Don't ask questions
To the man who watches
The wind go by

Don't ask questions
To the little girl
Who talks to trees

Don't ask questions
To the pilot who quits
His job mid air

Don't ask questions
To the teenagers
Who seek love

Don't ask questions
To the rebels
Who have fight in them

Don't ask questions
To the nuns who sing
To the God's they believe in

But rather ask questions
To those that pass you by
Every day without noticing you

Ask questions to those
Who study in order to work
And who work in order to retire

Ask questions to those
Who wait till retirement
To sigh

Ask questions to those
Who don't question
The system

Ask questions to those
Who don't seem conscious
And who live by habit

And then ask yourself,
Do you?

she wanted my soul


so I cut off a finger,
noting that this little pinky offering,
came from the same hand,
who, who went to the market
to buy her a love poem
all her own, because,
it was from the self same hand
that wrote:

who, can cut a soul into pieces,
no one!
so one will still ask you,
who!
who will love you
in whole poems,
that are both past and future tensed
composite composted,
from words overly overused,
but still foolishly feeling brand new
when referencing *you,
so you can believe with new fool-thinking,
this is your sole composition

she wanted my heart,
applauded her determination,
gave her one eye to see me instead better,
so the visions she essays,  to write,
like when I sit down to write
of women I’ve loved but!

they do not come from my heart pieces,
but from inside insight from of parts
that are blind to everything
but *raucous untamable invisible desire

she asked me for all the world’s wisdom,
while standing on one legging,
I simply said, here I am,
telling you I’ll love you the way you requested,
if only to be loved in return

so with one eye and one leg,
you will observe, two is not more
than the sum of the parts of one love,
as I count to ten on my nine fingers
fingers that wrote of love not enough,
no matter how many he gave up

she wanted my brainiac left hemisphere,
said, sure,
the left side of me is where the baby poems
are created, and then angel-released when ready,
when needed, now that I
see you’re needy for pieces,
but still mistaken that pieces can be reconstructed into
a whole with spit and spirit
and an overarching imagination -
no!

the whole comes from only a holy place extracted
from the hole-in-one that is my entirety

give me then your utter essence,
the place of you
I, only I know exists, must exist,
but cannot touch to see
where you keep it hidden
from all the women who love you,
better than you even love yourself

if you want that, then collect it,
for it exists and lives on
in every woman that asked for nothing,
but was rewarded with more
than a thousand poems,
stored in stars, for her,
to be creamed and cleansed,
when she plucked them
from the night in the galaxy where exist
love poems, only
to she-one shone-shine

I'm long overdue thanking
The heroes of my youth.

Thank you Superboy
For teaching me how
To read plot and character
And dialogue.
Your comics
Brought phonics
Alive.

Thank you Bouncing Boy
For being somewhat chubby,
And teaching me
Patience and understanding
Of those not quite the
Shape of me.

Thank you Mon El and Ultra Boy
For helping me focus
On one strength at a time;
I've held my  
Weaknesses back from
Overpowering me.

Thank you Lightning Lad
For teaching me that
Accidents happen;
I can move on,
Learn and be stronger.

Thank you Karate Kid
For teaching me that
An average boy,
Through practice and determination
Can achieve what
I dreamt.

Thank you Cosmic Boy
For teaching me to channel
My energy, work with forces
Greater than myself,
And maintain control.

Thank you Chameleon Boy
For the lesson on
Adaptability and attitude
Adjustment.

Thank you Colossal Boy
For making it resoundingly clear
That stature and success are fleeting.
One always returns to
The one before.

Thank you Invisible Kid
For teaching me that I
Will not always go unnoticed
In an opaque world.

Thank you Brainiac 5
For teaching me the importance
Of education and life-long learning.

Thank you Sun Boy
For teaching me to
Shine and look my best,
But never forget
What's inside is brighter still.

Thank you Elastic Lad, Jimmy Olsen,
Who taught me that a loner, a cub,
A red-headed, freckled-faced boy
Could stretch himself,
Can walk with Heroes.

Thank you Shrinking Violet,
Saturn Girl, Phantom Girl,
Lightning Lass, and Supergirl
For all the shapliness
And upskirts
A young lad needs;
You saved ***** Lad
From a life of celibacy
In a Jesuit Seminary.
A Big Thanks!

stumbling through a meadow of words
I see clearly your name
its says flower what you doing along this way
tripping over again the same yesterday as tomorrow
find yourself a smoother road to lose today
and I will meet you there
my name up in lights next yours

Fat, skinny, anorexic, depressed
Emo, fake, two-faced
*******, brainiac, crazy,
Tall, short, giraff, mouse
Gay, straight, ****, ***
Bipolar, white, black
Christian, Jew,
Anger creates labels
Insecurity creates labels.
Labels
Destroy us.

