I'm tired of this death match
fighting for my place
amongst the scattered remains
of a
thousand
broken hearts

This is not Sparta
I am no gladiator
and            you            
are
no
prize

Watching men defeat each other,
Like it's our own little Colosseum.
People pay to be up close,
To be with the winning team as they boast.

The women stand at the side,
Cheering for front line tide.
They will crash with the other team's wave,
Split the difference bets are made.

Body on body they battle each other,
Do they even know one and another?
Or do they just follow the coach's words,
"Push forward boys, make them hurl."

Game after game,
They do the same thing.
Win or lose,
They still get paid.

Paid the big bucks to put on a show,
Commercials roll on before you know.
Get you to buy, get you to watch,
Buy this ****** like Miss March.

Forty-Sixth battle same as all before.
Crowds will still cheer, the cheerleaders are all ******.
Losers will *****, and the Referee always *****.
These mindless men get paid the big bucks.

Toss them into the pit!

That babbling **** who twitches
on the side of the local gas station,
who talks
as if he had company!

The girl with obvious scars
across her thighs and arms,
it's her fault for not seeking help;
she does this to herself!

Freak! who writes poetry
and speaks with words
that force me to pick up
effort and a dictionary!

*****! he is not a man, not even to his
lover, he makes her feel respected and
on equal plane! he even fights
for gay rights, for the animals near-extinct!

Let the helpless and the helpful,
the hopeless and the hopeful
suffer, not by
each other,
but
by
themselves.

And we, with years of
practice, of
earned
ignorance
can enjoy the scene
from the tops of
our immoral high horses.

Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk.

In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing.

I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything.

I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in.

Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.

I am a gladiator in the Roman Colosseum
when the lions are let loose
and I've been given a sword that's too small
to defend myself with
The people in the stands are laughing at me
Not one of them reaches down to pull me out
Because they put me here
They sent these lions to hunt me down
for the crimes I committed
They clap and cheer
Because to them it's a sport
watching me get torn apart
And I never thought I would be down in this pit
Because I once sat where they did
Jeering and clapping for convicts to pay their dues
But look where I am now
I am the gladiator in the Roman Colosseum
when the lions are let loose

Well the stages
Were lit for these people
And those pages,
Demanded another sequel.

The stroke of a pen,
The swipe of a blade,
Dare to do this again?
Do I let myself be afraid?

Each sequential simile,
Painted the portrait
That was given to me
of emotional anguish and torture.

While sunbathing in the shadows
I let the thoughts consume me
And as I'm alone, praying not to explode,
I remember the way that you'd hold me.

I was breathing, speaking, hurting,
a mask behind a rugged shell that was forgiving,
But under a slight gap in an undrawn curtain,
I was struggling, grieving, and tired of living.

The stage was roaring,
Viewers were watching, laughing,
And as I watched their smiles soaring,
I convinced myself to stop cutting.*
_________________­__
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...

I am not one day closer to death
I am having one extra day of living
And if I shall witness my final breath
I am leaving this world singing.

The snow drifts were
       quite high, piling up into the
northern sky, burying
      towns and trees and the poor souls who
    had fallen asleep on the grass
and had awoken with shivers as snowflakes
left little kisses on their eyelids.
    Except that, it was never grass. There was never any grass to begin with. There was no grass
      or spring
             or sun
                  or summer
                            or birds.
There was only winter and snow.
And the blinding, white terrain had become both a place of         desolation and
        s a n c t u a r y.
The Aroura Borealis danced like a beautiful blue fire across the night sky. Stars blinked in and out of existence.
And somehow, the halls always remained.
The blue halls.  
             Imagine, if you will, the Colosseum cut into halves and shaped like an elbow macaroni.  Drop it out in the middle of an arctic wasteland and wash it in the blue glow of the northern, night sky.
A bright yellow light poured out of the windows and onto the snow, but no one was ever inside.
Some say it's the doorway to heaven.
Others say it's the gates of hell.
And then there are the strangers. Strangers who wear their lavender, silk headscarves and avoid the rumors of such an exquisite and eclectic piece of architecture.
Others like myself.
"If there is no one inside, then where is the music coming from?" He asked me, his blue eyes shining as blue as the heavenly hues against the midnight clouds.
" The halls will hum if the wind passes through them just so."
We listened to them once more. A low and ancient hum emanated from the structure. It was an old sound that resonated within me-unnerved me.
The mysterious blue halls were not a simple door to some glorious silver city or the passageway to a fiery lake.
      
