I was on a plantain branch
Cra cra… Cra cra.. Craa..
She put her bangles on a rock
Cra cra… Cra cra.. Craa..
Glimpse of gold, shined my eyes
Cra cra… Cra cra.. Craa..
I took it and flew back home
Cra cra… Cra cra.. Craa..
A cry of fury trembling hut,
I wonder why she made that fuss.
With a bit of twinge I shout,
“One I took, three with you!”
Still her rage in frenzy mood,
Crowd is fanning flames to grow,
In my nest it shine and rest,
Golden bangles shining lust.
Then I went back looking around,
To watch the jokers in a run,
But my eyes in surprise hunt,
The bustle of hut in deep slumber.
Oh! Again this gold will turn
me a golden queen of crows.
Another bangle on the rock,
I took it and flew back home.
What a foolish bird I’m!
Fallen on their tricky trap.
They found my nest and climbed up tree,
My two bangles went with them.

My life was saved the other day
A golden retriever, both dumb and brave.

Country winds howling in their greatest defense
As I waltzed 'tween electric and barbed-wire fence.

He let out a bark, “It's time to turn back!”
Soon followed a powerful THUD and a CRA-A-A-CK.

If not for that old dog running after me,
I would have been stuck under a fallen oak tree.

and the hyenas said what the condor
would have, said,
that the sea lion and the lion
kept the knowledge of the world
uptight - for the latter gave way
to a new measurement of harem
instead of metre - and the latter delved
in brotherly alms - to the kept
loss of prey - as condor, as hyena, as wolf...
a woo! he he ha ha ha ha ha (hyena,
fox of Europe)...
cackled the crow in imitation -
cra cra cra! kenaz ᚱᚨ kenaz ᚱᚨ kenaz ᚱᚨ!

Purp-Purple Purp-Purple in my blood, cut it, cut it, cut it
Let it bleed, blee-bleed
Sipping on the lea-le-lean
Smoking that dank
My blood stream-stre-stream

When the codeine hits
It hits real hard
When the codeine hits
It hits real hard, hard-hard

Drop a rancher in, let it-let it splash
Splas-splash
Turn up the system, ***** let the snare drum
Crash cra-crash
Rolling through the hood, chevy dropped low
(Lo-low yeah)
My Chevy real lo-lo-low
I said my leather and wood Chevy dropped low

Johnny's in the basement mixing up the medicine
Mixing up the-mixing up the medicine-med-medicine
**** C's in the backroom letting all the ratchets in
Ratchet-ratchet-ratch-
Letting all the ratchets in

Dumping out cigar trash-tra-trash
Fill it back with the hash-ha-hash
Sip that lean slow
Bringing the good old nineties back
Ba-back
Said bring the good old nineties back

By: Cedric McClester

You know it’s cra
When the NRA
Finds the need to weigh
In on guns today
And they choose to say
That it’s a-okay
For terrorists
To fill their shopping lists

And we don’t hear
From Wayne Lapierre
Who doesn’t seem to care
Or may be unaware
About the things we fear
Despite the salient facts
And Paris attacks
That’s the way he acts

Second Amendment rights
To put out our lights
Has us in their sights
And clearly highlights
Why we have sleepless nights
Despite the gun debates
We’ll do what it takes
To put on their brakes

It’s insanity
If you’re asking me
It should be clear to see
Why there needs to be
Some sort of prohibition
To tamper their ambition
Why give them permission
To get what they’ve been wishing






Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.

•Copyright 1993-2014 snipet by EPH
E. Patrick Heeney from pg. 1 of 2
CRA-A-ACK MONSTER
WHEN WILL YOU EVER LEARN?  CRA-A-ACK MONSTER
DON'T WAIT UNTIL YOU BURN.

You just **** on a can to get your high
and do odd things until you die
first it was snorting, then you tried base;
you knew it was risky when you burnt up your face.

i sit perched on a windowsill bored like any bird,
it's spring, busy time for the birds
getting mortgages and what not,
trying to stink out the cuckoos to stop
being parasitic and build their own,
in human terms an anti-robbery,
but it's not really boring, beer and the afternoon,
stefan zweig being more of a feminist
than all women i've ever heard talking,
that's the jew talking, loss of ******* eager
for a *******, marilyn manson's the gardener,
the bass man, got to layer over the drums,
bass does that... of course there can be some
insects floating above the bass doing l.e.d.
details, but when a bass guitar overpowers the drums...
that's when **** gets real...
so me and the birds... a three-way cuckoo dialogue,
two males trying to fight with that
funny: i can't walk without the agitated neck
rhyming with my strut... i can't walk without
nodding all the ****** time...
i ditched trying to capture the moment with
onomatopoeias, the dialogue runs like:
yeah ******, yeah?! want to start something?!
***** don't tease me! this is my roof!
na'h *****, the roof and the *****'s mine!
come on! let's box it out!
wait a minute - i'm not going to box it,
i'll peck your eyes out!
had i a chance for horns i'd ram you into
a pit of varied parasites!
******, come on!
so it's a lovely afternoon, stefan zweig,
pays lovelier compliments to nietzsche than
any woman could... she gave birth to one
*******... he's a queen ant, giving birth to minions
and what other terrible function of society might
need...
i start saying something out-loud to take a break
from thinking and a crow begins croaking... cra cra cra!
then my cat begins playing with my neighbour's dog,
i protect him and start imitating barking...
then i play an autistic vector game
of trying to spot the point of interest that cats are
prone to suggesting...
it's this feline ping-pong... you look at something,
he looks at something, you measure up on
a mutual point of interest, flick the head
between point (a) and point (b), and hey presto!
feline autistic ping-pong.
woof!

