it’s not everyday you get to end a 7 year psychosis
when redecorating your room to it’s “original” crimson,
having had such a simple symptom as
brain cell membranes breaking and oozing blood out,
to be misdiagnosed as mentally insane,
and when in need of help from the haemorrhage
not driven to the hospital due to the lack of *******
of having proceeded with the deed but forgetting the onslaught of law
in favour of the hurt party... well...what can you do?
move on, as i’m trying, had it been naturally based
on genetic chronology / genealogy i would have suffered in vain...
but i’m brimming with a hate for islam, and there’s nothing
to do but calm the quasi-communist protestors
in the western lands... ******* calm down... you’ll get
your freedom of speech... once you stop trying to censor vocabulary...
there’s no point learning a language if it becomes
politicised and you tell me to block vowels or consonants
in a non-kabbalistic way (which i’ll come to):
so yeah, a 7 year psychosis over a needle in a haystack...
gives me the shivers...
the many times i thought about killing someone
and feeding the emotions with not doing the act...
so many times i was almost skeletally biased to churn the
marrow haemoglobin into tendon stressor action of taking
the knife and doing halal or kosher with someone...
many a times...as many a times i saw crucifixions in edinburgh
not knowing it was going to happen in syria,
and that night when a muslim tried to mug me
in brick lane breaking down in the street of revellers
kneeling in tears screaming a prayer with tears in my eyes
of only one word: allah.
so i started redecorating my room, crimson is back from
hospital white... my bookshelf is rearranged...
on the left on the top shelf fictional books i either read
or didn’t bother to read because of the movies...
to the right on the shelf psychiatric and philosophical books...
the next shelf is a poetry “corner,” well it elongates beyond the corner...
and it’s split by a dictionary with the right bit of the shelf filled
with english poetry and some literature that’s poetic, and french,
the dictionary is planted to segregate the poetry books,
to the left of the dictionary is a book of greek myths
(did you know all greek theology is derived from the new testament
and not from the testament of orpheus or hercules or Perseus?),
then a book on meditative kabblah... then polish books of poetry.
so i rearranged the room, but i also lodged
an essayist’s book on melancholia, a book on depression
a book on an intro. to jung and a book on
schizophrenia lodged between these massive collections:
to the left all the art books... to the right all the books concerning chemistry...
so the books in between can’t really be seen.
as of today i woke with a p.s. from dreams, or a p.s. in dreams,
i woke and imagined myself talking to my mother
about the identity of al-dajjal... the false messiah,
within the conscious realm i just said the words out of the window:
fool you fool me, when mecca / medina become west of paris / london,
i’ll accept riyadh to be east of tehran / new delhi...
then we'll marginalise plateau east with copernican east
via the stars, and wander aimlessly trying to copper-fill
the sun at sunset...
he (muhammad) said the man would be of his nation,
and he said so with a warning...
but ibn saud got away weighing in at 160kg, diabetic and a brawler
with the stomach, the decadent of all that choose either sugary decadence
or some other form of mental instability in the chosen trade of stolen organs.
me? i keep my sanity with the tetragrammaton, cipher this:
this numerology *******, and it is ******* will not do...
enter platonic forms:
y is so so much more than just 25...
what will you see through y with the number 25?
what? nothing, dry brute that i am...
Y represent 3 dimensional space...
the first h is not important given the second h... which is deja vu,
which is less than what malachi insisted with the fractioned god of
the fractioned “elijah” reincarnated...
deja vu can be explained with science as one of the brain’s tricks
to sense this familiarity of seeing an elephant and acknowledging
the five blind men touching it up for comparative jokes,
the W... well... at least it’s not M... given that the trigonometric cosine continuum
begins at 1.... god is one... ring a bell? well better that than
beginning with the trigonometric sine continuum, which begins with 0...
forget numerology... numbers and letters aren’t related...
forget the dogmatism of rabbis - it makes no sense to say a = 1, b = 2 etc.
and then take a word like ape, and say: ‘ah, a = 1, p = 16 and e = 5; by god!
that’s a kabbalistic synonymity of the word... pea!’
where’s the jolly green giant when you need him, eh?
just look at what a phonetic symbol represents...
like secondary darwinism of a primate hissing to alert the presence
of a snake... past darwinism... past drawing antelopes
in french caves... in the realm of abstract phoneticism that
gave us the cognitive genesis... and made as... dare i say... a bit myopic
in a solipsistic sense.
p.s. ah... what are the newspapers saying?
slapstick humour is one of the prime causes of dementia? huh?!
yes, prime minister... is satire comedy?
how the hell can yes, prime minister be categorised as satire
if it uses canned laughter?
see that bloke over there... doing the omnivore pelican dance?
he joked so readily and active that he created authentic laughter...
don’t know where your satire is going... but it certainly left me gagging
for a springroll.
now now... absurdist comedy is too oxbridge for me...
kings and gentlemen get educated in either st. andrew’s or edinburgh...
we laugh at ourselves.
alt. to canned laughter, given that "canned laughter"
is reserved for the authentic laughter of the crowd
at a live show? what's the antonym of canned laughter
in televised satire? picky laughter... i.e. only one person
in an schoolroom of 30 gets the joke, apart from the comedian...
that lonely everest ha ha... ooh chills, frozen prawns in gravy.

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Pederasty mol

And now,
Ladies and Gentlemen
The story of a man
Who lived and died inside his own head
Came into this world on a whim
And left on a whisper
Leaving behind just his footsteps
For the waves on the nights
Darkness came too early
To wash away,
Clean to the bone
Leaving just the shiny purity
And reflections for those interested
In the forest,
As all good mad men roam,
He got lost on the edge of,
Between beginnings and endings
And no real divisions.
Occasionally, finding a wise man
To split his time with
Making it the three of them
Him, the man,
And them together
Roaming with direction
But still purposeless
Because a purpose
Would be their downfall.
He feels most comfortable
When he is certain there is no guide
No difference between territory, charted
and uncharted
Because there's no one to make maps
Only forays forward
Leave the paths clear
Spontaneous insight lost soon enough
Mystic Seam on his forehead
Childish gleam in his one blind eye
The Silly Being
Cutting his way
Through the molasses, thick
Of time
Space, inconsequential
But he knows,
The only certainty he dares carry
Is that heaven,
Heaven, doesn't begin.
Cannot be reached.
The pearly gates are grim
Not a soul passes through them
But too many
Leave through the alley exit
For Heaven is not a place
Heaven is time
Time well spent
Because the burden of passing
Is forgotten
Destroying gates
And slicing meaning
Road block!
Why!
Only in my head!
Detour!
Runs out of steam
Pure words
tainted
lost again
run off the road
missed the stream
Back to a story
A story of myself
Framed in bigger terms
Thoughts, thinking of big
And ego eating dinner
It's what the doctor ordered.
Trying to convince
What it could be, nothing
to be nothing
go nowhere
while paths grow and clean themselves
Srubbed raw
swallowed by my
tallest trees, growing richly
inside a small world
with deep holes
to **** and cling to
Being Nobody is an Overcoming
Defeating the propaganda of Somebody
The self lies
It can only grasp
Fruitlessly
It finds for itself
It can't see beyond
No!
Never that simple!
To save yourself you must save the world
Only fools grab all they can

