Dearest,

This thing is claiming me again. I write only to express a great need to see you, or call you, or maybe even crank up the engine of this beat up junker I'm sitting in now. I'd very much like to see you again, or once more, even if it were just your eyes. It's been three years. Three years since I last heard your voice, or laugh, or saw you smile. ****, do I miss that smile. It's been three years since you left without a decent goodbye, you ***. You never had a ******* clue - but, anyway. That's not why I'm here.

I was thinking of you today, as I have every single one before and will continue to until my breathing ceases. Did you know it's the anniversary of when I realized I was hopelessly in love with you? Of course you don't. I never told you about that moment, or how I really felt. I swore I might, before you were gone, but it's been three years and I never did. So that's that, I guess. This is such a waste, writing to you. Yet here I am, painstakingly scrawling these thoughts whirling around in my brain on to a sheet of loose leaf paper. The best part is knowing I'll never send this to you. This is going to sit here in my pocket until I wash it, or burn it when I'm searching for the cigarettes I don't smoke, or even lose it on my walk through the city.

I walk every day, and not just to and from places. I walk to think. I walk to clear my head. Instead, I will pass somewhere you've been -- somewhere we've been -- and I will be right where I started again, plagued by the ghost of you on every new corner, in the middle of the crowds, and at the foot of the subway stairs. You are everywhere, darling.

You'd be laughing at this point, probably. You'd be thinking that I ramble like I used to and still don't manage to say enough to ever convince you that I'm true. Or maybe you'd be thinking how wasteful this is to this sheet of paper. How unfair that this piece of paper gets to carry this nonsensical message to you -- or not, actually -- and how unfair that it gets to sit in my pocket, close enough to be lost. Or maybe you wouldn't think that at all, and you'd be just blankly reading all of this and wondering whether I'm just bullshitting around the truth, like I've always done oh-so-well.

Or maybe you'd just be thinking that this is so typical of me, keeping things I'll never do anything with for the sake of keeping them. You always thought I liked the act of keeping things rather than the things themselves. Perhaps you're right, because I've always wished I could both keep you and be rid of you and the toxicity you bring.

But at the end of the day, I'm the one writing you. Maybe my feelings learn towards the former of those two extremes.

Anyway, you would have been right about the bullshitting thing. I'm really writing because the emptiness is back, eating me out and wringing my guts inside out, and it isn't even pleasurable. I wrote because I haven't done so in some time, and it's been a long time since I wrote one of these one-sided letters to you. I used to write more; I used to have dozens, even, though I never wrote those on loose leaf paper in an old junker, heat off in the middle of winter. Really, I'm freezing right now. This is ridiculous. And I've got to stop bullshitting to you, I do.

You know, I can almost hear you responding to this. I can hear your voice somewhere in the back of my mind, answering me. And maybe that makes me more insane than I ever was. Maybe this hollowed out body has finally been done in, and I'm just beginning my descent into the clutches of insanity... or maybe I just can't tell you the truth.  You know me well, you do.

The truth is that I ******* miss you so much, it hurts to breathe. It physically causes my chest to ache, for pain to shoot through my entire body with each pump of my heart. Unfortunately, my heart is beating ceaselessly and my breathing has yet to stop by choice, so it hurts every day, every single second. I am always missing you. There is no other truth but that.

I think that, by allowing myself to write this, I'm hoping this idea of you can save me. I know already that this is the dumbest thing I've let myself hope for, more stupid than letting myself hope for you and for change and for happiness. The point is, letting myself do this at all is stupid, But I can't stop myself. You are worse than any drug I've ever known, and I pity those whose lives you have touched only because I know what it's like to be cut off from you. God forbid you leave them, someday, and they end up like me. Or a few shades less crazy than me.

I haven't even eaten because of this emptiness. I can't eat, actually. If I feed the monster, it erupts and soaks me with self hatred. I'm afraid of it. I'm afraid to do anything to infuriate it, and it's always angry. It's always whispering to me, sexily and sweet, asking me to do things that are so wrong. I'm not listening, and I'm staying clean, but it's hard, dearest. It's so hard when you've got nothing to cling to, nothing to even dream about hoping for.

This emptiness takes and takes, and it does not give back anything but empty caverns and the memory of what it was to feel. It takes everything I've got and it dumps it on the ground, spreads it around and sullies it. And when it's tattered and worn and filthy and unrecognizable, it crumbles it between its fingers like it's nothing but ash. I hate this behemoth more than I hate living through it. It's never-ending, the terrors it brings, and it pounds against me when I trap it away. It is invincible though, and it will always win. It's invincible in the way I believed we once had been, a long time in the past. Like us, I am not as invincible as I dreamed.

I'm sorry if I've worried you. I didn't mean to tell you, not truly. But now that the words are out, I seem to be a bit less empty than I was. Maybe I'll find my way out of this... maybe. I hope you are well, and smiling, and the world treats you kindly. I hope the night sky is beautiful where you are, and the lights glimmer in the distance exactly as you've imagined them. You deserve it a thousand times over me.

-A.C.

My Mom needed something from the store
So I told her I’d walk up there for her and get it.
We were barely getting by
The two of us.
She was living on a disability check
And I was in between jobs
Again
So these little walks to the store were all I had.
I got her some Epsom salts and was walking back
Had just walked past the hardware store
When a small, sleek, black, BMW pulled up next to me.
To my surprise it was a chick
A big titted redhead with pink sunglasses.
There was something in her eyes
When she peeked below the sunglasses
I saw something in them
that frightened me
A voice inside was screaming at me
Just keep walking
Just keep walking
But like a fool
I ignored it
And bent over the passenger seat
In the convertible that smelled new.
“How big is your ****?”
The lady asked
Her chest just heaving and jiggling
With every breath she took
And every word she spoke.
“What?”
“I said….how big is your ****?”
“Ha ha!”
I took a look around
Expecting to see a hidden camera
Or a film crew in a van across the street.
There was no one
No witnesses.
I leaned back down
“7 inches? Maybe 8? I don’t know lady, I haven’t measured my **** since the 11th grade!”
The redhead took off the sunglasses completely and looked me up and down
Those bright green eyes scanning me
From my worn out Converse to my greasy pompadour on my head.
It seemed like an eternity
I got uncomfortable.
Just standing there
Squirming
While the redheaded fox
Kept inspecting me.
“Okay. Get in. Hurry up.”
I wasn’t even thinking
Just reacting to it all.
I’d always dreamed of this
When I was walking down that
Same old ******* street
The only street that I ever saw
Dreaming of
A beautiful woman in a sports car.
And now here she was.
Here we were
Driving down the street
The breeze blowing in our hair
She made an immediate right turn
Onto a suburban side street.
She parked in front of a house that was up for sale.
Again she took off the sunglasses.
“Let me see it.”
She said, staring at my crotch.
“Whoa, whoa, lady. What’s this all about?”
“My husband and I…..we have certain…..tastes. Things we like, things we enjoy. He’s an older guy, so he likes to watch young guys **** me. I mean, just really give it to me good, make me scream. And of course after your services have been….rendered….you’ll be paid two-thousand dollars. Now do you think you can do that?”
“Uh……I—I think so.”
“Well, I need you to know so. And if you were bullshitting me, if that **** isn’t at least 7 inches, you can get out of the car right ******* now.”
“No it is, it is.”
“Well...”
“Well...you gotta start my engine first—“
Before I could finish my cheesy line
She was in the passenger seat
Climbing on top of me.
“Rip it open” She said looking down.
I did as I was told
And ripped the front of her blouse open
The buttons flying in all directions
Bouncing off the windows and rolling on the dashboard.
Her two, round, fake, **** sprang out of the top
Hitting me in the face
As she rubbed them up and down
And all around.
She kissed me sloppily
And then started in with that biting *******.
She met my lip so hard
It drew blood
acting purely on reflex
I grabbed her by the arms very hard
And pulled her back from me
Staring at her with those crazy, intense, eyes
That I sometimes got when startled.
“Oh…..” She said looking down, at the ******* in my Levi’s.
“Alright. You wanna see the house?” She asked.
I let go of her arms and she rolled off of me,
hopping into the driver’s seat and starting the car up.

She drove all the way to the edge of the city
Where the Red Mountains in the east
Meets the long winding road out of town
And into the desert.
It was a large ranch style mansion
Decorated with cowboy themed ****.
The redhead parked the sports car in
A massive garage
Filled with dozen of rare and expensive automobiles .
She told me to leave my plastic grocery bag of Epsom salts
In the car
She said I could get it later, when we were done.
I followed her to an elevator at the back of the garage.
We took it all the way down to the very bottom.
Stepping out of the elevator
I found myself in a large expansive grey room.
The floors were concrete
But they were shiny and slick
Reminded me of the floor in the meat department
At the job I had just lost.
The room had a few beds in it
Some custom built sets were erected all over the room
An office, a jail cell, a medieval dungeon, a medical examination room,
There were a lot these little sets built all over
In the back of the room
The corners
Were pitch black and covered in darkness.
I wondered what they had over there.
“So what do we do?” I asked, fidgeting in my pants
thumbing my switchblade stiletto in my right front pocket.
“We have to wait for my husband to come down. I just texted him.”
“Oh okay.”
“You should take your clothes off and put this on.”
The redhead said, taking a hospital gown from a hanger
Next to the medical examination set.
“….put that on and I’m gonna go get into character.”
She said, walking behind a white privacy screen
The old kind, like they used to have in doctor’s offices.
I undressed myself and got into the hospital gown.
I can’t say what it was exactly
But I still had that real nervous feeling
I couldn’t ignore it
So for some reason
I hid my switchblade on me.
Put it in the waistband of my underwear.
And that made me feel a little bit safer
This whole thing was beyond belief
I was never this lucky
Something was rotten in Denmark
I could feel it in my bones.
But there was no backing out now
I was riding this all the way
No choice.
I took a seat on the medical examination table
The thin paper crunching loudly beneath my ***
They had it down to the finest detail.
Even the little slots with the Highlights magazines.
I watched the black & white clock on the wall
And it took them 28 minutes to finally come out
The two of them together.
The tall, beautiful, redhead and the rich old man.
But they matched in an odd way
His face was nearly the same color as her hair.
A red faced, big nosed, drinker,
I’ve seen that face a thousand times
Ain’t no mistakin’ it.
He had white hair all spiked up
Like how young people have it
And he wore nothing but gold
All over himself.
Gold necklace, full fists of rings, bracelets,
I couldn’t ******* believe it
I tried my best not to laugh
I was snorting to myself
The ******* had a Mercedes medallion around his neck
Like Flavor Flav or something, it was that flamboyant.
But the guy was like 70 years old
None of it made any ******* sense.
The florescent lighting above
it did this thing where
his eyes were so sunken in
that it created these two black shadows
where his eyes should’ve been
just pitch black
endlessly hollow and empty
with a red face.
Satan himself, covered in gold and diamonds.