Today being the day we focus on Love, I thought about the Great Loves of my Life that have transition on. Several of them, I didn't know they were Great Loves but in time with all they shared with me, taught me, gave me...I felt that unconditional Love that they left me with. The lessons that took some time for me to learn but open my heart.  Guides, teachers, friends/family they all were....is...and always will be.  In moments of silents today...I hear the voices, the laughter, felt the hugs, the kisses, saw the smiles and I realize that even though they are not here physically, they are truly here. They continue being a guiding light, a  teacher, a guide, always family/friends.
I remember today, when I was in elementary school, a friend was hit by a car and died.  I didn't understand and of course, I went to my Grandmother (Ms. Minerva) for answers.  She told me; "his work here was done.  He went on to bigger and better things but would always be there when I needed him."  Then she asked; " What is it that your remember about him?" It was his smile...whenever he saw me he gave me the Biggest Smile.  She than said; " every time you smile, he will be with you...to help you. A smile will always be a light for you." I guess that's when my smiling so much started...my friend, who's name I can't even remember, is always guiding me.  I see that little face with a big - o - smile.  
Then once during, what I call my dark days, I tried the suicide thing...after many pills and wine, I was ready to go but I heard Ms. Minerva say; "your work here is not done...remember to smile, that smile is your light!" Love...Unconditional, continuous, all powerful...coming our way...sit in silent every now and then and focus on the Love and you'll feel that Love for your Great Loves that have transition on, still guiding you, sharing things with you, Loving You...and smile for that smile, their smile is still that guiding light for you.  So, at least once a month, have a Valentine day for you, where you remember the Love, feel the Love and be guided by the Love, their Love.  It never stops and it will carry you forward.
Okay, I know to many this is cra-cra but it is who I am, right now in the present moment...I Am cra-cra Curtis C. and I Love You Unconditional, continuous, with all my Power.
I Am so Blessed...Thankful...Loved...and will continue to stand in Gratitude's Light!
And so it is.

Stuck, screaming in a traffic jam, the cars
Suddenly veer across the lanes. Desperate-
To get to their destinations. So late,
Their whole lives depend upon a green light.
Fists clenched tight, feeling the cars’ vibrations
Dimly beneath their blind rage. Wanting to
Lash out, like animals kept in cages
Waiting to die. Feels like it’s been ages
And ages… I can’t take this anymore
I scream!! Pulling out my hair, I’ve gone cra-
zy. I put music on to soothe my nerves,
But I’ve gone deaf. **** it, I’ll blow them all
To kingdom come. These are my traffic screams,
Caused by the engines repetitive hum.

perhaps the opening line of some little magnum opus
does not begin with either
lineage as proof of authenticity:
as if ideas travel in biology and cells
and not in the aether of some strange and quantum
comings and goings of collective-ego monstrosity
to parallel god
                     the omni- litany that combines the intrinsic
humanity of comparative... relative:
nouns spills into adjectives... i have a vision of
a paragraph that's only filled with p: in mirror:
with an added T, i.e.:

¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶
¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶

           it almost looks like musical notation:
half a moon standing on two legs...
at least that's with regards to seeing without speaking
but reverse ¶
   with something akin to the skeleton tongue
and flesh eating eyes of
the Huan and Ming and D'dzin:
       where do all the ying and the yangs
the demons and the angels find
refuge? i'm guessing somewhere a mile short
/ furthest away from Beijing...
Bay of the Jinn: although i don't know much about
where Beijing is situated
but at least in my mind there's a story about
a sleeping beauty
   a beauty and a beast
and... not that many "charming people" except
for exiled creatures...

       so i wouldn't begin... like so: i'd end: unlike so:
replace ¶
   (the ideogram that lends itself to the complex
spiderweb matrixes of then returning back
to crude sounds)...
Old Japanese still used Chinese
ideograms to conjure up sounds: hence the need
to make the eloquently crude in writing
but speech nonetheless of man and man alike:

etymology and onomatopoeia
along the lines of
thinking about three birds...

the crow, the cuckoo and the sparrow...
why?
etymology and onomatopoeia:
i will even employ two languages
to explain:

vox et resonantia:
the coo-coo...        otherwise by name:
due to its behaviour
a seeker of cuck and helpless mother...
the helpless mother so blind from grief at
the infestation of the parasite
much worse than the bird of brey
and the savagery of hierarchy:
that a bird might eat its own kind
that man would toss man in a cauldron
but the coo-coo became a cuckoo...
how onomatopoeia begins
and ends:
but from there a noun...
cuck-           -ooh...     the male surrogate
is a cuck... and chicken was arrived at from
the onomatopoeia of cluck-cluck-clucking?