"Only fools rush in"

Only fools stay back
Playing with fire
It's a prophesy
Doing it because we can
Is the route to go
The only route we know
There are no reasons
Sometimes directions
Even if they lead nowhere
Right back atcha'
Screaming, cuddling
Cuddling?
I'm not the sentimental type
At least,
I pretend not to be
Maybe it shows
I don't know
That's what it comes down to
Yeah,
I don't know

I can't remember a single thing I heard on the news
Even if it's all engrained in
My bark brain
A pair of loveless lovers
Wanted to prove to themselves
So they cut into my soft brain
Their own story
And I would return the favor
But I lost the binding to the pages
Of my story
But if I could so humbly request
O,
Greatest Story Tellers
And Yarn Spinners
Of our time
I would very much like it
If I was, humbly mind you,
The Greatest Story
You ever told

But Nameless
It would be my overcoming
There would be no excuse
Not to do great things
Even better if no one
Knew that I did them
It would fill my heart
And be a great conversation piece

"Hey Ladies..."

Pull up one eyebrow
Flip out my pocket-halo

"I've done it, done it all.
Not that you would know"
Just the way I'd like it
Then remind myself
I hate bars
And talk a walk home
Late at night
(Okay, maybe a jog)
(Fine, a sprint)
The night suffocates
If you hold your own neck closed
It's a nice change from day.
People have finally turned on
Engaged
Maybe its the fear,
Time to relax
I've forgotten that
But seeing others alive
Is the last thing that reminds me, I am
I am, too.

And, I hate heredity
It can make folks forget
That
They are, too
I inherited nothing
Except confusion
And that's the only gift to offer
Because
You know you love someone when you can be
Confused, together
It would bore me to death
If we could understand each other
That might just be
My Neurotic Impotence talking
Looking for an excuse to shiver in place
Yes,
Neurotic Impotence
not
neurotic impotence
It's my second name
I hate middle names
People keep them secrets
For no reason
I hate secrets
Secrets don't exist
Somebody always knows them
So they can't be very secret
National Secrets, too
Give my my cut
I'm a gossip
And I've run out of stuff
To ride conversations
Straight into
I don't do enough weird things
Or get involved too often
To tell a good story
The windows to my mind
Are sufficient
I've been informed,
That they're quite pretty, also
Makes me feel a bit better
About all the time I've invested
At staring at the tops of trees

Not much, actually

It makes me look pensive, I think
Almost like I know what I'm doing
That saddest part is that
I'm not completely lost either.
Hovering in the middle
Neither here, nor There
Typical, I suppose
So's indulgence
But I say,
Kids,
Older folk devoid of experience,
Indulge
Only in yourself, however
Indulgence isn't the problem
It's not knowing why

Now let me preach a minute
True prophets
Ask for nothing in return
Not a dime,
The good ones,
Not even your attention
They stand on their private
Street corners telling to the stars
In both hushed whispers
And crashing screeches
About what they think
And the day the find
A disciple
They will be pleasantly surprised  
Because that was never part of the the plan
They are prophets
And saviors
Because they are the select few
Who saved themselves

And now,
The man we talked about earlier
He's still alone
He's a bit afraid
Enough so to not find someone
To tread the waters with him
Because he is an almost fearless man
He doesn't fear scenery
Place, and time all the same
It's the implications that weigh heavily
On a psyche that's already burdened itself
On long bus rides
To remind himself (and his good pal,
psyche)
That he isn't going anywhere
The city he thought he was bored of
Has slipped into the background
And now that the future
Might just
Actually happen
It's time to freeze in place

It's a nice break against the pushing
rush of reality
To stop and smell the roses
While right behind
His back,
The world implodes
The sky blossoms open
Only fools rush in
Only fools stand back
Survey the scene and you
will lose the gist
The parts will show themselves
And you'll miss the whole
That's where it's alive
Don't get so caught up in the pieces
It's the weight
You'll drown in
It's a little death in the family
Enough to shake it up a little bit
Thanksgiving, dig in
One less the thing to worry about
And one more thing to write off
I'm sure there's a grand deduction for it.

Remember when I said I hate things?
That's not true
I don't hate anything
Things only exist, and are
Because other things are
That they aren't
And I can't love
So there's no hate
Nothing to compare it to
It's more of an empty feeling
With a silver lining,
It passes quickly
I haven't found the thing I just Hate yet
There's always a catch
Call the Holy Hotline,
There's always a catch
We're here for your calls, 24/7!
Heaven is neon
Brothels, tight lipped doors
It's
Sanctified Skidrow
Baptized in Hard Liquor out
By the chalice alley
The heavenly Saints
Who were brought down
Straight from
"Up There (He's smiling down on us,
I swear I can feel it, if I strain really hard and pop the blood vessels in one of
my good eyes, He's there, He's always there. I swear, She told me so,
Late at night, screaming o god at the ceiling, That's when I feel him,
***** blood and Canonized ***)"
These saints, now,
Or perhaps Saints,
Mumble to themselves
And sing invisible praises
It's weird
The visionaries are all weird
But to be insane in an insane world
Offers a sliver of freedom
Between all the crucifixions and handcuffs
White noise, and head banging

I never got
What other people called
Soul Searching
Because I did it everyday
Being broken down
and rebuilt every week
Goodbye o, Worldly World!
Not too cruel
But never too nice, either

This is not the end
I realized
That there is no end,
Is there?
That's the only certainty

And the man asked me,
"There's no end is there?"
Cigarette in mouth, limp
No, no
There never is
And the walls
We have built
Will collapse
If we turn our backs on them long enough
And soon enough
The Hopeless
Caught on each side of the wall
Will have to to unwind
Themselves
From the thick braid
They've found themselves in
Insanity
Unwinds the same way
Curling inwards
From the corner of my closed eye
Fractal Freedom
In a million parts
Twisting into
The beautiful whole
To be at liberty
To uncoil again
Back here again?
Always back here
Insanity
Before and again
And the big wide world would
Drive you so
If you dared understand it

I think I
Might just be part
Of an elite class
The ****-ups
The movers and shakers
But never the pushers
The world rotating around them
Looking for an in
Exits to nowhere aplenty