“What’s up?” He said, extending his well tanned, leathery claw.
“Hey.”
“Alright, so let’s not waste any time. Let’s get down to business? Huh?”
“Yeah, sure.” I said.
“**** yeah! Let’s ****! You wanna **** him baby?”
”Why do you think I got him? Hell, I almost ****** him on the way home.”
“Did you now?” He said, looking over at me with this look
I couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or rage.
“Alright, alright then.”
The chick started to walk up the three little steps
Of the examination table
Her feet were pale as snow and her toes
Shiny and red like a the paint job on a brand new Cadillac in 1956
I remember that.
She climbed on top of me
Started kissing me and
Rubbing my ****
Under the examination gown.
From the corner of my eye
I saw the husband moving over to the camera
Which was setup a few feet away
Looked to be hi-def ****.
She bit my lip again
Really ******* hard
Pulled a big chunk of skin off
“*******!” I yelled.
“What?” The husband shouted back.
“He hates it when I bite him!” The redhead shouted with a smile
blood on her lips, from mine.
“Well, don’t take any **** son! If she does that again, you just give her a good smack!”
“What?”
“Yeah, don’t be timid boy! This ain’t ******’ Sunday school! We’re ******’, here!”
She did it again
And I wasn’t even thinking of what that old coot was yelling about
I just hit her on principle.
A good open handed smack across the cheek.
“There ya ******’ go! That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
The old man threw his hands in the air
And started doing this little dance it was the weirdest ****
I had ever seen.
The redhead grabbed my face with her hands
Taking my eyes off the old man
Who was now singing some song
And shuffling around the floor.
She looked right into my eyes
Those mint colored eyes
She whispered to me
But I read her lips
“I’m sorry.”
And she pulled me in and kissed me
Put my hands to her *******
And proceeded to kiss me
Like a long lost love
Not some guy off the street.
And that’s the last thing I remember.
Besides the ***** of the needle in my neck.
Just her red hair hanging in my face
The florescent light shining through.
When I came to
I was standing upright
But I was strapped to a table
My arms
My legs
My head
Every part of me strapped down
Tight.
I wasn’t going anywhere
This was that bad feeling I got when she looked at me.
This was where it ended. Right now.
They were both standing there
Staring at me
Smiling with drinks in their hands
The cameras rolling
They had multiple cameras setup
Some 80’s techno playing from an iPod dock.
“What? What are you gonna do?” I slurred, it was hard to talk.
“I know, I’m sorry. Okay, look. We both agree that you probably are owed an explanation, I mean….these being your last moments and all…”
The redhead interrupted, looking at me, like she had before
There was love in her eyes
“Honey…remember what I said? About how there are things that we like and things that we enjoy? I’m sorry, but this is what we like.”
“*****?” I managed to choke out,
just the sound of the words chilled my ******* blood.
“Yeah. Hey…son, let me tell ya…we’re actually saving you a whole lot of heartache and disappointment. You weren’t gonna go anywhere, you weren’t going to accomplish anything. You’d work the same **** jobs, bouncing from one to the other, until you finally died of either ***** or drugs.”
“It’s for the best, sweetie.” The redhead said.
And I’d love to tell you that
They left the room for a few minutes
And I was able to free my hand
Taking the switchblade
From my underwear
Cutting myself free
Killing them both
And cleaning out their safe’s cash and diamonds.
But this was no movie.
Well not the kind with a happy ending anyway.
That’s when she walked over to the table
And grabbed the knife.
The song on the iPod changed
And I instantly recognized it.
It was the song.
I never could explain why
But as a boy
This song would come on the radio
This 80’s electro song
And it always scared the **** out of me
Turned my stomach
I never knew why
But now it all made sense.
That song would be the last thing I ever heard.
With the cameras rolling
The redhead gave me one more kiss.
I closed my eyes and pretended.
I pretended that she was a girl that loved me
That she was kissing me goodnight
Sending me off with a smile.
I just kept my eyes closed
Squeezing them tight
And I didn’t even feel the knife
When she slit my throat right there
In that slick, shiny, grey basement.
It didn’t hurt
I didn’t feel any pain.
Just warmth.
The blood flowing down the front of my neck and chest
pure warmth sliding down me
And I started to get light headed
Everything getting dark
Very quickly.
I could hear my heartbeat
In sync with a high-pitched ringing in my ears.
The last thing I saw
Was the redhead standing there
Luckily the husband had his head behind the camera
So I didn’t have his scary face as the last thing I ever saw.
No
It was the redhead
And those mint green eyes.
They never found my body.
The couple put me through a wood chipper
And fed my scraps to their dogs
After slicing off my biceps for dinner that night.
They went on doing this for years
Picking up guys and girls from the streets
who were down on their luck
And wouldn’t be high profile missing persons.
They acquired hundreds of DVD’s
Selling these ***** films
To their elite and powerful
Friends in high places.
But they justified it all.
Surely I wouldn’t be missed.
I didn’t have a mother
Like they had a mother
I didn’t laugh and love
Like they did
I was expendable
Disposable
Use once and discard.
The rich eating the poor
Blood meal for their insatiable & gruesome appetites.
It’s okay though.
I’m not mad or anything now.
It’s just blackness
A dreamless sleep
I don’t even know how I’m telling you this
But the worst part
The thing I still think about the most
Is my mother.
And what she must of thought
When her only son
Went to the store for her
Epsom salts
And just never came back.

repetition, that's a good technique, a form of
reiteration, emphasis, as you like to
move in the river of synonymousness -
i mean, plenty to choose from -
well it's a better technique than rhyming,
it's like Kaiser Karl Lagerfeld said
about Coco Chanel's legacy after she died
in 1971: 'people tend to forget, that,
once upon a time, Chanel was old hat.
it was only Parisian doctors' wives who
still wore it. nobody wanted it - it was hopeless.'
(oh i can be couture no problem,
the other side of me that's into galleries -
even though that never brought me much
luck with the ladies, Beelzebub ******* on my
face and i started to squeeze out maggots
ensuring my face was forever crater riddled
moon - yes, excess white blood cells).
that's the same with poetry, it can't be
love me doo d'ah mushy mushy candy-floss
longing crap - mate, i'm a bus ****** and
this bus is coming but it's already 20 minutes late...
and it's ******* cats, dogs, frogs... Norwegian
acid rain, my anorak is peeling like a snake
shedding its skin and you're rewriting the early
Beatles unleashed on the American public:
shaved, hair trimmed into mushroom bops
all that Rene Magritte **** 'love, love me do!'
forget it, it's not going to happen, rhyming is the last
resort, i prefer the chance rhyme, it sometimes
happens, and it's too cute when it happens randomly
rather than with premeditation;
you can also throw out all the other premeditation
of techniques that poetry is known for...
what's the point? and back concerning rhyming,
you really want your poetry to be discussed by
schoolchildren and an english teacher in between
grammar lessons
                                  rhyming schemes and all?
that's how it goes:
         her name was Dazie          (a)
         she was never lazy             (a)
         i wrote her a sonnet           (b)
         reclining on a car bonnet  (b)
                                                               that's how they
do anatomy on poetry, the forensic team will
be with you shortly, the only reason i can think of
and know of as to why people are abhorred by
poetry (it's a natural repellent, spray it on weeds
             and insects, a natural insecticide,
****, spray it everywhere) is, because people on
the academic level have scrutinised it, analysed it
to the extent that it's not even there, it gets you thinking:
so who the hell was paying attention to the mammoth
novels of Tolstoy? oh right... no one!
the forensics, the post-mortem of poetry,
it has literally been mummified - the brain came out
as porridge ****** out through the nose.
are you familiar with Tenacious D's one note song?
that's what rhyming is to me, ever hear it?
it's the -ing twang
                            it's the -ing echo echo echo echo echo...
halfwit variations, you're hitting the same note,
great if you're penetrating a girl and she's giving
you an Opera of Vowels... otherwise it ends up
in a schoolroom, with an english teacher
and the rhyming scheme of a sonnet is?
                          ABAB CDCD EFEF GG
or?
                                                              abracadabra.
personally though Tenacious D's song kiełbasa,
etymology:
                    kieł       (canine, in polish)
   -basa (i'm guessing: the base of)             -
it's a sausage                                based on canines,
kieł (insert a           w    for the         ł.. tongue tied, eh?)
is a reference to a canine, a sharp tooth anyway,
and with -basa             i just intuitively thought of how
a hebrew would write it (i.e. hiding vowels)
and therefore juggled in an      e                  for -base.
they do, even though hebrew has Aleph (א) it hides
the vowels: S VRYTHNG RDS LK S - or i might
just be bullshitting you.

So I went to the campus today, for the first time in a long time. I smoked cigarettes outside of the the lecture hall with some kids from the eastern block whose names I could barely pronounce. They were talking about McCarthyism in a language I couldn't understand - snippets in English - an American history exam. I cut class again, for a reason I can't quite trace, just lost sight of it all I guess. Or maybe I was wishing it could have been a little easier. They never gave us a course in what it means to try, you know? It just seems as if the only thing that stops us from doing the things we love is a fear of failing at them. Thinking about this on the walk home made my head sick and my heart sad, and so sleeping through the rest of the daylight seemed like a good way to get by.

I met up with the friend, later in the evening, he was at the local venue. He had his hands in his hoodie and his Adidas were swinging over the side of the stage, head bobbing, and rhyming in time to the beat of an electric bass drum. I asked him to buy me a beer and he slid his last two dollars over the counter like he always does when he notices my lower lip quivering. I didn't ask him about the doctor's and he didn't ask me about my black eye. I told him to tell me the story again, the one about the cool kids he met in the East Village and he did, he told me about the whole encounter in the snow, with the lights, and how badly he was shivering. I smiled that type of smile, the one that ends up with your lips curved the wrong way and wished I would have went with him.

The waitress that hates me gave me a ride home again so her uncle could close the place down. I offered her one of those Ukrainian kids' cigarettes that I swiped but she said no thanks, and I was glad I had more. She knew this wasn't going to be the last time she did me a favor, the way my track record was but I like to think she doesn't mind too much. I invited her inside but she said she had to run, maybe next time. She told me to try and hurry up and finish school so I could give her the world, and then she giggled and winked at me before she sped off. Back to bed, I had a long day of bullshitting myself ahead of me when I awoke.

this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons

for the Hopeless Stargazer who immortalized his Subject with one hundred and eight sets of fourteen lines in iambic pentameter

for ***** tight clad teenage boys who envied frisky fleas, struggling to make holy ungodly passions with cheap arguments and metaphysical pick up lines

for Disillusioned City Dwellers, who, wandering lonely as clouds, stopped to quietly reflect upon wind-beaten moss-covered crags, and heard God’s whisper thunder from petals and blades of grass

this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons

for Bespectacled Slave Drivers who submersed idle minds in anthologies,  forcing them to **** neon yellow on dreams deferred and rivers;  slicing and dicing Grecian urns with red ball point pens; bruising and battering, in blue ball point, roads not taken; scalding supermarkets in California with pyroclastic flows of graphite  

for those pushing to tear apart lines and letters, reconstructing ,deconstructing, agonizing, imaginizing, bullshitting, and brooding on to crisp white sheets in times new roman twelve point font

for the Monsters and Lollipops that exist in the millimeters between a skull and a brain

this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons slumbering beneath Restless Leaves Under the Moon

I'm up late again.
Can't stop my mind from racing.
Going. Going. Going.
Obsessing.
Ironically, late at night is when your brain is at it's most creative.
Is it any wonder the best artists are insomniacs?
I've been fighting that.
"I need to sleep at a decent hour so I can wake early & be productive."
"I NEED this particular item to write this particular thing."
"I cant sit down & write/draw/create in a filthy house."
"Someone might call or need me, I can't get ****** in to that now."
"I need to clear my head before I can sit down & do this."
"I have my routine, all my daily tasks that must be accomplished, before I have time for myself."
I NEED TO STOP BULLSHITTING MYSELF.
I NEED TO STOP LETTING THIS BE AN EXCUSE.

See, I want to write.
I want to paint.
Draw.
Shoot.
Design.
Cut.
Glue.
Hammer.
Sew.
Create.

I used to do these things to a point of obsession. To a point where they kept me from completing every day tasks.
I remember as a kid, I'd get in trouble for using my school notebooks as a drawing pad.
Or the teachers couldn't keep my on task because I was off in my head scribbling away at some story.
God himself could not pry me from what I NEEDED to let out of me.
Then I grew up.
I think thats what happened.
Suddenly I had so many more things to worry about.
I had to put away childish things.
Life became so much more than the fairy tales I made for myself.
I forgot how to be what I was.
I only knew I had to do things.
Stupid, every day, grown up, necessary things.
That became my new obsession.

I traded one for the other.

Now I stand on a battlefield.
I have chosen the darker evil.
Doesn't make sense?

Remember Peter Pan? His life was full of adventure & freedom & joy.
The grown ups, the ones who forgot how to have those things, became bitter shadows of themselves.
They lost everything for all the wrong reasons.
I don't think I ever felt more closely identified with a fairy tale character (or characters because I find that the many different aspects of my psyche very closely identifies with most every character Peter Pan.)

Anyways.

For several years now, I find that I have been trying to reclaim this lost part of my soul. I don't think anyone, save perhaps 2 or 3 people realize just how important this is to me. These are people that would have known me in my early high school years, before the dreaded piracy of true adulthood took me away.

Why not just pick up the pen & write something? you may ask.
Well, it's not that easy.
Not for an obsessive compulsive thinker.
I'm not using that term lighty either.
I hear brats toss it around like a fashion statement.
Like having OCD is the new trend.
Just because you're a neat person doesn't mean you have a disorder, *******.
I know how many steps it takes to get from each corner & point in every home I am familiar with.
There are patterns in my day that, if broken, send me into emotional Hell.
There are many aspects to this disease.
This illness.
Whatever one may choose to identify it as.
I haven't found something I'm comfortable with yet.
I'm only just beginning to be comfortable with facing this truth in myself.