The halls were the most beautiful and interesting instrument the universe has even known.
"It's the harmonica of the gods!"
Perhaps one of them
dropped it.
Perhaps it was a flaw in design.
Perhaps it was meant to be silent and with one teensy miscalculation, an entire orchestra of notes were born by the wind.
Perhaps it is telling me to tell you that you should look not towards all that makes you perfect, but the imperfections because that is where true beauty rests.
And you are so beautiful.  The kind of beauty that doesn't know it's own beauty. Like when you are sleeping, and the moon washes over your face. I like when you are sleeping, for you are so beautiful, yet so unaware.

A lachrymose ebullition,
unable to be muffled by its producer,
is postulated idiosyncratic,
and erupts behind locked doors of each abode.  

Remembrance trailing each hastily inhaled sob
of each adolescent informed of responsibility,
and of how appearances are more important
than actualities,
but not the stones it chains to their feet,
nor how they must repress sentiment.

If the building blocks of Stonehenge
were to frolic and wriggle voluntarily,
what force would fight the gravity
always pressing downwards on those below,
from collapsing the entire structure?

Without convenience to focus on sentiment
the neglected portion of our humanity
congeals until it can no longer be contained,
until it metastasizes from heart to brain.

Until the bulldozer rolls through you without resistance,
to create a more scenic landscape,
or else,
a multistoried parking garage for others to leave
their possessions they do not require at the moment.

Inaudible to distracted passers-by
wrapped up in their causeries,
of the scores of their preferent Colosseum teams,
or else,
sensational stories relayed by jovial faces
from the teleprompter directly to their subconscious.

This outburst,
anticipated to reverberate only within the confines
of the relative safety of this shelter,
until the sound waves of each echo
slowly
lose
momentum.

Who could be expected to hear each cog,
slowly being worn down,
while hidden within a working machine?

When those that convince the populace
that their lament will be heard and mended
urgently cram currency into their ear canals
when their position has allowed their own
muffled cries to cease.

This begs a question from the masses.
A question, muffled, and without words.
Each raised hand stretched upwards
as the inattentive teacher ignores,
causes another hand to reach skyward.

This populace never intended for their own
whimpers to be heard,
not heard, but heeded.
While the torment of their tear filled convulsions
bulldozes through them,
not heeded, but auscultated.

Yet, these proceedings were never attended.

Not even by those same
that attempt to muffle their own ebullition
within the sound-proofed walls of the shelters
that they conceal themselves in.

Each, alone, quietly succumbs to the pressures
of waiting out
jovial sentiment with uncomfortable contentment.
Waiting,
to not exhale each murmur,
but to consume the promises they are fed
by those same whose ears are plugged with green,
until the protecting walls grow bars
and all are provided with solitary confinement.

Until it is only logic that guides the thought
that each is truly and irreversibly alone.

Until all are singled out in their struggles,
until they are uncomfortable recognizing
that they exist.

Until, separately, each attempts to smooth
their worn edges,
as to not break down the machine.
To hide the nicks that they have endured
lest they should cause,
a momentary lapse,
in productivity.

Each gear is further deformed
by this bending and contorting,
as the fear of protest causes them
to endure the pressure of warping
to try to fit a position
that they were not molded for.

Until they believe that unrepressed sentiment
has been made illegal,
and that unmuffled voices
will only cause more harm.

Yet, there are those that hear,
and heed,
and auscultate,
each muffled cry.
Each weeping convulsion,
and the pressure caused by keeping them in.

For those,
each turn they make within the machine,
is made with the sole purpose
of removing mufflers.

Until each muffled sentiment is uninhibited,
moved by the tsunami of a zeitgeist,
and ascends toward the empyrean.
Until each cultural center covered by a filter
inverts the filter's position
to collect sentiment from the base,
and send the congealed, concentrated,
neglect of humanity to the precipice.