But right now,
I sit Here
Sterile, and sick
The man's voice buzzes, and rattles
Like the old AC at my grandma's apartment
The air,
Almost as dry
His low hum splits would could be
A comfortable silence
And I suppose,
That's why they think we're here
For all the "could be's"
The first words out of my mouth
Are a shrieking car crash
The mechanical man
Has such a grip
On the Atmosphere
His cogs and wires
Are free from the disease
That i Am
Rotting in my seat
Outside, where I cannot go,
The sky is static

Why is it static?
I'm afraid
It's been that way too long
And now my walls melt into the sky
Buzzing and Flickering
Low Light
The worst
It's now a diagnosis
Tell me what I have
Please oh please
It's in my head
But feels like my chest
Sitting in place
Might be
Cruel and Unusual
Long walks on the beach sound nice
But alone
If you can be with me, and alone
You're the one
-Aw....thanks me!-

And it scares me,
Like many things
The dreary rounds
I make each day
That I've built my own prison
I might just find myself
More free in a cell
(Free up my schedule a bit, just a bit)

And facing that mechanical man,
My voice dries up
Pulling my thoughts
Down with it
Flush
A soft touch to
The hard lighting

Uh,
Maybe I need to lay down
Where the grass cuts my shins
I've given up
There's nothing but god above us
And nothing below us
The sky is god
And it is empty.

Ronald McDoland & cousin Kentucky
had Iraq: ji had ji had ji had e ha e ha e ha oh!
i told you about the heresy of war,
the Soviets are back, success rate
up 1000% from Afghanistan to be the next
Uzbekistan - well, less Mongol tsunami down that
alley; it's still heresy to do puppet upon the head
of former state with oligarch tyrants selling
us bone marrow as meat: Iraqis just said:
let's keep it kosher and local and less global
and less treadmill!

the orb's lost & found song from the dream album is
so hard to follow at first; i only came back for the psychopath
avenue theme tune: ah... ******* ready to depose
Saddam Hussein... but now ******* in their pants to send
soldiers into the land of crucifixions and be-headings?!
how strange the correlation between actual warring
fake pacifism, simulated warfare and excess
theories with atoms but incompetence with
the elements.

i watched democracy fail... the foxes stole nothing,
they stole nothing because they were sloppy!
i thought this while hanging the washing on the line today...
*******... puck-puck-yellow-yanks... larynx by larynx on the tiles...
let's paint it red! spare me Slob Bogdan Maso Kiev Itch...
ah, when it was all under wraps... oh but the western
media are so ******* vociferous for those shady
gamblers known as shareholders, no casino,
just a house in suburbia... wankers... football hooligan me
into acting when it comes to practice!

sho you'sh shoor you'sh want'sh to shoo your shon
to shwastika access on return? me tshinks sho...
Bex is a girl's name Rebecca, we hear more of Bex's
past than anyone's.*

Colonel Kentucky can shove that chicken drumstick
up his **** and sing me a lullaby about his
famous discovery of deep baked **** batter!
crumbs ahoy, aye aye captain, my
stratosphere of anally commanding the first-mate
into coherent motivational propaganda of:
women outside of war will treat the dogs of
howling and barking as companions -
the stresses invigorate... no second chances are given
to buy a ******* toaster or a chimpanzee,
both do tricks, it just depends which one does the trick
quicker - it takes more than just a homelessness
from the realm of the cube to see how many
is an insect although not in an atheistic strict sense
of expressing nihilism: man the disharmonious
swarm can hardly keep queen or king:
unless we all were ****** by the king and unless
we all ****** the queen: insects are strict Martians,
they have no time for concubines or horse races
of football matches, or other coliseum distractions:
unique insecticide of insects against individualism
that's thought in being human so fondly kept
with the pyramid as with a book of some obscure
philosopher championing wear & tear & tatters
looking more for a tailor than a god:
appearances must be kept, after all, so few of us are
prisoners in the bedding chamber of perfect
genetics of post-******, and the dumb neo-****
scapegoats along with Israel are kept being fed
cinnamon sticks laced with sailors' *****
that's nutmeg.
**** you not... ere come the clueless klaxon hakuna
matata bob dylan bums... like two police officers
in reverse of the stereotype: one plays the harmonica
(i.e. can read), another strums the guitar (i.e. can write) -
but we're missing the elephant's
molesters:                          we're missing four of the six,
that's enough for the tetragrammaton verb,
we have the trunk and the leg, that'll do us just fine:
we can just say it's a fire hydrant...

with my new regime i understood the blanket
of un-forgiveness of english teachers,
i exported the idea of haiku to the east and
received the notion of esnō - i said double that
up, thrice it, make the thrice square,
add a hundred ballerina twirls and create
a hurricane from the ensō; what did i
get on my return? hardly a butterfly effect,
i got stenotype, the beheading of
Anne Boleyn - quick like a marriage with a black
widow spider or a mantis: an orphanage on my back...
so many more sperms reach the pyramid end
than in mammals, but look at what the Darwinism
rainbow gave us to feel depressed about...
comparative existentialism to insects, arguments
against parasites... might as well argue about
eating and **** evaporating rather than the pleasure
of faeces squeezing through the **** muscles...
(if you had *******, i'd tell you about the pleasure
of *******, and not needing to bother women
to stretch a muscle that's hardly an oyster of skin,
keep the flowers in Eden of comparisons,
mine ain't beauty, yours' ain't either:
it ain't a flower, it's a seashell protein, thing, the end):
oh yeah, the boys and me were watching salmon
in the school, we were using index and middle fingers
to slingshot shoot the salmon buds to dumb down and
forget feminism and remember the village life...
ha ha... worked like steroids to those fake muscle-heads
when looking at gymnasts and scaffolders:
PUMPIN' IRON PIMPIN' MOLLUSCS!
what a hydrochloric-hydraulic combination to non-grammatical
coordination from (0, 0) to (20 kilometres west,
50 kilometres east) in comparison to an epic literature
output of Russian angst origin in epilepsy shadowed
over by the joy of gambling... i have drinking,
now imagine Halloween on Hawaii.