I let the only reality & peace I knew be burried away & my brain formed this militant prison of order around it.

The good thing is, my heart knows better.

When I'm able to bust those walls down for even a few brief moments in which I can slip past the compulsions & allow complete chaos take my hand & create, I am free.
When I become inspired by something & am able to mentally break away long enough to pursue it, it's like capturing a god ****** unicorn.

Unfortunately, more often than not, I find inspiration fade away. The many excuses I wrote before, just the tip of the iceberg, take hold & beat me back into my weakened submissive routine. I literally have stood still, as though at a play, & watched my head battle in itself to convince me NOT to follow the idea.
I may be *****, but I am no one's slave.
Least of all to myself.
Which begs my fear: control.
Why do I control myself?

Art is not controlled.
Creation is not controlled.
Beauty is not controlled.

These things cannot be tethered to definition or reason or logic or mathematics or laws or routine.
So the war inside me rages.
The problem in my head with its finger in my face is rationalizing ignoring the passion in my heart.
That disorder is sorely mistaken if it believes passion is in any way rational.

So this is what stands:
I am fighting an illness, something I aim to fight & beat & never succumb to again.

Creation is the air I breathe & no matter what worldy or sensory things bring me pleasure, nothing fullfills me like raw thought pouring forth from me.

I cannot stand by envious of the lives & accomplishments of my peers because I was too weak to take hold of the only true thing I hold dear. I am sick of hearing myself say "if only I could" or "maybe some day" or "I used to". I am done crying myself to exhaustion because I physically cannot pick up a pencil.

I don't know where to start.
I guess choking through this & fighting off anxiety attacks as I type is as good a start as any.

My most beloved author, inspiration, & life long hero, Anne Rice said,

"Keep the faith. Writers need faith...Just keep writing & believing in yourself...Just write until the juices start. Don't put up with Writer's Block...eventually you just have to write & write & write."

Write I shall.
Until it gives me anuerysms from fighting these tiny ticks & compulsions.
Until the tears are of success rather than submssion.
One step at a time I will conquer more than I ever thought possible.
I will take back my heart.

Log in and lose all sense of what and who you  truly are.
I see the ******* numbers and even  more egotistical statements from people I would consider more typist than writers.

A child with the understanding how to play the game and cheat the system .
I see your trending yet again because your fake ID reposted your newest crap fest while others seem to avoid your work like ***** on the floor of a frat house party.

Ego you have my friend.
Talent for bullshitting well in check.

But as for the page your a child who stares at the ocean scared shitless from the shore .
It must be fantastic being the greatest swimmer never to set foot in the pool.

This write is dedicated to a certain poet who if I mentioned .
Well his ego would just tell him hey at least someone's paying attention.

Your trending yet again and at the end of the day .
When you step away from the comp your just a ******* with a overinflated ego and some fake *** numbers .

And if are paths ever cross you may ask.
Hey aren't you?
And my only reply will be .

Yes I will take fries with that.


         Fin

sure sure, forgive & forget, but you can't do both in a one-sided simultaneousness: forgive with anger, but forget with peace, for your own sake.

that comic abstract i wrote about children
and mathematics being first learned in units
and not π, π being akin to the word onomatopoeia
in some pandemonium of reverse
of the novel, well, i know 1 is odd, 2 is even,
but when walking and drinking i went a step further:
0 (left leg forward), 1 (right leg forward),
2 (left), 3 (right), 4 (left), 5 (right),
6 (left), 7 (right), 8 (left), 9 (right)...
10 (right left), 11 (right right), 12 (right left)...
it's like that game children play,
they draw a checkers board with chalk,
squares the size of gifted feet missing tango,
schematic looks something like this:
                            1
                   2               3
                            4
                   5               6
                            7
                            8
   ­                9                10
(almost the tree of kabbalah),
so you throw a pebble onto a number
and then do a one legged kangaroo on
1, 4, 7 and 8... but numbers 2 and 3,
5 and 6, 9 and 10 you do the two-legged stomp,
pick the pebble up, and do the reverse as mentioned...
girls loved playing this game when young,
apart from the indoor game of surgeons with
asexual dolls of artificial *** and third party donors,
very horrid that game of dolls,
hide & seek was the boys' invention,
basically anything with running and camouflage
involved, be it shadow, be it anything...
i did skip like a boxer with the skipping ropes,
didn't become a boxer though...
so girls invented the profession of boxing...
behind every tyrant there's a harem of sadists...
i like this feminism they're shoving at us...
i'm one of the last boys to go to university,
it ended circa 2010... now about 60K more *******
fathom the upper tiers of psychology,
education and what not...
mathematics is still a male orientation,
no bullshitting, just: wrong wrong wrong, remainder.
it was an article in the newspaper, what can i do,
censor myself? along with the new elements
discovered, so unstable they live like *******
***** in a petrie dish the length of a male ******:
funky pumpy did all the work, mission impossible
message reads: DISPOSE OF. husband material?
tick. drinker? no no. it's like al capote's time era,
drink the problem... GUNS DON'T **** PEOPLE,
PEOPLE **** PEOPLE. you trying to make me
supermalt or something? all the black kids drank that;
white boys milked the cow from a pint bottle of milk,
ones turned into sprinters... the others turned
into dolphins. that's what i don't get about evolution
attacking theology and undermining itself
from the realm of humanities... you know black
olympic swimmers sink in the pool... clearly
i didn't bleach my skin in arabia going north...
i was a sea monkey! honest to god... the fat in me
makes me float... origins of non-aquatic monkey
sinks in blue water, a dollop of brown...
or that english post-colonial joke about another
member state of the union... you know any good
californian joke about new englanders?
an uninhibited english man (with poor taste in
tailoring) glorifies this fact: per capita,
poland is the only country with each household
having a toilet for each member of the household...
that's why they exported so many polish plumbers
to england!
when i was only but a child and i seemed to have
forgotten being one, when
i got a shock after my ****** hair / beard envy disappeared
and felt no ***** envy, and when i heard being
described as a man... i didn't write any st. paul
*******... so i delved on it...
and remembered my favourite movie from childhood
and the actors i wanted to speak the truth as:
favourite film - le bossu, swash & buckle, cut & ******
adventure starring jean marais (based on a novel
by paul feval)... and of course the three musketeers,
with richard chamberlain and oliver reed...
i so wanted to be the shogun that was chamberlain,
the philandering priest turned musketeer...
lo and behold... i ended up as athos...
not that i mind... but that time period captured
my imagination, as a child of decaying communism
in a satellite state of the soviets... the rule of louis xiv,
and the intrigue of cardinal richelieu...
i wanted to be there! just sniffing up the gun powder!
alas... not to be.
so today i braced myself for no donning an elaborate
hat with peacock feathers and remembering the yore
days of chivalry... walking the grey pavement and grey
houses with a grey sky above... if only the houses
were coloured like the houses of st. petersburg...
if only... and in the hospital after almost breaking
my index finger i did a bit of solo c.b.t. (cognitive
behavioural therapy), i sat in silence, feet not in turkish
or buddhist akimbo but like nailed to a cross,
hands crossed... in this house of pain and legal morphine
addiction, in the orthopedic ward... just sat...
eyes closed... and couldn't conjure any thought...
just nothing... is that a problem for the c.b.t. practices?
i bet it is... what sort of behavioural problems
can arise from not thinking? running a marathon?
driving a car? flying an aeroplane? exponential
flamboyance of memory brought to the fore in an examination?
loads* of examples!
i walked with this somali woman after someone misdirected her
to get to the hospital...
but the gift of all gifts came to seal the day complete
(after not finding lamb kidneys at the supermarket
for a steak and kidney pie)
was next to an islamic learning centre...
three guys ahead on my path, two talking,
one running from one edge width of the pavement
to the other, jumping on something...
he was about to rush back onto the stone
then he stuck his hand out...
his hand warmer than my heart, my hand colder
than his brain yet to be indoctrinated,
he extended it looking me in the eye and i into his,
this little ****** of about 6 or 7 too shy to talk,
his warm hand no bigger than my pinky, ring and middle
finger did a sort of high-five with me...
i guess one of my paediatric theories came true
came the high five.

So there was this boy
He somehow kinda managed to steal my heart
Without even trying
He intrigued me
I began observing and seeing more than he let on
And slowly but surely, the compassion grew
Along with the lust, desire and craving of all things him.
It's been a couple of months now
And I lay here in bed thinking about how dumb I am to have let it get this bad
How could you let someone control you
So sneakily
Without even needing the puppet strings
All it took was the touch of his skin against mine, the smiles, the glances
That's all it took for my chest to burn a fire so bright
Melting my heart
And I was a goner.
Now the chase is over
You know how I feel
And you're waiting for me to beg for more
Act needy?
I think not
I see how this will end.
Though the clouds are still grey
The rain spitting
And the storm rumbling
There is
ALWAYS
A rainbow
And a sunny day that awaits
So keep your chin up, little girl
And wear your pride on your chest
Bc this bullshitting *******
Is no different from the rest

So there was this boy
He somehow kinda managed to steal my heart
Without even trying
He intrigued me
I began observing and seeing more than he let on
And slowly but surely, the compassion grew
Along with the lust, desire and craving of all things him.
It's been a couple of months now
And I lay here in bed thinking about how dumb I am to have let it get this bad
How could you let someone control you
So sneakily
Without even needing the puppet strings
All it took was the touch of his skin against mine, the smiles, the glances
That's all it took for my chest to burn a fire so bright
Melting my heart
And I was a goner.
Now the chase is over
You know how I feel
And you're waiting for me to beg for more
Act needy?
I think not
I see how this will end.
Though the clouds are still grey
The rain spitting
And the storm rumbling
There is
ALWAYS
A rainbow
And a sunny day that awaits
So keep your chin up, little girl
And wear your pride on your chest
Bc this bullshitting *******
Is no different from the rest

I’m Sick of How Rude English People Can Be ... !?!
I'm Sick Now of Living ... In This ******* Country ... !!!
I’m Sick of Not Knowing ... Where The Hell I Should Be ... !?!
I’m Sick To My Stomach of Not Being Free ... !!!
  
I’m Sick of The Chains of This Society … !!!
I’m Sick of How Girls ... Try Playing With Me ... !!!
I’m Sick of My Ex Saying ... " Give back my key ! ” ...
  
I’m Sick Now of Seeing ... ***** On TV ... !!!
I’m Sick of How Girls Now ... Mess With My Chi ... !!!
  
I’m Sick of My Job ... !!!
I’m Sick of Colleagues ... Who Define The Word **** ... !!!
  
I’m Sick of Fat People Who Clearly Are SLOBS ... !!!
I'm Sick of Not Being ... Able To Just Sob ... !!!
I’m Sick of These People Who Just Want To Rob ... !!!  
  
I’m Sick of These People Who Think They Can Judge ... !!!
I’m Sick of Timelines ... To Recite This Good Stuff ... !!!
I’m Sick So ****** SICK … That I'm Feeling ROUGH ... !!!
  
I’m Sick of Girls Saying ... " He's just in a huff ! " ...

I’m Sick of MP's ... Telling Me I Can't Puff ... !!!
I’m Sick of ******* ... That's Spoke In Most Pubs ... !!!
  
I’m Sick of Fools Acting As Though They Are Tough ... !!!
I’m Sick of How Girls Say ... " They like their *** rough " ... !!!
  
I’m Sick of That Bull ... OPEN YOUR LEGS UP ! ...
I’m Sick of Why After … Girls Beg For A Hug ... !!!!!
  
I’m Sick of Black People ... !!!
I’m Sick of White People ... !!!
I’m SICK ... DON'T YOU SEE ... !?!
of ... ALL of You People …. !!!!!!
  
I’m Sick of Not Being ...
High Up Like ... Church Steeple ...
So I Can Look DOWN ...
On You IGNORANT People …. !!!!!
  
I’m Sick of These FRAUD RIDDEN Marketing Schemes ... !!!
I’m Sick of These ... BULLSHITTING Marketing Teams ... !!!  
  
I’m Sick of Agendas ...
They Have For Their Means ... !!!
  
I’m Sick of Them CLAIMING ...
  
... " Their motives are clean ! " ...
  
I’m Sick of Not Having Enough ***** Dreams … !!!
  
I’m Sick of Attracting The Wrong Type of Girl ... !!!
I’m Sick of Them Trying To ... Mess With My World ... !!!
  