Each syllable combining with the next,
working in unison,
as those that participate in primal dances,
to take a new form.

Not even those that release this unmuffled sentiment
know the form this conglomeration will adopt,
but it will move from one coast to the next.
A tidal wave of tears that will push
from one corner of humanity to the next,
until we again understand that it is acceptable
to feel our pain in unison.

So that we can begin to make progress
on the alterations that are necessary to the machine.
So that we are once again able to produce something,
besides awkward struggle.
So that we can stand on the highest precipice
of every unmuffled sentiment,
with unimpeded hope that one day we may relearn how
to hear, and heed, and auscultate,
happiness in unison.

Museums as art
Art as museums
Sail the trail to my mausoleum
Psychopaths and physicists
Psychiatrists and philosophers
Philanthropists and pilots and painters


Declare now, that these are our days –
Our hours, and our days
These are our city, our hours
Our time, our days.


This is our world –
At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it
And searched it and found it wanting
Of civilization that I could so easily supply
By means of wounds and iron
And brawn and truth
(and just a tiny touch of influenza darling)
By means of our Lord,
Who grants us all that we desire
If only we **** enough of those he did not choose.
This is our world –
And we shall make it what we will
Make it in our own image
Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong
Raise it to hate no one
But to love itself so deeply
That all other love seems hateful in comparison.
This is our child, love
Yours and mine.


Here the first shall be last
And the last shall be first
But once the first are last they shall be
Last
Last
      Last
And once the last are first
They shall make it so they can never be last again
This is our primitive accumulation
Of necessary materialism
Let’s cultivate matter
To make objects that we can place on shelves
And in cases –
These are our cases
And we love them as we love ourselves


Museums as mass graves
Mass graves as museums
Kiss me in my mausoleum
Priests and prisoners
Prostitutes and prophets
Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans


This is our time –
And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments
Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons
Buying ample earplugs
To seal in the silence
So we can somewhat say
“look there is peace –
Look we have done it
In our time it is accomplished” – 


This is our peace –
And we know it by the signs
The lions and lambs lay quietly together
In our brass-barred zoos
For as long as shelves and cases
Are intact and the first are first
And the last are last
And the civilized are organized and holy
There is peace –
Oh, look
We made peace!

And as for Solomon and Socrates –
We take their words to weave through our new wisdom
And when we re-chart the constellations
We shall give them each a star
And salute them once a year
When they come around the universe
Oh, look
How wise we are!

Mass graves as art
Art as mass graves
There have been no better days
There has been no greater time
Politicians and pornographers
Professors and pirates
Psychologists and pastors and pianists


This is our time –
And we are doing with it the very best we know how
The last are toiling and trying
And the first are trying to think to try –
But there is a shortness in our hours
And a violence in our peace
There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom
And disease in our cities
And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases.

This is our world –
We crafted it and declared our truth to be true
We sculpted this, our colosseum
Please inscribe my mausoleum
With “we know not what we do”

He is the Colosseum,
With high walls built up that have withstood centuries of harsh winds and violent storms.
He is looked upon with such admiration, this looming citadel of aestheticism, and is unmatched in any respect.
All who pass pay reverence to this fortress of great strength.

At first, navigating the Colosseum is a daunting task,
But as I started to wander down his narrow hallways and stroll past his looming arches,
I began to learn my way around and figure out just what it was that made him so magnificent.

And then, Thank the Deities,
I wandered upon the brilliant stadium of his heart.

But sadly I came to realize that behind his stable facade was a decaying sight, for his walls were crumbling on the inside.
The stones that were built to protect his fragile insides served a different purpose, to mock him of the storms that have hurt him in the past.
He was hidden behind this fortification and writhed in the cold darkness, alone and scared.
He was afraid to go out and fight, convinced that the violent storms outside that have battered him so, will surely come again.

I pity his soul, for having to take the time to put up each monstrous pillar, put down every concrete block, and fill every crack with cement.
He felt that this was necessary in order to be sure that no evil forces could hurt him ever again;
He was filled with hatred for the world because of what it had done to him.