Whether they
King us or crucify us
The end remains the same
Revered or feared
We stand up against the world
With no-one at our backs
Except the wild and roaring wind
And the ocean rushing free
Few against the million strong
Yet we have the advantage
We can take the slings and arrows
And wear our thorny crowns with pride
No matter when the end draws near
Whether kinged or crucified

Mankind
What are you doing
Black and white and gray
You twist and turn and rage and shine
My love, your love, our love
My brokenness, your tatters, she crumbles, he shatters
Closed eyes, open mouths, poisoned words, ***** words
Dates, times, places, people, smiles, faces, masks
Him, her, you, me
Talk about people, talk about people
Use them and wear them, win them and hang them
Elegance, poverty, hurricanes far away, imaginary crucifixions
Look at me, look at my scars, look at my hurt, look at my heart
Words and words and words and tasty, tasty words
Names, names, names, a thousand souls, a thousand stories
Changing, twisting, turning, losing, loving
Emotions, complications, complexities, perplexities
It makes me want to say
Mankind
What are you doing

Once said that he was baffled
Yes, flabbergasted,
that in the 6000 years of human existence
In the 6000 years of exorcisms
Crucifixions
******
Bombings
Shootings
Lying
Stealing
K­indness
Love
Mercy
Forgiveness
No one ever prayed for the one
Who needed prayers to most.

theocracy is safe within democracy, it exists right now, i'm not writing like a science fiction writer, but as a day-to-day historian in the poetic form, alongside Putin we have the theocratic order that is like a leech in democracy... democracy only works with polytheism... we are in the Graeae jacuzzi reserved for Japanese macaques - yeah, those ones, reverse *** of a baboon's colour smeared all over their face.

western society has no argument...
at least eastern autocracies have the real thing...
all we have is a fledgling -
the east has the sun... the west has an unlit matchstick -
perhaps even a sparkler -
democracy or republicanism work with polytheism,
many people, believing in many things -
democracy is currently ruled by theocracy -
as some argue: an imaginary figure,
or an intermediate figure akin to a telephone -
how democracy fostered theocracy in its realm
is quiet bewildering if not scary -
oh come on! get the fear it... sober up!
the anathemas are rife - social ostracism to boot -
the value of Spinoza's effort and luck:
do menial labour, die young, leave the old to it.
western society has an invisible "imaginary" despot
ruling it, just as much as the middle-east -
although the former is only passive-aggressive,
the latter is active aggressive -
passive-aggressive has less to do with a boxing
ring of actual violence, and more to do with
what's courtesan speech, manners and what not -
censoring words but raking up enough profanity
on sacred words... when did **** become such a sacred
word? well... i don't know when, but it has.
democracy is a breeding ground for theocracy -
i don't know if Putin is worse...
after all there were assassination attempts at ******,
Napoleon and Elba - they rose from a failed republic,
entered a brief stage of democracy where everyone
was tugging their own end, and out popped autocracy -
auto- meaning: well, we sorta have to do the dodo and
reproduce - in the larger scale of things, objectively
speaking the thing we are sometimes aware of,
has to remain until the meteorite or something -
subjectively speaking... 'we're not interested in your
opinions! shut up!' i thought i had a chance to express
my cognitive if not my mating call - 'but that's not
objective...' so why write poetry or bother poetry from
non-existence?! anyway, that pet-hate is a firecracker on its
own; but at least in a autocracy we can see and hear and
even touch the concern for us - democracy has theocracy
in it - of course not as open in proclaiming law of the finite
with cages and crucifixions - but closed in proclaiming
law of the infinite - when law just becomes bureaucracy -
human rights has replaced law - strict and to the point
evolution of eye for an eye - the victim gets gang *****
for trying to do the same to a criminal - meaning we all
become criminals at one point or another - i see these Islamic
attacks as... well... let's just say they want to knock some
sense into us... clear punishment... they want the old days
of the guillotine to come back into our society -
that's what i think anyway - and am i sympathetic to the cause?
if you gave me a gun and a suicide vest i might consider -
otherwise? no way am i entering this pseudo-reform program,
unless of course i'd be in Norway... the best prison system
in Europe - but never mind the sadists outside of
Switzerland who have really made euthanasia an obsolete
dilemma in english catholic schools - children aged 15 and
16 given the task of answering the questions concerning
euthanasia and abortion - educational abuse - ****** up for
life - even going to university didn't help -
going to an art gallery kinda helped - my answer, after
all these years? go to Switzerland for euthanasia -
and don't **** around trying to keep a boyfriend by
not taking contraceptive pills - if he'll stay he'll stay -
but if you add a foetal baggage to boot? well, let's just say: no.
you want proof that theocracy exists in current democracy?
o.k., fair enough: two words: Lazzaro Spallanzani.
ever heard of him? n'ah, you probably haven't...
why? you know why... you've been jacking-off the crucifix
all along - i told you, you want salvation or a vacuum cleaner
of a man? current culture? celebrity culture -
the peasant gets a stage - i live in a society that is filled
with countless karaoke stars - dropping those two nukes
on Japan really allowed karaoke to infiltrate America -
i can't sing for ****... but it would be great to have a nurse -
or a plumber - or a society where poetry can only
be done on the side - i'm not thinking big... well... 8 billion
people is big - but why is it that no one really hears
of someone like Lazzaro Spallanzani? he's the priest turned
scientist who experiment on the worth of ***** -
prior to him people discounted the need for ***** -
he's the one who strapped underwear to male frogs -
so when the female frogs deposited their eggs, the frogs
couldn't impregnate the eggs, because of the underwear -
and that water into wine... is that metaphor or imagery?
a steep contrast between the two - could a priest tell me
whether that's metaphor / metaphysics or... should i try it
using physics? well i'd need about 12 kilograms of grapes
and yeast and sugar, a month and that'll be 12 bottles of wine...
but that guy ****** up so many people you'd love to
hear about - so instead of Lazzaro we have Adolf to remember -
i can't be bothered - this ain't salvation - this is vacuum cleaning -
this is how theocracy works in democracy -
it ***** people as unnecessary along the way, along
the historical route of all our lives - it ends up being:
well... there was this guy in Galilee, *summa summarum
est exempli gratia **** per se, non est exempli omni **** sapiens
(all in all an example of a man in itself, not an example
of all mankind) - ecce **** ring a bell? by the words of
Pilate - so many rational men appeared after -
ah ****... got caught... i know i got caught...
so what now? give alms? pray? pray?! oh right... live my life...
we're no more rational en masse prior to or after the
crucifixion - can't see it - hear of the Bangladeshis in Dubai?
it almost seems a futility - to believe for a moment -
given Aesop - i still think that i'm more part of a vacuum
cleaner than salvation - just prior, the Greeks were there -
they didn't seem that ****** stupid come to think of it -
Aesop also lowly born spun out better metaphors than -
once again, are the accounts in the new testament metaphors
or imagery? a basic inquiry - metaphysically or physically?
adverb or verb? in the end we're too eager to write books
but too stubborn to read them... in the end we're too
eager to ****, but too stubborn to commit -
we abhor thinking about religion, but have so little
emotional security when "our" religion is criticised -
we have built all the allowable fortresses in the mind to not
speak about it... but have left the heart unarmed, nay -
naked! prone to shattering the cognitive fortresses with
a single punch, thoughtlessly slaughtering others in the
extreme and being offended in the least -
so much for not discussing religion in terms of cognition -
bad woo - woe to the hearts that do not turn to stone,
and do not leave religion as easy prey of atheistic sensibility (
which is nothing but ridicule) - oh i believe all of it,
just so i don't have to ridicule it, which means for no personal
gratification even when armed with that -
make the cognitive constructs weak and open your mind,
put all investments in defence structures at the core,
the heart - thoughts come and go, whimsical for us all -
but the heart is less complex than the brain and coordinates
only b p ems - once swayed, forever immersed in
unthinkable zeal for most of us.