They Make Me So Sick … I Wish I Could HURL ... !!!!!!!!!
  
Okay Now You Know ... I’m Sick of A LOT ... !!!
But This Is The Start of The Sickness I've Got ... !!!
  
The Sickness I've Got ... Runs Through Me Like SNOT … !!!
  
The Sickness I've Got Is A Sickness To Plot …
The Death of Mankind … !!!

But This Isn't T3 And Is NOT ... I ROBOT ... !!!
  
This Sickness Runs DEEP Cos' You People Are Sheep ... !?!
And Just Don't Believe In The Sickness You Keep … !!!
  
The Sickness You Have Is Making Me .... " Weep " … !!!
  
You People Are WEAK … !!!
Your Outlook Is BLEAK ... !!!
  
And Now You're All SHOCKED …
By These Words That You Read … !?!
  
The Sickness I Speak of Defines How You Treat ...
Different People You Meet ... On Your Everyday Street ....
  
This Sickness Is RIFE ...
Men Beat Up Their Wives ... !?!
Cos' They Just Cannot Beat ...  
The Sickness They ... "Hide" ... !!!
  
My Words Give Insight ...
Into Their FOOLISH PRIDE … !!!
  
OH You're Now Feeling SICK ... !!!
DON'T You See … That's The TRICK ... !!!  
  
I Build My Lyrics On Foundations Like Bricks ... !!!

See I've Written This Script To Give You A HIT ... !!!
Just Like Police Do Young Blacks .... In The NICK ... !!!!
  
I Just Want To Give …
ALL This Sickness A Kick Right Out of My Mind …
Like Winds Blowing Clouds To Leave CLEAR Skies Behind … !!!!!
  
So Now I've DEFINED ...
What I Think of You ****** And ALL Your ******* ... !!!!!
  
To Girls I've Offended … Come **** ON MY **** ... !!!
  
And Just For You Fellas I’m Sick of You TOO ... !!!
Cos' Most of You ****** Just Think With Your **** ... !!!!
  
I’m SICK YES of People .... !!!
Cos PEOPLE ... Make Me .....….
  
………… " SICK " ………….. !!!!!!!

Wednesday, May 29, 2014

Subject: You know how I am about letters



Do people notice when it starts to happen? Maybe not the first time—it can be hard to tell—but do they recognize a pattern? Are they able to appropriately react? Is it easy to detect such feeling, a reoccurring newness? When it happens, it swells and expands: building within and pushing out, resonating a specific sound, paralleling the pang of olfaction from the heavy stench of pheromones. It stimulates the senses and sends the hypothalamus into hyperactivity, the mind clouded with confusion.



I’m glad it happened. I’m glad we got to be friends, the way we were, the way we could still be. It’s easy to be around you, and I appreciate the feeling you instilled in me. Four miles and six beers later, I found myself with you, in your house, talking to your parents, experiencing a part of you I’ve never known. Shortly after, there we were, on your couch, and you were against me and I held your core, warmed by the heat of your skin radiating from beneath your thermal. It was nice, but it was the type of nice which is prone to burn. I didn’t expect to be there.



I could’ve anticipated that drinking so much would release my inhibitions, and given our mutual attraction and history I would have succumbed to you. Obviously, I did. Nothing more than a kiss, but I’m glad I did, even though to actively be swept away in the moment is dangerous. I’m notoriously attracted to it, and sure enough as I write this, I feel a mix of nausea and a dull inner ache. I want it to go away, yet I endure it, understanding it’s a consequence of recklessness. I wouldn’t doubt it’s karma. I don’t think you are, but I notice myself around you and can decide that I am often being reckless with my frivolity. It feels good at first, but like coming down from rolling, there is a lingering feeling of synthetically-induced haze.



I honestly didn’t plan on kissing you, but the night took us there. I did plan on giving you that poem, however. I’m sure you have interpreted it correctly, as I’d assume you’re capable of distinguishing metaphors (you do have a college degree), and now hopefully understand my perspective of our situation.



I wanted to run with you, I wanted to get a beer (also I had a rough day/week so I was kind of down to drink—coping of course) and I wanted to let you read that poem. Those are things I wanted to do, and while I wanted to kiss you, I didn’t. I’m glad I did and it wasn’t a mistake, but I think doing that too many times would be more detrimental than productive. I’m sure you got that theme from what I wrote you was influenced by the weekend I came to Salisbury; maybe you can see certain themes of that weekend in it.



I don’t know. I was just thinking about you and I wanted to express what was going on in my head. I wanted you to know. I was somewhat sad when I left Salisbury, wondering why you gave my no affection when saying goodbye, but I was relieved and grateful you didn’t. But now… I think about us meeting at my house in Fruitland and the four of us drunkenly deciding to live together. It just so happened that Rachel and I were discussing the possibility of her moving to Salisbury and she mentioned Scott finding a house, with my landlord, for $300 a month. Talk about timing. I don’t know what to make of it.



It’s unfortunate that timing doesn’t always accommodate feeling; ironically, more often than not, timing sabotages it. Personally, I have always romanticized things that were doomed to end. The reason I love Shakespeare so much (besides intellect like no other) is because he conveys tragedy in such a beautiful way. Consider it like thanatos vs. eros—there is greater appreciation for something that cannot last forever, because there is only a limited time to enjoy it. It’s sad to think, too often, we’re unable to enjoy things to their fullest because of this notion. Like life and death—if we could live forever would we value our time as much? Hell no, we would take everything for granted (humans already do, as we are prone to do so) and never give a **** about anything. What makes anything matter is being able to appreciate it, despite of how long it lasts?



In that regard, after coming to Salisbury again, I thought about you coming home and what would happen. I assumed you’d be moving to Massachusetts sooner rather than later and wondered if we would even talk. I still wanted to hang out and go running, but I realized it might not happen and I recognized that could happen.



I never expected anything from you. I know we always had a thing and have been flirty towards each other, but to establish a foundation of sorts didn’t ever seem like an option. I liked you unattainable, impossible, a little too late, the right person at the wrong time; it seems pretty sick the way I describe it and I’m well aware, but you were the perfect protagonist of the narrative of my painful romance with Rachel, where you restored my mojo and provided me with the ability to feel and create again. You broke up the dam of my writer’s block with your flow. You were a muse of sorts. I am not idealizing you, just describing what you provided me with.



With this being said, I hope you believe that the sentiments I wrote to you were honest, as were my actions. I have nothing but positive regard for you, despite the periods where we didn’t speak and knowing you was somewhat uncomfortable. I have only known you for a year, but we’ve been through a lot and I consider you a friend. As I stated before, I didn’t mean to like you, it just kind of happened. And like you told me, that’s life. It’s curious, but I wonder if I would like you as much if we had a chance. I know it sounds cold, and I hope reading it doesn’t sting, but I am only trying to be realistic. I’m sure you too have assessed it.



The point of this cyber-letter is to just let you know that I liked you. I’m glad we got to know each other. You influenced me and you left your mark, forever contributing to the me I’m going to be. You taught me a lot about a lot of things. However, as I stated before, timing doesn’t always accommodate feeling. You are a unique “perhaps” in my life, nonetheless. I wonder what it would be like if we were ever together in another world, but I cannot quite imagine it. I dream, but I am bound to servitude by analyzing each intricate detail of the situations in front of me, despite my occasional bouts of impulse. It’s a way to survive, and there’s a pattern to it. It all unfolds so suddenly, paralleling behavioral, weather and astronomical patterns. More recently, I have experienced this. I wasn’t hoping for it or expecting it. I was surprised.



You know how they say “If you’re looking for something you won’t find it, but things are found (or given?) when you’re not looking?” So far 2014 has been a great year for many reasons. Even the  little after -graduation struggle was a transition to build into what is now and what will be.



So….you know how I snapchatted you (and most everyone on my friends list—you may notice I ask questions) asking if going to a park was a date? Well. It wasn’t the first. I wasn’t sure the first date was even a date. He made no forward advances to indicate any kind of ****** interest. I thought he just wanted to hang out, and offered to pay because he knows I don’t make as much as he does. Right? That sounds valid. But still, I wasn’t totally sure. I initially assumed my brother would come with us, because we hadn’t ever been exclusively in each other’s company. So, he said he’d pick me up at 8:00 p.m. My brother told me he was going to hang out with his friend Chelsea and hadn’t heard from him. I will admit I put effort into my aesthetics, perhaps as a slightly narcissistic compulsion to emphasize what is heterosexually considered feminine. Even if we were just hanging out, I wanted to make an impression; also, some places in the National Harbor are really nice, so I wanted to look nice too. We talked for two hours until they were closing and then he dropped me off. I was home by 11:00 p.m. That was May 4th.



I wanted to tell you yesterday, but you served an egress from thinking about work, my brother, my mom: everything. Six beers deep and I was caught up. I did miss you. It was selfish of me to indulge in it, but I wanted to savor you one last time. I don’t think that’s a crime, but I acknowledge it’s emotionally irresponsible. Despite that, when I think about it all, knowing I have to decide, I realize it’s more logical to pursue that which has less risk of becoming hazardous. Am I to deny myself that opportunity? It’s divine how patterns align: specific variables, whether assigned or accreted, determine the true outcome. The rest is what we do, how we behave, and how the mystical law of cause and effect affects the subsequent possible outcomes. Such dissident circumstances are attributed to timing.



It’s been described as a chaotic sequence of events, life. But isn’t there order in chaos? Astronomical and Neurological perspectives serve as two notable examples of materialism establishing the foundations of life, as we observe it functioning, from both holistic and reductionist views, yes. It’s not irrational to wonder if, in a complex way we have yet to fully understand, we are a miniscule, yet essential, part of a functioning unit. The struggle is especially prominent when how we live is based off how we obsess over the desire to understand why things happen. Despite the patterns, it often becomes unpredictable and gets so ******* frustrating. Still, isn’t it wonderful how we can revel in fascination?



I’m sure you weren’t expecting all the prose, but I wanted to be honest and straightforward…writing is the way I know how to be. I want you to know I regard you as a cool person and I really like talking and running (and smoking?) with you. I know you’ll be around for a little bit.  I’d still like to hang out with you, but I understand if you think it’s awkward or there will be tension or something. Regardless, I like your company and our friendship, our memories, our bullshitting, etc. I’d still like to watch some FIFA games, too. Feel free to email me back or use whatever means of communication you prefer.

one time
I took it farther than expected
(fits of numbness; fury
rattles me & fingers trembling
fumble with straight edge
razors. no bullshitting around)
yeah let's be honest I liked it
when it ran down my leg
in streams so fast & flooding
foot soon an island in the
puddle spreading around.
but the relief & satisfaction
dulled & shifted to panic
when realization struck
that daddy would find me
a burden & find me more ******
than previously suspected;
panic that I'd have
to ask for help.