A vicious attack* of that crackling brainiac anthrax
To give back to society
Slack then just grab the heat,
Feed it to the needy who receive it thankfully.
Call it *poetry.
Who could see repressed punctuality proceeded
By the kick of a hit or three?
Gimme these retrospective variants
To a counterpoint's last stand,
Or voices
Speaking to a lost cost for freedom
That rips at the rotting veins of humanity-
I stood up for what I believed in,
But the world will too crumble when the sun's light dulls dead.
You can call this rambling for something
To take the brain-scraping ache away-
The pain of the mistaken vacant escape.
Who's to say that we're all just thrown here
To die and to try to believe in something that exists,
And if we can't find it then we're lost and wrong and
Guilty.
Leave me barely breathing  if the seeing is now ceasing
To a state of gray monotony,
And melancholy monsters creeping
Out from under the bed where my habits sleep-
And threaten with a scratch, hiss and  screetch
To
Wake
Me
*Up.

Orange orange everywhere
Orange orange in the air
I’m given an orange despair
By a man with orange hair
I see through his orange glare
To see nothing really there

A man became president
Promising to evict residents
His stupidity self evident
When he says nothing relevant
About all the topical elements
He just talks for the hell of it

He’s unfit to lead
Because he’s equipped with greed
And an unwillingness to read
Gaining success from his family tree
He lives the American dream
By making others scream
To indulge his team
And his bigotry

All it took for his courtship
Was a culture of celebrity worship
And idiots buying his horseshit
Of acting remorseless

The gullible are impressed
With how well he is dressed
So they think he’s the best
Putting him in a wing that is west
Because he has a lot of money
But without any capability
You better start running
Money let’s him **** willingly

He takes advantage of the stupid and racist
By pointing at people with brown faces
Saying they’re here to replace us
Like they’re working for Asus
And not mowing his lawn
He said they will **** us
To manipulate his pawns

He’s a megalomaniac
Who thinks he’s a brainiac
But it’s a brain he lacks
To understand the impact
Of his negative attacks
Still he thinks he’s a genius
Which justifies his meanness
So his cruelty is seamless
While he claims to redeem us

This is our most vulnerable hour
With a president compromised by foreign powers
Building ivory towers
By turning minorities sour
There’s a litany of reasons
Why he calls them heathens
But it all revolves around freedoms
Being stripped from those who need them

His constituents have their heads in the sand
So they blindly give in to his demands
Going after whoever he’s ******
In the name of this land
Other kinds are banned

You can tell the bad guys have won
When they start separating mothers from sons
At the end of a gun
So there’s nowhere to run
Away from the oppression
Of our downward descension
As he does nothing to lessen
The root of our depression

His concentration camps
Give a **** slant
To his lofty plans
Until no one can stand
Without a weapon
Because of his deception
Which was his intention
To win the election
He promised detention
Of the boogeyman mentioned

The red, white and blue
Adopts an orange hue
When the foreign lose
From the fascist bruise
Of an orange noose

Steps for Life:
1. Wake up and brush your teeth twice and use mouthwash.
    Make sure your teeth are pearly white.
    Floss so your teeth don't rot with grim.
2. Drop in some eyedrops,
    so no one can see that you cried.
3. Choose your clothes.
    Don't choose something that isn't name brand.
    Don't choose something that's ugly or unflattering.
    Wear your waist trainer so that your waist can be thin and your
    stomach is flat.
4. Get your makeup together.
    Wear the right color eyeshadow, make sure your lashes long enough,
    make sure you choose the right color to match your outfit.
5. Pick the right shoes.
    Choose the heels that are in season.
    It doesn't matter if they aren't comfortable you have to wear them to
    be cool.
6. Go to school
    Go to school and suffer.
    Hang out with the popular kids.
    Be rude to other girls and criticize them for not having the money to
    afford clothes like yours.
7. Come home.
    Lift a few weights to keep your arms thin.
    Swallow a nasty concoction and have dinner so you can rid of it.
8. Repeat for the rest of your life because you won't ever be good enough.

To a girl, why is life about the size of your thighs?
The thinness of your waist.
The color of your eyes,
The color of your skin.
The flatness of your stomach
The shape of your jaw.
The length of your legs.
The way you walk and whether or not you fall.