               (remember, the computer sonic
jittering of the sparrows:
coded messages, ask chatGPT for html code
about how to encode sound...)

the crow as much said:
KRA! CRA!

   back to the cuckoo in another tonuge:
the suffix -łka...        mmmm'gła (fog)...
   kukułka... regardless how to give sound a form
and say it is bird: k ú k ú
          or if you prefer: the apostrophe can be used
in the English tongue as a diacritical marker without
clear abode: making English a syllabary:
kú kú can be(come) coo-coo but then coil, hyphen:
but can be ku'ku'
                                 yet that sound is clear: distinct:
hard to imagine
so many other things in this world
that make themselves not(!) known (yet not): unknown
like a bucket has no dimension of sound
beside something vague
like tectonic shifts and geology
laughter: of thing crunching thing...
but a bucket doesn't equal a cuckoo:
there is nothing distinct it doesn't breathe fly
or:
i just rearanged: i not i: some letters...
and out came b u c k e t
and out came g r a v e
                    but not so the wind which
is a staggering onomatopoeia
just like i think the name of the god of Abraham
who is beyond the Christian
i don't want to brag
but a patriarch is a patriarch and
not the Muslim Prophet
or the Christian mystic posit of the anti-thesis
of Messiah: in terms of Moses being
a military leader...
                    so the son of man and my brother
and all that talk...

we are still to talk about the crow...
CRA! CRA! you hear it...
the only insomniac bird i know
and i've spent long nights alone
and what bird could i hear in the night
in the cosmopolitan area where men
fled to sleep and conflated death with morose
inflations of a day against the canvas of history...
the crow: the crow would be the only bird
flying in the night sky...

Cracow: Warsaw:
Kraków: Kraken:
           -en
-ów:                        City of Crows...
and a city called Warsaw? by the Uprising mad genius
****** said: let no brick stand on brick
but so much we learned from each other
brother Deutzsche and brother Ruś'yn (Ruśyyn)

war is education: but how many more lessons
are we going to teach each other:
beyond these false educations of neo-con proxy war
new age politics...
how quickly Syria overcame its fear
and said to both Russia and Iran what it had finally
heart to say...
there has been a Christian triumph in Syria:
the quick expulsion of the wicked coward
came through Christian intentions for Syria
and not Islamic:
by now only the Pakistani and minor Islamic nations
are testing the barbaric waters of expansion:
but if said expansion is most crude
in England with...                  virgins...
the idea is vague and almost stupid unlike
how stupid the many gods but
the strength of pagan intellect was equivalent to
saying: the Mongols burned the library of Baghdad
the early Christians bruned down the library of Alexandria...

cra! cra! i heard in the night... oh! oh i know that bird:
i will call him a noble guest of memory
and one who sooth my thoughts of death:
but if ego is the only toy i will have to relieve myself
off: i will gladly give up the toy ego
and its deceptive utility as a character building
tool: this deception of ego
this worm in the flesh of the wound and fruit
of the garden...
i will give up the toy ego
and pass into the realm of elements

                    so i asked:

- c<n you wr^te me the html code for encoding
a soundbite of a sparrow singing?

- to encode a soundbite of a sparrow singing
in HTML, you need an audio file
(e.g. sparrow-song.mp3) hosted on your
server or an external link.
here's the code:

               <!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang="en">
               <head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<meta name="viewport"
content="width=device-witdth,
initial-scale=1.0">
        <title>Sparrow Song</title>
   </head>
               <body>
<h1>Sparrow Singing</h1>
     <audio controls>
<source
    src="sparrow-song.mp3"
  type="audio/mpeg">
Your browser does not support the audio
element .
        </audio>
           </body>
                    </html>

or what letters: best approximation of moan
and moo and moon
and the  cow godhead sitting upon the orb
with less a crown
and more a **** on the crown...
i overhear stories of how feminity was crushed
with the passport to the 20th century
and 1980s cinema and babysitting
and retirement state funded
or else by other punctures...

                        i touch crystal upon the glass
of glass it is said: sands...
of earthworms i have laboured like one might
over hyenas and spines
of the elders of the dinosaur humanoids
having escaped like taming
t-rexes and mammals being behind
the extinction of the mammoths...
while keaping the timeless lase tradition:
from lizard unto mammal and to insect
humanoid you will strive...
i have enough time on my hands...
i'll be bored tomorrow...
i can wait with God in the shrine of Yawns
i prefer silence:
God prefers music:
i prefer the Church of Yawns and Yom Kippurs...
and Alms...
     but if god deems music so worth the choir
i prefer yawns... souls rebelling:
whispers... moans of ***...
i like the plethora of sensations associated
with sound:
music is perfection is mathematics
i prefer philosophy and mud...
so i don't reside in the Hall of Vowels blind
by zenith of praise and voice
no echo submit
but is music is mathematics
i prefer the philosophy
and a woman moaning
and a coworker farting
and and and...

a crow's call does not need to be digitalized...
it doesn't need to be encoded:
nor does a a cuckoo's:
they are so much like us...
but a sparrow and the sparrow's language:
needs to bypass the Vatican Dyslexia:
and enter the realm of Cyborg and Japan...
and how to decode or at least
make good of the letters: sparrow...

