And I gave my First Snowglobe to them.
…And When I had given that to them, I had told him to give me a gift in return that may have more to itself than just simple life.  

“Inahah oona sept amni kquestal”.

Yet I had no other thing to give, this broken soul, beyond more than just flesh, I was naught. And so she had nothing more to me than that of the great overtone, the great silence of the earth, of space, her arms stretching invisible to hold our gaze to her innumerable foreign light show and state--

Perhaps there is another lover of soul somewhere within?

And he said simply to me, that there is someplace for me to be, someone for me to see-- that there was innumerable and inexplicable, incalculable and incomprehensible, powerful and overwhelming deterministic fate that guides my eyes, lets me chose without choosing, think without thinking, know without knowing.

And he knew—and she knew—and they knew with a knowing that I can never know; true and whole and unspoken, I can only dream to describe.

"We made the world for us, for you."

And I felt their love radiate that ferrous heart, steeled with centuries of pain and removal, heated by the ***** of her truth and guided by the loving, tender hand of his true brilliance that blinded and pleasured my aching eyes.

The entire web of the cosmos, in my eyes, dreaming and thinking that maybe I’d be back there one day, whole, float-- bool and cruelty of world inconsequential within the vast expanse of everything—

A powerful, emanative, restorative code of the universe that held itself no information but all, no hate but the misidentified ache of longing love, differed from the soul of the grinding earth—so far away from god through sickly skin and broken bone that without expanding into time and vaporizing into pure light, these feelings which we can never know.

there are always two ways of saying things,
one way of saying things is
to read them once, file them in the unconscious
cabinet and ~wait for the results
working their ways in your thought
appropriating the said things -
i found i can only reread / skim-read only
one book in my library - because i spent
a glorious summer reading it,
in a communist apartment block,
and i never sought to invest in creating grime
post-rap given there was no English
suburbia to work against -
one book, out of a hundred i could ever
reread in leisure while taking a ****,
now that's an achievement to be honest,
i dare you to find two books of such calibre -
**** the prayer mat in the mosque -
and repeat, re re repeat -
and **** arching over your shadow in
the confession booth -
so that's one way of reading: read it once,
discard it, become an artist-journalist:
because there's always tomorrow -
**** acronym a.s.a.p. - ah, tautology of close
proximity - or so it might appear to be so -
and the boys juggling barbarism with
cut off testicles, one's spherical, the other's
oval - and ****** had only one...
the other way of saying things? a fishnet -
a safety-net - you can reread the already read
things and don't mind rereading -
to be honest, true art is of the former kind,
you read it, engage with it only once
and then leave it aside... brush it under the carpet...
the differential adjective association of nouns
is hidden within art and culture -
                arty will not do, farts won't do either,
but that's what is appears to be:
     culture likes to be associated with numbers
and revving inputs -
                                art's here a second,
and gone the next -
                                   culture is what keeps
the busy parents ticking and timing slow-mo -
the Jezebel of all yesterdays! it has to be pop -
hardly a minded canary song trickle in
modern-day aliens coming from the Amazon
without caveman theories...
yep, ****-naked all along throughout the Enlightenment -
they call it a plateau and ha ha,
the Europeans call it an insult and an anthropological
omission that would make Neil Armstrong
take up a bicycle and race the necessary need
to involve chemists in more than just shampoo and
toothpaste.. given the adverts...
                                           cos when **** goes dope,
you got to dope 'em, universally.
                  Belgium and the waffle -
duo - waffle - or blah blah, i.e. unnecessary talk,
usually political - can you imagine talking so much
in order to simply say: you must be joking,
no we won't, are you mad?, it was all supposed to be giggles.
i can't.
there are two ways of saying things:
a. if you reread me, you're kinda stupid,
    meaning you have the same repetitive dream
    over a 20 year period....
    i don't reread what i write,
    art isn't about rereading, if the message
    doesn't plummet into the unconscious you'll succumb
    to the second way of saying things, i.e.
b. for entertainment purposes,
    meaning repetition is the crucible, the pivot,
    a bit like dictates in the school system...
    we're actually taught repetitiveness -
    we are taught repetitiveness in order to pass
    an erosion of memory exams, like a toothache -
    we are taught to memorise *******
    in order to be later investments in Alzheimer's -
    no personal memory = no person of
   suggested personality acquisition -
   the English don't like verbiage -
                  but how can you even claim intellect
without motivational thinking that verbiage
is disguised as, huh?
paradoxically the stress on individuals -
the west never endangers itself with individuals
in established systems... sure, i should have
dropped-out of university and became the rottweiler
billy the kid -
                            i should have... but i wanted
to see the end results...
                  so b.
                            or the unnecessary need to repeat
art - as in art ought never succumb to the age of
mechanical reproduction (Benjamin) -
once ought to do it, like losing your virginity -
or the first time you swam 25 metres of a swimming bool,
or rode a bike... to exclude all sense of nostalgia
or eavesdropping on bogus maxims three generations
from now... the idea that words do not translate
into words: when one artistic output doesn't inspire
anything but practical activity, given art being
pure and therefore impractical activity -
but don't blame the artist for succumbing to such a fate,
it's not a fury - it just means the people the artist
encountered became insurmountably obstacle prone
representative: where a mother could have been,
a jealous murdering ***** stood,
where a man of suitable physical endurance could
have been, a semi-******* stood.
stick to point (a.), never fall for the trap of point (b.),
art is required more as a very elitist vector factory,
than H. Ford could think the wheel represented,
e.g.? well, examples always give adequate summaries
to arguments: Bloodhound Gang's the bad touch...
no, nothing in particular, i preferred the omission
that's akin to argument (a.) rather than argument (b.),
the pink floyd spoof with the lyrics:
        all in all, you're just another **** with no *****.
point made - *Right turn Clyde.