It was seen from a distance,
the oncoming beast.
Surely faith's fragile Armour
would shield you at least?
If, in the encounter,
it's no help at all-
The problem, my dear,
is your god is too small.

The cosmos is a vast
and curious place
Our comings and goings-
machinations of fate.
He who is , He the master,
The soul of it all
He is past comprehension
and your god is too small.

There' a man on a cross
on the hospital wall.
Crucifixions take place
every day in it's halls.
Life's last little drama
in which ripeness is all..
Faith can move mountains
if your god's not too small.

I've seen good men suffer
with His name on their lips.
Their cups didn't pass
as the nurses changed shifts.
I wouldn't conclude
faith has no place at all.
Just sometimes, in extremis,
our god is too small

Pyramids reaching for a starry constellation
Years ago, another time period, another age
Ruling emperors ordering cruel crucifixions
And those guards whipping sun-burnt slaves
Making them carry heavy stones and suffer
Imagine stones some large as an automobile
Dragged along by prisoners, known as slaves
So I don't think I would like being a triangle

Kings. Queens.
Consummation. Kids.
Chiefs of clans.
Children of chiefs.
Close knit communities.
Continued cycles.

Change.
Colorless crews.
Coins. Captures. Chains.
Chained to you.
Chained to the cruise.
**** me. **** he. **** she.

Check teeth,
Choose wisely.
Chastise. Cracked whips.
Change name:
Kunta, no Toby.

Change, charge.
Christ of captives,
“**** them!”
No, **** him.
Continue evil.

Change.
Break chains.
Knots, no more.
No, change chains.
Lose claims.
Coax comfort.

Contradict. Corrupt.
Cascaded crucifixions.
Charred chandeliers.
Coerce without cognition of
Coming chaos
Of civic correction.
Civilians conform society.
Combatants conquer and confer.

Continue.
Cultural contributions.
Cultural appropriation.
Cultural controversy.
No complications.
No conversations.
Did not conceive,
Cannot convey.
Concede. Not Conceit.

Continue.
Kings cower before
Crowns clarify.
Kings killed.
Queens cope. Queens cry.
Queens say,
“**** compliance!
**** cordial!”
Queens coordinate, combat,
Condemn, don’t compromise,
And command cessation
To corrupt civilization.
Queens continue
Coils, kinks, curls.

i wish i had the skill
the artistry, the patience
to fully describe the ache,
the constant crucifixions
of my heart.

it's scary, daunting,
how three words,
(and not the three words
you're thinking of)
can disintegrate something
faster than nailing a coffin
shut.

there is something inside
my head that tells me
to crush the cocoon
every time i see it
because my hands forge
butterflies faster, better

have you ever woken up
in the morning, and
immediately start
crying? have you ever
kissed a stranger? have
you ever killed an animal?
have you ever broken your
own heart? your own leg?
your own home?

but the gods are all asleep in plato's cave of the game known as: the charades of shadows, chinese whispers with the hands - like cats, the gods lucid dream, they are completely able to be in control in the dream world, as man be concious in body, the gods possess complete access to limbs and movement - so here, am i damnable like the ancient greek poets who deemed the gods immoral? immoral in order to imitate and spread immorality?

we have moved away from exciting science,
in a sense exciting science was
described as scientific positivism
(i am going to use a lot of these words
with what i am about to assess),
we moved from that, we have entered a time
when the public is fed scientific pluralism,
that is: all the sciences together, at once -
scientific negativism emerged,
because too much objectivity of expression
was stressed by those who didn't have
the glory of shouting: eureka!
scientific negativism feeds objectivity,
and objectivity feeds a limitation of a personal
expression of feeling, it's an apathy we're talking
about, not necessarily a lack of emotion,
but the comfortable lack of very stressful emotions,
it's the sort of stringing of emotions that
leave you happily asserting a place in a world
in a mediocre way of fulfilling materialism,
science after all studies objects, so being objective
in expression is ontologically sound,
but would a scientist tell another scientist to be
stoic and not excited when he's about to shout eureka?
well, stoicism is a scientific humanism,
to practice being stoic is to train oneself to curb
one's subjectivity when necessary, although
not all the time, and not in a way to reflect harsh
realities of scientific facts, rather, personal facts,
jeff hanneman was a stoic by way of reflecting
with virtuoso playing style on the guitar,
he wasn't stoic because of some scientific fact,
no scientist can be objective when he's about to
discover something, it's pure subjectivity,
but the mediators, the so-called scientists are spreading
this disease of having to be objective to be right,
to be appropriate for modern society,
they're basically censoring the subjectivity of the everyday,
they're killing off the narrative, mechanising us
into a calm content apathy, given us enough products
to be sold and bought to appreciate the "finer things in life",
there's range, there's breadth, there's a seemingly endless
stream of choice: i can only be happy with what i buy,
rather than what i feel, what i think what i etc.,
science used to be so so exciting, and then no one
talked about in objective terms,
but now we have this giant slab of concrete on us,
do not take theology with a hum of approval,
well, do that and you'll see a very different expression
of theology elsewhere, for example Syria:
crucifixions, homosexuals thrown off buildings,
little kids have a mechanic drill drilled through their temple...
but still atheism has a beginning just as much as
theology - it's proposition is a presupposition of
a non-existence of something, rather than an existence
of something - don't get me wrong, the roman catholic
system of omni- this, omni- that is bewildering,
and rather unimaginative, it's a pantheism -
but when i find one word being disputed in such
a vile way, i ust say to myself: but what if this being
is but a mode of communication, a medium,
language itself - would i want such a medium to be
all forgiving, all damning or simply all revealing?
after all, if we didn't have this implant of ably encoding
thoughts, ideas, feelings with these symbols,
we would be nowhere except in our previous mode
of communication based upon intuition...
but still this scientific negativism, because so much
was revealed, it's no longer a maiden voyage to an
unknown land (in terms of the number of possibilities,
now there's only a need to cure cancer, tackle dietary
requirements of a highly mechanised society
without the need for some other animate being to
travel, get to mars, etc.) - it's peppered with mundaneness
of teaching plagiarism of someone else's work
to create a teaching encapsulation for funding of
those scientists in the background, to basically say
you graduated with a chemistry degree and that's that,
off with you to a pharmacy post and... do the robot!
nee nee nee ning dance of serving customers;
yet if science is filling the void of its prime endeavour
with negativism, then it's no wonder than the
mediators of science and humanism (philosophers)
are prescribing objective expression,
from the years of old, man the object had to have
an object implanted in him to express himself,
nothing... so no passions, no irrationality,
conformity, lack of poetry, enforced lack of poetry
to be exact, just enough to tell 1 + 1, 2 x 2, 3 -3 and
the ugliness of language at the hands of these so
called teachers of mankind, e.g. Hegel,
expressed most succinctly: i = i (found in the introduction
of his *the outlines of the philosophy of right,
apropos the same book karl marx was inspired by,
who attacked it with vitriol)... there you go... i = i...
not the eloquent flow of words into rhymes or
other deviations, just that bog, that swamp of
the caricature of using language.