If I were not a person who dealt in words
the same way others dealt in currency
(or maths
or measures
or facts
or any number of infinitely more practical things)

If I were not a person who breathed in the flow of letters against pages
and thoughts against spaces

I would never love an artist

because no matter the medium of the life
cra
wl
in
g
beneath their skin

No matter if they hear notes in the flip of her hair
(or paint galaxies of the breath against her cheeks
or create worlds hinged on his fallen eyelash
or build monuments to his unguarded laughter
or sway to whatever melody her eyes serenade beyond flickering boredom)

no matter the medium they substitute for the oxygen they inhale
Their hearts
do not exist
—cannot—
outside of the muse they substitute
to pump their passions through their veins

And if I were not a person who dwelt between the strokes of the letters
and devoured the length of meters

I would never love an artist

because their lives are forever forfeit to their muse
sold, clapped in heavy irons
to a desert oasis you cannot reach
because you cannot be his muse, if he has notched you onto his belt

For an artist would never endanger his muse, no matter if he loved her
(or worshipped her
or tortured her
or reveled in her
or whatever multiple definition love has contracted)

If I were not a person who knew the woes of seeing more
than what the world might first offer

But I am.
And I understand.

And I would never love an artist

For I belong to my muse and so does he
and She demands
that no competition come from the love
She allows me
outside Her chamber doors
and an artist's brilliance is competition indeed

And I can only ever love an artist
who
might
forgive
And who might understand
If I told her she is my muse no longer

And here we are
                            
                       Worlds
                                                         apart
Bound by time
            And         beating        hearts
For that single instant
When
                      we collide
            Like stars and comets
In override
We'll f
             a
                 l
                    l  
                       in love
                       Cra sh
                          and    
                        bu r n
                     Fiery passion  
R o i l and churn
Fate                    and              destiny
                   Woven dreams
Hope                  and              faith
                 Br e ak in g seams
Now here we are
         Two           beating       hearts
Bound by time
Yet
                       worlds
                        

      

apart.

We’re on October break, which is a 6-day weekend. For the last two weeks, everyone’s been making plans.
“What do you think of Cancún?” Sunny’d asked me.
“The only people going to Mexico are on the cheap or trapped in a trunk.” I’d answered.

After two weeks of weighing every conceivable terrestrial destination, amenities and available attractions, we (there’s six of us suitemates - Sunny, Lisa, Leong, Anna, Sophy and I) settled on good old Manhattan, where you’ll find us in adjoining-suites atop the Plaza hotel (thanks, Grandmère).

Things went CrA-CrA (crazy with a capital K) right off the bat. Sunny, as it turns out, KNOWS people here, and we decided to ‘walk on the wild side’ for one or two nights and check out a few fem-facing clubs. Now I know how sensitive we all are about pronouns, and what-not, but I’m going to try to simplify for a broad audience. These are lesbian clubs.

One thing I like about Music is sharing it with friends. Communities have always formed around art in whatever form. There are book clubs, film societies, Trekkies, Swifties and apparently, wild-*** lesbian dance clubs.

On our first night in Manhattan, the sun had barely set when Sunny said, “Ok then, let’s go!” And off we went to a “Femmquerade Ball”. I think that’s a combo of ‘feminine, queer and masquerade.’ She’d told us beforehand what to wear, “Take sweatshirts, those will come off - it gets hot in there - otherwise t-shirts, jeans and ballet flats - no purses.”

You know, I thought punk music was dead, ideating its death somewhere in the 90s. I was wrong, it’s ALIVE.
You know, when everyone’s feelin’ it, when two hundred people are rocking as one, club-life is transcendent. The club vibe was interesting too, there was a safety and freedom to it. You're in a crowded club, somehow without the limitations of the banal male gaze, with its sexist expectations. I don’t know how else to describe it.

I don’t think music has to have a message to earn its place as art. Folk romance music’s ok, jazz has its reach, opera is still happening and of course there’s regular dance music - cause sometimes, you’ve just gotta jiggle it.

That being said, there’s a saying that “Punk is truth” and that comes from its rawness and authenticity.
Punk has a ‘low barrier of entry’, as the academics say. It’s a game anyone can play. Punk isn’t autotuned, the bands use second-hand guitars, there are no synthesizers, the speaker stacks were shared, the vocalists lacked training, and I’d guess that none of the players were burdened with unpaid Juilliard tuition.

Punk’s always been outsider art, a scream along, you can’t go wrong, fire and every punk song is a garage invitation to joyously rage. As we drove to the club, Sunny had said, “Think of punk as dance music without inhibitions. It's straightforward and unapologetically for the people who can’t bother to keep to the dance steps and aren’t above getting in each other’s precious space.” Every word of that was true.

Punk lyrics are about the problems and issues of real-world people. It’s a roll call, a manifesto, implicit and explicit in stylish screaming. I’ve always called it scream-0. The point being, that while the rest of the world is restrained, heteronormative and reduced to a corporate gray backdrop, there’s still room for comradery, agency, outrage, pumpkin-Jello-shots (@ $16 each) and a bit of winking fun.

