...
when donning a suit...
or leather shoes... or any presence of suede...
beside the crucifix mannequin: replica
and pittance!

- but finding gravity on a bicycle is one thing...
finding gravity when swimming is another...
it's called gravity...
but some heretical circles call it:
balance...
after all... it is both gravity...
and balance... given that while riding
a bike... or swimming...
you're pretty much sure, assured:
to not be falling...

you can find gravity with newtonian hindsight...
of sure...
that's there... it involves the magicians orbs...
copernican mathematics and...
target practice when it comes to
propaganda spew...
and Steward... the lesser... Stew...
cousin of the house of Stuart...
not Steward... Stuart...
which is (again)...
a McKiteit and MacCoddlewit...
some Glaswegian *****-donor clinic
"miss-up" mix-it: tend to...
lounging busy... which is of course...
besides the "look"...

5 bazookas cleared for a salvo!
hip hip! burger-pound!
hip hip! boom shizzle shoom!
hip hip! hooray!
oh now we'z getz uz best
partay birth doy wishy-washy
"protagonists"!

but given the current Persian affair...
i couldn't help to notice...
love actually... the narrative...
the u.s.a. and england...
the Z-spezial re-la-tion-ship...

so... who's spastic... and who's fantastic?!
spaz: B-bristolian-esque joking...
never aside...
who's the spaz and who's the frizzy-fuss?!

spe-zial mother russia talks down
to dog Kiev: yes, it's in (the) Ukraine...
spezial iz not what iz?

h'america... kept a yorkshire terrier...
media leetches of england
firmly in its grasp...
cuz onez we woz: once -
the militia contra the crown...
of north virginia...

coz b'rah: a 79-year-old man
who lit himself on fire protesting
against russia's language policies
in the capital of the volga region
of udmurtia has died;
name? alberto raisin...
which sounds terrible in its
non-native spanish...

but there's something worth of gravity
without debating
the heliocentric model...
finding one's balance on a bicycle...
a posteriori events...
but... the same balance can be
translated into a swimming session...

my god my father tried to teach me...
if i was supposed to learn
to swim in the sea...
with the fear: of not seeing the depth?
isn't that like a thesaurus
congestion of: acrophobia?
isn't there a word in the borrowed
lexicon of the ancient greeks...
concerning... fearing to swim in a body
of water... where you can't see the bottom?
i could learn to swim in a swimming
pool... thankfuly all because and due to...
moi...

i also found gravity in water...
i could... lie in water and become...
the antithesis of: the body consists
of 90% of water...
yes sherlock watson & sons... ltd...
but in water i'm mostly fat...
if i find the right balance...
i float...
which is why swimming is a bit
like riding a bicycle...
you find: the center...
or gravity...

again... in this special "relationship"
of bruv-love...
between h'america and whittle brit-pop interlude...
oasis on the continent...
my my... blur, even...
breakfast at tiffany's back in the dough-dough-us...
who is the ******* SPASTIC?
in this "SPEZIAL" relationship?
i guess the english must be the SPEZIALS...

a bit like watching:
go-go-gonzales trip up on a spelling mistake...
which is all i care for...
like a comedia...
a deviation from the informal, later,
subject of language implementation...
and all this peacocking prior...

where else does gravity allow itself...
a presence of the multi-vector?
up and down... left and right...
it's not as easily explained as:
on a ledge... with an apple...
drop it... newton with a header!
a 1-all equalizer in stoppage time
an F.A. cup re-match!

gravity on a bicycle...
it's hardly a drop affair...
gravity in water...
it's hardly merely swimming...
there's that aspect of finding... buoyancy...
there's not need for you to swim...
to exhert so much effort...
that you might as well drown 10 meters
in after swimming the 'undred...

no buoyancy: no chinese fortune cookies...
i still don't know which is more grand...
beside the acrobatics of... olympic level
acrobatics...

it's not bound to youth via lifting weights...
or supreme mao tse tung's winter olympics
of: hunger strikes in Vinter...
the gravity bound to a bicycle...
or the gravity bound to swimming...
after all... the latter is a bit "funny"...

"levitation" and buoyancy...
the dracula soundtrack:
only because of gary oldman and the composer
wojciech kilar... and the given, current...
b.b.c. spin-off and how...
yes... it's that terrible...
i don't even know where those five-stars
came from!
the archetype of feminine romance novels?
the syphilitic lover? the "vampire"?

yes, no? two guesses as good as: nein - keiner...
and, quiet honestly...
nothing could make this exercise in:
not engaging in any of all the available
comments sections on any website...
any worse... than it already is...

it comes as no surprise that: i write this poo'ems
not because i don't write poetry...
but because i will neither write
a poem by standards reserved for
pedagogy or demagogy...
or write identifiable puzzle-bog-trots of...
language reserved for politicization:
and not for... counter-marxist...
"psychiatric" post-...
hardly modern or... "today's journalism"...
eh... pushing it toward a Beckett-clause...
concerning language that is not expected...
oh but i certainly do know
a difference between formal language
and... this... the informal language...
the cognitive extension that does not
require a "free speech" protection bias...

none of this was spoken...
it was seen...
weaved into "thinking"...
that's the difference... isn't it?
from my end of the tenniscourt "promenade"
i've heard nothing but clickick...
off this dead-end replica piano
of a qwer
asdf
zxcvbnm

unless my shadow spoke... or there was some
telepathic connection
with the schizoid "group-think" of me
sourcing my sometime odd...
cognitive-murmors of "thought"...
"hallucinations"...
so be it...

this defence of a freedom of speech...
how does that even extend into writing?
i will never know...
and to be honest? i don't want to know...
writing is an extension of thinking...
which is also an inversion of speaking...
but it's never speaking...
where's the audio on this piece?!

how about... plucking your eyes out,
after fating yourself with the
original curiosity to begin with?
sounds better: than... what still persists as...
not being, said!

this was written, it wasn't said...
this is not a transcript...
this is not a transcript...
if this is censored...
then my... "schizophrenia" is not even
my original thesis of: bogus
mono-lingual parody of bilingualism...
no need to cite **** sapiens
jurisprudence advocates...
lawyers... the thesaurus bargain barons etc.
this is... what's those words they use?
invasion of the tabernacle?
do my "auditory hallucinations" stem from...
these words...
a private investement in internet access...
again: nothing is being said!
because this is a "public arena"...
a "forum"...
and the eyes on the other side of this text...
are c.c.t.v. eyes?!
not private eyes?

what's the point of freedom of speech?
when the freedom to think:
and subsequently write... is bombarded
by being who: see via reading braille...
and read... comments likes dislikes and all
those other ratios?

writing is an extension of a freedom
to think... most people who speak freely
don't speak via a precursor script...
that's not free speech: that's scripted speech!
and just because it happens be placed
in a public "forum"...
that's the argument that this writing
is a freedom of "speech"?!
really?! i guess your average u.s. citizen
is more despotic than the *******
president... then...

again.. blah blah blah blah blah...
blah blah.... blah blah blah blah blah...
blah... blah blah... blah blah blah blah blah blah...

you'd sooner convince a parrot to sing
you a song in sparrow than call this "debate"...
evenly focused on one or neither side "winning".

Her mouth glittered agape
With sacred promise,
Like a box of unused
Engagement invites
Christening invites
Birthday invites
Still in the wrapper
For sale at a
Lifeline.

When you’d rather live
In a car
Than the zombie stance
Of a modern house,
Clean and soulless
With a hermetically sealed lawn,
Winter pageantry draws to a close
With bogan’s shooting-
Pearly eyed paupers
With constellations in their gaze.
With eyes full of hope and stars
That burnt bright and fade for
Flickering lens light.

Their voices murmur soft
Through catacomb
And underbrush
As only the ephemeral things are whispered of –
Dreams.
The addicts of ideals
The junkies of hope
The drinkers of despair
Have tiger soft tongues.

They lap and feast gladly,
From broken vessels
Chipped with hazardous teeth
That seek to fill their
Ermine mouths with the ******
Draught
Of truth.
Stumbling through wine-hour
They swarm, with tongues ******
And all constellations burnt out.

The hyacinth rides wild
Upon her shoulder,
Writhes in the silver brunt
Of moonlight,
Writhes in the stillness of dead perfume.

Marching to the beat
Of my enemies drum,
My hands inside my pockets.

Little bluebirds spun from dream
Sit on the holy perch,
A branch in all innocent minds.

The redeemed and patient
Make a subtle art from
Long distance perversions.

Similarly as we chase ghosts over Daffodils.

Fields of winter
under lunar glow
sway without us.

Long distance love
lingers with loose lust
along Regret street.

I hung it next to the memory
Of childhood cooking and Indian summers
Without further thought.

It slipped into the novel that took the form
Of an old coat, slipping into the lined pocket
It sank with a sigh.
Satisfied with itself.

Bombarded by the pounding
Dead eyed stare of ***** goddesses,
Broken by the undisputed angelic
And unglued ones,
All moon faced
All hopelessly optimistic
All lawfully rebellious
With green serenity
We pasted our dreams
On a wall so real it shone gossamer.
He counted the imperfections in the glass
With mind hesitation
As the whole world went black,
In a sea of much deserved discontent,
Wishing for the soft.

A moment of pure luck?
Jesus was an astronaut
Smoking Zen by the fire.

Suicidal angst
never had you in sonnets?
What a ******' shame.

Our life is but a song
We never hear.

I chipped away at the excesses
of my baroque person,
each strike took a
Railing
mounting
wall
decoration
desire
demand
exclamation
from the battlements.
All left now, a hill.

I paid for my banquet
with a sip of loneliness
and left behind the question
that asked all quiet poets
the meaning of love,
that asked all quiet poets
to answer with a villanelle
shouted from every
distant peak.

They sent the troopers
to greet me instead,
and my library was put in shackles,
and I kissed their ***** feet.

I answered that I carved this mountain
from the baroque bedrock
upon which they laid their city.
They smiled and asked about the aqueducts.
I wept and spoke of kitchenettes.

A meal provided
on a lead cast plate
my jailor asked about freedom
I answered with defeat.

There were two atoms
One questioned the meaning of existence
The other the existence of meaning.
             -Regardless they looked the same.

An apple on a branch,I took
The same way history takes a footnote.

The same way cashiers are all doctorates.
The same way trains find the station.
The same way you sing like a bird (and I like a cow).
The same way we never really wish to be writers.
The same way our final friend is made of pine.
The same way all streets lead to nowhere.
The same way all jobs **** society.
The same way we always lie to our children.
The same way a man loves a woman.
The opposite way we ****.
The opposite way we make love.
The way that I know a man who’s totem animal is a worker ant and he is unemployed by choice.
The same way we take old memories and turn them into fashion.
The very same way all sacred things become profane and all profanity becomes sacred in the eyes of many.

Dying relic of the Optimistic Seventies,
A new coat of paint for the old irony
     -slap dashed with obscurity.
Although I wear the costume of my enemy,
I will write the exaltation in blue smoke
As **** by an unsuspecting victim
Occurs in the dark.

The face of another love stares down at me.
I smile.
Yet I know it is not her.
I weep.
A sudden method sparks revival.

Jackie Pleasure wore a gray smile,
The anthem of a lost generation:
‘Happiness is lost in smiling.’

You are dead to me,
the boatman calls
I will not taste of your amber lips
I will not taste.

The welfare of all never hinged on darkness as we fear the fall,
A multitude of angels sang their songs
And never learnt to say goodbye
Or cast a long distance eye
Over half spent desire.

Drawn out caricatures,
Paraded intoxication
Flirt with our mistress death
And have her pick up the tab.
She pays with silent music.

The ***, we learn, is a bridge
Between all words and waltz’s,
Our Light Brigade to conquer art.

In the twilight of this, our mansioned night
Let us ring out true with indulgence,
Excess, abandon and the call of ‘yes’
Kali rang on the wire of a golden telephone.
Her name
“Kali, Kali…”
Like a quarrelsome minotaur
Flew through the waves of silk ideal
And strangled the babe
With cool breath.

There was ice (oh yes!) and fire and song.
With our candles burnt down to the ash of all streets
We walk then. We walk.
All life is but a song.