for me, the greatest escapade of a Thespian to will truth
rather than power, is to depict power as a nonchalance,
a shrug of the shoulders, it's not so much a willingness
for either, but a Thespian to depict a will to power,
it's to depict the truth behind it, a nonchalance...
best exhibited by roddy mcdowall
in the film cleopatra (1963) playing
octavian / augustus...
puppets on your mark, get tightened:
dangle dangle dangle;
crucifixions in syria are like throwing
raw chicken to cats in england;
go on... flinch or nervy eye a lid to twitch
that one into your reality as non-existent
because elsewhere or taboo so the tiara lady might mind,
as: ooh **** blush pluck a few roses while i wrinkle
a fake smile that's otherwise best represented true
around the eyes.

2 major anomalies that i didn't even
scratch upon, whatever university
education taught me with regards to
chemistry: i still don't know the
chemical formulae / formulas of
sea water... and timber -
                          carbon is obviously
included in the latter -
               but how the hell does Na-Cl
(sodium chloride) bind to water?
  the secret is in the quantity of it apparent,
but it's a ****** mystery to me -
as is the adequate formula for wood -
no one taught me that... mainly because
no one at university took an interest
in these two concern of mine... well,
now they're also your concerns;
which suggests that arguing the existence
of god, precipitates simpler argument
for something else,
while arguing against... precipitates shallow
comparisons, akin to statistical improbabilities -
added to the fact that paternal or maternal
theologies end in disaster - or crucifixions
and atom bombs - argued: i'll hang on
the cross until my words come true:
and people will cling to my words and
follow up my predictions with an atom bomb:
much easier to make satire with someone
sitting on a throne, or the throne of
thrones: a toilet.

railroad tie crucifixions
death of the working man
pinned down hands
dry desert prayers
empty and vast

an idol on the rise
tv dreams and corporate schemes
a ****** crown of broken homes
marching through cities
a real new years parade

big business charts rise
as the sky starts to fall
young women want equality
young men are sick of playing pretend
where are the real guns

there was a time in my life
when hope and heartache
overflowed from my eyes
the moment a man would touch me.
my skin, bruised and caressed
opened up like a flower
for the chance to be plucked,
paraded, pinch my cheeks
pierce my eyes, my heart
feels pain every time
i'm kissed, it is so hard
to keep trying to keep loving
to ask myself what is respect?
what is intimacy? why do you
need it so ******* badly?
why do you choose
to pawn yourself away to
thieves and criminals
and hide from princes?
the teeth marks on my neck,
it's almost as if my ******
is contingent on materializing
the constant crucifixions
of my heart, mary,
blow the boys away with those lips
mary, sing your soul out on
the ride home, mary,
be a good girl, be yourself, be
anything you want to be
(but not anything you need)

This dominion is not mine,
Nor theirs,
No place to slither between where the sun hides all your worry day cares!!!

Credited day's slim few to many.
Captains take action's,
While the sloppish dressed harasser's are the caressers of Pilate like crucifixions!!!

Nails they will drive into you,
Chains of wear to drag you down!
Some come for dope,
Others seek envelopes,

For their loved ones are a mindful sound!!

Haircuts all the same in this dungenous pit,
All sprinted bed's to break thy back in!!!

Headaches follow the needle tracking,
As the watered down orange juice thursties up thine spirit!!!

with every knock I get closer between the floorboards is where you'll find me

I blow smoke in your face you ******* liar your lips sting with *****

This morning I woke up to
painted crucifixions on my door
and I think I know who they were for

Even in the mist of those who hate
I shalt showeth love
And forgiveth their way's...

Even in the mist of those who canst loveth
I shalt move on
I'm blessed as tis its heaven I wanteth....

Even in the fog of those who shalt not believeth
I knoweth who I am
It's their own selves they deceiveth

Even in the dark wherein these lost souls linger
Mine soul is the light
The pinpoint of God by streamers.....

Even in all of mine crucifixions by many
They put holes in mine hand's
And a crown of Thorn's on mine head ......

One problem friend,
I'm already dead.........

Spiritually alive!!!!!

The true light....

with no real reference to u2: i still haven't found
what i'm looking for -
which is music in a nutshell...

            hell... with all those guitar virtuosos...
to name a few... joe satriani...
                           john petrucci or steve vai...
but it wasn't what i was looking for...

   working backwards... something on the lines
of tom verlain...
      something: more laid back - guitar music:
sometimes lyrics are... bothersome -
              
           well... and the virtuoso music is simply:
a mood killer...
then the youtube algorithm starts
to glitch and fond memories of the jukebox
pop up like phosporescent moles...

            tommy guerrero...
                              no mans land...
                     a real shame to be writing anything
while this is playing in the background...
i'd settle for a wasp's nest of a head -
busy body me with both hands tied -
sipping a ms. amber in a corset and stockings
(bourbon) with some pepsi through
a straw...

                      i did think i was looking for
this something with egberto gismonti's solo...
apparently not...

   and for all its worth: the cut-off point...
i.e. what was once a calm revelation
of a lake...
becomes a frothing waterfall:

sometimes words are like bones anc concrete...
but me, being lazy...
                 teasing dyslexia or...
whatever...
                       you can say all you want
about... kevin spacey...
i'm not going to play the devil's advocate...
but...
                drift off... drifting off...
the required amount of prescriptive sleep...
no dreams...
i so too thought: i thought so too...
we wouldn't be buying sleep and dreams
over the counter...
big pharma excavations....

lester burnham...
and of course... kaiser sow'z'eh...
          sure... otherwise a kim novak /
     james stewart...

                      proper immigration:
send us your women... your ukranian... women...
and the brain-drain:
the best folk...
blah blah blah... blah blah...
what a load of...
glued to the concept of island:
easy to spot a border...
i guess...
                   it's always the carte blanches:
of a cate blanchetts and neurosurgeons
that make it...

no wonder... rewards in ***...
hmm... how about a genocide worth of *****
into a tissue... flushed...
gets the blood boiling...
Paris pre and during and "sort of"
after lockdown...
spike in female depression... no no...
this that and the other...