We DID have fun but I’ve been hoarse all day today. As we’d climbed into the car, last night, for the ride back to the Plaza, Mr. & Mrs Charles pointedly removed ear plugs from their ears - the kind they give to airport workers who work around jet engines all day. Charles laughed and said something, but I couldn’t hear him.
My ears were still ringing.
.
.
Songs for this
Rebel Girl by Bikini ****
Hash Pipe by Weezer

apart at the seams
apart
        at the

yes

me split
ting

stretch of whatever
   wet
blobs     leave
a st     ain

break
ing
cra ck ing

a clay *** in a kiln

pieces of myself
fraz
     zled
myself

coarse
          to touch

making beetroot
   pentagons on thumbs

these rag ged
moments
    
   they cannot be undone
I have not won

they only go
   on

sombra dissolve
n'alma
a loucura introjeta
inteja, disseca

o agridoce halogênico
desce pelo caminho errado
(empurra)
deflora a garganta
que guarda a fossa
angústia de ser
de ver
e sentir
e pensar...

alucina. abandona.
não mais quer.
estanca a sanidade
que nunca tive
nem nunca terei
nem teria se, e se

ta cra ya
arco so iris
pi na cu so lo?
não

qual é a diferença?

My toughest tests are over,
and now that things have slowed,
I find myself quickly sliding,
into Christmas vacation mode.

It’s a shame you’re not with us,
everywhere we go,
because we could pretend,
that there was mistletoe.

A chorus, in the food court
asked, “Mary did you know?”
And the mozzarella, on my pizza,
seemed a symbolic snow.

The traffic to the mall was CrA-crazy,
the Uber moving glacially slow,
what we could have done, with that wasted time,
would have been sublime - under some mistletoe.

With my agenda slack, I’m almost packed,
I’ve got a thistle of something stowed.
And one of the things it will be swell to delve,
are the licentious uses of mistletoe.

There is no Santa.
Your school called.
Your nose is big.
The police are here.
You failed your driver's test.
You weren't home.
You left the door open.
You're pregnant.
This won't hurt.
You're mother's gone.
I'm leaving you.
Abstinence is best.
We have to re-schedule your appointment.
Loser
Whatever!
You're grounded.
I have none.
Press one for English.
We have to interrupt regular programming for an important...
She's too young for you.
Good-bye.
They also got the bomb.
There's a call for you. (it's 2 a.m.)
You'll move on.
We're out of that... just now.
It's on back order.
Please hold the line while I switch you to...
There's a priest at the door.
The doctor called.
It's the thermocoupler or the bearings or the bushing or...
This is not a test of the Early Warning System.
You've a letter from the CRA.
The trees are turning colour.
It's over.
There is no God.

“Your heart is a beast”
They said
And ripped open your ribcage to pull it out
Antiseptic smiles
scalpels in their hands
a sheet stapled to your chest that just said
”wrong”

“this is for your own good”
They said
While the
flesh peeled and
Bones cra ck e d apart
Fur pulled out til it was all red
And

The howl was stolen from your throat
so you couldn’t even scream
couldn’t bare your own **** fangs
Cause they’d taken those too

Your heart is a dull-toothed beast
Staggering and swaying
Snapping at the wind
Spitting up blood
Leaving a red trail in the earth with its paws
To match the one your organs made
When they all spilled out

“for your own good” they said

And

You are dying



Bleeding out in the dirt
Hemorrhaging on the inside
like some forgotten thing hit on the highway
like some old fiend, having taken its last blow
and curled up to die
while the warrior sheaths his sword and gets a hero’s welcome

but you don’t

you should be dying
but someone scoops up your shattered little heart and the shards of your bones
your organs where you left them on the ground
and takes you home

“it’s okay” they say
As they gently scrub the blood out of your fur
until it’s all white again
“you’ll be alright” they say
as they clean the grime out of your paws
sharpen your nails
Dust off your heart
And nestle it deep in your chest
under patchwork superglued bones

they arrange all your important parts with the care of someone
who knows how easily things break
drain all the blood out of your lungs
and you remember how simple breathing used to be
when you weren’t drowning with every breath

“they were wrong” the tender one says, sharpening your fangs
Petting your head
“But you are not”
And their hands are so warm
That you think you can believe it

you stood at the door
   1       2     3    4      5
but you had al-rea-dy
   6     7     8    9   10  11
left me and you al-one
12  13   14    15   16 17

how can hands cra-dle my
  1       2      3        4     5    6
life-less corpse that died long
7      8       9        10     11    12
be-fore I rem-em-ber
13   14 15 16   17   18

underneath me quiet and relenting
it meant much less than either expected

plastic bag tossed by the wind tracing cra-
zy shapes cyclonic and demented

like two giants shunned into a cave by
fearful villagers with pitchforks and torches

forks to tune the pitch to please the ear holes
torch in hand makes brave the claustrophobic

cables thick as thighs pressed under tension
snap and gives the tiny metal box to gravity

twenty one stories, each full of unfamiliar
faces and families and stories of their own

not much longer  'til the ground will meet us
one last kiss before our light is diminished

a last second change of heart, I pry
open the doors and throw you into the hall

why should we both need to crash together?
you suffer minor injury, I take the fall.

in the eyes of whom, exactly?

the state?  the state has no control, the money runs the people, the people are motivated by money, the power is ran by the incentive to feed a family, to gain status

right?   what right do you speak of exactly?