I am a ******* artist
I ******* my way through ******* conversations
And I ******* all of my ******* poetry
I ******* my daily life
Spewing ******* to people around
Who themselves are really full of ******* as well
I do this to hide the fact that I am really full of *******
You see it is a recursive cycle of *******
Me bullshitting them, them me, and everyone full of *******
And don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to feed you negative *******
I even believe my own *******
And their *******
I guess you could say it is some Buddhist *******
Or some ******* like that
But really we are all so full of ******* that it’s coming out our eyes
Even this poem right here is *******
I don’t even buy this *******
ah ******* is there any sifting through you?
any escape from *******?
It just seems like the more you try to sift through the *******
The more you get your hands covered in *******

So you see how I fall deeper and deeper into *******
It really is appropriate

Wow. I think to myself, its already 10 AM, i really wasted two hours of my life bullshitting on that pathetic website. But, it was nice to feel like i was doing the community a favor. That is, steering them in the wrongful path of someone that isn't myself. Ironically hysterical.
       I log off and shut my laptop as i take a sip of my coffee that was already cold. Ugh. I dump the rest in my kitchen sink and leave the mug there to be washed later. Procrastination at its finest. Reaching my room i search my closet and grab a dusty old t-shirt and a pair of joggers. Tuesdays were cycling days as well as working out at the rec with my buddies.
       Running close to 50 I'm glad to say i stayed in great shape. Most people let themselves go. But not me. Of course, i would rather overpower my trophies, rather victims. Plus, the lean strong type of body attracts the younger woman. They melt away at the thought of a strong older man to care for them. A nurturing man, that is one mask i enjoy. Mainly because it gets me ***. Who can resist?
      I reach into the hall closet and pull out the bag of cat food. Hmm, almost empty. Note to self, buy cat food. Ares , meaning God of war, has been with me for about 2 years now. One late night of me sitting on my back porch i heard meowing in the back of my alley. So tiny and helpless, all wet and covered in mud. I took him in as my own.
        He pretty much keeps to himself, much like me. Perhaps, in such ways i am also like a cat, minus the sleep. Quiet, tends to his own needs, watches from a distance out the window searching for prey. Maybe that's why i keep him around.
        The sun shines bright enough making me squint my eyes all the way to my car. A classic 1969 ZL1 Chevrolet Camaro , V8 engine, up to 500 horsepower perfectly made just for me. Not compared to the camaros nowadays, complete trash if you ask me. Nobody appreciates the classic older culture but of course society changes everyday.
        About 30 minutes from Anytime Fitness, the gym that me and my buddies usually meet up at. Although, today i was attending alone. I had much tension to work out given the anxiety of the search for the killer going national. I had about two hours to spare until our cycling group was going to meet up. Perfect.
                Ah, the smell of sweaty ***** in the men's room, followed by too much of that Axe body spray being thrown around to disguise the smell. Yeah, because that works. They really should invest in some Febreeze if you ask me.
I approach my locker and put my duffel bag away. Really all i need is my water bottle and my pair of favorite headphones.
            Treadmills are the devil. Cardio is the devil in fitness form. But yet i never miss a day. The longest 20 minutes of my life. And that's just the warm up. HA. Continuing with my workout , dripping in sweat, i wonder if i too smell like a dumpster. Leg days are always the easiest for me.
           I approach the locker showers and quickly rinse off the stench. Of course, unlike these men, I engage with body wash and deodorant. Drying off my skin, i sit for a minute and realize i am just going to sweat outside some more once me and the boys hit the trail. How unfortunate. At least i wont smell entirely bad.
      
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                Old Fall River Road , our favorite spot to cycle. Located in the all but famous Rocky Mountain National Park. We all enjoyed it because there was basically no traffic to be bothered by and not many people dared to walk the trail. Of course being 12,000 feet from sea level and a long curvy road with no guard rail to keep you from falling, who would want to? I do enjoy a thrill.
         Parker Anderson and Miles Lawson, two of the best sons of guns i could ever meet. Parker was a real estate agent and actually sold me my house. That's how we met actually. Somehow we bonded over our love of shooting guns at the range, fishing and of course getting drunk. Occasionally every Friday, we head out to any local bar, grab a few brews and just relax. Talking **** and picking up girls, our two best qualities.
           And than there is Miles. He's about 5 years older than me but his features show him younger. Must be ******* nice. He's married with two kids well off in college now. He was a friend of Parker's first before i ever got introduced to him. Overall great guy with a wicked sense of humor. Wicked enough for me.
           Parker approaches me first with a handshake and Miles with a casual nod.
  Parker  -  " Yo, what's up bud? Getting bigger I see."
  Miles -   "Yeah from jacking off I bet" ,as he grins and chuckles.
   Parker - " And? Nothing wrong with that."
     " Alright guys, y'all done? I'm ready to hit this trail." I say. Honestly i just didn't feel the need for gossip. Keeping up with my mask of a social life was tougher than people make it seem.
    Miles " Yeah yeah just don't want me ******' on you. Alright let's go, my wife wants me home in time for dinner at five. Who the **** has dinner so early? I'm going to be hungry within the next two hours."
    Me-    " Bro, you're literally always eating. I don't know how it hasn't caught up to you."
    Parker - " OK boys, enough chit chat. Let'***** it."

        We really should have thought this through. Colorado weather was roughly in the 60's nearing this time of year, but man that sun sure was something. Cycling our way up the trail gave us a moment of pure silence.
Building our stamina all the way to the top and then resting for a few gulps of water.
     " Nobody should have to do cardio more than twice a week, let alone twice a day."
      Parker - " Twice? Who you running from? The cops?"
      Miles - " Yeah right, i bet the cops would be running from him."
Well, they got that right. Either way made sense , but i just grinned.
  " I worked out right before i came to meet up with you guys. How you think I look this good? Not everyone can appear so young like Miles."
   Miles - " Jealous *******."

        We continue cycling down the path and finally reach the end after about two long hours.
       "****, I don't know about y'all but I'm burnt."
      Miles - " Oh **** me, its already 4:25, at this point and all this traffic I'm cutting it close."
   Parker - " Tight leash, huh?"
      Miles - " My wife is always on my *** about something. Says I'm always out with y'all and not home. Clingy as ****."
" You know you remind me why i never did the whole married life scheme. Too much drama. And for what? Love?"
     Parker - " Ay, I still believe in love after all it's worth."
     Miles - " Well yeah, don't get me wrong I love her. Can't live without her, but **** does she get on my nerves."
     Ah, love. I experienced it once. I was in my early 20's , still fresh meat in the military, and met her when i was stationed in some tiny town up in Texas. She was the most gorgeous girl I ever laid eyes on. Met her at bar , actually. Can you believe she had the nerve to come up to me and introduce herself? I was in shock. Love at first sight.
      Of course , everything comes to and end and i was already being transferred to a different location. I had offered her to come with me and she declined. Said her life was here and she didn't want to be traveling around. She wanted stability and to be settled down. She didn't want me. I was devastated and left without saying goodbye. Last time i ever felt love.
       We continued to walk our bikes to the cars, on account of more traffic and civilians crowding it up.
        Miles - " Alright guys, I'm already late so catch up with you later."
Parker looks at me. " Okay, what do you say, wanna grab some brews?"
" Nah, let'***** it on Friday. Your boy needs to rest. This old age ain't no joke."
He rolls his eyes at me. " I guess. Just hit me up." And he climbs into his mustang and jets off.
  
        Once I reached my house I quickly jumped in the shower, AGAIN. I heat up some leftover chicken from the other night and turn on the news.
            *" Local news authorities report the release of the suspected custody, Dave Anderson. According to his lawyers, he was released based on insufficient evidence. This means in fact that the Woods-bury killer is still out there. We advise you to stay safe and indoors. If you have any leads please feel free to call our hotline 1-800-1111. " *
      ****, i knew he would be released sooner or later. That just means the police are searching for the real killer. Me. Although, I wouldn't call myself a killer. I put people out of their misery. I save people who need it. If only they'd understand and let it go. After all , it was only 5 bodies. Might just make it six so i can have someone to pin it on.
        Killing is bad. Don't do it. What kinda monster could you be? Yet, people **** animals everyday with their famous hunting ritual. That goes unnoticed. We are carnivores, meaning we are hunters.
          Explain the difference between humans and animals and only one I can find is that we are 'civilized'. Ha. Civilization is some kind of simulation brought onto humans thinking we have some sort of control over our lives. Control. Authority has played a big part in my life, since i was in diapers.
     Parents tend to have control of their offspring. Until, the child reaches a certain peak that spirals into denying the control. Losing the main dominance in such a relationship causes arguments and such. I, on the other hand, followed my parents control. I knew my position and i played it quite well.
     On my 18th birthday, both my parents ended up passing away. Murdered while i was away with friends. Adulthood had an all new meaning. If this meant losing your parents, so be it. I needed structure but i knew i couldn't find it at college.
       Hello marines. I left with no chance to grieve. I grew into the person I became today.Being in the war so young taught me great value of certain things. I had nothing to lose except my innocence. I had control. Kills became that much easier. Fun, even. 20 years of living life on edge and I ******* loved it.
       Once i got out, the urge was still there. Festering inside of me.
I had to find a way to **** it, but the only way I knew was killing. Thus, hello Woods-Bury killer. Aka , me.

the English are a very special breed of bigots, they don't engage in hypocrisy to suggest they feel superior with a decent moral compass, or to provide gentelmanly airs: pick out the pointless sorry when bumping into someone on the street - their inherent stage-fright at vulgarity hides something... the biggest asset of this constipated hypocrisy? what happens next... satire... so in being hypocrites they are awash in satirical humour... they laugh it off the minute they make some sort of allusion to a moral concern for something... given the current situation with the migrant crisis: where the majority are single men rather than Jewish families, you get the picture... it's amazing how they can change their hypocrisy into satire, and do so blatantly without a care in a world... i do wonder how the Icelanders would compare, both being island societies and all.