But as a dedicated warrior, I musn't let him be scared any longer.
He has been gracious enough to let me into his life, into his amphitheater of a soul.
He is my Apollo, and I want to show him how beautiful the cosmos can be.
So I will be his gladiator, and fight for his name.

Nero kicks Vespasian

1
Nero plays the lyre
He’s Emperor
so all must admire
but Vespasian goes to sleep
so Nero exiles Vespasian
and poor Vespasian now minds the bees

I am the Emperor
and all must admire
when I sing
or play the lyre
for I’m also a god...




Time kicks Nero*

2
But Nero goes to extremes
Rome burns, Nero kills
and soon events turn against him
and the Senate declares him
Enemy of the State
and Nero kills himself;
and the beekeeper Vespasian
through events played staccato by time
becomes Emperor Vespasian
and begins construction of the Colosseum

And Emperors too die
and I think I’m dying
Hey - help me up
for an Emperor must die on his feet
And hey! you know what?
I think I too am becoming a god!

The tension
The tugging
I quarrel with
Myself again.

Perturbed neurotransmitters buzz about
My subarachnoid space,
Leaving a void where
My voice of reason once was.

What was once my cortex,
Is now a coliseum.
Gladiators donned in the Armor of God
Clash with abhorrent avatars of psychedelic malevolence.

This battle ending,
In the stalest of stalemates.
Leaving myself as the only casualty,
The lone survivor.

Parts of me, now gone forever more
I mourn the corporals of my conscience
By carrying on with my day,
As I drag my feet into the horizon.

Another gladiator fell
Watering the field in blood.
His head was sheathed,
He never cut through the net
That descended from the stands.
The iron-****** trident
Brought thumbs up from the spectators
Indulging in the beer and nuts.
There are always some to be sacrificed
To placate the mob in the colosseum
Beneath the night lights on Mondays,
When Coke is the drink of victors,
And jerseys are sold to the trainees
Who now put on their spikes.
These are ours
Running headlong into the arena.

To the people who don’t or won’t support me,
I don’t live in your solitary reality.
I see the world in an equal and just perspective,
It’s affective, connected, receptive, near-perfected.
So I’m not going to heed your advice,
I knew as soon as I saw her, what I think is right,
I’m going to do what I was put here to do,
I refuse to listen to you and your out-dated views.
You say you will go to the city in the sky,
Way up high in the clouds, after you die,
And you say people like me will go to H-E-L-L,
Then I’m glad I’m not near you and your homophobic smell.
Plus, sending me back to my warm, homely home,
Your cult will crumble like the Colosseum of Rome.
You see, Satan is known for destruction and death,
So if you decide to oppose me, you just took your last breath.
I would kiss her right now, make you feel icky and horrible,
I would hold her hand; remind her she is adorable.
I would mess up her short, dark hedgehog hair,
I would gently hold her face in two hands and stare.
We would poke our tongues out at you, and then grin evilly,
Then skip away, holding hands, eyes twinkling gleefully.
Me and her, we don’t give a flying hoot what you think,
You’re small, insignificant to us, gone in a blink.
Me and her, we don’t want or care for your opinion,
You’re just doing what you’ve been told, like a good lil’ minion.
You go do your thing, and we’ll go do ours,
We will look up and follow the brightly glowing stars.

i am numb.
this is the one place
i cannot bear to take you,
even though i am prepared
to go to hell with you,
i will not bring you here.

it is a bathroom.
any bathroom, really,
as long as there’s something
to lean over,
something to flush,
something to destroy
the moment the room is occupied.

it’s alright, though,
because there’s a whole world
out there for us,
with gorgeous architecture
and natural allure,
so let’s go there, instead.

yes, i’ll be out soon.
if you have the tickets,
we can go anywhere.
just give me twenty minutes
to make everything okay again,
and i’ll take you
to see the taj mahal,
the colosseum,
the broken ruins of rome.

but i can never take you here.
i’m sorry;
whatever metaphorical journey
you may have thought you were on
ends here.
it’s just not something i can bring you into.

this is mine.
and i’m calling this the end.