The ghosts of all forgotten stamps
Now echo on the wind of speech.
On High! Oh speak!
Of songs sung but never danced
With our broken dream.
When starlight meets the dust, and
Shadow eats the snow,
All our stories are satin sheer
And all our wants are gone.
We watch the memories march, until
They find a sliver of chrome that showed that place
Where all piano’s live and breathe.
My father in the wishing well,
My mother played trapeze.
My sister never saw the light,
My brother never born.
That was that,
Where stars meet dust
And floorboards sing off key.

i can't stop feeling this pounce of melancholy,
and i mean: it's like a lynx pouncing on my chest,
i can't even claim a clinical dimension to it,
it's a sadness that comes on two fronts...
   it's a sadness that i left Poland when i was 8,
and the greater part of my life was spent
using the English language...
         and i find the Anglophone world so devoid
of consistency... all this post-truth
          labelling...
       this throwing of the cartesian maxim the other
way around, the "i am" really does
   predated the "i think" scenario on the hopes
of asking for a genesis, a (0, 0) / (ο, ω) coordinate
beginning... yes, i know more of a dougnut
   and less the orbit of a planet in the latter case...
     i can't believe i'm getting this technical -
but it sometimes happens, you know?
i don't really like it... i'd love to write about less
claustrophobic matters, less constrictive intellectual
matters... and before you shoot me down
by denouncing the crass lack of motivation -
                i am frail in undertaking another "poem",
and i mean that as a way of saying:
              terse narration and no claim to technique,
or at least that's what i know is modern...
           i watch the following list of videos
as a sort of freak-natured lullaby while drinking
Obey the Walrus         I FEEL FANTASTIC
Agamemnon Counterpart       Username 666
Cursed Kleenex Commercial      There is nothing
Performance Olivier de Sagazan 2008  
     The Wyoming Incident        My Dead Great
Grandma’s Coffin in My Own backyard!
K-Fee Car Commercial       Pretty Woman
Fatal Diving Accident        Girl Goes ****** During
Makeup Tutorial       Paris Catacombs Lost Footage
Shaye Saint John – Hand Thing (yes, copy & paste
given the uppercase lettering, i can be lazy
once in a while) -
                          so i do see a lot of potential in
these clips... if you can't dazzle them: might as well
scare them...
                      but i watch them and then write
a native-language poem while listening to
    music accompanying a zbigniew herbert poem
by tadeusz woźniak - and i get all nitty gritty
when using a language i should have forgotten
aged 8... and i type one out and i am brought
to tears with it... and then it vanishes from the html
blank...
             and then a deeper horror sets in,
which Ezra Pound would have liked
and it merely means: ten quotes by Horace,
a video, with only 230 views on youtube...
                    no one would dare say carpe diem
like a cliche after seeing this video...
             but still the sadness persists...
and i can't make it systematic, not systematic in
the sense that it might appeal to the zeitgeist of:
the January blues, or... i need the pharmacological
rainbow...
        i have a miniature vineyard... enough for
35 litres of wine... and i make the wine myself...
i pick the grapes...
i crush them, i buy the yeast, i melt the sugar until
i get runny sugar-thick water,
   and you know? out of the 5 litre holders for it...
i get about 10 pristine bottles of wine,
roughly in the range of 15% a pop...
                   from 35 litres i get about 10 pristine bottles
of wine... quality-wise: the stuff you'd expect to
buy in a shopping market...
       and that's the sad part...
it bothers me that i've waited for long for the wine,
i might have mentioned it a few months back that
i do actually make my own wine... but given the addiction
it's a product that could only last for something
worth celebrating...
                     these days people speak of a marathon's
worth of abstinance from the stuff for a month...
    which is a bit sad, given that if people ventured
into producing their own alcohol, they'd have
a Dionysian month of binging on it... and then having
11 months being sober... until the natural cycle comes
back, like the rare event of a comet...
    i'm sad i lost a few poems on the way...
but i'm also sad that the drinking should begin by spring
and that i'm ****** already...
                  that i'm still buying whiskey,
and when i do actually drink that one bottle of clouded
wine today, i'll feel a sense of the most minute accomplishment...
   i can't stop facing this industrialisation of
everything... whether it's alcohol, or art...
   or intellectual debate...
   sure, i'll listen to Breitbart for a bit...
then i'll listen in on how we've began mutilating
language... then i'll think of god, and recount
kant's concept: imagine the pangs of despair i felt
reading through the second volume of the critique -
if you do: you'd be surprised by what's involved
in transcendental methodology...
    what could possibly obstruct you in the existence
of: said word... not enlarged in religious practices?
   i am comforted by the fact that kant deals with
god on a non-religious basis...
    religious i mean: worthy of a reciting only one
book a thousand ******* times and building churches...
if god is merely lodged in your mind and allows
for a narrative, who is sane enough to take that
narrative initiative from you, considering the fact
that you're not bound to kneel and read only one
book a thousand times as if that one book held
the sole capacity for your vocab exfoliation and learning
of the alphabet?
     how can you ever be bound to a cognitive detestation
of god? that really must be painful...
considering that thought is so ****** whimsical, frail,
   picky, panicky... give it all you want...
you can't establish a cognitive detestation of god
  on the simple ground that thought is being bombarded
by a 5:1 ratio of the senses versus 1 non-sense -
    which god evidently is: given the numbers of
the good-church going folks... kneeling lunatics i call them...
but the simple fact that you want to do a lobotomy on
yourself with atheism, is a bit like saying
you'll censor the mathematical statement 1 + 1 = 2...
      at least the concept of god is: language exists...
and can i add to that? if a being as such exists:
he wouldn't consist of games... the verbal colliseum
of anagrams and crosswords... language you seize
to be entertaining... it would spell out a clear
format: a x, y, z      vector precision:
    starting from point (0, 0) moving to (1, 1),
  (2, 2)        to ( 5, 5) etc. you'd get a y = x graph...
   not a ******* parabola of nuance and political
chess... or nuanced ***...
                    and is that a.i.?
           well: the french question about man inventing
god because it would be useful is much better said
these days since we we have the capacity to create ourselves...
and given how it looks: i'm going to be a caveman
trapped in a two-dimensional world of the collective
consciousness by the time the true avant-garde in this
medium starts... creating a god became boring...
so many had to recreate himself in the robotic form...
    man is currently needing this exploration...
forget the space project... it's a case of definition...
but i'm still melancholic about the wine...
     i've been waiting to sniff it and feel the sharpness
of the alcohol for a good 3 months...
       and i really wish i could write in my native tongue
so easily as i do in my acquired tongue...
     i'm sad because i'm drinking the whiskey
prior, rather than getting completely sloshed on
what alcoholism looked prior:
    it's that curse of town insomnia and how we don't
celebrate enough of what comes with natural
cycles...
              which means that ontology is dead...
given we've managed to tame the seasons...
  means that any ontological question, based on
the cycle of wine-making, brings us to a more dreary
position than with nietzsche's god is dead...
look here: at least you have something tangible...
   you can't erase god from thinking...
it's the primost a priori essence of every, single man,
it's not an a posteriori fact,
god is there, in that a priori medium like space
and time...
                              and why do people never claim
that god can contain a dualism, primarily because
the herd is encapsulated by a monotheism?
              if god could ever be an a posteriori you'd
be forced to experience some sort of revelation,
and later encounter the evil contained within the concept's
dualism, so in actual sense: be considered mad:
for not making certain choices in life and wishing to
reach for the pulpit... mind you: i had such an experience...
and my life didn't become better for it...
     evidently i should have pressed harder for
the ontological argument of: marrying the girl...
but then the same ontological argument came back
to me when i started making wine...
                      meaning i could produce alcohol
on an industrial level... and forget any ritualism involved
in consuming it prior... since i would only be
left with an addictive socio-pathological use of the
once celebrated, collective engagement by waiting for
autumn to ferment and keep me warm through
the winter... which i suppose is when all the Greeks
were kept together... drinking and ******* rather
than bother to exploit natural resources like gas and oil...
but hey! that's just me...
         but there's a sadness behind this...
start making your own wine and you'll see it...
which is to say: i don't know whether i'd have lived
a happy life with my russian fiance...
             i have only a quantum idealism to mind
expressed by fanciying myself counter to the history
i'm writing right now...
    so why is god as a priori bound as time and space?
well... why would you otherwise get so many eager
atheist gobs to reach for an argument?
                  i find that the most authentic atheists are
murderers... why? they have transcended
    the cognitive debility of an atheistic argument...
      i'll prove god does not exist by "thinking" about it...
my my: what a lovely congregation you have there!
      i'm not even trying to be clever here...
  well... there's an antidote to this scenario...
               so he's permanently lodged in our a priori
  "consciousness" (might as well do away with psychiatry
******* about with its three-layer cake of
con- subcon- and uncon-) -
                   and he's not lodged in our a posteriori
"consciousness" - i hate becoming the fiddler on the roof -
because what then? experiencing the omniniscence
and the omnipotency and whatever other trait that ******
thing does, would translate as what?
     at best a monotheism... or a place where people concentrate
in numbers... not necessarily worths of being beyond
the estimates concerning their congregation...
            it's dangerous to claim a god in the a posteriori
realm...
                that's why the safest place to keep him is in
the a priori realm... where all the big things happen,
or don't happen, depending whether you're from New York
or Hiroshima...
                    and following from kant's distinction
in transcendental methodology concerning time and space...
and god...
                 it dawned on me that he did see a distinction
between mathematical language and the lingua of
  doodling and anagrams and all those poetic jives that
give no precision...
    if time... then space...
                    if god...            then nothing...
and how are dual in the a priori realm...
       only that with regards to time and space
i'm more likely to throw a 1, or a 2 into conceptualising
these things, than i am to throw an a, or a b into it...
    algebra is secondary in talking about these two mediums...
why? because i'll get a definite rationalisation of
time and space... if i tell you the fastest man on earth
can run 100m in under 10secs...
                       if i throw in x y z into this: i might as well
end this whole narrative with: oi! Zeno! give us
that Achilles joke!
                when i mean god i mean: medium of
communication... that's not necessarily a democratic
omni-versed plateau of sponging everything every human
has to say...
       but i primarily throw 1, 2, 3... 4, 5... 8, 9 and 0
into the a priori conceptualisation of time and space...
  but if i do the same when i throw in the other symbols
into the a priori conceptualisation of god and nothing -
sure, mathematical symbols can be phonetic encoding,
as one, two, three, four... five, six...
          but apply them as one two three four to time and space
and there's no way to rationalise time and space,
because time and space is met with a nonsense
in dealing with a phonetic encoding of 1 (as one) -
due to the vacuum of space... and the timelessness of
    time as a ref. point fixated upon... let's just leave
it with the vacuum of space... 2 overpowers two (because
of to and too), 3 overpowers three (because of free)...
4 overpowers four (because of for)... not only that:
but they're more about photographic memory
and visual conceptualisation ease - no one really bothers
   a - z to be anything more than: what they actually
are as phonetically: awaiting pronunciation.
sure... letter can become mystical in a sense of:
   y looks like a tree (other than pine),
           H is a rugby goal...
                               w is a cosine graph...
                    y is a serpent's tongue...
              but that's mysticism and that's also: fair enough!
what bugs me is the opposite of the a priori
magnetism... as opposed to space and time...
god and nothing...
     well... if i throw 1 and 0 into a priori thinking
about working time and space...
  i'll get, say: 365 days in a calendar year...
               or that the acceleration of earth if 9.8 metres
per seconds squared... (cubic gravity evidently
becomes a bit pointless -
                                        imagine it:
   9.8m/s(superscript)3...   or 9.8m(superscript)2/s...
or whatever variation...
no wonder the chemists got the ****-end of the stick
when they were told they weren't allowed into
the heaven of superscript... but sent to the subscript hell
of writing dwom oxygen... ah shame: Faust! i'm coming!)...
yes... but throw 1 - 0 into the a priori
"conceptualisation" opposite of time and space,
i.e. god and nothing... the best answer you can get
is matthew chapter 1 verse 8... or SIX SIX SIX!  boogie man!
well... not... you throw in the symbols α - ω
into the a priori "conceptualisation" of god & nothing
and you get, e.g.: δατυμ -
which basically means: it can't be meaningless -
       otherwise we'd be stuck with animalistic intuition
and intelligence, overloaded with sensual intelligence
and not marred by the murk of thought...
  how this devolution happened is beyond me...
  no amount of wit makes up for the sensual sharpness of
a monkey shouting at a congregation: spy! snake!
and all with the bare minumum of phonetic distinction...
    thus α - ω are slightly meaningless when it comes
to time and space, i know these symbols to enter
this a priori venture, but we're still primarily talking
about using 1 - 0 symbols to get at the knitting-work...
just like in verse, i say of a crossword
    sound of Valhalla (4),
                 and you say: 1 across... horn!
                              and then we get the pretty picture.
3a.m.
       and the wine ritual is about to begin...
      