Rights in the eyes of god?  Whose god are you referring to?  the god??  there are many gods,

Are you an atheist and still believe you have a right as a human being alone?  so then, what is a human being? how do you classify human?  are we animals with clothes on?  

you say rights, you assume rights?  whose rights?  what constitutes a right?

you say democracy, rule of the people?? the best way, oh yeah yeah yeah

rights rightsirthrigh rights  rights rights rights rights

rights rights rights rights rights rights
ri gh t
rite
rite right?  write????? write right right

de mo cra y- people people govern people create people create society create people

what do you mean???? what do your words mean???

A bottle of budwiser is a bottle of budwiser
Remove the stickers and its a bottle of beer
Drink the beer and it is a brown bottle
smash the bottle and it was a fight, anger, a memory
the glass in the morning is waste for the garbage collector

OH, sometimes we slip
cumulative experiences, missing
keys, but on and along some other's
new patterned-rhytms. just buy some
character; hit in hopes to stop
irking measures. we all end up
minding another. hoveling
the initial, and first-prime
enslaver, to rip free from Natural
objection in reality. static-cra-
ziness to me when joints,
droning ambient, crackle
like bubble wrap. pondering
on for far too long, and was I
even to speak, alongside
your falsified grace.

I wonder how much
unlike me
I’d be,
if I was for sure
bat **** cra-zee
I can really
not see me,
honestly
that much to the left
differently.
I would not keep unsaid
probably,
And let be like horses
running free
the things that lay there
in the dark
secretely
the things that scream
inside me
silently.

the world doesn’t feel the same anymore
these past few years the air has slowly been tinted black
thickening, viscous and sour around our bones
breaking the ones below and leaving some of us to watch helpless
waiting for the air to rise
although somehow
coming from above
bullets shot in the dark didn’t make much sound
until finally youthful
tear stained faces
pulled the bullets up into clear air in their grasps and observed what we’ve become
with a clarity none of us knew
a clarity none of those people know
them with the black tinted air flowing from their mouths
becoming more sour, and more heavy with each breath, each utterance
each denial
they make
youthful faces with words far stronger than bullets

aimed at those who exhale black

the world is different now
we all felt like dissolving in the despair
instead
fortified by it

i join hands with my peers and we climb up above the earth
fight our way up
to the artificial atmosphere
and we throw our fists at the oppressive black film surrounding the earth
we hurl our bodies into it
we scream
we cry

we cra c k it open

one inch at a time

You can go to college to get a B.A.
Maybe a credential or Masters too

But it's highly likely
That you will be *******

America
A big cra* hole now

No money, no jobs
Holy cow

American middle class
Non-existent now

And it will only get worse

Don't you see
No future here in America
For you and me

And it doesn't matter
If you have three beamers or benzes
Or expensive shades
With nice lenses

When everything goes downhill
You're just another person
Trying to get enough to eat

The Freckled Frog
The freckled frog
Went cra-rog ca-rog
Sitting by the sandy sog
Of the bog
The dappled  dog
Went fa-rog fa-rog
And set about her business
She silently slid slippering
Closing closer clumping
Sprightly springing
Mighty mouth munching
That frog was no more

this is not a shared experience,
this is why i don't write: or if i write i do out
of spare details in some variation
of leaving opening the gates of ditto
                        like so:    

                                           (thus).

australian visa assessment registration,
fee: i only learned of there being a fee
after i scrolled past each month
from the year 2024 back to 1986
to find may 15th in may

                    some "miraculous" date obscurity
like there is a need to celebrate
with song akin to Aud Lang Syne:
but there isn't cause for celebration

a very quiet formal affair of champagne
black forest gateau
                         roasted chicken and tatties
with some coleslaw to my astonished
improvement
not just mayonnaise but apple cider vinegar
to give the cabbage and onion
and carrot the added semi-pickled crunch
and some mustard and some mary-rose
sauce and some parsley
then before coffee was served
a shot of Polish bimber (moonshine)...
a sobering slob of a tongue slithering into
the shot glass before the guillotine
of knocking it back...

girlfriend future wife on Kauai (Ka Wa E)
woke me in the morning
finishing a shift in a restaurant cleaning
pots and pans: clamor of stainless clutter
a happy birthday song
i haven't heard since i was still a child...

sto lat sto lat niech yje nam niech

וה     (almost forgot that i still had the vah
stashed on my dashboard...)
to remedy the 'yje - from the clutches of RZ..

i.e. learning new words from Cambridge:
is used as an allographic variant of the letter Ż:
Ƶ is a handwritten form of the letter Xi (ξ

zeugma
allophone
allographic
polysemy

ʒ or subscript 3
partial beta-clause...