They hid the pain.
Because pain is beauty.
And beauty was all that matters.
The biggest goal is to be popular but to be popular you have to be liked.
No one likes an unattractive girl.
No one likes a girl who isn't pretty.

To be popular, to awesome to other people, to be cool,
You have to make yourself suffer from the pain that is beauty.
You can't eat anything you want if you do you'll gain weight and you'll be fat.
You can't eat all 3 meals because you'll get fat. Instead, you have to eat a bit for some energy but then force it all back up because too much food will ruin your flat stomach and no one likes a girl who's fat.

You can't eat certain foods because it's messy and people see your face being a mess than say goodbye to your popularity because no one likes a messy girl.
You can't join certain clubs and you can't get straight A's. This is because no one likes a brainiac girl or all the other fantastic words.
You can't wear sweatpants if you aren't required too. Sweatpants aren't flattering and if no one likes you then neither should you.

You will suffer in silence
Because everyone thinks that you're fine.
You have to follow a strict diet or else your popularity will die.
No will see the cuts on your thighs because that's the only place they won't show.
You can cut your shoulders, your wrist or stomach but people will see and think of you as a depressed emo and no one wants to be seen with that freak.

Society has girls be trapped in a box where they follow the same horrible routine.
Inspirational people say that the box is paper and you can just break it to be free.
If the box is paper why am I so weak?
Why can't I break it?
Those inspirational people are wrong.
The box isn't paper.
It's stone.

My brain
Membrane
Contains

Coltrane
Brisbane
Bi-planes

Mansplaining
Hydroplaning
*******

Guilt explaining
Speaking plainly:

Fruit
Truth
Pie
Lies

Life
Liberty
Pursuit of something

Jazz and ****
What it is

Enjoy the fizz

sometimes I look around and wonder when everything got so bad

when did school fall so low within my priorities?
when did my happiness fall to the bottom of the list of things that are important to me?
when did I decide my dreams weren't good enough?

more importantly, why?

why am I not who I wanted to be?
why did I change so much?

what happened to the party girl in me?
what happened to all the fun I used to have?

what happened to the brainiac?
what did I do with all those smarts I used to have?

when did she disappear?

when will she come back?

*will she ever come back?

my nose now runs seasonallyfrom sigh droplets

every new season celebrated by the constant continuation
of its running from, running to ?, or as I joke,  
from  September to September inclusive

but something new, my eyes now watery, a permanente daily irregularity, the imaginary laundry lady whines consistently, as she cannot always locate, prior to machine insertion, for all my secret hiding places of the always everywhere ***** tissues!

“too many pockets, too many tissues,” she underbreath mumbles,
but secretly I observe her similarly daubing~dabbing of the eyes,
in this time of constant sorrow, no one immunized, the sigh droplets
pass through any mask and gown, and then become full time residents

wry thinking, “let he or she who is without stone, cast the first tissue”
but we are all ****** all the time, heavy heaving, eyes tearing and
noses running

it don’t take much, the continuous reportage batters me and turning
away from my electronics impossible, they now hard wired inside the maniac-brainiac, wifi’d, from every side, even a actual glance outside at the desert of our dehumanized streetscapes always amazes

we no longer worry that every sniffle or tear
is a warning sign of  a more serious ailment;
no, we understand too well this is a sad spirit inside,
it’s symptoms unleashed but un-lethal, the antibody
to a weariness that has no name, only tissues that

cannot cure nor disinfect

Sometimes we sit here choking on pills
doing things that are against our will
some of those things give us chills
down the spine like a line of
******* making us insane straight brain less
i lost my head lost my way
lost my mind i can't stay here
i gotta go back follow my tracks
back to the big yellow brick road
where it's always cold in the dark
i need a spark i'm not smart
if i was i would be figuring
this out by now don't know how
i made it this far seeing stars
right above me the sky is free
no longer on my knees feeling hopelessness
i feel dopelessness nothing to smoke now
i guess that makes me feel happilessness
chugging water from a bottle while drowning
teeth way in the back called crowns
like the one on my frowning head
which is full of worms like kings
steaming drinking brainiac they all called me
freak taking a leak twice a week
speak my mind like i'm always lying
the truth is not real to me
trust issues have hit me like a truck
they say a sentence is seven words
but i cant put them together why
do i sigh when things become difficult
I've never been the type to give
up on things this much the rush
is no longer killing me it heals
all the souls that have been stolen
holding my breath till God rescues me
i quit drinking quit smoking quit fighting
i quit thinking and thinking and thinking
about things that don't matter this day
anxiety takes your breath away don't stay
blow it all away and don't worry
you need to know there's a God
who will save you every single time
from all things in which you dread.
Seven words make a small very sentence.
The shortest ones are the sweetest ones,
Tell the ones you care for everyday
that you love them and hug them
you think you can tell the future
you can, and the truth we all know
is you'll all be gone one day
the last thing you remember shouldn't be
all the regrets you' have ever had.