when i was young
ammi packed me lunch
one strawberry jam sandwich
cut neatly into squares

as i grew older
and my tummy much bigger
(along with my appetite)
one turned into two
two to three
and finally
for some unknown reason
there were no strawberry jam sandwiches
but ammi still packed me lunch

it was tuna or chicken
maybe tomato and cheese
sometimes a pastry
i wasn't hard to please

and it never occurred to me
that my strawberry sandwiches
were gone

till one completely random day
i'm sitting with my friends
taking the first bite of my sandwich
a burst of strawberry fills my mouth
sweet, rich with sugar
it tastes red, good bright red
my strawberry jam sandwich came back
and i was bombarded by my childhood
playing on the swings sandwich in hand
red coated crumbs dotting my shirt
running out of class as soon as the bell rings
to munch munch munch
on my strawberry sandwiches

strawberry jam was never my favourite filling
but it filled me with memories
so occasionlly
when i'm feeling nostalgic
i'll pick up a slice, butter it up
spread my gooey, red friend
and share a sandwich with ammi.

the three scripts of time:
                       and there are only three...

  journalism,
             the study of history,
                            and...
                                   mythology...

modern journalism
is the most errosive component
of the "structure" of time,

why would it be worth
anyone's wonder to see
people bypass
history, shy away from it,
and find some sort
of escapism in mythology,
if they are being
bombarded with journalism,
like a night club strobe
light source,
   mishandled,
overtly sensitive to
the persisting stimulus
of news?

      it's almost like being back
in school,
but unlike being back
in school:
the figure of authority,
is a phantom-esque
                        ditto-head...

mythology is no more
a fiction than
what fiction already does:
borrow from real life,
morph the details,
and place the wording
on the altar of the archetype...

how to make this concise...
i don't "like" the current
strap-on of heroic
masculinity,
   but i'm being bombarded
with it,
   like... any sort of
pornographic fetish doesn't
even come close,
to what, i know,
is, un-achievable...
          the heroism of paying
your council tax,
of taking out the garbage...
    
   people, who have been
bombarded by journalism,
journalism:
  the second erosion
of the faculty of memory,
with its "shy" beginnings
in pedagogy...
   is now in full swing...
this, current,
aspect of being sentenced
to a blitzkrieg of information,
and information
that's heavily censored...
why wouldn't someone
succumb to grapling with mythology,
with metaphor,
as a coping mechanism?

   almost everything these days
is plain, dumb and obvious...
it's not longer a case
to say something different,
it has been reduced to how
to say it, differently -

    i once suggested a media
sabbath...
    which would imply that
there would be no monday newspapers
in print,
  notably the volume allowance
of media fibre from a sunday
newspaper lasts for up to 2 days...
but no...
        sensory-overload,
prescribed mainstream insomnia...
how people managed
to ingest l.s.d. in the 20th century...
i will never know...
i don't want to know,
because right now?
    i've been given a clarification
of the impossibility
to repeat, whatever happened
in the 20th century...

   so... the three scripts of time:
journalism,
    history
and... mythology...
   people would always gravitate
toward mythology,
away from journalism,
   simply because history
would not provide them
the desired escape...
     albeit: some do succumb
to the echo chambers of history...
but a history is not exactly
a beginning and an end...

       it's the mediating structure
of the script of time,
   now, apparently,
any citation of history is deemed
a racist sympathy...
      sign me up for a lobotamy,
i guess i need a part of my brain
removed
to fit into the current
   journalist narrative...
      journalism:
         the form of script that
has god-like ambitions...
   it actually wants to be
omnipresent, omniscient...
                the blundering three-legged
bull of a medium...
            
   i don't even want to understand
how some people want to
"keep up" with the "narrative"...
i put on a vinyl,
and disappear for about an hour
pretending to be edward hopper
without paint, brush or canvas...
looking at how shadows emerge
from the casting of light
                                from a bulb...
i just void my thinking,
and begin with:
    thinking about thought,
and whether there's any worthwhile
moral ought i am supposed
to entertain.

i don't "like" this journalistic blitzkrieg
on the mind...
   history leaves you with some
relief from modern journalism...
pockets, seances of remote pleasures...
but sooner or later,
you're ejected from entertaining
history,
    are shoved into mythology,
and told: you have to somehow counter
this modern, journalistic
                       barrage / harangue.

well of course myths are true...
what is true about yesterday's news
in a week's time?
   poetry is a coping mechanism
of explaining something:
outside of the journalistic framework,
outside of a historical framework (even)...
the time-frame is so grand...
esp. when facing the modern
journalistic event of a daily newspaper...
"history" on amphetamines...

the beast that never sleeps,
always eats,
    and rarely ***** out something
decent...
          real life events happen
in journalism,
       but you'd sooner find
calm, on an atomic level,
     watching the atoms of ice
turn into water, turn into steam,
than allow yourself to be influenced
by a week's worth of journalism,
and all that:
   with multiple competing outlets.

mind-numbing...
        seeing as i could be the next
attention-fed-*****-of-the-media...
      the phenomenon
of the resurgence of archetypes...
   which is counter to
   the hindu: there are only a fixed
number of people,
   the rest are... quasi-people...
   unwillingly...
   certain archetypes come to the fore,
willingly, or unwillingly,
suspect, or prying open
the archetypical act on an unsuspecting
host...
           but that doesn't imply
the host in question:
    isn't given the benefit
    of the noumenon:
of being unfathomable as to why
the archetype became manifest in
him / her...

        100 years from now...
how will history filter through all
  this current journalistic barrage?
at the moment... 2001...
     that's 18 years ago...
                   and that's still
the only real domino...
                          i just think
of the scrutiny we'll be subjected
to, by the future generations...
       and...
                     that's not enough...
paranoia is only an elevated
           circumstance of consciousness...    
which means anything
and everything...
             as for now:
the ever reticent climate of
                         faking poker games -
dubious, as ever,
     presupposing everyone is playing
the same game of...
   the most informed,
the most moderate,
      the benevolent,
                 the: shoe-shine polish glee
and a pair of well laced shoes
walking a fine line between
egg-shells
                 and a heap of skulls.

It seems to me that the happiest people are people who barley have the,( I won't say necessities because that would mean to much to most of us in the US), let's say people who barley scrap by. Every day is a challenge to scrap up enough to eat and drink. These people seem to be closer to their families. They laugh more. They share more. They know what is in their brothers heart as well as what is in their own. They live a simple life spiritually and a hard life physically. No TV, no media, no Hollywood. Sometimes I wish I lived somewhere like Ethiopia or a hundred other places on this earth not bombarded every minute of every day with things. THINGS that are not important. To live where just to survive the day and have people to rejoice in that survival with is enough. Body and soul I long for the happiness that comes from a day well lived. We have become a nation that knows not how to live but how to be entertained. We never slow down to feel what's in our heart or to feed our souls. If we never listen to what is in our own heart how can we know what is in another heart. Oh just to live and not to judge. Is that possible? Can it be possible when we are bombarded with the latest, the greatest, the best of fashion, phone, game, religion? Who knows what I could do if I didn't have everyone telling me who or what I should be. And believe me it changes daily.  We all look at these " less fortunate" people on TV or in a magazine and we feel sorry for them when it is ourselves that we must feel sorry for. What is to become of us. We are a most intriguing people, we who have done so many amazing things, and yet most of us feel sad or lonely. Yes, you have a beautiful home. Yes, you have people who love you. But wait, how do you know they love you?.....well of course they love you, their suppose to love you, after all you love them.....right. I mean that's the way the story goes....right?  You know the story, the one you saw on Lifetime yesterday, while your loved ones were doing....ah what were they doing? Oh yes, your son was playing that new game, you know " **** Zombie ****" on that PlayStation or Nintendo or something like that, and your daughter was at the mall buying the latest thing to make her feel beautiful, and your husband was.....well he was doing something on the computer. How can you love someone if you don't know who they are. How can you love someone if you don't know who you are. All of this technology may be bringing the world closer but who needs to know the world when they don't even know their own family....,or their next door neighbor, the one that shot himself yesterday. No one knows why.  Please people , I beg you, put down the phone turn off the TV, go out on a date( not at the movies), but somewhere you can talk and get to know each other. And if you don't know what to say just say what's in your heart. After all that is what truly matters.  If you can realize that most of the things in your life are meaningless then you too can have a life well lived. In the end isn't that all that matters.  So for now I am signing out and switching off, and tuning in to my life.  For all I wish is to have a life well lived.

I'm barefoot in 46 degrees and I must remember that my perception of things must not encapsulate how I truly perceive. Soldered commentary  is bleak but is all I've left, all my years have given me and my years have been few.
To be constantly bombarded with the question, "what is it that I really want?" is fervently exhausting and consistently hypocritical and I'm a hack. The conclusion is always that I'm a hack without a win to present or a failure to fall back upon. As a hack, I've left myself with very few plans to alter or hungry mindsets to feed.
After glistening the only thing that remains is to burn out and the thought of extinguishing so prematurely provokes a physical falter and frequent respiratory failure.
Ask your brother if he lingers at times. Ask your sister if sometimes, she means what she says and she should always say no. Ask your friends why you should be anyone's friend and whether or not the chance to swing into hyperbolic criticism ever affects how they make their choices, hoof their steps.
Their answer should always be no and their input should always be invaluable.
Ask yourself if brain power should always be set to alter mind power and ask yourself is alteration is ever even possible. The answer should always be no.
The conclusion to draw should always be his. The choices you make, always expert and ground out by consistent respiratory failure. Ask yourself if you'll always be an animal and when will that stop. Ask yourself if time will determine whether or not this "thing" is worth doing or this "thing" is worth composing. Ask yourself why you're not the young girl who sings soul on the street, whose tremble sets off car alarms and inner requisitioning. The answer will never be the same.

Now that people are becoming more aware of my poetic efforts, interests are being expressed regarding the background of my poetry - in addition, to my spiritual muse. One never knows exactly when the Spirit of God will move on your soul; fortunately I was paying a little bit of attention, one cold winter night...

I've been a member of the IT (Information Technology) community since June of 1981, a profession that constantly tries to turn you into a slave from an employee. Rarely did I ever bring home work; sometimes it was unavoidable, given arbitrary deadlines and poor managerial planning. After dinner on this particular night, I had spread out the pages of computer 'source code' across the entire kitchen table, while attempting to solve a logic problem. ('Source Code' is the logic written by a computer programmer, in a given computer language, that addresses a specific business function. The term is equivalent to a computer 'program'.)

Once I had spent roughly 90 minutes struggling to solve the issue at hand, I treated myself to a mental break. I noticed the gentle reflection of moonlight on the window and decided that I would step outside onto my breezeway for some fresh air. The evening sky that night was a magnificient sight, like many other times. Absent were the visible presence of clouds and the stars seemed noticeably brighter. Taking in this grand view, I let my mind wander, temporarily forgetting about the thousand lines of computer code awaiting me. Gazing upwards, I was quietly reminded of God's promise to Abraham - that his offspring would be as numerous as the stars. I also contemplated why God had designed the heavens to demonstrate His existence.

When the coldness of the winter night started to permeate my body, it was time to terminate my break. Stepping back into my warm home, my brain was re-energized and thankful for the brief, mental hiatus. Trying to re-focus on my work became difficult, as phrases of poem snippets bombarded my soul as "shooting stars". I had been writing haikus and senryus for several years, but not 'traditional' poetry. So to move on, I grabbed a blank piece of paper and started writing, capturing the poem's concept. At the time, I did not recognize or fully appreciate what had transpired. This was my first non-haiku poem written by me; it would be over a year later before I thought to publish my first book.

Having taken the time to compose this poem, I was blessed by God, for taking time to honor Him. Less than ten minutes later, I solved the problem and enjoyed immense relief; plus I got to spend quality time for the rest of the night with my wife. In addition, I completed my project deadline to my boss' delight and surprise.

When my father was young he mowed lawns for money. He pushed a second-hand spinning blade in the hot Florida sun for spare change.