don’t be defeatist
they say
as if i am not already worn to ruin
as if my fingers have not bled
all i am capable of bleeding
over their pristine paper sheets

just believe in yourself
they say
as if belief alone has ever offered salvation
as if i could will myself into being
as so many others wish they could with god

all you can do is your best
they say
but what if this is my best?
what if i am a husk of a human being
before i reach the age of 30
what if all my light was used up
in a voltage too high
squeezed out of me like a surge
in an electrical storm

what if my peak is behind me
looming above me like atlas
blotting out the sun
and leaving me to get swept up
in the wake of an overachiever
what if i am incapable of what you believed in me
because you pushed me too hard, for too long
because what you needed of me you needed immediately
you took me in your hands like goliath took his stone
wrung me out until i was bloodless
wrote out my worth and found your pen inkless before you’d reached the end

worth is relative
i say
now that i forced you to see your mistake
now that i am bedridden and useless and limp like a doll
now that my good days are not when i write 100 pages
but when i remember to drink water
when i remember to bathe and eat and wake before noon
as if all your pushing just wound me up like a coil
set me tight enough to regress unto the mean

i am doing my best
i say
now that i am barely capable of anything at all
now that the pedestal you put me on looked like a ledge
and you see it for what it was
now that it’s too late to walk back from the gallows
because i’ve already been hung like a ghost
and all i do these days is sway in the wind


i have been defeated
i say
but it was because you put me in the colosseum
with nothing but my tired self leaning on my tired self
and i lay on the floor waiting for the lions to come

i have been defeated
i say
to my defeatist self
because no one stays around to watch a losing fight.

with a couple words like Je T'aime I wasn't really
impressed with the way your tongue glided over
your lower lip or the way your eyes shot up like
fireworks on the Fourth of July, which reminded
me of the last time I met someone like you right by
the Colosseum: was I meant to be intertwined with a
historic love or have my heart coded with places I
wouldn't forget such as your arms during the morning
light when we are hidden under the sheets, hoping your
mother wouldn't come in her satin pink robe and sharp
tongue because she said she was too young to be a grandmother
(she said she loved the color of my eyes, brown like mine
were too rare to find) and for a moment, I believed her when she
said I should pack up my bags and find another city to fall in
love with because you'd drag me under the ground and make me
a ruin just the way your father did to her. It was hard to believe
the words springing from her blood, but I left a photograph of myself
in your pocket and ran to where my legs took me. In a matter of months, when I heard a couple of words like Te Amo, I knew it was to start again.

I like to
  kiss your
    liquid
      lovers
        lips
                       ­            dissolving sugar sweet majesty
                                                         ­                                      your highness
        kneeling to the
      queen of
    centuries

I live in first quarter of the moon
  mixing tapes
   to match
                                                           ­                the rhythms of the maiden
        with the
                                                             ­                    melodies of the mother

                                          I will love you in secret

Of it, the state must not know                      Out, the fire must not blow

do
  not
    let
      them
        burn
          me
    ­        alive

            I promise
          to keep
        my commitments
      cataloged and
    separate my
   chastity in one drawer
  my sensuality in
another

                                                     ­                                               I can be both

                                                           ­       I can be both

                                I can live on as an empire

and exist as the city in ruin

I will bear the sword and
  wear the heavy paws
    in the belly of the Colosseum
                                                       ­                             I will sit on the balcony
                                                         ­                         bored and eating grapes
                                                          ­                                               calling out
"Execution!"

I think I'm going to write a book
school shootings for dummies
just to **** people off
just so it could get banned
that way all of my other books
could be about fairies and flowers
and endless unconditional love
and people would buy them
"I want to read the school shooting guy's book"
because as much as people pretend to be P.C.
we're still in the Colosseum
screaming at the top of our lungs
for the blood splash catharsis
and we think we are so civilized

Then I start feeling
How it is like to live in a heaven
Being loved and kissed
In the days pass by and to the days come by

Then my feelings start singing
To a soft blue rhythm
Augmenting the aura brighter
Even more to thousand stars

**Then myself start turning to yours
Harmonize the splendor of
Colosseum to the vintage days of Paris
' Mihiraviye...'
Days to days - Years to years
The time was beaten
By the sunshine of the spring
Happily everlasting

A plume should be a thing lovely and light
dancing violet as it's fanned
at the flanks of the blue
bird-of-paradise
who hangs limberly
to solicit a mate