Suspension of appendage wings
Flapping to the breeze
Left out
Left alone
Begging mercy on mine knees
A bullet to graze the overpass
Albatross in flight
Brainiac turned manic
Heart blasting panic
Hopeless gored romantic
Tubing fuzz of static
Hung himself
In attic
Glorified to god
Hidden in a pod
Birthed

Flight from planet Pluto!!!

Play on mandolin
and pedal steel guitar,
leaving me with a lonesome feeling.

Yes, sometimes I feel so all alone,
so all alone in the middle of all these stars.

Oh so many stars in oh so much space...

Back in the crisp October air with the leaves falling everywhere.
The winds they whipped through this old house.
And at times it was too much cold to bear.

So I went out and bought an electric blanket and a space heater
that we took from room to room.
Candles were lit to shine away every corners' gloom.

Now tell me, who was the brainiac that named it the Sun
when they could have called it a Space Heater.

Third grade rules. They sound simple and really, one does not
have to be a brainiac in order to understand them. Although one learns them in the third grade, they remain valid though the rest of one's life.

Rule#1:  Making something you want yours.
In order to make something you want yours, simply spit all over it. Trust me, no one else will want it. And it will be yours for the rest of your existence.  

Rule#2:  Making someone it.
In order to make someone it, simply take your index finger and poke the person you want to be it. Then say "You're it". Then, they will be it.

To do it with someone you want to be yours. First, spit all over them. Then make them it. Then you can do it with the one who is yours. Do you see now how simple life can be just by applying the rules of the third grade. I hope I have helped clarify things for the better of everyone. There is no need to thank me and have a great summer.