                         of Iraq and the ziggurats...
disappoints...
whatever your choices
there will always be pockets of
unabashed chaotic memory revelations
not caused by the calamity of
spontaneity
but life pushes on and through
to no greater measure of the worth
of living beyond the one already
testified with: as
the lived - to my amusement how living
is coupled to experiencing:

that there is talk of a lived-experience
like experience is a word less
harsh than existence:
out of every instance
the incapacity to hold a thought-narrative
that could be summoned intact
an intact-self the self-intact-ness

    -less is also a quality that can be
best summarized via
scrambled eggs without the yolk...
pale scrutiny of fats missing...

of Yemen and their zhoug...
like a variation on the Argentinian
chimichurri...
   because i believe that's where
said origins of the paste-blob that could
be used to spice up dull paintings
2nd best utilized prospectus...

or stay in one place like Gloucester Harbor
and count seagulls like
Charles Olson
                or perhaps like Kant
count footsteps toward the further away
point of mind the anchor
and thoughts the seas
sacrifices of adventure no further
than the vicinity of Königsberg at a 10 mile
stretch...

to now think from humble origins
to the deafening boom-echo vibration
of London under the arch of Wembley
to suppose i need to step a foot outside
the reality of sea and bring
the sky to the sunrise
and venture toward Polynesia

this Palagi...
Haole...                    at least in the category
of: us "vs" them or rather
                            us v                non-

leben sie wohl!
                   leben sie wohl!

ah: a day's interlude...
a working pattern...
start writing in the morning and afternoon
micro dosage of Putin Marijuana
i don't think i drank...
?
no... i didn't drink...
i micro dosed

on marijuana juan's mary...

            then got on with life
put on white shirts on in the PRALKA
like PRAVDA
PRALKA a word which i will allude to in a triangle...
i.e.

1st person
2nd person
3rd person

grammatically:

                                Matthew (2nd person,
                                      NOUN)





        ­      I                                                    He
(1st person,                                        (3rd person,
PRENOUN)                                             PRONOUN)

why do children from syllables
in Asia and continue
our ontological genesis is syllable bound
we only later much
later discover atoms and letters
#MAMA

MA MA
not Om and twice on the rhythm struck
boom boom boom
heartbeats of the cities of Glob Hades
we only come to letters after making
sounds in imitation and gratifying
other life...

GA GA of the tooth of mama
                        what are pre-nouns?
before man learns names of things:
rivers, objects...

there is no defining subjectivity of the hypothalmus
hippo experience:
existence out of every instance
of those reciprocating life
with due pardon: death is wait
death is wasted space
not time per se...
death is less time invoked as a waste of space
invigorated....

Martin aside: HE was a waste of space
even intellectually...
perhaps i don 't have a day job
but i have a dream world job
of writing for free to the attention of:

sobering note: ever watch 66 thousand people
walk past you so slow
like they did
at DC3 cordon on Olympic way
only one bazooka of cordon ON
with the megaphone ALARM
i can say alert with an accent to give
elert the -sch- it so ******* fatherly
desires... to originate myself in old germanic
working father germany
liberal daughter england
old saxony...

pre-noun is closest I
I who from giggles and laughter
and computer: say NO
NO
reading ****** expressions
knowing boa constricted ******
tension from good ***
and *** implosive
rather than *** explosive
i'd like to see a ***-implosive society
without annex:
nunnery in the bay area
of how internet is used:
a shop, an encyclopedia...

     dating app? shopping app?
pornographic adverts?
******* is like advertisement
in the real world...
people hyper focus off of one
like 0.5 of a person... anchor or bridge?
forgot whether this ship got stuck
in the middle of the river
and turned N/S
from its usual course of E/W
i.e. from east to west
but aeroplanes travel across the tropics
of Cancer: Edie
Capricorn: Promis...

the latter's words ring so true now:
don't try to save these women...
Linda is mother's reflexologist
Lydia is Edie's mum...
and Reyla is the "5th wheel apiece"...

i can finish this right now or waste my efforts
to "refill":
no... until the elbows hurt and the idea
of poetry becoming only cascade
prosaic:
rather if rambling poetry is like a newspaper
is like an escape from books
from prose tight sell-by-date-spacing...
poems don't sell
but books sell
and they sell not by a xthought
of +++digressions...

                            poems like easily discarded
paintings but better... trapped in time in memory
of individuals of individuals
off of individuals
off individuals
collective events like me returning
from Hawaii on the 7th October 2023
and a hell that came with me:

not as a direct result
but then again walk into a protest
march
and scribble any semitic letter on a flag
and chant your chants
and what do you expect...

but poetry can be more than an outlet of
confections and conditions
like some safe-space what with
Dante and Byron?!
is poetry something easily made to print
and not made to indent
on the tectonic plates of mind
this Earth Baron Vishily
and his Salt Mines of Power Bland...
some idea for a former book of science fact
look how the immediate explosion
of man's compa...