With dull coins clanging in his pocket and crumpled bills in his palm, my father fought to escape home.

To him, home was synonymous with scary southern suburbia, where late-night television  was replaced with screaming matches and loud fists. Angry eyes with children's cries. Barbecues bombarded with apologetic looks from neighbors. Pretending not to hear shatters and shouts of supposed 'baseball black eyes'.

And so he pushed. Pushed the rusty lawn mower down strangers' yards, pushed away the sniggering snot-nosed kids calling him '****', and pushed at his father's demons, crawling down his spine, whispering that he was no good.

Years later he kept pushing
Pushing
Pushing
Pushing towards whatever came next. Yet no matter how much he pushed, he was still the same boy with the lawn mower. Angry, mad, pushing violently ahead.

The smoke of sanity is inhaled now, as my father's blood-shot eyes try to suppress the angry boy within. The residue of stolen innocence is not left unnoticed. A touch of tone on his once sunburnt neck and the man he has made instantly flushes away, leaving his father's demons. Calmer than before, a dying star, burning bright before collapse.

Like a strong jaw, his father's anger is passed down to him, and I, his son, am now born with this seed of destruction. Smaller than before, but still seething.

Constantly reminded, I sit in a leather chair surrounded by white walls in carefully controlled climate, plastic pen perched on my palm, I push.

I'll keep pushing.

Not for the faint-hearted
The highest peak is
Unconquerable is its tip
Cold and misty,
A stairway to heaven!

Bold climbers ignore
Step is the *****,
Help is the rope,
And the peak is their hope.

Surmounting the rocks
Resisting the freezing air
Holding back against the pull of gravity
Should the climbers do
With the vertical
That seemed infinite.

Escapade began.
In their heart, they held
The step and hope.
Crouching on the frosting rocks
They moved higher and higher.
'Till they could glance
At the abyss of horizons.
Passing the halfway,
Wild fortune they met.
Wind with wrath roared.
There came a snowstorm!
Hope began to melt
Their shriveling souls, too.
Buried.
Vertically jeopardized.
Lives ended with the limit.

Another team conquered
The mighty mountain.
Aroused a sense of adventure
Spirits unleashed,
Saying altogether, "We can!"
As tightly holding the guide
And pathway's light -
Their nation's proud "stars ans stripes."
Valiance flashed on their faces.

Higher and higher they went
Calmness danced with the rustling cool wind
Glaring were the ice flakes
Of noontime sun
The journey was near to its end.
Yet, a huge running bunch of snows met them.
Keen climbers bombarded
Explosive things.
Boom!
A hole was formed.
They went down
Into the hide site-like hole
Awaited the "limit" to pass by
then, it came.
The hole was filled
Shivering with cold
Heroes bombarded again...
Light rays entered as
Dazzling as their smiles.

Escapade continued.
'Till they stood and yelled
The voice of victory,
Overcoming the vertical's limit,
On their success,
On the most awe-inspiring place
of their dreams -
The earth's highest pinnacle!

•
                                                If you are a tree,

Bombarded by extreme winds,


                                            In the amidst of a typhoon,


                                                      ­                     I'll sacrifice to be your roots,
                                                          ­       To diminish your agony,


OH, I cannot manage seeing you suffer!

                             In carrying on in a big tragedy,
                                                        ­       With utmost throe alone ,




Let me be torn and broken into fragments,
                 And be cut in combating and holding for you,



That's how much I love and care,

                                          I wish you only knew...



                       © Earl Jane
                         ♥ E.J.C.S.

It was one of those rare and beautiful sunny days the kind that is so bright it enriches every visible living thing. Still there was a lie being lived and told in this captured moment she stood straight and confident her dog set by her she was looking at the natural wonders in awe and appreciation. It was plain to see she was healthy and lived in wonderful surroundings had an all around good life. What I saw I fought forest fires in the service one in particular in the Los Padres National forest. For five days over half of the California division of forestry assisted us plus hundreds from fort Ord were called into help at times there was ninety foot walls of flame. That’s what she was really looking at her needs she would never see in her privileged life the flames of life’s destruction are forever growing closer. We lost a cat operator as he went south to fight a new fire we risked our lives he gave his. The alternative hike up to the secluded pine ridge in this pristine national forest set and look across the great valley that ends at the far horizon where mountains rise to tower in there majesty without sacrifice and risk this would be your view a charred blackened destroyed environment dead displaced wildlife as far as the eye can see filled with sadness you stumble back to your car racing to get clear of this natural disaster. Now bring the true reality of this girl’s situation into view knowing that at every turn she is being bombarded by modern life for the ultimate goal of keeping her from the most important thinking she will ever undertake. Where do I stand with my creator between her and this all important and should be all consuming endeavor. But there is a den of noise arising from modern convenience of every kind then the choking effects of materialism. If this isn’t enough then you face the greatest threat there is one true Word. Then the imitators act as interference the static they produce drowns out the true flow of guidance that can’t be duplicated the answer the enemy uses begin the erosion use the echo of men’s philosophy effectively sounds sincere truth varied ever so slightly but as it continues its course over distance and time you end up with the same damnable truth that our boys are fighting and dying to defeat in the Middle East. Truth sooner or later requires sacrifice and death to preserve it that is the true test what did it cost the one who desires to lead you and your family on the most important course you will ever under take. Take this journey with Paul one who was enlightened as much and truly more so than any other in ancient times. Follow him to the most sacred ground made so by unerring truth amidst gainsayers and scoffers and some of them came out of that darkness to light everlasting. Paul then stood up in the meeting of the Areopagus and said: “Men of Athens! I see that in every way you are very religious. For as I walked around and looked carefully at your objects of worship, I even found an altar with this inscription: To an unknown God now what you worship as something unknown I am going to proclaim to you.”

…When they heard about the resurrection of the dead, some of them sneered, but others said, “We want to hear you again on this subject.” At that, Paul left the Council. A few men became followers of Paul and believed. Among them was Dionysius, a member of the Areopagus, also a woman named Damaris, and a number of others. It’s your choice where you invest the rest of your life the wise have no hesitation the only drawback this cost everything many will not pay that price so they join the ranks of the deluded. Outwardly sophisticated inwardly they run with the pack of ravenous wolves who crucified the true eternal one. Go ahead judge if these words are true you will hear them again sooner than you will ever wish to hear.

Molecules of two elements, nitrogen and oxygen, comprise about 99 percent of the air. The remaining hoity toity 1% includes small amounts celestial seasoning luxurious riches as argon and carbon dioxide. (Other gases such as neon, helium, and methane are present in trace amounts.) Oxygen is the life-giving element in the air.

Earth's atmosphere is 78% nitrogen, 21% oxygen, 0.9% argon, and 0.03% carbon dioxide with very small percentages of other elements. Our atmosphere also contains water vapor. In addition, Earth's atmosphere contains traces of dust particles, pollen, plant grains and other solid particles.

Even when the air seems to be completely clear, it is full of atmospheric particles - invisible solid and semisolid bits of matter, including dust, smoke, pollen, spores, bacteria and viruses. Some atmospheric particles are so large that you will feel them if they strike you. However, particles this large rarely travel far before they fall to the ground. Finer particles may be carried many miles before settling during a lull in the wind, while still tinier specks may remain suspended in the air indefinitely. The finest particles are jostled this way and that by moving air molecules and drift with the slightest currents. Only rain and snow can wash them out of the atmosphere. These tiny particles are so small that scientists measure their dimensions in microns - a micron is about one 25-thousandth of an inch. They include pollen grains, whose diameters are sometimes less than 25 microns; bacteria, which range from about 2 to 30 microns across; individual virus particles, measuring a very small fraction of a micron; and carbon smoke particles, which may be as tiny as two hundredths of a micron.

Particles are frequently found in concentrations of more than a million per cubic inch of air. A human being's daily intake of air is about 450,000 cubic inches. This means that we inhale an astronomical numbers of foreign bodies. Particles larger than about 5 microns are generally filtered from the air in the nasal passages. Other large particles are caught by hairlike protuberances in the air passages leading to the lungs and are swept back toward the mouth. Most of the extremely fine particles that do reach the lungs are exhaled again - although some of this matter is deposited in the minute air sacs within the lungs. From these air sacs, particles may go into solution and pass through the lung walls into the bloodstream. If the material is toxic, harmful reactions may occur when it enters the blood. Fine particles retained in the lungs can cause permanent tissue damage, as with Coal workers' pneumoconiosis (black lung disease), caused by buildup of coal dust in the lungs, and with silicosis, which is caused by the buildup of silicon dust.

If the air is still, given sufficient time, all but the smallest airborne particles will settle to the ground under their own weight. Their rate of fall is closely proportional to particle size and density.
For example, vast amounts of fine volcanic ash were thrown into the air by the eruption of the Indonesian volcano Krakatoa, in 1883, and again by the Alaskan volcano Katmai, in 1912. In both instances, the finer dust reached the stratosphere and spread around the world high above the rains and storms that tend to cleanse the lower atmosphere. In fact, many years elapsed before these volcanic dusts entirely disappeared from the atmosphere. Since a two-micron dust particle may require about four years to fall 17 miles in the atmosphere, the lingering effect is not in the least surprising.
Dust storms are also prolific producers of airborne debris. Europe is sometimes showered with dust originating in the Sahara. In March 1901, for instance, an estimated total of two million tons of Sahara dust fell on North Africa and the Europe. Two years later, in February 1903, Britain received a deposit estimated at ten million tons. On many occasions, Sahara dust has fallen in muddy rain and reddish snow over much of southwestern Europe. During North America's droughts of the 1930s, dust storms blew ten million tons of dust at a time aloft in the heart of the continent. Occasionally, high winds swept the dust eastward 1800 miles to darken skies along the continent's Atlantic coast.

When the wind strikes the crest of an ocean wave, or a calm sea is agitated by rain or by air bubbles bursting at the surface, the finer droplets that enter the air quickly evaporate, leaving tiny salt crystals suspended in the air. Winds carry these salt crystals over all the Earth. Normally, airborne salt particles from the sea are less than a micron in diameter. It would take a million of them to weigh a pound.
Salt particles play an important part in weather processes because they are hygroscopic - they absorb water. Raindrops usually form around tiny particles that act as nuclei for condensation. Generally, each fog and cloud droplet also collects around a particle of some type at its center. Tiny crystals of sea salt make better condensation nuclei than other natural particles found in the air. Thus, salt particles in the air help make rain.

Dust from meteor showers may occasionally affect world rainfall. When the Earth encounters a swarm of meteors, those meteors that get to the upper reaches of the Earth's atmosphere are vaporized by heat from friction. The resulting debris is a fine smoke or powder. This fine dust then floats down into the cloud system of the lower atmosphere, where it can readily serve as nuclei around which ice crystals or raindrops can form. Increases in world rainfall come about a month after the Earth encounters meteor systems in space. The delay of a month allows sufficient time for the meteoric dust to fall through the upper atmosphere. Occasionally, large meteors leave visible trains of dust. Most often their trails disappear rapidly, but in a few witnessed cases a wake of dust has remained visible for an hour or so.
In one extreme instance-a great meteor that broke up in the sky over Siberia in 1908-the dust cloud traveled all the way around the world before it dissipated.

Large forest fires are among the more spectacular producers of foreign particles in the atmosphere.
Because these fires create violent updrafts, smoke particles are carried to great heights, and, being small, are spread over vast distances by high altitude winds. In the autumn of 1950, forest fires in Alberta, Canada produced smoke that drifted east over North America on the prevailing wind and crossed the North Atlantic, reaching Britain and continental Europe. The light-scattering properties of this dense smoke made the Sun look indigo and the Moon blue to observers in Scotland and other northern lands.

Wind-pollinated plants are the most prolific sources of foreign particles in the air. This is a problem for people with allergies.

Spores are closely related to pollens. Spores are the reproductive bodies of fungi, which include molds, yeasts, rusts, mildews, puffballs and mushrooms. Tiny spores are adrift everywhere in the air, even over the oceans. Although they resemble pollens in general appearance, spores are not fertilizing agents. Instead, they are like seeds, and give rise to new organisms wherever they take hold. Spores have been found as high as 14 miles in the air over the entire globe. Most fungi depend on the wind for spore dissemination. Once airborne, spores are carried easily by the slightest air currents.