your poet

It's easier to grow muscle

and not expand the mind

title: copepod
body:
blister-whale:
somewhat: 2. 502 bad gateway give-away

i have to admit, i took a hiatus from listening to
Marilyn Manson... by chance i came across
a review of... either Born Villain or the Pale Emperor...
clearly: i wasn't paying attention...
ever since i missed the chance to go to a concert
when he was touring the Holywood album...
that same year Mudvayne were touring with L.D. 50...
i switched off after their debut...
i switched off from the music of my youth in general...
went down several rabbit holes...
notably medieval music - blues - jazz -
                      some extra-curriculum classical....
but the artist ages... well... so does his audience...
i don't even remember when i started writing:
let alone posting dotty-doodles on this platform:
i had only one focus... for all the ills that the internet
enhanced... revealed when it comes to the interaction
of people: sure... the older generations found it
convenient to shop... to do banking... to book plane
tickets... but for us younger folk... the ones born
into the years prior to the inception of the internet...
this was our time to build up an underground
of communication... for me? what better way to bypass
the gatekeepers, the publishers...
having amassed some readership... 44 thousand on just
one poem? hmm... let me spell it out: 44,000...
if i were to write it out in matchsticks, i.e. |||||||||| = 10...
what is 44,000 of those pretty stacks of arithmetic?
let me see what 100 looks like...
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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what about a thousand?
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                                                  = 1000...
now... i know what 44 thousand looks like... roughly...
how many spectators were there at Wembley...
for the woman's F.A. cup final?
                                        let's say... 41K...
now multiply that space of matchsticks by... 44...
but this is only one poem... i have... thousands of poems...
some are still stashed on my facebook page:
or rather lost on my timeline...
           mind you: i haven't performed any of them...
why? they don't rhyme: for starters...
i like listening to people sing Aud Lang Syne
on new year's eve... and even Shakespeare can't
beat that... Shakespeare's words were never put
to music... and they won't be...
sure... great meter blah blah... but you can't sing
Shakespeare... so there goes the baby...
with the bathtub and the water out of yer
******* window...
                            i'm more a composer than a performer...
i'm more a composer than a performer
therefore not an entertainer...
i gave myself this: jinx... the moment i start
performing... is the moment i stop composing...
i'll just be regurgitating the very few poems
that might be left in my repertoire like...
Ginsberg... having to recite Howl ad nauseam...
me? i'm sort of in the mindset: plough along...
let's not beat around the bush...
   for all the ills of the internet... there's one good...
the possibility to bypass gatekeepers...
publishers... no one would touch my ****...
and yet: they are printing tabloid spew...
           sorry... tabloid *****...
                they are printing propaganda left right
and centre... my work would be... obscure...
revealed: ha ha... perhaps after my death...
let the people judge for themselves...
                     i'm not saying it's Shakespeare...
god forbid writing that stuffy ****...
                             it's contemporary... i don't even think
i'd allow myself to belong to a movement
akin to post-modernism...
   hell: if **** comes naturally... it comes...
if it doesn't... well... i usually need to do something...
ha ha: "cope"... do some cooking, do some cleaning,
do some gardening... so some ironing of the shirts...
go to my part-time job... wait a year until i'll ask
for references and then apply for a job as a teacher...
or take the current route and become a security guard...
which route would allow me to write, more?
probably the latter... then again... experience
as a security guard... could come in handy...
on a curriculum vitae... when it comes to crowd control...
in a classroom of kids...
    but i really don't want to teach chemistry...
i'd love to teach English...
                   - but don't get me wrong.... some artists /
bands got the mix right... they understood
that there needed to be a prominence of the BASS guitar...
Metallica sure as **** didn't catch up...
pretty much all those kinds of bands didn't...
barely audible... well... with the exception of
the intro on Devil's Dance... but then the bass disappears
into inaudibility...
it's like a post-jazz hybrid... in rock music...
the rhythm guitar and all that is considered "melody"
can sort of *******... let's just leave in the screetching
accents of the guitar... keep the vocals...
but... but... let the bass guitar exfoliate...
   and... let the drums compliment it...
    no no... the drums are no longer the building block...
the bass guitar comes first...
  it's a bit like borrowing from opera...
    bass is the baritone... rhythm / solo guitar the soprano...
yada-yada-blah-blah some minutes later...
songs like the Gardener from Born Villain and
Third Day of a Seven Day Binge from the Pale Emperor...
if you listen to them... you can truly... truly: groove...
you can't stop nodding, can't stop swaying...
you start thinking: how is it that pigeons don't
get headaches? i guess they must be listening to cosmic
music only pigeons can hear... like those dog whistle
scenarios... humans can't hear it...
but since... all birds descended from dinosaurs...
they strut... nodding... head-banging... some ancient
music of the cosmos: ergo? no head-ache...
hmm... and this writing coming from a guy who
drinks like a pirate... and is waiting to do psychedelic
drugs if... he might enter the confines of dementia...
oh yeah: i'm keeping that option open...
should i start to slip up... on my pedantic spelling
and punctuation... i'm ******* off to Amsterdam
to a brothel and some magic mushrooms... ****...
i'll need to get a bus out of Amsterdam and find some
forest... something scenic... mind you:
the Netherlands are not that scenic... flat... upon flat...