It should curl
blinding white at the back
of the puffy Samoyed
prancing fancy to please a master
who also preens on the oval
of a sawdust track

It should flop
red at the top of gold-painted tin
helmet awry on the head
of an aspiring actor
who plays centurion for tips
outside a mobbed Colosseum

It should spray
as clear and cooling drops out
the copper mouth of a grass-snake
green hose uncoiled by
the sneaky dad who tickles
giggles from sweaty kids

It should flutter
gray at the tail end of a quill
bouncing to the frenzied
jottings of an anachronistic
frump who takes the pain to outfit
himself far too seriously

A plume should not be a thing of plague
riding currents kissed by taint-
sweet crude blasted from a wound
gouged in the crust
of a frigid deep to feed
our shallow lust for eases

It shouldn't choke

It shouldn't muck

It shouldn't tar

It can't help
poisoning that last pretense
we cared about anything,
be it plumed or not, but
the finality of
a bottom line

Wondrous Love

Our love is as solid as the ancient rocks Stonehenge
Strong and as long as the Golden Gate Bridge Extends
Romantic as the sparkling Aurora Borealis lights
The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, held tight like stalactites

Our love can move Everest, make the Pisa tower lean
Spiritual and earnest, as Jerusalem's serene
Occasionally a fight in Rome's Colosseum
Woeful regrets laid bare in Tutankhamen's museum

Our love is impenetrable like the Great Wall of China
Shiny like the Pyramids, there is nothing finer
Deserving of a shrine at the foot of Temple Artemus
Polar Ice caps could never melt our ambient musk

Our love is higher than the Empire State can tower
A jewel within the crown of the Taj Mahal's power
Colourful as the Barrier Reef, the love we feel inside
Grander than the Canyon and deeper than it is wide

1.

we all know versions
of people
we all know blips-
flickering tv screens
with constantly changing channels
on to the next, one after another
maybe this show will feel right
maybe this genre will fit

unsatisfied by the plot
in this episode
unfamiliar with the characters
on the screen
the lighting in this room isn't
quite right
eyes flickering in candlelight
skipping over the horror channel
very quickly
trying to move on to the love scene

2.

you talk about my body
like it is a puzzle we have to finish
i'm waiting for you to realize
it is actually a dress that
will never fit anyone

but being a puzzle gives me
some time, so i let you
piece together the edges
you create a faceless outline and
call it a beautiful frame
for a piece of art you
don't quite understand

3.

but i will never be the basillica
and i am not an augustine
it's impossible to drink
the wine from my insides
without being poisoned by it's strength
we have been fermenting for a long time

and the bread does not break because
it had already been broken
into too many small crumbs
i wonder if you're still hungry

4.

and i think about our houses
both scattered with wooden bits
of the eiffel tower and taj mahal
big ben in the bureau by the wall
the colosseum in the middle
of the kitchen table
sydney opera house suspended
from the ceiling of the bedroom

monuments to so many bodies
we sure like putting them together
but it's hard to find storage space
when you're done

5.

you take pictures to remember
how proud you once were
or sometimes just to seal them in a frame
frozen in time so that the next time
you see them standing in the doorway
like a degenerate masterpiece
you can touch the photograph in your wallet

so merlin... sorry... gandalf comes along
and says: leave your books! the real world awaits!
out there! beyond the door!
     ******* wizards, all they want to do is
send me on holiday...
  what the **** would i do in tunisia if
not think about islamic carthage?
       nope, i rather spend my time as a tapeworm
bound to an organism known as a personal
library; sorry, that's what farmers always said
when harvesting crops: i see what william
blake saw in a grain of sand...
       potential for glass... i know there isn't
any adventure in the world, there's only tourism...
and tourists really do only see the ****** parts of
capital cities... venice as generic as amsterdam...
tourists: just a load of bothersome flies.
    
i say take an adventure into someone else's psyche,
you're bound to some weird and wonderful
things in there...
  