/kɒmpɑːtmɛnt(ə)lʌɪˈzeɪʃ(ə)n/

    (i had to look that spelling up...
does one word make me dtslexic? qwerty dyslexi
typo?                           ?)

the explosion of science came with the humanistic
explosion of science fiction...

second, soft scientific revolution
there was an industrial revolution

ergo the obvious for the common man...
but there was a scientific revolution
therefore there has been a
hard scientific revolution
with the chemistry and the physics...

now the soft scientific revolution
with the AI the engineering
and the psy-ops
soft machines and make-ups
and downers big big downers
of the ***** brigade
disillusioned somehow what?
somewhat, yes...

conversation with a DJ at a street party...
soft science that's all
counter productive ontological
first becomes a beginning
and outcomes a hierarchy of endings...
films like ghosts on inflamed vinyl
fireplace marshmallows
and burnt stars of Anise...
           that sweet hash of Morocco i am somewhat
new to you...
Europe is a museum
let us forget
all robots and stubborn farmers left:
new hygiene of ego like spider in a web
of truths and untruths
openly saying: what do you want?
unfair, what is: i thought life was rather generous:
the argument from nothing or off of nothing
god said and why not give humanity
all that i am
in all that's good and horrid and a torrent
of unabashed but never i usher my word
from the: but i needed man for my bureucracy:
byoo-row-ah-cra-c
                                sea­: see Baltic Sea...

/bjʊˈrɒkrəsi/

                       second dyslexic example...
life's complicated and sleep is heavy
with a cat nearby and
i am abusing whiskey and ****
and putting it to good use
imagining myself the street DJ
on the cordon at DC3 that Netflix doc
about bastion Wembley being town apart...

and this is life
my Neckari... a word from the dimension of
the prenoun...
MA                       AM GA
         AT TA          

                      much later much later the noun:

Matthew... could you?
who is Matthew?
this is Matthew?
oh and much much later there comes the narrator
I and then he should he wish realise
the 1st and 2nd and 3rd and his nth
terminology seek guidance when
trying to seek the world...

          I comes from nowhere rather than nothing...
not a rigid concept to be honest
enough scalpels in the air as it is...
"i am" Matthew to then abstract Matthew
as the countless number of them
and discriminate with there being only
one River Thames
but at least twice as many Londons...
regardless...
"i am" Matthew - m other said father said MATEO...

later much later when all the other nouns
started to sink in and become
vocabulary antics of:
            then once Matthew knew the air
the sky the moon the sun
the chair...
the cat...
          only when Matthew became Matthias bar Adam
did Matthew finally understand
a way to say: Matthews...

   i am "matthew"...
                                  only then and only thus...
then and only from then and there:
the idea of pronouns...
and trans-genderism and this "philosophy" of Silicon
coming from the guards at the Iron Curtain...
i've been woken up by tremors in
the Silicon Curtain and all that soft
talk technology like bio-tech is not the most
maneable...  ▽ ◼◼◼

                        maniable...

             what if one create a genre of AI
communication pretend Sauron?

a sample:

konrad eschlert
can you fathom a geo-political transition from the Iron Curtain to the Silicon Curtain give the Silicon Valley social media tech billionaires wanting to be part of the conversation, soft trans-humanism etc... i am drunk and writing a poem and this will be a sample in my creative endeavor

chatgpt
certainly, i can help explore that concept for your poem. here's a draft idea for your creative writing.

from the iron curtain to the Silicon
Veil,m a shift from cold steel to the soft
glow of screens, where once the shadows
loomed in brick and rail,
now algorithms whisper in digital
dreams.

Silicon Valley's titans rise, enshroud,
their networks weave a tapestry unseen,
in data's grip, the silent masses crowd,
new borders drawn in binary sheen.

trans-human whispers hum through
the wire, augmented selves in clouds,
begin to form, the billionaires,
like gods, our new desires, their coded
realms the eye of every storm.

yet, echoes of the iron curtain's past,
remind us of the cost of hidden walls,
in this brave new world, where shadows cast,
beware the veil where freedom slowly falls..

but there are AI limitations
on say: invoke smart phone Morse
or E. E. *******'s punctuation for
ol' 'am of D'A'S...
      lazily not hyphenated...

hats, rabbits and who was sitting in the rights
place...
   no subjective experience of...

TRANSRIPT

THE FRONTAL LOBE is for personality and emotions, higher thinking skills, like problem solving; and controlling movement. It continues to develop until you are in your mid 20s.
THE TEMPORAL LOBE helps process your hearing and other senses, and helps with language and reading.
THE PARIETAL LOBE is involved with your senses, attention, and language.
THE OCCIPITAL LOBE helps your eyes see, including recognition of shapes and colors.

which part of Martin is ****** up?

so much of what's the subjectivity of the brain
is simply a QUARTER of
what the reality of the brain is
name the eyes
and tongue
and skin and movement and so much of the brain
is something
quiet an experience unlike
a heart-attack
like a shaman drug trip sort of exhausting others
in how he can perceive himself
having an early retirmenet
in a care home freed from life's constraints
that might have been a kamikaze mission
if i were to conjure up a bonanza of quests of Q?

a poem a day keeps the psychiatrists away
but sure as **** invites a god
a word that's a god personality / medium
a devil
a cat several angels
and dead people and hmm hmm hmms
and botanical king the curious green
itch from brown below
to sieve through roots
and find enough sand to create a bridge
toward the kingdom of the snorkeling
apes from white Odysseus pale pale pale
by comparison
this kingdom from the sea not associated
with a north i'd sooner find upon waking
north to my left
and east ahead of me and
west behind me every time i travel into London...
much easier at the Firth of Forth
in Edinburgh
but so too there there was youth...
not the clamor of age and sensibility...

how to date this... hmm: perhaps with age:
38 on the 16th May 2024.