upon flat... although... that's the jist of things you see
from the motorway when going through...
i'm sure i could find some beautiful spots to trip...
  should the worst come...
but the artists i was fond of listening to in my youth
have finally caught up with what i was thinking:
where, the ****, is, the BASS?
       ****** music jerking off the solo guitar...
no, please... and all that rhythm guitar...
   challenge the drum & bass crowd...
that sputnik crowd of... turning African drumming
into... a stampede of hyenas on amphetamines...
    boomboomboomboomboomboomboom...
mind-blowing load of headache....
the bass guitar can do two things...
it can set the rhythm... it can set the beat...
but it can also can create an undercurrent of a melody...
oh ****... that's three things...
   early Marilyn Manson did respect the bass playing
of Twiggy Ramirez... but... there was still the guitar-maker
melody overload...
the mature artist... given songs like: the Gardener
and Third Day of a Seven Day Binge...
respects the bass guitar... it comes so gloriously to the fore...
something a band like Metallica can never
accomplish... or Led Zeppelin... all those 1970s greats...
those bands had the bass guitar pop up...
in a segment of a song... NIB? by black sabbath?
and then... disappear... don't undermine the Leviathan...
this rock fusion with post-jazz...
oh of course... there's no section in this music...
whereby each instrument takes a chance to solo...
there's no need... everything is just ******* dandy
as it stands...
             - and where would i be... the internet is evil!
ooh: boogie-woogie! sure... people are acting
like ****-storm brainiac... brainiack... brainiak...
   brainiaq...      just four of the possible aesthetic questions
regarding the spelling of: Otto Binder...
not that i'm a massive comic book fan...
well... if you get a chance to meet Declan Tan...
Declan... yeah... for my birthday he gave me a copy
of... Batman vs. Alien... no wait... it was Batman/Aliens...
published in 1997... i think Declan liked me...
i sort of think i liked Declan...
                      the first time i tasted chicken soup that
wasn't Slavic born... with sweetcorn...
(ISBN 1-56971-305-7)...
sure... it's evil... people ghosting each other...
dark-web ******* inner circles etc., the silk road...
hmm... ghosting... poor Jeminah...
how many times did i play roulette... cycling down
Mawney Road in the past... 3 weeks?
not that often... i tried at least once a week...
not that i'm stalking... but it's a decent route...
it's all downhill... and chances of cycling onto sharpnel
is limited... mind you... never... ever...
cycle into the London borrough of Barking & Dagenham...
chances of getting a flat tire... esp. if you're cycling
on 23cm wide tires of a road bicycle?
no brainer...
   before pulling into Mawney Road... i was...
blinded by a sunset... idiot me forgot to wear his sunglasses...
but i stared at the ***** with eyes wide open
waiting for white phosphorus to start pouring
from under my eyelids...
   oh... i'll be looking at you... until the point
where i see you for what you really are:
but you're never really that when you're at sunset...
or sunrise... it's only at your zenith when...
staring long enough at you... exposes you as this
pulverising... vibrating mirror of fluorescence...
sort of silver... sort of white... but not when you're
coming down from your zenith... you're still blinding...
  - only a day prior i thought i saw Frankie...
Friendrich... her son... getting on the bus...
from a 5-a-side football centre off Eastern Avenue...
turned out it wasn't him:
no, it couldn't be him... over-protective mother
would never allow her son to take the bus on his own...
plus... the kid is supposed to be an actor...
she's milking him... "apparently"... he's into bedroom fun
on a games console... you couldn't find him
climbing trees or playing sports... a *****... basically...
the only sport he might have heard of...
is... boxing... to defend him mother from abusive
boyfriends... where: he'd always lose...
- i was waiting for this moment...
the sun blinded me gloriously...
   as i cycled down Mawney Road...
that's the thing about meeting Jeminah... her dog...
i had these self--inflicted knuckle wounds
from putting out cigarette butts on them...
her dog... oh man... her dog loved me...
he really quickened the healing process...
he licked and licked and licked... and licked...
the scabs off... to the point where i started bleeding again...
looking at my knuckles...
nothing prettier in the world... no tattoo could
compensate them...
so as i was cycling down Mawney Road...
who do i see? the over-existed dog... barking... chewing air...
i see the dog first... the dog sees me first...
i later make out that... glorious colour of her hair...
that darkened ginger that's mingling with oak-cask
auburn... i put on my most impressive frown...
i don't look her in the face... mind you:
everything's ******* fluorescent before me
having been blinded by the sun just minutes prior...
i'm not stalking... she was the one that invited me
back to her home twice... yeah... i know where she lives...
that's when i had that mad moment
of leaving her flowers on the porch...
and a Valentine's card through her letter-box...
o.k.: fair enough... that's borderline creepy...
what isn't... with modern woman and feminism?
          a simple boy can't offer up simple love...
i learned from my supervisor...
the daughter of my neighbour that she's no longer
working for the company...
SLANDER... in H'america you can go to court
for that sort of ****... false-accusation, no?
that's what happens...
when a devil tries to outsmart a devil...
the latter devil pushes on... with gifts... with niceties...
the former devil has no option but to retreat...
to its own, former: hellhole... bog...
imagining someone i wanted to love...
stomach pains... mistaking them for butterflies...
single mum, dating much younger men...
or dating men who were big on *******...
former ex-boyfriend women beaters who ran her
into bad credit rating... with... debt...
i know of the mistakes i've made...
   two... in my early twenties... that's why the rest of
my twenties are a blur... that's why only now
i've reemerged as this extroverted silent type...