    so much more with... ****** and ***** banks...
i feel truly sorry for... women...
that will have to give birth to...
worker ants... construction workers...
not those pretty battersea shelter for
"stray" cats and dogs "nurses"...
i will  feel really sorry for the women
who will have to "forget"...
what's that term... hyper-... no...
  gyro- no... hyperbolic... no no nein!

hypergamy! yeah... and some women will
clearly not... up and up and more up...
if only i were a milkman's son...
a tiny little enclave... a stage...
the sea... the cliffs: i the next...
fisherman... the next trucker...

women of the world unite!
but this article... rage...
women don't need men:
of the same class - of the same dada venture...
the same dandies the same:
throws out a perfectly good electrical appliance...
because... "forgot" to check the plug fuse...
same ****... different cover...
all stereotypes... slavs are good workers...
all the plumbers and electricians
circa 2004 - 2018 were polacks...

everyone's a ******* poet over in:
englishland...
and a journalist...
and a whitney houston diva!
        well... no mistake there...
since all the n.h.s. nurses are dancing tiktok...
and...
i once thought it was: slavery...
unless: but i was... wrong...
about that well explained aspect of:
not a slave... but... rather...
being... conscientious...

          well... if you say it like that...
the ex-patriates who had tea with mussolini...
they weren't immigrants or:
high price of culture...
nor that anywhere west of the river Oder
experienced the cultural enrichment
of: that one-time-hit of mongolia and
the golden **** horde...
or that... some pakistanis still have a name:
muhammad... and a surname: khan...

it could be worse... it could be... much worse...
i could be... circumcised...

hell... have children: teach them how to ride
a bicycle: have them listen to mylo's
sunworshipper -
or stick around aging people...
walk up and down creaking wooden stairs...
and hear them snore...
while the bed lamp is still on...

with children and the fear of the dark...
with aging people and the fear
of death... and that's the middle ground
of focus...

royskopp - so easy - elevator music...
horror movie soundtrack:
nostalgia for the 1950s / 1960s
of the 20th century...
now... i can almost understand...
nostalgia for... circa:
the three muskateers...
         vikings...
                            but this sort of
nostalgia: "early on"... em...
the graveyard is the new musuem
with the added splash of al fresco artistry:
the wind, the shine, the peckish sparrows...
the rain...
the hot the cold...

'french single women were supposed
to be miserable on their own...
      thrilled from the pressure to hook
up' - adam sage...
          sage my st. augustine's sololoqui
burnt and smothered in sand-paper...
***...
            
   the world of *** toys and ***** banks...
and... casual joe says:
tables and chairs... brick walls...
buildings... magically popping up...
thin again! thinning air...

oh... i'm not *******... the french ladies
the english ladies don't really care much
for: women of the world unite...
press the war button...
otherwise an invasion is riddled
without bullets of rifles...
written on a postcard: wish?!
i'm coming over...

                     who's paying for the viewcount
of / and credibility?
heidegger and blue boy: remember me:
i'm asking... me standing before
the mirror - in half of adam's attire...
whithered: en vogue...

                  musik for the jilted generation...
heated debated looking for alternatives...

*** toys and ***** banks...
       white knights and... placebo hearts...
how i sometimes wish...
this was an abortion of a beethoven
and this was the medium of the grave...

i would much have better not been sold:
the child, the boy...
whatever that was circa up to the age of 21...
dress me up... in stilletos...
and horse reins and claps...
and tell me: plough this 'ere field...
better that... than the myth of the child of man...
that man is ever a child...
beside the lie in waiting...
tugged and pulled along...
    constipated / claustrophobic language:
that much i can understand...

i wish for having pristine:
leather like skin...
but since my skin: isn't doing my bidding:
that i am doing its (bidding)...
fur... living fur... cats for cuddles...
there's one sleeping in my bed...
right now: and i know that if i pick her
up... one of those bath floating ducks
playthings of a box of music of meows...

sensations: regarded as bone thinning...
and via tooth-loss inspired:
fwench kissing...

- junk-box of suprises - as random as a kandinsky
canvas or a burrough's paragraph...
better this kid achieved maturity
within the confines of an abortion...
than... this... one sure short: missing ******:
insert - ***** and ditto...
the constipated and less so:
islamic harem of the martyrs...
when three holes are given the liberal
shakedown...

to be shamed by *******:
when one isn't conscripted into
               circumcision: that flake
of living skin: the new niqab...
is like: the old, the new, the old...
moral compass of mommy kiss your cherubs
goodnight... **** daddy's **** prior...

wunderbar!
                    learn from spewing stewart...
learn a ditto: at least...
learn:
|
|
|
|  this is how you get a marker and decide
on how a paragraph begins...
cooking a slice of tender beef: aside...
into the beauty of a mid-western...
half baked cookies...
cookie dough jam: the ice-cream...
the crucifixions of no new tomorrow -
the same old... replica of constipation...
and... orthodox jews learning the violin...
like it's a slaughterhosue for horses -
and by miracle of the ching-chang-wall'ah...
prunes! prunes of the squirm!
lemon meets Paris...
meets... lemon meets...
a wine connoisseur... mr. lemon has
a busy schedule... all of asia... "practically"...
mr. lemon arrives in beijing...
                  suddenly the concept of batman
spawns... a centipede torso of...
availability of movement...

cul de sac protests! of course...
bag a cockerely and interrogate him in...
finnish!
it's as if... "they" almost forgot... to...
circumcise and castrate...
and have a 1UP on us... for that...,
much desired... quack!
choir of castrated oink voltaires:
no... those we call...

                    Sardinian...
                                 and tenors...
and: purple ******* sacks of a culmination
of a beard / stubble...
all bishop: all kosher... the voice!
the crescendo: better: unlike rain on
copper roof plating... tulips in goth...
goth: some would call...
strawberries: looking plump...
as juicy... and edible...
             come the cushions of a december
plough...
                  
            i much agree for the concerns
of the: seasonal dietitians...
root veg through winter...
the rest will follow: choir imperatives...
            
             tap tap... drum-roll: more chaotic...
and all the right: lost precisions...
akin to the enigma of:
the ballett of soft teasing snow...
come night and the toll of moon...
                  
            striding to find accents of heaven...
with worded: brush strokes of
the easily irritated fathomability:
bulk prize - it's still... a ******* square...
leaning tower of Pisa or cubism...
Picasso or no... Picasso...

all are waiting, the encore,
the alphabet... the encyclopedic entries...
suggesting: no banter for a worth if a wriggling
seance worth of shrapnel...
or that... arachnophobia:
and the scuttling spiders...
or the ones you touch... coin-flip...
limps stressed: tense... folded...
preteding to... play dead is all they ever do...