Once, physicians were taught that infectious microorganisms quickly settle out of the air and die. Today, the droplets ejected, say, by a sneeze, are known to evaporate almost immediately, leaving whatever microorganisms they contain to drift through the air. Only a relatively small fraction of microorganism’s human beings breathe cause disease. In fact, most bacteria are actually helpful. Some, for example, convert atmospheric nitrogen into usable plant food. Pathogenic, or disease-producing, microorganisms, however, can be very dangerous. Most propagate by subdivision-each living cell splits into two cells. Each of the new cells then grows and divides again into two more cells. Provided with ideal conditions, populations multiply quickly. Fortunately microorganisms do not thrive very well in the air. Unless there is enough humidity in the air, many desiccate and die. Short exposure to the ultraviolet radiation of the Sun also kills most microorganisms. Low temperatures greatly decrease their activity, and elevated temperatures destroy them rapidly. Still, many microorganisms survive in the air, despite these hazards. Among the tiniest of airborne particles are viruses, which are on the borderline between living matter and lifeless chemical substances.

Earth is the only planet we know of that can support life. This is an amazing fact, considering that it is made out of the same matter as other planets in our solar system, was formed at the same time and through the same processes as every other planet, and gets its energy from the sun. To a universal traveler, Earth may seem to be a harmless little planet in the far reaches of one of billions of spiral galaxies in the universe. It has an average size star of average brightness and is joined by seven other planets — which support no known life forms — in its solar system. While this may be fitting for a passage from The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams, in the grand scheme of the universe, it would be a fairly accurate description. However, Earth is a planet teeming with vitality and is home to billions of plants and animals that share a common evolutionary track. How and why did we get here? What processes had to take place for this to happen? And where do we go from here? The fact is, no one has been able to come close to knowing exactly what led to the origins of life, and we may never know. After 5 billion years of Earth’s formation and evolution, the evidence may have been lost. But scientists have made significant progress in understanding what chemical processes that may have led to the origins of life. There are many theories, but most have the same general perspective of how things came to be the way they are. Following is an account of life’s beginnings based on some of the leading research and theories related to the subject, and of course, fossil records dating back as far as 3.5 billion years ago.

The solar system was created from gas clouds and dust that remained from the Sun's formation some 6-7 billion years ago. This material contained only about .2% of the solar system's mass with the Sun holding the rest. Earth began to form over 4.6 billion years ago from the same cloud of gas (mostly hydrogen and helium) and interstellar dust that formed our sun, the rest of the solar system and even our galaxy. In fact, Earth is still forming and cooling from the galactic implosion that created the other stars and planetary systems in our galaxy. This process began about 13.6 billion years ago when the Milky Way Galaxy began to form. As our solar system began to come together, the sun formed within a cloud of dust and gas that continued to shrink in upon itself by its own gravitational forces. This caused it to undergo the fusion process and give off light, heat and other radiation. During this process, the remaining clouds of gas and dust that surrounded the sun began to form into smaller lumps called planetesimals, which eventually formed into the planets we know today.

A large number of small objects, called planetesimals, began to form around the Sun early in the formation of the solar system. These objects were the building blocks for the planets that exist today. The Earth went through a period of catastrophic and intense formation during its earliest beginnings 4.6-4.4 billion years ago. By 3.8 to 4.1 billion years ago, Earth had become a planet with an atmosphere (not like our atmosphere today) and an ocean. This period of Earth’s formation is referred to as the Precambrian Period. The Precambrian is divided into three parts: the Hadean, Archean and Proterozoic Periods.

The Earth formed under so much heat and pressure that it formed as a molten planet. For nearly the first billion years of formation (4.5 to 3.8 billion years ago) — called the Hadean Period (or hellish period) — Earth was bombarded continuously by the remnants of the dust and debris — like asteroids, meteors and comets — until it formed into a solid sphere, pulled into orbit around the sun and began to cool down. Earth's early atmosphere most likely resembled that of Jupiter's atmosphere, which contains hydrogen, helium, methane and ammonia, and is poisonous to humans. (Photo: NASA, from Voyager 1). As Earth began to take solid form, it had no free oxygen in its atmosphere. It was so hot that the water droplets in its atmosphere could not settle to form surface water or ice. Its first atmosphere was also so poisonous, comprised of helium and hydrogen, that nothing would have been able to survive.
Earth’s second atmosphere was formed mostly from the outgassing of such volatile compounds as water vapor, carbon monoxide, methane, ammonia, nitrogen, carbon dioxide, nitrogen, hydrochloric acid and sulfur produced by the constant volcanic eruptions that besieged the Earth. It had no free oxygen. About 4.1 billion years ago, the Earth’s surface — or crust — began to cool and stabilize, creating the solid surface with its rocky terrain. Clouds formed as the Earth began to cool, producing enormous volumes of rainwater that formed the oceans. For the next 1.3 billion years (3.8 to 2.5 billion years ago), the Archean Period, first life began to appear and the world’s land masses began to form. Earth’s initial life forms were bacteria, which could survive in the highly toxic atmosphere that existed during this time. Toward the end of the Archean Period and at the beginning of the Proterozoic Period, about 2.5 billion years ago, oxygen-forming photosynthesis began to occur. The first fossils were a type of blue-green algae that could photosynthesize.

Earth's atmosphere was first supplied by the gasses expelled from the massive volcanic eruptions of the Hadean Era. These gases were so poisonous, and the world was so hot, that nothing could survive. As the planet began to cool, its surface solidified as a rocky terrain, much like Mars' surface (center photo) and the oceans began to form as the water vapor condensed into rain. First life came from the oceans. Some of the most exciting events in Earth’s history and life occurred during this time, which spanned about two billion years until about 550 million years ago. The continents began to form and stabilize, creating the supercontinent Rodinia about 1.2 billion years ago. Although Rodinia is composed of some of the same land fragments as the more popular supercontinent, Pangea, they are two different supercontinents. Pangea formed some 225 million years ago and would evolve into the seven continents we know today. Free oxygen began to build up around the middle of the Proterozoic Period — around 1.8 billion years ago — and made way for the emergence of life as we know it today. This increased oxygen created conditions that would not allow most of the existing life to survive and thus made way for the more oxygen-dependent life forms. By the end of the Proterozoic Period, Earth was well along in its evolutionary processes leading to our current period, the Holocene Period,  or Anthropocene Period, also known as the Age of Man. Thus, about 525 million years ago, the Cambrian Period began. During this period, life “exploded,” developing almost all of the major groups of plants and animals in a relatively short time. It ended with the massive extinction of most of the existing species about 500 million years ago, making room for the future appearance and evolution of new plant and animal species. About 498 million years later — 2.2 million years ago — the first modern human species emerged.

Did You Know? The first modern human being was called **** habilis, the first of the **** genus. This species developed stone tools for use in daily life. **** habilis means “Handy Man.” He existed from about 2.2 to 1.5 million years ago. There are earlier species related to modern man, called hominids. The images show the skull shape and probable appearance of **** habilis.

The PreCambrian Period — accounts for about 90 percent of Earth’s history. It lasted for about four billion years until about 550 million years ago. About 70 percent of the world’s land masses were created in the Archean Era, between 3.8 and 2.5 million years ago. Rodinia, widely recognized as the first supercontinent, formed during the Proterozoic Era, about 2.5 billion years ago. It is believed that the oldest human family member was discovered in Ethiopia and lived 4.4 million years ago. It was named “Ardi,” short for Ardipithecus ramidus.

When the end of eternity arrives, you shall be by my side awaiting the dawn.
The Sun rises bringing newfound hope to the denizens of a light and airy realm,
Our spirits reanimate, rejuvenate, resurrect; intercept weariness of heart.
Doves above the high plains carry our love across the infinite sea of the Universe.

Stars and twinkling celestial bodies swirl around the center of all creation.
Pianos, my threnody has become a source of lament and bemoaning but in time a love song will revitalize a deadened soul with a deprivation of cosmic oxygen.
I want you to breathe newfound air into my nostrils, fill me to the brim with your breath of life, toxicity to the bones.
Being able to stand in your midst will be an impossibility.

My knees will give out and as I fall to ground you will tightly grasp my hand and pull my body into yours.
“Amplify my heartbeat with the sound waves of your voice.”
“Ensconce within the warmth of my body, feel the heat rise when we begin to caress each other softly.”
My blood becomes frigid smoke when I’m in your midst.

Nothing but cold heat courses through my body.
I’m frozen, stuck in a cube of time and space where you and I reside in comfort and abysmal enamorment.
-Ardent passion-
This is where my heat lies.

The inferno that burns beneath my wary skin is a tempest of sequestered affection.
“I’m afraid to be touched.”
You are the element of freedom.
You are the most sought after and desired material in all creation.

The materialistic nature of this world has accosted me with a cannonade of ****** bullets, pleasing in a forbidden way…
Gazing upon you with my eyes is a sin.
A transgression.
But the platinum heart in your possession is my desire.

Daffodils and roses surround us in a floral sphere; a yellow tinged bubble..
We transcend gravity and float above the ground.
-Fragrance-
An aromatic barrage of iridescent fumes intoxicates us as we rise past the stratosphere, mesosphere, troposphere, and conscious- sphere.

Being with you is a higher plane of existence where your every breath is vital to my survival.
Magic courses through my veins when I hold your arms around me.
Aqueous bombs descend from my eyelashes when you depart.
A deluge of tears has accosted me.

My body contorts and I crawl into a corner; this is my cloister of trials.

Those seemingly eternal eons during which I endure the withdrawal symptoms of your narcotic love…
Maybe you’re a hallucinogenic?
Lying on the cold and sobering concrete floor beneath me, I **** my thumbs in the fetal position.
I’m an infant after you vanish in the thick and noxious puff of smoke that lingers long after you are gone.

You are a master of the arcane.
You are nothing short of extraordinary.
Even when you disappear it is nothing short of awe-inspiring.
I feel the love spells from your tome of seduction blast my fragile spirit till’ I begin to lose my sight.

I clench my forehead with the back of my skull pressed against, being caressed by these sanguine reds walls that seem to cave in.
I can’t hold my head up any longer.
I lie in darkness as chaos consumes my soul.
The murky and dank ambushes me from the corners of an unknown dimension.

I’ve slipped into an unknown land.
A myriad of ravens with ebony wings surround me until I am no longer visible to another human soul.
They latch onto my skin, grapple onto my thighs, weigh me down with despair and push me six feet under.
When all is dim and lost?

I realize this is figment of the imagination, a fabrication…
I realize this is all a dream.
A dream of what could be.
A dream of a narcotic love.

I have yet to jostle that unknown creature who lurks at the threshold of the limitless skies.
When I reach the stars in my spaceship of galactic love then I will find you.
Obscurity runs amuck in the dimension that I now reside in.
Dark clouds loom above the skies…

The sun is nowhere in sight.
A storm is brewing as lightning begins to crash.
In those brief seconds of illumination I am bombarded with visions of your face.
The complexion of your skin, the feel of your flesh beneath my fingertips.

I hope that your touch will unbind me, loose me from the disillusionment that I’ve been threatened by all my life.
I beseech the heavens to shackle me with iridescent chains to the stars so that gravity will never pull me away from my dreams.
I will hang above the terrene never plummeting down the sea of the skies, never being incinerated by the blaze of freefalling down the atmosphere.
You will be my reward.

That glowing gift box with a celestial wrapping.
A diadem with the most extravagant gems and diamonds shall be waiting for me beneath the cosmic plastic wrapping and the golden ivory box that surround this gift.
When I open it, this crown shall begin to levitate and a human silhouette made of light shall begin to transfigure itself from naught beneath it.
Skin will slowly attach to your luminescent body.

Your metacarpals and phalanges will appear.
Your ribcage will expand and a platinum heart will begin beating within it’s confines.
-The heart that I’ve always wished for-
I will finally be able to gaze upon your face.

I will hold onto and never let you go.
We will grow old together and when we near the end of our lifetime, we shall become nebular gases.
We will then become one with the Universe.
The remnants of our love will last everlastingly even after the spark of passion is long gone, when our corporeal vessels no longer exist in a physical form.

“I don’t…I have nothing else to say but that I will be waiting.”
“I will wait for you to materialize in my midst.”
“My heart ails for you but my malady will dissipate once you arrive.”
“Every heartbeat leads you and I one step closer to one another.”