in my mid-30s... having plans...
   i wouldn't call it: ******* away my youth...
i'd call it... sorry... what? no, sorry... i was sort of absent...
probably alone in the forest... probably at night...
problem being... she can block me on whatsapp...
she block me on the internet...
       hmm... small world... a very small world...
she'll have to move... or commando the minutes she takes
her dog for a walk... the ******* dog licked my scabs / wounds
clean... he has my blood in his veins...
if he sees me... he's going to bark in my direction...
ghost me, *****? in the good old days...
the claustrophobia of a little city where i was born...
my parents lived... let's say... 600 metres apart...
but it took... being jointly invited to a wedding of fellow friends
that brought them together...
Jeminah can't ghost me... like she could forget about
all those guys she flicked left on
when we worked together on a shift on Tinder...
you can't shake off locality...
i'm practically her neighbour... in terms of of how
globalism comes across... what? i'm not allowed to cycle
down this street? she's not even living on the street i'm cycling
down... she's living on the cul de sac...
but i'm not paying for... the debt her ex...
whatever he was racked up in retaliation...
what a pretty face... what pretty hair: hair that i'd give
up drinking whiskey for... it's almost the same colour...
just keeping to the foundation
of routine... i like that street... cycling down it...
if she has any complaints... she better take out
the scab tissue of my DNA from her dog's gob...
but dogs don't simply: forget who they endear...
with affection... the internet distance conundrum
is not going to work on me... the only way she's going
to ghost me... proper... is moving somewhere else...
small world... small town... in the vicinity of Collier Row...
obviously i'm not going to bother her...
god forbid... i have Khedra to mind...
the ******* that gets all the *** that no man
rarely does... and has to text me: come over...
i need you... yeah... that type...
i cycled past with a frown... i just spotted the dog...
ooh... right... well... i know who's behind that dog...
yep... a flicker of dark ginger: disguised brunette...
yeah... that's Jeminah...
but this is counter to how the internet works...
no? in a cosmopolitan setting?
she can't exactly ghost me...
  sure... she can block me... on whatsapp...
   from a ****-show she herself orchestrated... why?
because she didn't have the confidence to compliment
me, directly... she had to: slander me...
she became one of those... idiotic... sappers...
she self-sabotaged herself... notably? after i pushed forward...
with... wine, cake and flowers...
she became a self-saboteur...
   like i said to one of the other girls: lies don't walk on
stilts... lies have short legs...
just wait... see... i've been alone long enough to know...
certain little, ******... analogies?! behavioural patterns
of blah-b'ah black sheep...
             now... i'm waiting for the crescendo...
there's no denying it... i do drink...
   but... allowing women this "sixth sense" of sniffing out
alcohol on... a person you just met...
accusing them of drinking on the job?
i know the territory... my grandmother had the same
sixth sense... when she turned my grandfather into
an alcoholic... he finally broke down and threw her
through a glass door...
        me? ******* prostitutes?! i'm trying to escape that
headache... keeping it sorted behind a... paywall...
   first comes the payment...
i'm not landing on something that's... ahem... "free"...
- it is a big deal! you slander someone
and in H'america you can be taken to court!
i do drink, heavily... but when i'm working...
i half my intake if not third it...
      i wash, i pamper myself... i end up sober on the shift...
at the London Stadium people either take
selfies with me or give me sweets...
i'm a sucker for pop music and... gelatine infused sweets...
i can't refuse them... chocolate can simply not
exist... but... give me a bag of Haribo...
esp. those sour-sweet types... i can't help myself...
i just have to eat them...
- but, this is... a 2nd Jeminah Revelation...
she... she can't swipe left on me... on Tinder...
i'm not on Tinder: never have...
    i'm almost her neighbour if i take out the bicycle...
i can be round her house in a matter of minutes...
London, even Greater London... has... shrunk... for her...
she can block me on an APP-lication...
but she can't... block me... cycling down a road
she takes her dog for a walk...
               i wonder how this dynamic will work out...
on her mind... i was waiting for this moment...
you can't just... ghost me... when i'm living: locally...
sure... you can... "ghost" me... but... that implies:
you have to move... i'm not moving...
i'm rooted... i haven't been this rooted in a long time...
funny how that works...
whatever it is that works... bicycle breaks...
the wheels... the moon and the tides...
that sure as **** works...
the sun and photosynthesis... that also works...
but... the interaction between women
and men, these days?
sure as ****: it's not working...
  which is, rather... a crying shame...
do we really have to go into interracial territory
for it to work?
personally? i don't feel like it...
    no, not really...
                  whoever takes over...
oh... i'm pretty sure the current white overlords
are planning an ultra-coup-uprising of
being the chosen typos...
               whatever...
                i have lost interest in this world...
from about... 2 years ago?
yeah... the world is sort of automated for me...
i lost interest in it...
the whole matter of the "pandemic"... sort of desensitized
toward any sort of attitude toward Ukraine...
i sort... hmm... ahem... don't care...
Ukrainians celebrated the invasion of Poland
by the Nazis during World War II...
if i'm not directly involved: invoked...
i'm going to play the "solipsist" / pacifist card...
the Pontius Pilate poker...
               i'm out... i was already out...
i just don't want to be involved...
                         is that somehow a Buddhist monk
"sentimentality"?
             to hell with Buddhism...
                         1960s cultural appropriate import...
i'm yet to be rid of the **** Christianity that
turned European barbarism into European
secularism.