roman numerals, right? so ugly... or rather: so difficult,
when life was... and when people needed
to state something beautiful...
like this mathematic teacher i once had who
simply said:
                     try calculus with roman numerals...
sure, try (e)x squared...
                      as in: why did we even keep them?
numerals i mean, they're not numbers as such,
they're numerals because we keep them to entrench
spelling, or that's how i see it,
   0 - 9 exist for fun, for sudokus, giving us absolutely
no clues...
but as ezra pound pointed: the beautiful is hard,
and he borrowed it from someone else,
    what we have reached is too simple,
we're stuck in this limit of microscopes and sub-atomic
particles and then the stars!
     it could just be a way to unlearn these holes
that we fall through, but of course: precipitating into
greater numbers, and even greater obscurity and
a need for herr anonymous...
             but you can't exactly build a Colosseum
using 0 - 9... back then... we had curves!
       real passionate curves! on pillars!
                               we didn't even have 0...
we had oh... omicron and omega...
                      the d'uh part, as part of project
nostalgia...
                             we didn't have 0 - 9 to fry
our brains and live live in the fast lane equipped with
amphetamines... we have I - X...
               and the XI...
                          imagine mathematics so complex
that the selection process to process it along with
language broke but certainly made a few mean
*******... now everyone can do it...
   it's what the greeks didn't comprehend...
                i'd love to see the original script from
pythagoras, oddly enough we don't possess the original
concept of numbers... we hear the arabs had this
and the indus had that, but what the greeks had?
no mention... nothing, just words...
   but imagine why the romans were as strong as
they were...     rex... what's that? revise ten,
ten ten over and over and again?
         to have to deal with I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X -
that's hard, but almost too amazing that they
managed to provide a Colosseum to be the blueprint
and plagiarism for modern stadiums...
   they even have this cliche of calling latin a dead
language... sure, and i'm still using their ******
φoνoς encoding... god i'm so tempted to make that
sigma acute... but the internet doesn't have something:
for once!
                     nos (nose)           noś (indicative verb:
to carry by command, of a self-serving argument) -
     it really turned out to be a real
greek prefix and roman suffix game (nasal)...
      but still the reason why we inherited
the roman rule of thumb, or said number that's one,
we have no firm belief in the greek concept of numbers,
well, apart from the only relevant number
that's 666 in the new testament... but i haven't
come across the greek concept of number...
   for all i know 0 through to 9 is either arabic or
indu -
               or why, for a better reason than none
I, II, III, IV etc. has been kept,
   and becomes imposing on your television
screen when a show ends...
    dated e.g. MMXVII (2017)...
now go back and use those numerals and give
me a theory of gravity... impossible!
    you couldn't have even the vaguest sense
to even begin to want to imagine such an
endeavour...
                    what i will say is that the latin
grapheme æ and that other one œ
are a source for many spelling mistakes,
as well as many uncouplings of the siamese
into diacritical distinctions... should i have
spelling the word endeavour wrong...
  
        and to think this "poem" was prompted by
having finished heidegger's ponderings no. II...
and having to only initiate this
  by having a problem figuring the no. 234 aphorism
in roman numerals (which are called mathematical letters)...
so yes, i imagine beauty as that which wasn't
exactly greek... more roman, as in counting
using a "monotheism" of language being
used for both talk and calculation -
                  to achieve what was achieved, and later
squandered, as of now, which it has been...

that i did laugh at aphorism no. 236 (CCXXXVI)
   already it feels like spelling, i wonder if there was
an orthography concerning numbers back then,
i mean, something without a prior to 236 encoding,
      i'm pretty **** sure the jewish "mystics"
started talking a lot of ******* when they invented
    gematria...
                               it's absolutely horrid
having, say aleph = 1...
                                but then that's just a spontaneous
critique that will eventually fizzle out of my head
and die a sudden death and i won't bother it ever again...

yet you can't say that with roman numerals you
couldn't extract more beauty,
   to state something in a single, and now the more
literal attempt at a concept of monotheism: tongue...
     how the hell did they extract the architecture
and the will to craft an empire like that,
      where encoding sound also included the same language
to encode abstracts, primarily with the basis of
measurement, and scale the skies!
     (it's not even my *** i'm talking about).

but in summary, aphorism 236 made me laugh,
   and that "thing" i invented that's res vanus
to counter Hegel's cogito - me cogitare
                                   is bound to aphorism 234...