5 sq miles is all i need, to breath new air
and look at the same garbage of what life has to offer,
obviously the chanced and randomised
encounter with some *** on a bench
laughing our socks off, or a retired grandpa
getting away from the wife -
just like today - a fresh autumnal breeze:
i the cooling process to the heating up process,
don't know why, but there's as much
beauty in slow decay as in slow sprouting -
decay and its many colours never feels as ever
being monochromatic winter or summer -
it's the persistence of change - two transition
seasons, two plateau seasons: what a strange balance.
anyway, my usual (see how i invoked:
my life's so ******* boring, i decided to write
about it - like hell would i document it using
photographs: that's for the rich flashy people -
i'm more into the archaic mode - bought what i need,
and now i'm really using it) route was disrupted,
that's all it takes, walk a different English suburban
labyrinth and the world kaleidoscopes beyond
comparison; drank the strong beer (although,
ice cubes do make a difference when poured from
a can into a glass, Oranjeboom used to stand at
8.5%, just half a % shy from the *******
Special Brew - now it's at 7.5%, and, well, it taste
just about like candy-barley) - but that's what changing
habits does to you, my usual stroll became,
for some reason, electrifying - i censored my audience
on that ghoulish website i was introduced to at
university to 23 people, and i'm chirpier than
a sparrow - the newspapers were telling the truth:
for once - it just seemed that i was seeing less
network opportunities, and more ghost,
pointless memories of school, that everyone seems
to exploit in art (notably the smiths' soloist doing
the part of: oh how horrid those days of yore) -
dunno, liked the uniform, liked the topics,
never bothered having a social life in there,
everyone had extra four hours spare, i was doing
4 A-levels rather than 3, and every Wednesday i
would finish at 2:30 p.m. and head straight home
to beat the traffic - i picked up a girlfriend at the end
of my education, passed the exams and ****** off
to Edinburgh - most congregated with their social
networks from school in Canterbury -
the city was all i cared for, nowhere like it -
and perhaps the twinning of what i used to call
kiszka* (sh, or sz) that became haggis - whichever,
the fact that my father was taught the trade of roofing
by Scots, and that my favourite teacher was a Scot
too must have played on my romance at needing
to leave England - shame it wasn't for good, but never mind.
as for the fact the school was Catholic, i didn't leave
it having been confirmed, everyone else got to choose
a confirmation name, i was asking: why would anyone
even make the choice of being baptised in the first place?
too much sniffing in the library, reading about
the Gnostic heretics, who, as i suggested it to the r.e.
teacher (religious education) shared a similar doctrine
with what later became Islam: the phantom being
crucified and what not - now i do wish i could
have had a liberal education without religion playing
a pivotal role in my development, but then i'd
have missed out on the uniform, and the army-style
regime: i swear, no uniform and your whole life
ends up a nightmare from high school - because
we didn't develop an image issue, we didn't really
care to exploit our youth to side with a rebellious
stampede of making a mark - it would look ridiculous,
what with g.c.s.e. mathematics and talk of
photosynthesis in biology - ah, the disfranchised
youth of America, with their high school debacles
echoing a mortal's sense of eternity -
yes, my father was conscripted into the army,
he served the tenure of three years in Warsaw,
because he was tall and handsome we has put into
the household division, schooling in Poland
doesn't exactly use uniforms, well, i was enlisted
into the next best thing (apart from a grammar school),
yep, a faith school - he learnt a softer variation
of arbeit macht frei i.e. arbeit veredeln (work
ennobles) - or some variation of arbeit adeln - referring
to knights - the same rigour in his physical
activities are equated to the same standard in my
choice of utilising the necessary faculty: bullshitting -
not necessarily lying: unnecessarily telling the truth -
                          ^
                  telling the                 funny how you don't
                                           need the words there -
the verb structure already within lies -
                  but with truth, ****, you have express it
further, by some set standard;
but that's all it takes, a different route from the routine
zigzag, and i become more Columbus and less Kant.
a few things popped up -
a. i could blatantly write you a psychological profile
of homegrown terrorists - the filtering process?
grammar - you can decipher everything with grammar.
they're usually immigrants like me,
but they were probably born here,
having spent 8 years of my life in Poland as a child
already undermined any hope of the nicely ethnic cleansing
phrased: "assimilation" / "integration" process -
i couldn't **** the child and his knowledge of a language,
although the ones condemning being bilingual
would hardly bother learning another language,
which is exactly what English people on holiday are:
rude... when i went alone to Paris and slept in a hostel
i had to befriend someone who knew the language,
and managed to, on two occasions, because, otherwise,
i'd look like a complete idiot; great city, circa 2005 / 6.
they homegrown because they haven't realised that
they've been ethnically cleansed, so they take up talking
slang, and monosyllable Arabic to express their anger,
they've got the olive skin, but not the tongue of the desert,
me? i find it easier to write in English than in Polish,
but i could talk to you in the tongue, as i can read it:
i already said - philosophy in English, even with Locke?
nope... no can do... not while you heard such
things as: thinking, a dangerous endeavour...
the English can't write philosophy to save their life,
i can't read Sartre in English... it's just gibberish to me,
you need to know a continental tongue to read philosophy,
where else, other than in England will you find people
associating thinking as a tedium, rather than a medium?
nowhere! and these kids are disgruntled because they
have lost the capacity to identify with their parents,
they only see the insulating anger done unto their parents
by the society they live in and can only communicate
with what would provide an equilibrium to their situation:
their nativity of the mother tongue -
but since they haven't done that, then they act with
monstrosity - slang being their reality, slang as a way
to "modernise" their host language -
or at least change it, meaning that middle class folk
are like: huh?! a big ingredient in urban areas, obviously.
then they feel marginalised in blocks of flats...
a communist reality in eastern europe, and no one
complained... and the new way of housing people?
a bit plushier versions of their concrete counter-parts:
glass people (the social media advent) in glass houses.
b. *******, i wasn't going to expand a minor point
in my cognitive narrative from my walk that much...
this is the epitome of writing and the English suburban
labyrinth - everything looks the same, then take a step
elsewhere and boom... fresh air.
ah yes... what's with this deepest desire to cut off
subjectivity? it's happening all the time,
esp. noticeable in newspapers - the English abhor
the mere idea of subjectivity - everyone's supposed
to be a scientists... ask any chemist though:
the holy grail is subjectivity - i studied chemistry
but i read Milan Kundera - my director of studies
owned an Edward Hopper postcard in his office...
does a scientist really have to tell people who find
science hard and rather read a toothpaste's list of ingredients
(yes, chemistry is the only study area that
shows off English having being rooted in Saxony,
chemists compound nouns like everyday Germans
say: i ate a peppermint after dinner:
               pfefferminzeessennachdemwurst) -
all this desire to look "cool" and atheistic never translates
into collective atheism: of imitating an ant colony
and banishing god forever - all this
angst against subjectivity - the blind pursuit of
objectivity does only one thing: it guises subjectivity
in the dire need for psychology - logic of the soul,
or logic of breathing: a strange possibility,
i could have asked an asthmatic -
                                         and this constant, constant
nagging against poetry, from journalists and
psychiatrists alike, oh wait, you didn't write a 500 page
book which i wouldn't have read anyway:
you must be mad! sure thing doctor, mad as Duracell
bunny - gotta live the life, gotta live the life,
gotta run a marathon, got to travel to India for
a spiritual breakthrough, gotta this, gotta do that...
sit on your *** and enjoy the pleasure of thought
that never materialises into owning toilet blockage...
well, something like that.
pointing that out i don't understand why
the abhorrence of god is later translated into David Attenborough,
          or why there's no O in Edinburgh -
berg... burg... berg.. burg... and they never teach
you plain and simple: we have so many leopard spot
variations in our language, we're betting that it will
have a universal appeal to all of humanity, a true global
glutton tongue, encompassing an empire on which
the sun never sets... and some disgruntled white youths
fist fighting a question: but what's the real deal with
the basics?! too many particulars -
                   and that's what's bothering me,
i don't know whether to feel shame or sorrow,
definitely not happiness - i speak the blimmin' tongue better
than the natives! this is the funny part, i can speak of
English people like they're red indians - the natives -
ha ha hmm... it's probably devastating in terms of
the educational system, but i do, maybe that's why i
mentioned a patriotism to the language, but not the culture
that provided it... a patriotism toward the language,
so, in reality: rewriting being English - so very much
like 1066 at Hastings - Norman steps onto the shore...
right! Domesday Book... dome and doom... never figured
that one out either... oh sure, a few of them got
smart and kept a secular monopoly on language like
the priests used to... but it's subtle these days,
it's not a blatant **** in your face where you can't read...
i'm betting that English has the highest rate of
dyslexia among all the languages of the world...
perhaps the French? n'ah, they love their public intellectuals...
here's it's all: sing sing sing... sing along and Tokyo
at the pub on Fridays;
and they know i speak better native than the natives,
because the conversation usually goes into
not language per se, but the organic side of language,
organic meaning idiosyncratic, a posh way of saying: accent...
and that horrid: where you from?
i usually just say something along the lines
of a Greek: citizen of the world... or was that commerce
deal with China a fake?
that's what it means when acquiring the English language,
the diversity of accents, primarily because
other languages have already implied a standard encoding
of accents, those diacritical marks are there for a reason:
a heightened involvement in specification of the desired sounds,
whenever someone learns English... it's not there!
it's simply missing, given the monopoly, for one,
which means that the language does attach itself to
the host living in a host society - funny dynamic away from
the dust covered master and slave - in a very
specific way, namely whatever diacritical assimilation
the host had with his mother tongue becomes atypically
exemplified in English - since English has hidden
diacritical dynamics - which obviously ****** the natives
off who didn't get a decent education - as in:
someone spotting this out for them - namely
someone who acquired the language like a native,
unconsciously - first come first served dynamic,
and not someone who had to consciously learn it,
i.e. not from mama and papa... from primary school
playgrounds, from teachers... through strife...
and this is my antidote of the central Nietzschean doctrine:
the will to strife...                not necessarily strive,
but a will to strife...                   well, if they're going to
keep shunning subjectivity, leaving it far too late
and in the hands of psychologists, faking it intellectually
but otherwise being fundamental in expressing it
only musically in pop culture... we will never reach
the objectivity of the Chinese and the Indians, forget it!
but that's what we're being prescribed -
and culminating in paradoxically abhorring the idea
of god - but admiring nature in all its glory -
                        i'm not even going to argue a god
of disabled people... they're having a laugh with the idea
of god at the Para-Olympics - i'm not getting into a debate
concerning that idea - just a congested version of
the universal why - but in the variation of constant
bewilderment in a particular *huh?!

I write you letters on yellow notepads,
tear them out and use the other side,
my ****** cursive slanting the entire page,
adding things in the margins,
drawing hearts in the corners,
ending with our special
"See you then"
instead of a goodbye,
or a sincerely yours,
or an "I love you always."
That line said it all.

I didn't have an address to send them to
because you just moved and stamps cost a lot
for a broke college student who's just trying
to keep in touch.

You told me not to call you.
Not to ask you how you'd been.
So I didn't even bother asking for some place
to write on the outside of my envelopes.
I just kept writing them.

I get why you didn't want to come see me
before you left
because it would just make it harder to say goodbye
all over again,
and I get
why it's hard to talk to me
because you're busy and because you're two hours behind
and because this and because that.
They're just excuses.
You don't really want to talk to me.

And I,
I get that you're halfway across the country.
Don't you think I've memorized the distance by now?
I know exactly how far it is between your dot and mine
on a map.
I get that it's going to be hard and that it's probably not even worth trying,
but what you don't get
that I do
is that it's worth it.

I've kept bullshitting with you since I met you.
I've kept you around this long.

I'm not going to tell you how many times I sat up crying
about something you said to me, or something you didn't say
that I knew you felt
because it will just push you away.
You've known since the beginning
of whatever this is
that you're no good for me.
You're not good enough for me.
That's fair.

But what you don't get,
that I do
is that I don't care.

You're the best thing in my life
because everything that I do is only because of you,
only because of you believing that I can have it
all
if I try hard enough.

You told me I was the strongest person you knew.
That I was tough.
That I was going to be fine.

I am only those things because I have you
in my life
in one way or an even more complicated other.
So you can't just give up on me.
You can't just expect
to tell me you're done
you never started
and leave.
Because that's not okay with me.

I won't buy a plane ticket.
I won't talk to you every chance I get
(more likely every chance you get)
and I won't keep myself behind this line
because I'm saving myself for you.

But you have to stay with me, okay?
You have to at least try
to understand where I'm coming from
and you have to,
you have to
keep believing in me.

Because I'm not the strongest person you know,
you are.
I'm not tough,
you are.
I'm not always going to be fine,
but you are.

So I'll see you then.

we yearn for the country but we stay in the city
too wound up
not ready yet for the great country slow down
waiting behind- 2 cars stopped beside each other
bullshitting in the middle of the road
nobody in any kind of hurry
going out of your way to let someone in
even this city has some residual slow down-  echoes
after the great iron jungle-
dc city tenements
New York
Babylon in neon
soul dancing soul
vertacle spectacle -  never sleeping
never slowing
unforgiving
blood splattered on the sidewalks
dried ***** on park benches
rats drenched in oil and filth
feeding on the bloated underbelly of the machine
Moonlight reflected off of the bright red smile
of murderers enveloped in the womb
of anonymity.
the faceless rooftop ******

We all feel insecure now and then,
even without infidelity lurking in the background.
We don't deal  with *******
but some people are just bullshitting in the background

People wear masks on standby, maximizing opportunities.
Just like crows waiting for the right time,
to attack and slip between lapses,
lapses you and I just don't mind.

I personally feel bad dealing with these thugs,
as if I have nothing against them,
I'm just having a hard time to hide and let them pass through
I'm always a giver in this game.

Forgive me if I'm this cold,
I'm a first timer to live in this house of odds.
I preach art and believer of reality
and I cannot easily hide my thoughts

Jealousy stings and hurt sometimes
and You have nothing to prove to me.
it is just the natural outside forces
that is is getting into my nerves, It kills me.