“You will be my remedy, my panacea of love.”
“I love you but I don’t even know who you are!”
“The reason why is unknown to me.”
“I will be waiting darling.”

“I will be waiting for your earth-shattering kiss.”
When the ground beneath us begins to crumble, we shall plummet beneath the lithosphere and asthenosphere till’ we reach the core of the planet.
We shall become the inferno beneath the ground.
Our passion will burn so brightly, so fervently, that an eruption will take place above the surface of the ground.

The world will know that when we make love, the air will be ignited.
Our passion shall heat up the Universe.
You will be in my Universe  and you will be my Universe…
Maybe then?

-I’ll become yours-

To my Future Lover, to my moon, sun, and stars, to my Universe,
By, Iridescently Efflorescent

Not for the faint-hearted
The highest peak is
Unconquerable is its tip
Cold and misty,
A stairway to heaven!

Bold climbers ignore
Step is the *****,
Help is the rope,
And the peak is their hope.

Surmounting the rocks
Resisting the freezing air
Holding back against the pull of gravity
Should the climbers do
With the vertical
That seemed infinite.

Escapade began.
In their heart, they held
The step and hope.
Crouching on the frosting rocks
They moved higher and higher.
'Till they could glance
At the abyss of horizons.
Passing the halfway,
Wild fortune they met.
Wind with wrath roared.
There came a snowstorm!
Hope began to melt
Their shriveling souls, too.
Buried.
Vertically jeopardized.
Lives ended with the limit.

Another team conquered
The mighty mountain.
Aroused a sense of adventure
Spirits unleashed,
Saying altogether, "We can!"
As tightly holding the guide
And pathway's light -
Their nation's proud "stars ans stripes."
Valiance flashed on their faces.

Higher and higher they went
Calmness danced with the rustling cool wind
Glaring were the ice flakes
Of noontime sun
The journey was near to its end.
Yet, a huge running bunch of snows met them.
Keen climbers bombarded
Explosive things.
Boom!
A hole was formed.
They went down
Into the hide site-like hole
Awaited the "limit" to pass by
then, it came.
The hole was filled
Shivering with cold
Heroes bombarded again...
Light rays entered as
Dazzling as their smiles.

Escapade continued.
'Till they stood and yelled
The voice of victory,
Overcoming the vertical's limit,
On their success,
On the most awe-inspiring place
of their dreams -
The earth's highest pinnacle!

Once wars were fought with sticks and stones
to flog the flesh and batter bones
and conquer lands, defending thrones -
though gods provoke, not one atones.

The multitude (by hordes beset
with battle-ax or bayonet)
braved blades, dyed red and dripping wet -
the stains were wiped with no regret.

When raining blood, the teardrops spill,
enough to drown the daffodil
that withers in the mourning chill -
who was it said 'thou shalt not ****'?

The mad machine's now mechanized,
torment and torture legalized,
blind barbarism globalized
and wrath of demons sanitized.

Each rival's right (whichever side)
committing holy homicide
in names of gods diversified -
like Cain and Abel fratricide.

Above, a Drone that terrifies -
a button's pushed, a missile flies
to rip apart, to vaporize
(defending life, they fantasize).

Dismembered victims everywhere,
most, non-combatants, unaware -
a lone survivor, solitaire,
unfolding hands, too late for prayer.

Beneath the dust, a baby lies
with mouth agape, with bleeding eyes,
arrayed in death that money buys -
though warriors watch, none empathize.


The media's impervious -
in truth they're ever devious
for fear that reason's dangerous,
find every question treasonous.

Through eyes lit up like rosy sores,
embedded scribes report on wars
with tales to line the cuspidors -
the Fourth Estate? A herd of ******.

To paint the slaughter civilized,
objective news is sodomized -
when foreign streets smoke, pulverized,
the body counts are minimized.


Big Berthas boomed in days of yore
but now the tanks spit spikes of Thor
and mortar shells like raindrops pour
upon the lands of Nevermore.

The grumble of a hand grenade
is drowned in claps of cannonade -
assorted charnel chunks lie flayed
in battlefields where kids once played.

Somewhere a ******'s bullet flies,
somewhere a voiceless victim dies,
somewhere a famished orphan cries
while weapons warble lullabies.

The bunker busters burst the sides
of dwellings where mankind resides
and innocence in darkness hides -
the die is cast, but who decides?

Use cluster bombs and barrels too,
(crude critters in the wartime zoo),
to shred more souls than hitherto -
choose death en masse, avoid the queue!

The leaders lead (twelve steps behind),
enmeshed in intrigues, well enshrined -
yes, powers, business (so entwined)
pull twisted threads, ensnare mankind.


The mercenaries hack and maim
(god's creatures crippled, morally lame),
do beastly things that none will name -
well-paid for such, they feel no shame.

The ****** bombs and phosphorus
and ghastly weapons gaseous
are scattered widely, bounteous -
behold the desert wilderness!

Yes, Agent Orange burns slow and calm,
may leave behind a blazing palm
(or better yet, a molten mom
inside a hut)  in Vietnam.

And phosphorous… its flame so white,
exploding, falling through the night,
commemorates the Sacred Rite -
and babes in arms, thus blessed, ignite.

Cast chlorine, sarin or VX…
a lethal dose (or side effects
like blistered lungs) will serve to vex -
but death in war? No one objects…


Constructing A-bombs's arduous -
uranium, depleted thus,
can trash a tank with little fuss,
cause natal cankers, cancerous.

But doomsday warheads (dropped or thrown),
ignited, leave the sun outshone -
beneath a mass of melted stone
lies powdered ash, once flesh and bone.

When atoms split in bombs debased,
vast cities smolder, laid to waste,
a million sinless souls erased -
perhaps, one day, all life effaced.


You close your eyes but can't ignore
that body parts and bags of gore
are bursting through golgotha's door,
and strewn beyond the ocean's roar
like rotting fish that wash ashore.

Why can't we stop and end all war…


POSTSCRIPT
Regard the dreary death Arcade
of Armaments (a fruitful trade)
and tally up the millions made
by ghouls that raise a colonnade
of miles of missiles, weapons-grade,
in Armageddon's crazed parade,
and hide behind a masquerade
of lollypops and lemonade
while planning new an escapade
for sending armies to invade
and loot far oil lands, unafraid
of misery and grief parlayed
until our final days cascade
into a hell no more delayed
by happenstance or luck outplayed
that leaves society decayed,
bombarded with a fusillade
of lies upheld and truth betrayed
by pundits in the shifting shade,
and crises of the world clichéd
as sung in solemn serenade
by journalistic hacks that preyed
on wide-eyed folk in sham charade
that lulls to sleep with eyelids weighed
by tiny tears that disobeyed
to stay behind the barricade
and bathe the modern-day crusade
of war in cheers and accolade.

The bottom line? Just profits paid
for deadly sins that god forbade…

a phone call to a friend
threats and crying
there was no wrong here
i am not alone
us
bombarded
will hold tight

The ether’d suggested,
          “Say something.”
                    I didn’t.

The photos bombarded,
          “Say something.”
                    And I didn’t once more.

His widow plead, cried,
          “Say something”
                    I couldn’t.

One daughter begged,
          “Remember?
                    And I couldn’t once more.

But I bought a cake,
           “Daddy?”
                    Lit the candles,
                              “Daddy?”
                 ­                       And he didn’t;
                                                  And he wouldn’t
                                       Answer,
Because I never did.

When I was a kid
I used to think that pork chops & karate chops
were the same thing
I thought they were both pork chops
& because my grandmother thought it was cute
& because they were my favorite,
she let me keep doing it

Not really a big deal

One day,
before I realized fat kids are not designed to climb trees
I fell out of a tree
& bruised the right side of my body

I didn't want to tell my grandmother about it
because I was afraid I'd get in trouble
for playing somewhere that I shouldn't have been

A few days later,
the gym teacher noticed the bruise
& I got sent to the principals office
From there I was sent to another small room
with a really nice lady
who asked me all kinds of questions
about my life at home

I saw no reason to lie
As far as I was concerned,
life was pretty good
I told her, "Whenever I'm sad,
my grandmother gives me karate chops!"

This led to a full scale investigation
& I was removed from the house for three days
until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruise

News of this silly little story quickly spread through the school
& I earned my first nickname

Pork Chop

To this day
I hate pork chops

I'm not the only kid
who grew up this way
Surrounded by people who used to say
that rhyme about sticks & stones
as if broken bones
hurt more than the names we got called
& we got called them all
So we grew up believing no one
would ever fall in love with us
That we'd be lonely forever
That we'd never meet someone
to make us feel like the sun
was something they built for us
in their tool shed
so broken heart strings bled the blues
as we tried to empty ourselves
so we would feel nothing
Don't tell me that hurts less than a broken bone
That an ingrown life
is something surgeons can cut away
That there's no way for it to metastasize

It does

She was eight years old
our first day of grade three
when she got called ugly
We both got moved to the back of the class
so we would stop getting bombarded by spit *****
but the school halls were a battleground
where we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day
We used to stay inside for recess
because outside was worse
Outside we'd have to rehearse running away
or learn to stay still like statues giving no clues that we were there
In grade five,
they taped a sign to her desk that read
Beware Of Dog

To this day,
despite a loving husband,
she doesn't think she's beautiful
because of a birthmark
that takes up a little less than half of her face
Kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer
that someone tried to erase
but couldn't quite get the job done
& they'll never understand
that she's raising two kids
whose definition of beauty
begins with the word mom
because they see her heart
before they see her skin
because she's only ever always been amazing

He
was a broken branch
grafted onto a different family tree
Adopted
Not because his parents opted for a different destiny
He was three when he became a mixed drink
of one part left alone
& two parts tragedy
Started therapy in 8th grade
Had a personality made up of tests & pills.
Lived like the uphills were moutains
& the downhills were cliffs
Four fifths suicidal
A tidal wave of anti depressants
& an adolescence of being called Popper
One part because of the pills,
ninety nine parts because of the cruelty
He tried to **** himself in grade ten
when a kid who could still go home to mom & dad
had the audacity to tell him "Get over it," as if depression
is something that can be remedied
by any of the contents fround in a first aid kit

To this day
he is a stick of TNT lit from both ends
Could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends
in the moments before it's about to fall
& despite an army of friends
who all call him an inspiration,
he remains a conversation piece between people
who can't understand
Sometimes becoming drug free
has less to do with addiction
& more to do with sanity

We weren't the only kids who grew up this way

To this day
kids are still being called names
The classics were
hey stupid
hey spaz
Seems like each school has an arsenal of names
getting updated every year
& if a kid breaks in a school
& no one around chooses to hear,
do they make a sound?
Are they just the background noise
of a soundtrack stuck on repeat
when people say things like
kids can be cruel?
Every school was a big top circus tent
& the pecking order went
from acrobats to lion tamers
from clowns to carnies
All of these were miles ahead of who we were
We were freaks
Lobster claw boys & bearded ladies
Oddities
juggling depression & loneliness playing solitaire, spin the bottle
trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves & heal
But at night
while the others slept
we kept walking the tightrope
It was practice
& yes
some of us fell

But I want to tell them
that all of this ****
is just debris
leftover when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought
we used to be
& if you can't see anything beautiful about yourself,
get a better mirror
look a little closer
stare a little longer
because there's something inside you
that made you keep trying
Despite everyone who told you to quit
you built a cast around your broken heart
& signed it yourself
You signed it,
"They were wrong!"
because maybe you didn't belong to a group or a clique
Maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything
Maybe you used to bring bruises & broken teeth
to show & tell but never told
because how can you hold your ground
if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it
You have to believe that they were wrong

They have to be wrong

Why else would we still be here?
We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog
because we see ourselves in them
We stem from a root planted in the belief
that we are not what we were called
We are not abandoned cars stalled out &
sitting empty on a highway
& if in some way we are
don't worry
We only got out to walk & get gas
We are graduating members from the class of
we made it
Not the faded echoes of voices crying out
Names will never hurt me

Of course
they did

But our lives will only ever always
continue to be
a balancing act
that has less to do with pain
& more to do with *beauty