Bullies
They are everywhere
Sometimes .in the
Open sometimes in
The shadows spreading
Their hate and evil
Like a plague however
The worst kind of
Bullying is the bullying
That you do to yourself
You stare at your hideous
Features as the popular
Kids throw judging tomatoes
And heads of lettuce at
You're insecure little head
And heaven knows you can't
Fight back because these popular
Kids are the royalty of the school
And whatever they say goes
So you bow your head in respect
And bury yourself in your school, work
Possibly the only thing to bring you joy
The teacher's radiant smiles and praise allowing
A golden sun like beam of joy to fill your mind filling it with a golden meadow of daisies
But it is not popular to be smart
They shall call you oh so many toxic things
Egghead
**** up
Brainiac
Human calculator
And whatever
Oh so wondrous venomous things
That will poison
And ruin the once
Golden field of happiness
However, you stay silent
And continue to
Conform to whatever
They want you to be
To the point
Where when you
Take off the
Copious amounts of
Makeup you can
Hardly stand to
Look at your
Face and all
It's flaws and
Cry in hatred
And sadness
Loathing your looks
More and more with each
Mask of makeup you wipe
Away

They say
Be happy, Abi!
You do remember what that means, right?

You, with a vocabulary that never ceases to amaze,
Little Miss Gifted wearing that God awful lipstick
Can you even comprehend this elementary task?

It means every day
when you go put on your face
never fail to paint on a grin

No matter how fake
always keep this smile on
It doesn't take a genius to know no one cares about your feelings

Look at you!
Do you know how selfish you're being?
All these opportunities and yet you still choose to be sad

If you had half the brain people say they'd **** for
you wouldn't be so somber
You'd accept you have no right to be this upset

I don’t understand how someone they say is so brilliant is actually this stupid
Other people have actual problems while you’re wondering why you can’t be glad

Maybe it’s all the nights you’ve stayed up late studying but it’s clear your aren’t at you best
There’s no point trying to cover up by using your superficial knowledge

It’s a hard fact to erase,
That the brainiac’s grades are dropping and you can’t bring them back up

Who gave you permission to feel depressed?
No one, so **** it up buttercup
It’s a very simple concept to grasp
Just smile and
Be happy

Mean Green And Holier Than Thou

Anesthetize after thoughts
We all share a nice fool well enough - getting paid for it,
****'s really together
Yet vow a disheveled twilight rose
Content to drive the  mirror off,
Our say hi extremities reach out for a touch
of affection from piles of shells,
A dune- allows
From the world, a great team "thank you", mister dog
Let's discuss our goals, I hate when it's about losing ****
this and that duh de duh de duhn can be all you want
In your hand you have the paths of patience  
Summon you know who you are confused folklore
Because valid is an idea if you choose and take it
Individuality has a door
Rather than screens and apropos
happens in one's lifetime
Just so...trying a gnarly crayon and another around the neck for me... oh and it's not when and if ... it's all been there
The shortest plane ride in question
**** me if I don't like flying it's as  if  
tiger talking to a cat assures a let go slur in the air
Yes ailerons and conversions LA to  New York new brainiac commercial very good for relaxing young Eugene
Swoop through available chains!
A fin surfaces it's your bout with fever *******
relax as magical power gets underway
Until then you can push your way through
and punish the rescuer
A pretty good question it is... the killing game  show
was rather apathy saying no I'll do it... let a little grin
The family sit down probably it's only Thanksgiving every year
Funny every Thursday evening spiritually
you're a solid helper
Listen to the goals of old hacking dreams
Allow them above all, above, soar... score goals then play around in a dream mockery superlative reality
Return to 24 hour a day show chauvinist radio, cut the costs
regroup here, say it as genuflect style trying a hotel
No requirements here... for you have a clerk disease...who can stamp the world? Then every city with a paper judge?...
Supposedly people see who and  what is trying to be free... as a war does?  A taker sounds  fun, the pain in reverse of the word
Boo! Looks as if that little wasabi swash ****** over the terror of an international inversion warning label
Maybe their into hiding from what they think are the answers...
As is anybody most obviously however
Or perhaps, even, it's about quizzes happen quickly... as it is one must explain deficient.. which was the way we were