Chapter 1

“I killed your mother.” Those words slipped off his tongue like the foul scent of a decade of filth. I cursed him. I wanted vengeance for what he had done. Not because I loved my mother but because I was the one who wanted to rip her throat out. Feel the adrenaline as I plunged the knife deep into her chest 52 times. I wanted the taste of disgust in my mouth as I looked into the vacant eyes of her corpse. I wanted to watch as her blood scattered across the ceiling and the walls as I pulled the knife in and out of her. I wanted to hear her screams of horror as the son she abandoned so many years ago returned to **** her. I started to resent her killer for stripping me of my one true desire. Killing my mother seemed so easy. I had every detail planned from how I was going to do it to the way I was going to get away with it. Yet in the instance of walking up to her door, I see him walking out. I asked if my mother was home. He looked into my eyes and saw the hunger for ****** and he simply replied “I killed your mother. “ As I walked in I saw so much blood. I saw the knife in her throat. I saw the gun on the floor next to her. I called 911 because I knew if they could catch him I could **** him. Sure it wouldn’t be the same as killing her. I wanted to end this curse. The very curse she bestowed upon me when she walked away from me at 13 months. Yet, that ******* took it all away, and I’m going to seek vengeance for the continuation of my curse. Not her ******. So began the plan to **** him. I knew there were other ways to end my curse but I wanted to get used to the idea of killing. So I grabbed the pistol and looked for him. I knew he had to live in the alley ways of Los Angeles. This place wasn’t “The City of Angels”. It was more like “The City of Broken Souls”. This city would and could drag you into the deepest parts of a world still unknown to so many. You had to grow up here to understand the culture, the way of life, and the language the people here spoke. I was born two blocks from the place I grew up. I moved around a lot but always stayed in LA. People called me crazy when I came back. If only they knew my intentions for coming back. I knew better to tell anybody why I was here. Everybody was against you. A lot of people would sell their reputation for drugs, alcohol, and food. I knew a couple people that would most likely knew the man I was looking for. So I headed their way. I kept to the shadows so I wouldn’t attract a lot of attention. Best if nobody really knew I was back from the grave. That’s a term we used to say around here when you just come out of an asylum. I served 6 years in the asylum for brutally murdering a guy because he rapped and killed my best friend. She was so fragile and weak. She never had a chance against the guy. So when I found out what happened and who had done it. I tracked him down and began to dismantle his body. I let some AIDs infested homosexual I knew **** him but I killed him too. I cut his head off, made his legs his arms, and his arms his legs. Even cut off his **** and shoved it up his ***. I thought he would have enjoyed that part, but he was already dead. He died from the blood loss. Stupid ******* couldn’t hold my interest. So I went back and finished what I started. I stayed next to the corpse and the cops came rushing in. They saw the bodies and the blood. They were so quick to arrest me. I pleaded guilty. The judge figured I had some mental illness due to the way I was raised and grew up. So I found another guy and he started begging for his life, said he had kids, and started apologizing for whatever he did to me. I looked him in the eyes and told him what he did. “You lied to me six years ago. Remember when you beat that little girl to death? You smashed her head in. That was an innocent girl. She was 22 years old. What did she ever do to you?”  He said he “I’m sorry.” I told him “Stop bullshitting me!”  He said “Salvezar hired me to do it. I couldn’t refuse. I needed the money for my daughter. She has cancer. Please forgive me. I did what I had to do for her. Salvezar said she stole from him almost eight grand. Have mercy, please?” I replied “Only god has mercy. If only he existed, he could save you from the monster that I am.” He started to cry, knowing he was about to die. So I said “Shhh. Close your eyes. This will only hurt for a minute.” Like a fool he closed his eyes. He wanted it to be swift. So I pulled out all the knifes, needles, and scalpels. He opened his eyes and saw all the instruments. I told him “They’re not for you. They’re for another person in the other room. I promised you I would **** you quickly. That it would only hurt for a minute. I intend to keep that promise.” He replied “You know better than anybody that you can’t trust anyone in LA. This place is full of killers, ******, thieves, homeless, weak, broken, and pathetic people. What makes you think I would trust you?” So I said this: “I’m the only person that can bring down Salvezar. I need your help and if you die before I get more information of his whereabouts then everything will be over. I won’t be able to avenge my friend’s death and you get to watch from the heavens you so hopelessly believe in as he rapes and kills your family. So what is it going to be? Work with me or die now?”  He replied “For my family, I will help you.” I replied “Good. Wise decision.” He could tell I meant what I said, and if I said I was going to **** you, I was going to **** you. He sensed I wasn’t the normal kind of person in LA. He started calling me something in Spanish, but he mumbled it under his breath so I couldn’t hear it. It sounded like “suicidio demonio”, but I couldn’t understand it. I kind of liked the name. After all I was on a suicide mission. Nobody went up against Salvezar. He was the number one person in the drug trade. He owned LA. I was basically an intruder on his land. I had a plan to tear him down. To bring LA crumbling under my power and I had a feeling Salvezar knew who killed my mother. She owed him money and that’s something you just don’t do. You owe, you pay, and you usually end up dead. I knew Salvezar since he came into power. I know all his tricks. I worked as an assassin for him for three years till I brutally killed that one guy that I forgot his name. Poor ******* though. He made mistakes. Salvezar was a clean killer. He hired people to do it for him, and he never left a trail. Salvezar was the most dangerous, powerful, sneaky criminal that walked the streets of LA. I wasn’t a cop so I could **** him more easily. My reason if he asked why I came back was “I’m coming home.” I was getting ready for it. I was going to war with LA.

is to see --- i mean REALLY see ---
my situation
for what it is

to stop bullshitting myself

and then
confronted with that
bored whitened knuckle
muster one final act of bravery and
turn off the lights

Dear God,

I know that we don't talk that much.
or at all.
I also know that I kinda don't believe in you.
sorry...
I just wanted to say that I'm happy where I am.
I know my other writings sorta contradict that statement, but I struggle with negativity, and my poems almost always punctuate pain over pleasure.
It's taken time. I'd be the first to know,
But I'm content with my sadness now.
I'm happy with the little worries I get when she looks upset.
I'm happy with the pessimism that spills from my pen too.
At least it creates.
And I'm not bullshitting you.
And no fingers crossed, because I know how you feel about crosses.
This isn't sarcasm or mockery.
I pinky promise.

I love my friends.

I say that they are toxic.
and they are.
But who says that pain and love cant coincide?
I think that they work quite well together.
And I'm not a *******.
But love wouldn't be love if there wasn't pain,
and this wouldn't be a poem by me if there wasn't any negativity.
So thank you for the spot I'm in
and thank you for the friends I have.
I love them all very much.
I love my friends very much.

Sincerely,
                 Your Desperate Friend

i was drinking moonlight
while you were bullshitting
and perpetuating nothing
naming me strange
half-lighted and deranged
talking to voices
i shouldn't name
because the behave
like they transcend
the mundane

i care
truly
but i don't think
the way you do
and you think me
insane, fumbling for
embers in a cold place
chasing echoes
wishing i was someplace
different

wishing someone else
could drink the moonlight

as an antidote to the poetic of onomatopoeia, i simply won't allow such a desecration, the ruinous cloud of plum purple hangs over language with this one poetic technique, just before the barrage of rain falling like a vertical tsunami, as i found myself fishing in Poland, the white-precursor of Mickiewicz's castles turned into horses' gallop... and then foo! a monsoon in 5 minutes... the fish? quiet big, but since kept in a reservoir, a bit fat... actually... too fat. seriously, the onomatopoeia has to go, we can't be found imitating sounds of inanimate things... or debasing our use of phonetic encryptions with sounds of edible creatures... why... if we kept at it, you'd see monkeys building the coliseum and man playing the Mongolian harmonica of vibrating lips and the index finder moving up and down to their tune; plus i think onomatopoeia is the culprit of excessive spelling in english... i know, the keeping of necessary aesthetics but come on... moo vs. μ?

and i wish to lessen the optic strain for continuing
subject matter non-italicised...
you know what's more interesting than paying attention
to the use of onomatopoeia like that, the crudest
musicological element of poetry (well, rhyming is
also up there) - English is perfect, it's a-diacritical
(ah or a? never mind) - you have to start to imagine
the language like a blank canvas, but not necessarily,
what's more interesting in this vector rather than
clinging to onomatopoeia technique is that you
can apply anti-onomatopoeia, distinctions, accents,
yesterday it became revelatory,
it's roland garros on the television, after the days
events there's a program with Mats Wilander
(Swedish no. 1, seven grand slams between 1982 and
1988) and a blonde woman presenter,
i picked up my loss of interest in using onomatopoeia
to profile her origin... she could have been of any
European ethnicity... but the accent... it just landed
in my ear... German... and indeed, without an information
bracket on the programme's description, it was
Barbara Schett... you see, you paint the accents, it's
more interesting that way given the nakedness of English
compared with other siblings of the alphabet high-jacked
from Roman; you end up pricking your ears to attune
accents that than ol' McDonald had a farm.

that was my initial fascination, the lie of Eden passed down,
like Voltaire on his deathbed being read his departing word,
his own encoded as: this is not the time  to make enemies
he was referring to the devil)...
also: you'll find it hard to find his *éléments de la philosphie
de Newton... you will find Candide,
and Letters from England... but the elements of Newton's
philosophy will be a holy grail... oddly enough, contrary
to common belief, Voltaire never alludes to an apple
falling on Newton's head, but the book is a joy,
given that it includes diagrams... a bit of an Alice moment
for me: what's the point of books without pictures?
i could give you a chapter-by-chapter schematic of
what's being included so you don't think i'm bullshitting you,
the first chapter is about God... i know, ha ha, Voltaire
the ardent atheists... the third chapter is about the
freedom of the deity and on the great principle of sufficient right;
hold on! i'm digressing again, this was a debate concerning
onomatopoeia! you're probably asking why i've started to
use runes again... imagine what lied more, the tongue or
the eyes... this is crazy geometrics! geometry precipitated
when human went wild encoding sounds, it needed
something rational and coherent to attach itself to, to find
a cure for this crazy phonetic encoding, Pythagoras
attacked (Δ, δ) - i'm sure of that... i mean, can you just imagine
two drunk vikings sitting there, ******* themselves
sound-spotting and dissecting their mouth? which shaped
what, and which was to be cut-off / trimmed after they
poured wax into their ears and started to lip-read?
i mean... how many ****** shapes came from all
the soul-cages being opened with the shape of the mouth
from O?
ᚺ - hail             ᛖ - horse (and i'd say camel, but no camels
so far north)       ᚱ - journey         ᛟ - heritage
      ᛚ - water               ᚷ - gift
                                 i mean, it's amazing how we managed
to cut of subsequent letters we ascribed to things
and create a distinct sounds... but can you the torturous
road toward this end? to have created ~20 distinctions
from nouns? no wonder Aristotle asked to debate
proper names... i'm more inclined to ask a debate about
proper sounds... but still... so many wild geometric shapes
from just one... O... or - (a shut mouth)...
no wonder mathematics emerged: you couldn't really build
a longboat using ᚠ - ᛞ, or a house, what mathematics emerged
was probably when people thus dispersed interacted
via the merchants' enterprises and saw a gold nugget
of applicability write in how so many different people interpreted
looking at the mouth talking...
but i'm but one man, and this is a mystery, for i wonder
how the mind worked in order to write mandarin and
also qin **** huang's wall - i accepted many people died
doing it, and that the Mongol invasion was inevitable,
and that Japan was spared by a tsunami...
but how they took snippets from O to write a phonetic
encoding like 政 (Zheng, which also ascribed the
tetragrammaton at work, with one atom being a surd).

We talk about the future like we've been there before.

Hope confidently,
Say it like you've seen it.
We're all wearing floral shirts but
We've never been south enough to
See real petals thaw.

The old have been there, but they're old.
Maybe they'll key into validity
When they know the
Instagram filters by heart-
Even then, times have changed.
This black and white future you've been to
Isn't the valencia filtered future on my map.

I do not ask the truth-
We all know that we know not.
I do not say stop-
We must pursue this light even if none have seen it.

I'm just saying.
Don't lie.
Find faith in internal fire-
Not the distant flicker you've found comforting to imagine at the end.

Don't sit around here,
Bullshitting.
It's ok to be scared.
It's ok to say that tomorrow is just a word-
And that for some it never will be more.
We talk about the future like we've been there before.
But right now we're here.

this was today:

a splendid breakfast, ****** black intestines...
whatever the hell they put in those...
pig brain cartilage, blood, liver... barley...
fried with some onions, eaten with a decently toasted bread...
then... figuring out what to do with the ****-show
in the garden, three trips to the recycling centre
with rotten timber, and, some spare parts...

conversations with father...
football, the Grand National... i hate myself for this...
i'm not a gambling man...
but each year like clocks go back come the winter
months and like clocks go forward come the summer
months... i place a bet on the Grand National...
a bit like Harold Norse might have claimed
at not being a man... i'm not a man...
i don't gamble... i hate gambling...
today proved my point...
   yet again...
         i don't know how Bukowski or Dostoyevsky
managed a habit... i'd much rather work some
menial work and... then... yeah "gamble" with
a *******... gambling for me is more the thrill
of the unexpected than: expecting to fall-flat on my face...
having unprotected ***... but... just checking:
she might inform me... a ****** doesn't make
a lot of difference... if... you're not smarting-up
with your hygiene... so i get the exclusive no ******
******* into her... that's gambling...
a different sort of gambling...
  i'm the horse and the jockey...
the bet? oh... that's somewhere in the back of my mind
when i pay for an hour...
whatever... i'm a man and i'm not a man
in how the normal man would rather place a bet
on a horse than... have unprotected *** with a *******...
all... or nothing... that's me...
because i'm so ******* with myself...
i only bet a £1 on this one horse... each way...
so even if he came in 5th... i'd get a return...
so each way implies: a £1 bet you cough up £2...
for security... and he was running so splendidly for
about 28 fences... at times first... at times third...
****** gave up... after the last fence...
came in 6th...