Over the course of 64 years (and still), I have encountered so many women (including my still lovely ex-wife) in person and in writing who struggle with their looks. It seems to be an eternal theme that crosses generations. So, I decided to write this humble piece in reply.
There are some who would say I can’t write about women’s feelings because I am a man. A patronizing old, white man. I note their objecions, but I disagree. I believe humanity always trumps gender.
We live in an artificial culture created and controlled by advertisers. Not only do they sell us stuff, they convince us that we need it. Women are perfect targets for them.
So they have created impossible standards for women to live up to. You must always look like you are 25, young and thin. They tell you this is the key to being desired, even loved. As it’s impossible to be young and thin forever, they just happen to have the products that will “help” you. They want your minds so they can profit by manipulating them. They do a great job of it.
So the key to loving your bodies and yourselves is to take back your minds. This is difficult. You are bombarded with a barrage of words and images that say you are not good enough. If only you were younger, thinner, shaped like Barbie, not greying, had longer legs, bigger *******, wore a size 2, you would be happy, and — of course — men would desire you. You would never be traded in for a younger, sleeker model. So many insecurities to exploit.
But consider the difference between beauty and Beauty. Beauty is human, individual and eternal; beauty is abstract, mass and reliant on current tastes.
I have known many women of all shapes, sizes and ages who were Beautiful. That Beauty was expressed from their hearts through their faces and eyes. They radiated it. It was not dependent on my or any other man’s approval. It just was. So I know this can be done.
Fashion changes so there will always be new things to sell. To the current ad masters, the Gibson girls of the late 19th century would now be called fat. Sell them a diet plan and gym membership. The angular loveliness of the Venus de Milo too cold and boyish. Sell her cosmetics and plastic surgery. Mona Lisa, a dumpy Italian girl. So many things to sell her.
And then there is that intense desire to please men that begins with daddy. I often hear its echo even in the strident voices of the most ardent feminists. The advertisers trade on that. That’s deep. That’s very hard to overcome. That’s both an individual and a cultural problem.
But many women never seem to consider that a great many men aren’t dumb enough to buy the 25 and thin forever image and don’t really demand to be constantly pleased. They might actually be looking for intelligence, heart, affection and respect instead of a perfect ***. Not all, often not the young, but many.
At some point, you have to say no and mean it. You are not your age, dress size, cup size or waist size. Those are just outward manifestations of the true you. If someone rejects you on the basis of such ephemeralities, you are better off without them. You have to take control of your soul. No one can give you that except yourself. You have to live with yourself just as men have to live with themselves. Again, humanity trumps gender.
I unabashedly love women. They have been one of the great delights of my life. I love the difficulties and the differences. What a woefully dreary world it would be if men and women were they same. So, it pains me to see so many women in so much pain.
You are, first of all, a person and that is worth insisting upon. Insist. Demand. Escape, if necessary. Be the only you you can ever truly be. Then you will feel pretty. And you will be as pretty as you feel.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5dbshnvztGA

  ~mce

From the depths of my sister's eyes
I found castles built upon hills that would never be touched by the sun.
Here her fortress of human,
Cascading light outward,
Wrote symphonies of melancholy
Until every paradox played pity poetry.
She would not speak a word,
Yet arms enclosed around her,
"I’m sorry" I said.

Tears would hang onto the precipice of her eyelashes
Begging, “Please don’t let them know
That my ice, cold heart melts.”
Dormitories of lost carriages and open wounds
Like silver plattered i love you’s that would
Just get sent back to the kitchen.
It wasn’t what they ordered.
No, they wanted your confidence on a skillet,
A tall glass of Abuse Me,
With your insecurities on the side.
Now see that’s what indulges them.
Little sister, do not break as they turn your immobiles.
You diamond of strength,
With pure crystal lungs
And steal volt of a rib cage.
Do not let his laser hands touch you.
If he says he wants the light on,
Tell him about your moonlight smile.
If he says he wants to see you naked,
Tell him about your December in the psychiatric hospital.

You are not like the other mountains,
Your Everest avalanches into the ocean.
High tide with erratic currents washing up all the debris lost at sea.
Do not struggle its pull,
Or attempt to hinder its rise.
For all you’ll find is
Yourself,
Crushed under the formidable waves.
There is no rest for the wicked,
The rage does not wither with sunset
Nor wince come dawn.
Though you wish your waters would reach
The mouth of your volcano,
The high will not last the journey.

Somewhere in the foliage you will find yourself
Subsided,
In a battle field,
Unarmed.
Desolate.
Dead rose bushes will look like home
And you will fall asleep
Tangled in the thorns
But the cuts won’t hurt as much as that
Two headed dragon
That’s been trying to blow out the birthday candles inside you,
Not realising that he’s left
Every last piece of you in ashes.
But the candle continues to burn.
The sun won’t shine here.
Neither will you.
You will stare into rivers wishing the reflection would change.
You will try finding vines on trees strong enough to hang from, but pretty enough to still look like a necklace around your neck.

At these times, little sister
Remember:
You are more than skin on bones
You are midnight cast shadows
To the nocturnal.
You are laughter like orchestra,
Like finger’s on cello,
You are strings,
That will shiver and shake,
But never, not ever
Break.
You are eyes like Van Gogh’s finished canvas.
You are not the store bought version of beautiful,
You are the definition.
You are not an extra 5 cents.
You are the change that will make a difference.
You are the earth’s 8th wonder.
You are bombarded significance
You are.
You are.
You are.
So don’t ever give up.

They said high school was a home of learning
Oh I learned alright
They said it would construct my future
All it did was destroy me with the past
They said it would be safe
They have no defense over the demons
They said it would develop me as a person
But I remain who I was... only shattered

They said so many things, yet understood so little

This goes to the pillow-clutchers
to the broken who carry soaked and salty handkerchiefs
to the flesh that thrive for streaks of red dripping out
to the souls that are constantly bombarded by screeches of lies
Lies that overrun every beauty in and out
Lies that lead to masochistic actions
Waiting for the second heartbeat after every punch
Hoping this would free the monsters trapped within
This goes to the insecure
No, we are not emo
How can one contain our being in just three letters?
We are not superficial pain lovers
We are violated, dispirited, downhearted, beaten, unsettled, splintered, forgotten
But we will never be merely emo

A high school is not filled with students
It is filled with labels, rumors, divisions and fake personas
filled with eyes that look straight into your soul
filled with whispers that spread like a virus
Getting worse and worse after every ear it has jumped into
Savages looking for the flaw that can destroy you
Until you break and mindlessly follow their example

High school is where you lose who you are
And be who everyone else wants you to be

Everyone thought I was just being vain
Always staring at the mirror, trying to be cute
Never did it come into their minds that I was already believing the lies
ready to accept the rumors
using FINE as my own maxim
**** I'm Never Enough
But I waited
Waited for someone to drive out the beasts
to heal my scars
to fill my emptiness
Yet until now I remain drenched in loneliness and fear

High school is worse than hell
A quick and small crack in your soul hurts more
Than an eternal burn of your flesh
This is why we're ready to see the light come out of our eyes
But I'm holding on
For you need pain before you're declared strong
For you need darkness before you see the stars
For you need death before you reach heaven
For where there are angels,
*there will always be demons

I once knew a woman who got cancer
I don't know why
Perhaps it was genetic
Environmental
Or she swallowed a fly

They sliced it out
Bombarded with radiation
Chemo
It might as well have been a spider
To wriggle and wriggle around inside her
Because she died

Blue Spruce

Do you walk in a desert the howling wind finds no rest within your tortured breast. The desert scrub can host many realities sadness scraped raw the only comfort rub the wound with desert sand pray its warmth will reach deeper give the hint of comfort long lost on a soul finding it hard to remember kindness and its affects. You wanted only what everyone wants comfort and fulfillment but you have found these have elusive qualities almost ghost like never lasting longer than fleeting moments. Will the road wind filled with expectation only to end in senseless nothingness. How many times can you smile through the tears get up and start again why not change your identity maybe the gods that have it in for you will be fooled give you the blessings that are common to so many. This is not what your day dreams envisioned who ever questioned or dared to think up these black mortifications. You look for a hand to guide but only find those that prize themselves and forget you leaving you even more lost than before. The edges of despair crowd in your mind swirls is their not a promised land for people like me. Maybe a move would be in order a new beginning surely a fresh start will win the day where did I hear that somewhere in the land of the truly delusional you find when yet again you find life shows its power to roll and out of nowhere unseen upheaval throws you for a hard spill. Now you find a veritable waste land but yours is city streets trash strewn among those that walk with empty stares. The hearts silently bleed the well where tears once were formed filled with debris still the echo can be heard from childhood laughter was it that terribly long ago. As it happens on those blessed occasions was it real or a dream you have enjoyed the pleasure of Christmas and the green fir trees that fill the local lots the scent that drifts from room to room the little wild thing setting there all aglow gives the sweetest thrill. What is a blue spruce in my mind I followed this rutted road through the forest green and the mist had settled insulating every living thing with vibrancy this the most wondrous scene the forest truly gleams. Stand among the towering giants what a hush you are bombarded by the silence you are in the greatest ease a freefall into this quietude quiet breathing is all that is heard as wonder destroys every vesture of disquiet and alarm. Your vision intensifies as this endless pleasure mounts your soul grows its edges that were raggedly torn now renewed fully healed. What a fortress this stand of trees a thousand enemies could never surmount this pure airy wood not a king here stands but a poor beggarly soul has found the greatest ****** land bequeathed by nature’s bountiful generosity in any direction even the lofty height held with sterling sites this never could be bought even gold bows its self down to this sacred grove diamonds and emeralds fair no better their worth seems undignified here. The question arises does this place exist a great English writer wrote of the cathedral in the pine yes both places exist the sadness described in the beginning and this wondrous place a wonderful preacher related this story of a blue spruce he encountered in years long gone by it was different than just the run of the mill blue spruce you usually found he inquired of the nursery owner about the shape and color. He was told this one has been grafted by this means it never loses its rich blue color. The point was we need to be grafted into the true vine. The most important guide post to finding this glorious life while on earth is follow the sacred text that says if you truly desire truth on the inward parts you will find it. Many doors are marked holy and blessed but after entering you find only the tormented false ideas of self important men. He is the door and those that enter there will set among angels and the life of the blue spruce will be yours not inferior given to fading to lonely darkened gray but vibrant hues of azure blue your home in that blessed promise laughter and joy your possession forever more.

Hook:
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Poisoning how we think.
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Gotta be careful what ya drink.

Verse 1:
Uh, Seems like we always in a state of emergency,
In a land of democracy,
Things don’t seem free to me.
It’s like trying to wash our hands in ***** water, g.
Everything has a cost, so tell who going to pay the fee?
It certainly not going to be the dominant society.
For the system was build by and for white people to have superiority.
That demonizes anyone that doesn’t conform to their authority.
Spreading a sense of inferiority over natives and minorities.
And I’m not just talking historically, because these issues persist presently.
Change can’t happen unless one is willing to **** the teet of the majority.
For we live in world that separates based off of hierarchy.
That strips down and overgeneralizes our identities.
Then when one overcomes these disparities they are seen as the unordinary.
The exception to the rule,
Like *** is that supposed to mean?
Think I’m about to lose my sanity, dealing with an uneducated narrow minded humanity.
In a state bombarded with atrocity after atrocity,
Yet people have the audacity to tell us to get over it instantly.
Living in a democracy that doesn’t have time to listen to me,
Living in a world where history repeats,
Perhaps I guess we just can’t get enough of insanity.
It just doesn’t make sense to me?
I thought we were supposed to be evolved,
Yet be so devolved mentally.
Like how can indigenous people asking for clean water cause so much controversy?
For if your province or city didn’t have access to clean water, wouldn’t you worry?
Wouldn’t you start protesting firmly?
All I ask is that yawl start checking your privilege homie.

Hook:
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Poisoning how we think.
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Gotta be careful what ya drink.

Verse 2:
Water is the foundation to survival,
Water can also be a philosophical symbol,
For we all thirst for something,
It’s like we are cursed or something.
Being immersed into desensitization,
Becoming numb to everything.
Needing to wash away what is obstructing.
Blocking the path towards transformation.
As established norms perpetuates discrimination.
Whilst also justifying racism and condemnation.
I didn’t choose to born,
But yet that some how qualifies me for damnation.
Because my skin colour is seen as being sinful, that needs to be put through sanitation.
Becoming guilty on the basis of association.
Which makes it harder to find the equation.
As everyone has different values, beliefs and expectations for how to fix this situation.
***** water sure is a contamination,
Thats been leaking out since creation.
That has divided not just people but also nations.
If only people could be mature when having these debates and conversations.
Instead of suffocating on our offence,
Or wallowing within a sense of victimization.
****, this ***** water sure has damaged how we function.