in yesterday's newspaper there's a supplement
article about how exercising increases your chance
of a decreased libido...

     also, to unravel the stated "thing", you can simply
look to Kant for a list of faculties of the psyche,
         and how they interpolate / interact...
as anyone with half a can of worms might state:
  me go fishing, me catch shark...
                because to me, modern psychology is
a quasi-science... and philosophy is something you learn
outside of "respectable" institutions like universities,
at your own peril, kinda like rousseau...
   so yeah, kant's great with describing the interaction
of the faculties and how you can expose the "thing";
   i gave up on the res cogitans concept,
                i wanted to word nietzsche's bewilderment
about where thought comes from, and that abyss quote...
    it naturally had to come from that vein,
what would make a buddha laugh: res vanus.

The crowd
busies itself
selling lemons
and shoes,
but beneath
the sweeping
scrapes of wall,
a pyramid
of eyes
greeds for
a death.

They move like dancers
Fuelled by bloodlust.
Heavy hands weighted
With the hopes of a nation.
An ampitheatre of
Fluorescent lights.
The chariots of the colosseum
Move through the shadows
And the savage beasts
Walk on two feet.

think about how
we see ruins
as beautiful
like the
Acropolis or
the Colosseum
and Pompeii,
though they’ve spent
years and years
breaking,
crumbling,
disintegrating,
until all that’s left
are fragments of what it used to be
but we still see it today
with awe
and admire all of its glory

and i think maybe
it’s the same with people
it’s easy to fall in love with the remains
of something you did not see
fall apart first.

we could have the summers in italy
the peaches in paradise
the dawns and the dusks and our toes in the sand
but we're doing the vtc and ecstasy
listening to scratched disks and taking shots of drain water
dreamers only think in French you tell me
so i chant the words
je veux tout in my head
i want the nutmeg stuck on the walls in my nose
and your moans in my ear till 4 after midnight
i want the silk sheets wrapped around my neck
the tongues in my mouth
i want to get familiarized with the richness
when a balenciaga shoe hits me and the euros are in my bloodstream
i want to be used to it
     the velvet carpets and red lingerie
     the colosseum and vatican city
     busboys with scruffy berets
     expensive wine in busted hotels
     chocolate fondue and burnt pasta at the cartels
     michelangelo's david and authentic fur coats
     tramps and 2 dollar bills down your throat
     throwing ash trays at the sistine chapel
     gifts of china tea cups and diamond rings to forget the scandals
     fat cigars and the bonnie and clyde lifestyle
i want it all in italy baby

je veux tout
je veux tout

It is okay to hurt
It is okay to fall
like a pile of ashes
to the ground

but my dear

in the morning
you must rise
you must open
your walls again

you must never
give up on you
and above all else
you must remember

it doesn't have to be tomorrow
not even the day after
or the next after that

and you must remember
that these things
take time

it is okay to
open up to people
right away
it is okay
to be cautious
since you have
known this hurt before

but don't let that
stop you from
living beautifully

and it is okay
to fall in love
with hands that are
no longer his

but don't let that
make you afraid
to give your all

and it is okay
for these things
to take time..

your ruins
may leave you
feeling empty

but my dear

there is so much
life left in that
Colosseum crumble
he left abandoned

rebuilding will come
but please remember

           -Rome wasn't built in a day

Oh Constantine! why did
you have to see that
cruciform in the sky?
the day you won your
battle—the world lost so
much more (since then)
than you would have that
day—where would we be
without Christianity being
the dominant dogma
engrained in the minds
of so many? would the
Roman Empire not have
fallen?—Saint Peter’s
Basilica never would
Have been built; the
Colosseum and Pantheon
would have kept more of
their grandeur—more
important buildings than
a grand church more for
tourism than to house God…
take a look at the Greek
and Roman civilizations;
then look at the medieval
ages—what happened to
all that advanced thought?
shamed and oppressed by
men who took a book of
myth too seriously—over
a millennium of intellect
wasted—we picked up
where the Greeks left off
with the Enlightenment
(if not farther behind…)

Oh Constantine! why
couldn’t you have let
Christianity be content
with a few backwards cults?