     but what's frustrating about betting on horses...
or football teams...
like with this girl Jeminah... single mum...
bankrupt / a bad credit score...
i get these wrong sort of butterflies in my stomach...
when i start courting her...
drop round... one time... twice...
i promise her a bottle of homemade wine...
well... first "date" we just talk... job issues...
i already know she's bullshitting about me behind
my back... i keep a watch... second date
i bring the wine and some banana loaf that i too
have made... i'm getting these stomach crunches:
this is such a good idea! my ego-phallus is demanding...
but... my digestive system is rebelling against me:
check again...
   i had this ****** on a line and sinker!
if only i had the sort of intestines that might warn me...
about what could be or couldn't be
a good bet... i had him in my sight!
the Grand National Winner!
   i had him... there's no logic to gambling...
but this time around there sort of was...
   if i could only have the gut feelings in-tune with a
winner... like i might... with a female: loser-project...
*******, cycling drunk to her house...
leaving flowers in the middle of the night...
hot-head me... well... yeah...
you go to prostitutes from time to time...
you're going to get a hot-head...
               ******* ginger lasses...
                       but if i can get these right sort
of sensations concerning women...
who the hell cares if i don't get the same sensations
when it comes to horses, running for a gamble?
long-term projects... i like those...
i'd much prefer earning an honest wage
than winning some spare cash on the sly...
i hate gambling...
   but i ******* had him!
             i was looking through the list...
   Longhouse Poet: 14 - 1... poet... poet...
                  poets... Irish poets... W. B. Yeats...
why didn't my gut find my brains? i asked my father
on one of our trips to the recycling centre...
chances of a 7 year old winning it?
i heard... not since 1940?
  no... no chance, he replied... what about the 13 year old?
Blaklion - last time a 13 year old won
the Grand National was back in 1923...
but i had this Noble Yeats... **** me... 50 - 1 on my mind...
i was thinking... Longhouse Poet... Poet...
Yeats! come on!
  see... this is why i hate gambling...
i get the proper gut feelings when it comes to women...
no... she's no good... three ******* days of
constant stomach crunching without doing
any crunches... constipation... ooh... i'd love to simply
**** her: but... she's of that sort of age
where... a casual fling isn't simply going to cut it...
can't i just replace these gut-wrenches when
it comes to betting on the right horse...
just once a year... i had the ******... in my grasp!
there was also this horse: Freewheelin Dylan...
but... Bob Dylan is a lyricist...
   he's not the Dylan Thomas... so... three poet horses...
i just sort of ******* knew...
but... money muddles judgement...
unless... it concerns prostitutes...
    because that's what gambling has replaced:
the old religious superstitions...
talk of demons is equivalent to the talk of luck...
to hell with it...
              the same old religious superstitions have
been usurped by secular gambling habits!
so... why do i get these gut feelings of repulsion
i first think of as infatuation: rightly so...
oh... she was a cougar i'd love to pass...
why can't i focus that sort of gut sensations
when it comes to betting on the winning horse?
easy money...inherit a mountain:
without how many pebbles it takes to give
a mountain its form...
     maybe i'm lucky... in that respect...
     maybe life has allowed me to... hmm... see:
the bigger picture...
    if i can cough up for one hour living dangerously
with a *******... and... this sort of woman...
is not shoving me her offspring down
my throat... while's she's looking for
beta-bucks deluxe... i think that's better than
betting on a winning horse...
  give me the menial task... forget it...
earning money: freely... easily...
         but... i'd love that Spiderman sort
of sensation on a good bet...
mind you: i had a good-sensation... a premonition...
i just listened to bad advice...
with women? i don't listen to any advice...
i just... cruise... automatically solo...
     but thank god i only gamble with a quid's worth
once a year... i had W. B. Yeats in my mind...
ugh! it's so frustrating!
   like with the women in my life...
the mares keep nodding: upon approach at the first
hurdle... last hurdle... the image of:
pretending to sniff my eyelashes...
          the horse is looking for: side-lining it to:
side-lining "blinkers"... no good...
this... custard... is fresh?!
              stay up to 1am... wake up 20 minutes prior
to 8am... have a croissant and coffee at Putney Bridge...
before the lazy-assed Somalis: depending...
decide to... feel important...
which is never... fair enough...
Thames goes down to glue...
          i hate gambling...
                i never gamble...
this is what it might possibly feel like not having written
Crime & Punishment...
which, given the current year?
feels... pretty ******* good! oh, no...
no high-brow type of motivation to keep
the European literary up-keep of "culture"...
that load of *******... is long gone...
enter African: grime... enter... horse-****-imitation-sludge.

that way yesterday:

just at my annual check-up with the nurse...
the woman sat there, amazed...
although still worried about my high-blood pressure...
we agreed... no matter the diet:
i avoid fruit, i don't like too much sugar...
i prefer eating vegetables...
come to think of it... only yesterday i ate a...
medium-rare slice of beef with nothing
but salt, pepper... some toasted sourdough...
i was going to make myself a creamy mushroom
sauce with too much parsley...
but i was like: n'ah... not going to happen...
i'm a puritan when it comes to beef...
less is more...
i even told my mother: in it for the calories...
i don't care what it is...
like Socrates once said:
some people eat to live...
while others: live to eat... i'm of the former
persuasion... but don't get me wrong...
i like the chemistry experiments that go around
cooking up a decent curry...
work was fun, always is...
i'm always very, hardly: talkative...
unless i'm probed... tickled... in the right way...
after being rejected by Jeminah...
that auburn... conker... beau...
                       my god... after being rejected by her...
i've built up a fetish for gingers...
sure... the mythological blonde...
the Turkic raven hair black...
   but gingers... and Gaelic...
   i feel like an elder Saxon coming to these shores
when i see that pale skin, those freckles...
i see ginger i turn into a bull that charges
against: fuchsia... because bulls never charge
against prime colours...
like red... bull charge against a hue of something
between red and purple... almost UV...
fluorescent... fuchsia... is a hue: it's not a colour...
per se... since it mingle red with purple...
or... is it blue?
           i've learned that rejection by something
specific makes me more predatory if other similar
examples proper their heads up...
ginger girls... pale skin... freckles...
i'm ******* zoning in... cruising... circling...
but it's not my fault if women find me intimidating...
this one at work... oh my god...
if she was 20 years prior... from Dublin...
i already told her: i have a James Joyce hard-on...
what did we talk about? her working in a care-home
with dementia patients... Gaelic...
like i had this friend once... her name was:
spoken: N-E-E-V... kneeve in English...
that's already adding letters: not said... the surd K...
but... how was her name spelled?
******* Niamh... Niamh said is... *******
Neave?! she loved learning French, i hated it...
merde... again... what's that loose E doing in that word?
that's what i love about ****** spreschen...
distinct syllable, distinction between vowels and
consonants...
westerners tell us: too many consonants! too many!
the easterners might counter with:
TOO, MANY, *******, VOWELS!
i can't see what you're about to say if
you write one way, but speak another!
   but my nurse was very much shocked...
two years ago i weighed in at 117.9kg...
she weighed me today... 98,7kg...
        lean, slim, pretty *******: i dare say...
what did we talk about?
oh... that blood pressure "thing": it runs in the family...
144 / 96... the second measure is about...
circulation or something... the first can be high,
that's good... means you're pumping...
problem with her middle child...
   the elder son managed to buy a house...
the middle child is having issues... i choked about being
the only child... and... well... with me?
it would have to become borderline patricide...
i think she got the joke...
   the son gets along with his younger sister...
blah blah...
then... on a scale of 0 to 5...
depression and... anxiety...
the anxiety questions i put back to her:
do i look anxious?
   depression? can i use the term melancholy?
my grandfather died "recently":
i'm sort of churning out... being reflective concerning
mortality... how's that?
i cycle like a madman... well... that was lovely...
just watching her face... behind that 2021 *****...
how did i do it? walked at first... marathon lengths...
to St. Paul's and back...
  then i got on my bicycle...
but... you see... i had this friend... he was a big too...
but he avoided doing cardiovascular exercise...
hit the gym... later? problems with loose skin...
it takes time... cardiovascular exercises tones you:
since you're applying repeated strain...
you're not trying to bulge up...
you can't turn fat into protein mass...
you need to burn the fat off... then you can start
building up protein mass...
and... repeated strain... is more important than...
just pumping iron...

Getting the words right is never easy. Not in the slightest. And don't think that this only pertains to lay people - politicians, artists, journos, writers, you name it, find it hard most of the time. Even if it seems they're getting theirs right, talking the talk, spinning a story, telling tales, saying things - well, they're just bullshitting. You and themselves. For not a single person in the world at any given moment knows exactly what they are about to say, what should be said - or rather, left out, which is more important. Once you've opened your mouth and let the words slip, they're gone, living a life of their own. Out there to haunt you.

I'm tired.
I am tired of being lied to.
I am tired of sitting on the sidelines waiting for you to throw me some scraps.
I am tired of hurting.
I am tired of feeling miserable.
I am tired.
I am tired of feeling like I cannot do anything because you will look at me like I did something wrong.
I am tired of finding things out because I had to be the ***** and go looking for the reality.
You put me in this spot where I have to be a *****.
Confront you about these things.
Or be a martyr by saying nothing.
Sit in silence while you run around happily oblivious
That I am ready to scream.
Trust is needed.
Respect is needed.
That is just not here.
Not in this relationship.
Not as it should be for a healthy relationship.
I see that the only one I can trust is myself.
When my instincts are kicking up it is for a reason.
Each and every time.
I'm happy that you found that trust and respect with someone at last.
Happy that you found someone that can give you what I cannot.
Happy that you found someone to adore you.
That was gone from me years ago.
The stars are long gone from my eyes.
You need to stop bullshitting me.
Talk to me honestly.
Or you have made the decision for us both.

i'm lucky? i'm lucky!? you don't know the meaning of lucky! i curse you to be calling me lucky! i call leprosy unto you hungering by calling me lucky! next time you call me lucky, i call you the damnable loose noose of the nagging hagman that dropped in the gallows, and didn't break his neck, but suffocated on the tightening leash of the unlucky drop; you call me unlucky one more time: i'll call you by your name: and call it prophetically as: probably worth the "mistaken" awaited for, replica.*

with due response:
oh right, your parents are divorced,
and your mamma committed suicide
because your pappa became too
annoying, i.e. wife beater...
oh right...
             now you have a new mamma
and now you have an empty space...
now i have my new fenugreek salad...
sorry, what?!
        new thai mama no goo ee for
papa ****?!
            you have that "talk" with
him, i wasn't born into the litter...
          curse me, sure,
before nightmare on elm's street...
at least yo have the inbreeding kiss
conundrum...
                ginger breeds what ginger knows...
c'mon man, tact! tact!
               no good at tact?
must be irish.
    i never talk about smacking someone
silly, because i never have to,
every time i could have,
i was warned: you're going to
punch them out...
   and i never did:
like any alsatian shepherd dog,
i listened to the pooches of parisian
catwalk pooches fitting for a
handbag barking...
      with one bark i'd bite and snap
their necks off...
    it's not about bragging:
                     it's about feeling rusty.
             man with man learns
the joke:
     but when man with man learns
not joke, and learns a ridicule...
man and man can become no friend...
as no man and woman befriend
a continuum.

looking around the bonfire i see all my friends

-acquaintances, mates

and i wonder how long they'll be there

-around, with me

light dancing off their faces, music playing on ****** '90's boombox speakers

-Joshua Radin, Gorillaz, the violintastic Yellowcard

i see people i see everyday, people i haven't seen in years

-will it be that long til i see them again,
-when will my everyday friends turn into that

looking out from the fire over the river i see my unremarkable hometown

-the darkness hiding the decay, the streetlights making it look beautiful as -only this view of the city can provide

I'm moving soon as others already have. As the rest of the circle likely will

-how often will i see this "hellish black hole"

this little circle of friends spreading, our arms barely stretching to hold on

-how long can it hold

but for now we're here bullshitting a night a way and in the end that's all that matters

-i guess

Whenever I write about you, beautiful words appear on paper.

Perhaps it's because every single thing that my pen pulses out
contains the image of your face, of your glowing confidence and gentle smile.

And I guess it's kind of sad,
How I insist I can't even remember your ******* smile                                          
       (and the way your **** eyes lit like newborn nebulas)
and how I don't care much about how you're doing
         (are you still with her? You probably are.)

But the worst part isn't how much I'm bullshitting everyone around me, how so not 'okay' I am, or how many times the words i'm fine, just tired made their way out of my mouth.

The worst part isn't that you're not here to hold me through this pangs of depression, hitting me like waves hit the seashore,

It's not the fact that I'm not your 3am drunk phone call or your ''good morning'' text, not even your arm of support (was I ever?)

It's not the thoughts eating me alive every night (don't worry, these  aren't your fault; they've been my dark companions for years), nor how I can't ever forget you, not even with pills or alcohol or cheap smokes.

The worst is the realisation that you're like a spring fragrance and I'm just another ****.
You're the summer breeze and I'm nothing but a grain of sand under your feet.

It's the knowledge that even through all of this, I knew;
I always knew that I'd never be worthy of you.
I never have.
I never will.