Unfinished poems left with no return, I lost the muse i need to choose. To write or not to write, that is the question. I open my bool , stare at the blank page , pencil in my hand. The muse is gone and it comes again. I continue to write despite if its good or not. Each word representing me i want to be free. Fly high in the sky when i write i don't have to lie. I'm looking for my muse and i don't want to lose. i stop for a drink and i think. I'm alone. with out my muse , what will i do....pause. I know I'm free. And I found my muse, In me.

Using System;

Namespace Poem
{
     Class Program
     {
          Main(string[] args)
          {
               Console.WriteLine(“1 or 0”);
               String dec = Console.ReadLine();

               bool life;

               if (desc == 1)
               {
                    life = true;
               }
               else
               {
                    life = false;
               }

               string msg = MADNESS(life);

               Console.WriteLine(msg);
               Console.ReadLine();
               life = !life;

               Console.WriteLine(life.ToString());
               Console.ReadLine();
          }

          Public Static String MADNESS(bool life)
          {
               bool suffering = false;

               if(life == true)
               {
                    suffering = !suffering;
                    return “madness ensues.”;
               }
               else
               {
                    suffering = false;
                    return “madness took over.”;
               }
          }
     }
}

I'm an actor in a play
But I always play the fool

To amuze the many eyes
And be treated oh so cruel

They love to make me cry
And to treat me like a tool

This world won't let me die
That's the one and only rule

I can never feel alive
Always feeling like a ghoul

What I do is carry burdens
I was made to be a mule

I am just ones and zeros
My thoughts are made of bool

I see them all around me
Like I'm the center I'm the spool

I need all of their attention
Their amusement is my fuel

I'm a character in a game
And I love to play the fool

heart born with freedom
blood flow through my ventricles late i supercede them
like a hailmary through my bool stream
blitz my arteries with cholesterol teams

face planted
cheek slanted
girlfriend panted
and my ******* neighbours ranted

how come when i go too numb
face hit **** floor
i got overthrown by a concrete ***
back in the alley with stuck up confetti messes of chewing gum
until i become so numb
until my heart sore

heart died with freedom
**** these ventricles i no longer need to redeem em