tommy the satire gun: ownership contra
worship... like... something from
a ***** universe...
before the sober judge...
before the sobering jury...
the drinking... "aristocrat" of accusations...
i drink... i drink...
because that's when i tend to scubadive...
skydive... i tend to spew: stew...
tell the truth... that drinking and listening
to music is one of those hazard free
"side-projects"...

        i find my heart among the sparrows...
such is their love for life...
i find my tongue among the crows
and magpies:
such is their critique of life: per se...
i find my feet in that magic carpet ride
of the widow swan:
a fate near impossible... nay...
completely: not near: impossible!
petting a dog for its worth of thick
cranium...
   circles galore! circles and circles...
this is not me stroking a leash...
or.. being fidget genius
over a muzzle...

        thumbs up: the ****...
                   more sparkle?
more colour? more dehydrated shrimp
paste? shrimp *****
and mr. lemon serves up:
an experience of tourism from beijing,..
mongolian squint eye:
squiggly noon ugh... sun...

warsaw the parade of ghosts and echoes...
esp. the underground
when the trains roll in from Kiev
and further east...
karma-alcoholic & cinderella "ulterior"
opt outs...
            by best decipher for ads...
i.e. counter... oculus per oculus:
eye for an eye...  shylock and i agree...
a violin for a violin...
a horse's mane for a bow...

                             better than: the end...
             ditto...
                            lady justice gave both her
eyes up... to pressure
a box into abiding by rules
of the guillotine...
  like hell: will this supposed soul...
this branch of learning:
psychology and the logic of non-existence...
ever...
because of how asthma and irregular
breathing... mr. itsy-witsy
and mr. boogie rain-man..

                             **** up and **** with
the readily available...
i'll watch...        a best canape of voyeurism...
is akin to: faking a pose of
atlas... when... performing the banality
of the metaphor of sisyphus.

I.

nothing burns like your narcotic touch
scrambling me up on a black cast iron pan

nobody seems to see
how I chase pages through chaos

see them swirl and turn
and bleed and burn

I can't ever get it right.

II.

who is behind the foggy mirror
looking at me with indifferent eyes?

who paints the horizon with invisible hands touching hearts like a master?

who still breathes eternity after unjust, and mangled crucifixions?

what glows in the haunted sky of your mind besides a great light that nobody can quite define?

I have put my surreal hand in the colors of your canvas just for a taste of rainbows.

I have caught whispers in my silent web that I still eat from time to time.

I am chasing pages through a broken window, my ghost follows but is too slow to catch them.

Hellish hounds barking through Texas winds snapping at my words.

How did they find my heart so quickly?

I am forced inside
book covers
smuggle me off between your arm I have forgotten the way you walk.
it's been too long.

how am I to live like this?

I have been disconnected from
the colors.

The multicolored fire spoke like a raging Dragon birthing its cruel babies in my thoughts.

Nobody is here to listen.

Phantoms of creation
screaming red reason at black injustice.

When will a truce be made?
integrate me now

I am full of midnight cemeteries and there is a stranger walking through me,
kicking over head stones, ******* on my manicured lawn, dishonoring saints with black enchantment.

III.

I watch dawn lick the trees with a perfect tongue

no words needed

to invoke a mystery

no pages fluttering through a broken window.

Trees line the sky
like frizzy punk rock hair
ready to jam and mosh
as your light combs and sweeps through the morning
burning me with softly lit reason.

i just bought
a gramaphone,
and i have
about 20 vinyls
to spare...
the world
can *******:
the lynchmobs
the crucifixions
and the
messiahs
and their subsequent
quasis...
and just enough
whiskey
to drown a whale...
i'd love to exfoliate
in the art,
but, come sober
to the bacon slap-easy
reality of what
reality is: mundane
as a ghost-limb
prosthetic annex...
i'd love to call
this silence
a brain-custard /
-fudge...
edward the confessor
will remain
my favorite
       English king...
i guess i cower...
but i also
   want to forget...
and i want to forget
what would
never erode my
memory...
   i want to
learn the h. p. lovecraft's
ability to dream,
this anglo-saxon
theatre-to-go-to-place...
i dream so little,
that i'd simply love
to dream the dreams
of an outcast...
let me entertain
a day or two...
towing behind me
the murky waters
of Westminster bridge,
and a Dickens
1850 edition of a book,
to say,
nothing worthwhile
about Shakespeare...
tomorrow i'll
put on a record,
drink a coffee
and eat a muffin...
and play
   amnesia friendly...
i just want
to gorge on the primitive
heaving
of: the remains of
culture...
  even this exerpt
of an allowance is
not worth it...
           i wish upon
a stammer,
buckle and fall...
          receiving neither /
or applause to govern
a compensation with...
what does it matter,
does it, does it?
   no...
come to think of it...
not really...
just a highlighted
retrosception
for the insurrection
of Wicker Man...
died the death
of the antagonism
of solipsism:
a **** in a confined
public space:
namely a carriage
of the tube.

Charlie says it is only a thought if mind
Ed say it is a long long  time, A book.
You are reading and never finish. Charlie
Says but you only live moment to moment.
Still they can be welded  into a chain of memory
Ed says.  And so it goes back and forth-two
Sides of a coin-more perfect yet
the circle of the I Ching with its S line
Down the middle dividing the light from
Dark; and each half contain the merest point
Of the other.  My two friends knew each other
Before I knew them.  Ed introduced me Charlie
In a hot dog place in Berkeley in the early 70s.
It seems my memory is a refutation that it is but
A Thought of mind-I know it has been a long
Long time this memory and so many others but
There is always the times in between-The blessed
Darkness after life's crucifixions when I would
Say it is done; It is finished. Peace and Amen to
All lost loves=family friiedns.  I go to a  Place .  
If God in His goodness wills it perhaps there we
Shall meet again and if not there is this endless...
This changeless thought of mind-this eternity
And always either way ... Still I am on the way..

Slights amighty, awful, dreadful deeds, winter
blizzards in the heart, that's what life's about.

Slaves of old, slaves of new, all of them knew
of endless toil then death, that's what life's about.

Billions poor, few are billionaires, children
starving round the world, that's what life's about.

Torture, ******, killings all, wars that never cease,
air and oceans now foul and fetid, that what life's about.

Crusades and inquisitions, all in name of God,
hangings, crucifixions, that's what life's about.

Money, megalomania, titles, medals, prizes,
self-indulgence plenty, that's what life's about.

Did someone mention love and loving, or was
I hearing things? Those should be what life's about.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

The antonym has arrived
Americans are experiencing
first taste of authoritarianism.
Demonazi's are here, censorship
and total control of the masses,
corporate crucifixions begun
corrals have been constructed
the sheep are about to be dipped
sheared vaccinated and branded.

mothers
while jumping
rope
reminisce
on those
crucifixions
not postponed
by thunder