Hook:
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Poisoning how we think.
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Gotta be careful what ya drink.

Have we all become mere automata
guided by the ring of pings and notifs?
The spray of lather from a sea of data
carrying with it wrung celebrity whiffs
have stung us with a certain aphasia...

The written thought was a lifetime ago
long abandoned by the times and all--
where once there was soundness to follow
nonsense amassed like a rising cymbal
whose crash sent reason to the gallows.

The news of the day presents a delectable entree
of a hodgepodge of this, that, and nothing much.
Wherefore we find our tongues compelled to say
something about the aftertaste or to prejudge
as if we were connoisseurs--it must've hid faraway.

Are we perhaps amusing ourselves to death?
I am by no means a Luddite to such a degree,
but I believe we have bombarded and blessed
ourselves a little too much to see...
only time will tell us reason's final breath.

From a distance designed for instant intimacy you begged me
to satisfy your earthbound,
dirt-grounded fallen-star needs with hands carved from the Moon.
Writhing between wildflowers and weeds
I danced my discretion on the definition of ecstasy;
pleasing your pleas with partial gravities—
like Atlas with sweating palms.
And I felt compelled to apologize as habit has trained me to
for loving you less like great lovers do, and more like
a high school “C” student who can’t remember the answers to the test.
But you kissed me mute.
We are daunted by the constant reminder—
from history books,  reality television shows and A.M. radios—
that, today, fame is a cannonball’s shot away
and insanity is as volatile as gunpowder.
But you,
You told me that beneath a sky bombarded by the broadcasts of bad news,
my skin made you convinced that the rest of the world were skeletons.
So under the thunder and crack of artillery facts,
for a moment we dawned the ignorant crowns of amnesia and
allowed ourselves to forget, as you let
your fingertips orbit the cores of my crater-faced palms.

We’ve both
(at the same time but never together)
mourned empty shells filling themselves with liquor and beer
at mid-morning barstools.

When we talk, we don’t need words to fill the space between smiles.
You’ve perfected the art of the gently bitten bottom lip,
while all I’ve got to offer is this goofy grin—
flashing a mouth full of teeth like typewriter keys,
craving to spell out in some brand new word,  
that I’ve never used and that you’ve never heard,
how wonderful you look today.

I bet you’ve left stronger men than me kissing sparks out of wall sockets;
craving something that shocks like your electricity,
but I’m just happy that your static touch has got my hair standing on end.
And even though I’ve never known the face of God,
You’ve given me belief in rebirth.
You make me feel funny and young:
Like Saturday morning cartoons.
Like midnight skinny dipping
And *** with socks on.

The truth is, you make me want to fall in love like it’s 1945.
I’ve been shipwrecked on war torn foreign banks.
Lullabied to sleep by the ratta-tat-tat of
machine gun harmonies and
the horseshoed hoof beats of in-sync cavalries,
and your portrait warming the breast pocket
of my jacket is the only thing reminding me
that there’s real music in a place called home.
And even though I’ve never been the gentleman
that the storybooks promised
when you were young,
someday I’ll wear a three-piece suit and learn the piano for you.

After three years digging in dirt,
weaving roots and planting seeds
in the most unnoticeable lingering looks.
thing I’ve learned it’s that gardeners
make the best lovers,
and together we’ve grown a grove out of un-regrettable mistakes,
midnight stairwells and
out-of-state license plates.
There are things about myself that were nameless until you
embroidered them a set of initials on the insides of my eyelids.
Now my rapid eye dreams read about the best parts of me –
and the long nights, they don’t idle so much
when I have something to be proud of.

i could conceive the western concept of the rehab,
but then for 3 weeks i was in poland
i didn't touch the bottle for that period of time...
i don't see how an addict with a bunch
of addicts can be cured by anything other than
stigma... i'm actually happy addicted to
addiction: i entered my reading-mode...
   that said, most people can't digest a Kraszewski
book... **** me, we read Bradbury in snippets
just to tow in an essay for A-level english...
       philip augustus, or the chess player concerning
the Angevin family... great stuff...
   i didn't choose the book, my grandfather did,
he owned half the Kraszewski collection and read
nothing of it, he had to find a ******* "bored"
enough to read one of the books,
   and as i once said: i've seen the movie adaptations
of the Sienkiewicz trilogy...
         the cossack uprising, the swedish deluge...
and i said to myself: i can't and i won't...
thanks you jerzy hoffman, and yes: thank you
peter jackson...
              the infinite supply of elven arrows
and Legolas shooting orcs at point-blank range did
it for me...
                thankfully i can write something
as obscure as this, and know, for certain, that
there's a back-alley of the human populace out there
that might be searching for something like this...
   but that's what i found entertaining,
i actually had the opposite of wanting to compliment
the film adaptation of sienkiewicz, with an actual
sienkiewicz book... mind you: Kraszewski covers
the same period... and it's all the same time frame...
   should i write a proof that i read the **** thing?
maybe... but the main idea is that:
a metropolis cannot provide the right environment
for a book... or completing a book...
books are read in the countryside, in small towns,
in palaces... in hunting lodges...
          and i dare say: reading a book, getting into
full swing of the narrative is best done in daylight hours...
and i'll come back to the daylight hours,
  as a drinker and writer i chose the night...
  you know how long it took me to restore my
biological clock, and regain the nocturnal realm after
spending 3 weeks with a clear schizophrenia
of sleeping in the night and wriggling about during
the day? 2 weeks! i restored the biological pendulum,
but i have to admit: i feel ****...
    but i guess it's a worthy sacrifice...
i'm planning to go back to my country of origin
during late spring to read some more books...
i couldn't have read don quixote, the brothers karamazov,
bertrand russell's history of western philosophy
    yada yada yada... or kierkegaard's either / or,
or finished off kant's critique without my place of birth...
  and isn't it like a badge of honour?
                some will tell you to speak out an eastern
mantra... om... and the shattering of chandelier...
the western mantra is also a type of hypnosis,
you have to find a rhythm with a book...
  the mantra is the narrative of a book, and the silence
that incubates you has shark-teeth should anyone approach...
   but urban living makes this spot harder to find
than a begger or the ******... you can read books
in large cities... before you head home you're
bombarded with the psychology of exploiting your
literacy, in adverts, in orientating signs...
        with them being so authoritarian, it's hard
to find time for a liberal attitude to books...
            esp. what books are, best described by people
who'd probably like to throw them like molotov
cocktails in protest marches: thick as bricks those
gargantuan apostles of the void are...
       and so we are: sitting in times of hyperinflation
of literature... if that isn't the case, let me know by
Tuesday next week, i'll brood the assumption myself
until then...
      that's 2 weeks it took me to return to my writing mode...
to get back to the nocturnal realm
where everything is doubly black & white...
                 the point is: i want to write at a time when
the surrounding world sleeps...
     last time i remember, i didn't get a message in my dreams,
i'd love to see letters in my dreams, fortunately
i can't... i haven't seen these artefacts in dreams,
      but it's hard to blame memory as not strained enough
to do so... the unconscious and memory don't really
interact that well... it's a paradox that they even do
and that dreams have some sort of existence involved in
the architecture of our psyche...
                        last night i dreamt of lego batman because:
d'uh his endearing sarcasm... and godzilla!
   boo ya!         and this large city being eaten up
by a tornado, and other things phantasmogorical....
well pandemonium here, pandemonium there...
    don't get any ideas about the nature of dreams and
oedial repression... please! unaffordable housing prices
these days can only mean i'd really earn a mortgage
if my ***-drive went to the dogs, of the profession.
    so 3 weeks of a sober life and enough time to read
books... and my return into a writing life, a nocturnal
life, and drinking...
   mind you, in between there was that masters final
with ronnie o'sullivan (at least romford is famous for
something) vs. joe perry... in the last frame, when they
had 30 odd points each, and they were plucking at the
last remaining red ball for the snooker?
       snooker is a metaphor for the savannah...
you either watch snooker, or a david attenborough naturalist
show... there's the herd of buffalo (the red *****)...
           and the cue ball the hunting predator...
well... it's all a bit abstract, there are just ***** on a green
table... but still... at least in snooker you can bug
the "pawn" (red) ***** without having to *** them,
in chess you destroy completely... the pawns go...
there's no time to keep them for a no-man's land pause...
and i just turned 30... which goes to show:
                  if the game of football was perfect,
i mean perfect like tennis is with hawk-eye and
    6 judges vertical, 4 judges horizontal...
                  then football wouldn't be so passionate,
so religious... the reason it is so religious is because
judging it is so ****** imperfect...
     there's a reason why football can't be perfected in a way
as rugby can, where the referee can pause the game
and ask for a replay... the unfairness principle!
it has to be unfair in order for people to feel even more
impassioned by it! that's why in that film
when Alec Baldwin says something along the lines:
god comes first (while his hand holds out
the index and *******), and football comes second
(the index finger disappears)...
      football can never be a sport that has perfect
refereering... which makes me surprised as to why
it can grace the Olympic games...
                   football (in english, not that theme park
of jumping torpedoes) - yes the football known as:
ballet with hairy legs...
                   it has to remain unfair and subsequently
quasi-religious because it generates the most money,
but apart from that, it has gained a quasi-religious
status because it reflects a sort of life we acknowledge:
the referee made a bad decision, god did this... blah blah...
  and we get passion, religious passion that's
best represented by football hooligans...
                        but whereas other sports perfect their
techniques of refereeing a game, football hasn't done
the least possible, because it requires the whole debate
of: life's unfair!
    if it wasn't for unfair refeering, the game would not
be alive, as it is alive, to stage a confrontation
with: apache west ham, and sioux millwall...
       it's the best way to ensure tribalism...
         make the refereeing unfair, don't improve it...
blame it on the man in the sky, or the ponce in new zealander...  
mind you....
   the last football match i went to was at Stamford Bridge,
Chelsea lost to Newcastle United...
             i just just there like a stoic twant...
           i couldn't imitate the screams and the chants...
   i was just mesmerised at how it's so different from
watching a football match without the television acting
like a microscope... i am sure i was looking elsewhere
when someone scored a goal...
                 i probably went to the toilet when i
missed another goal...
                        and i'll reiterate...
   it can't be a gentlemanly sport, the rules can't be fair,
that's why they call it the sport of the rabble,
they have to contain the illusion of being unfair...
       because it's a "rabble" sport...
the referee has to make bad decisions,
otherwise there would be a "what if" dimension...
ask any Pole about the 1974 semi-finals with Germany
and ask them about the weather that day...
  then ask about the Polish wingers... and how fast they
were... and how the pitch was so slosh, and ice-puppy
fudge that the slow germans won it...
                     because the Poles always say:
we could have beaten the Nedetherlands in the final...
        again: football, if it is to be stated as the secular
alternative to religion, has to have an inherent unfairness in it...
all the other sports will perfect their judgement,
football will not move an inch... just like a religion -
perhaps that's also because we live in times of
cold-consumerism,
       a quick comparison is:
   the reactions of antonio conte vs.
                       ivan lendl -
   the former looks like a raving lunatic when something
good, or bad happens...
   the second? is he watching tennis, or playing poker?

feelings of deep discontent use to swallow me whole.

now I am bombarded by a flurry of hope and love

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.

If you ask how I'm feeling
Prepare for a long talk
But if you want the short version
Then I'll try to sum it up

How do I feel?

I feel like
I'm fighting a battle
With a billion moquitoes

One bite isn't a big deal
Neither is two

But I'm getting bombarded
Bite after
Bite after
Bite

I am surrounded by the enemy
And no matter how many I ****
There's another to take it's place

I can't escape
They're ******* the life out of me

Even if they don't **** me
They hurt
Like you wouldn't believe

So how do I feel?

Like I'm being attacked
By a billion mosquitoes

my 3rd vice
my catalyst for food restriction
desperate to sooth my shattered self image
daily bombarded by airbrushed perfect female beauty
braking my image of beauty and showing my cellulite
followed by overloading information about fixing me
regular exercise, beauty routines and Cal restricted diets
insecurity the new female epidemic
we fight for women's rights
and threw the baby out with the bath water
a basic human need
unmet and exploited
our legacy
the English standard
geneticly out of reach for women of color