Clear crystal blue
Marbled colours show
beneath the cascading
ripples of heaving sanity

A feather touch
quickly thrown into a
debilitating stab
that stops your breath

A blood curdling scream
Hummingbird heartbeat
Colour fading from fingertips
Finally some peace and quiet

i don't know if i want to kiss your lips or just your skin
I just know i'm falling
but I’m afraid I’ll hit the ground hard. And I don't want to.
Can your arms hold the weight of my love? Or do they just want to hold my naked body?
Are you sure it's the best idea to just see where things go?
You make me think love isn’t a real thing
sometimes it seems beautiful
    fictional
        toxic
             deadly…
You still kiss me like i'm what you want
but i know it's just a game to you
Please don't be surprised if one day i refuse to participate.
you're patronizing
                inconsiderate
                     cold  
                 debilitating
                
but somehow you still find the words and continue dragging me along.

i'm not sure if you're really toxic….
or it's just all in my head.
because i love you
I think I love you?
Or maybe, i only love you when you're in my bed.
I still haven’t decided

Getting pizza,
Carbs to soothe the anger and indignity.
Getting a takeaway box,
cuz you don't scoff it in time,
to get to class.

Walking towards class,
then turning around.
Thinking you look crazy.
You can’t go today.

You were crying in the pizza shop alone.
You were building up to hyperventilation,
as you crossed the road

You get to your car.
You can’t drive right now.
So you cry and you hyperventilate,
you hyperventilate and you cry.
You think about how people
saw you doing that on the way over
It’s embarrassing.

You ring EPS and you hang up.
You ring the crisis line but hang up.
You’re embarrassed that you’re
making a phone call but you can’t talk.

A man called Peter answers.
He mishears your name 3 times,
cuz you’re gasping.
You’re embarrassed.
You spell out your name
as you always have to.
You’ve got a weird name.

Your chest is getting tight.
Your head is getting light.
He tells you, you need to breathe.
Hyperventilating can make you pass out.
You know.

You barely comprehend what this guy Peter is saying.
But you’re following his instructions;
you’re breathing.
It’s such an achievement.
But, ****! This should be simple.
He asks you if you feel better.
You tell him you’re still worried about
What you’re worried about.

You lie down and cover your face with hair
when people you know walk past.
You hope they don’t recognise your car.

You’re driving to EPS,
You’re embarrassed.
You’re exhausted.

You take yourself and your pizza box inside.
You talk about what you’ve talked about before.
They have similar responses.
Tissues.
Breathing.

No-one knows you’re here.
You go home.
You’ve stopped crying.
You start crying again in the car.
You’re exhausted.

You cook dinner for your flatmates
They ask you how your day was.
You cringe thinking about the emails you sent
to classmates asking for their notes,
for the lectures you missed.

I wish I had known
Long before now
That I was doing everything wrong.

That the things
I did and said
Were of so little help,
So little merit,
So little worth,
That they made me
Mean so little to you.

I wish I had known
Long before now
That it is not enough
That I should love you
Unconditionally.
Everyone in your life
Must follow suit
In what I do
For you to bear the
Smallest fraction of happiness.

They say that one person
Can make such a difference
In your life.
But I feel that I make
No difference at all either way,
That should I stay
Or should I go,
Your life would move on without me.
I feel that my presence
Makes no more difference
Than my absence would,
Should I vanish from your life.

I feel I am simply existing,
At your side,
In waiting.

I wait for the days
When you want to have me at your side,
The days when you smile, and laugh,
And tell me how beautiful I am,
Regardless of what I'm wearing,
How my hair is done (or undone),
Whether or not my makeup is perfect,
Or I am wearing any at all.

I wait for the days when
You come to my door
And as soon as I open it
Pull me into your embrace,
Openly expressing your joy
In seeing me,
In being with me,
In being mine
And calling me yours.
In making me feel like
No one else could ever bring
Such a smile to your face,
And such a warmth
To your eyes.  

I wait for the days when
You wrap me in your arms
With a strength that I imagine
Can only be borne of love,
Shielding me, protecting me,
Safeguarding me in your unending
Quest to be all that I want,
Though you already are.

I wait for the days
When you kiss my forehead gently,
And in that kiss
Express that
I am yours to love in my entirety,
To protect in my frailty,
To bring along with you
As you tread your path of life,
As your partner in crime,
Your co-pilot,
Your fellow adventurer.

I wait, now, for those days
That used to be everyday
In our little utopia.

I wake in the morning
With the hope that today,
I will make you happy.
That I will bring light and color
Into your life and your world,
As you once so often told me
That I did.

I wake with the hope that today,
I will be special to you,
And beautiful,
Priceless,
Treasured,
Wanted,
Loved.

I wake with the hope that today,
I'll get it right.

I'll get it right, won't I?

Maybe I just need to try a little harder.

But such days, now,
Are few and far between.
More like a game of chance
Which I hope I can win,
At least every
Now and then.  

I know not where I went wrong.
So I can only offer an apology,
A small, fragile thing
In my trembling, outstretched hand,
In hopes that you will take it from me
With the same gentleness
And delicate care
That you once employed with me.


I am sorry that I have failed you.


I am sorry that I am not
Enough for you,
That I am only one person,
And as such,
Can only give you
What one person may.

I am sorry that my softspoken words,
Of encouragement, of comfort,
Managing to cover
Debilitating inner pain
That I could not make everything
Right for you,
Were not enough.

Could I have said more?

I'm sorry that my gentle touch,
Easing the furrow in your
Worried brow,
Working the stress
From your shoulders and back,
Upon which you carry
Far too much,
Holding you as you were ill
Or upset,
Or too tired and weary of the world
For anything more than
Laying in my arms,
Was not enough.

Could I have done more?

I'm sorry that I possess
Very little in the way
Of material goods,
That I could not help you more
In your search for a way
To have a better, richer,
More fulfilled life.

I wish I had more to give you.
Had I the world in my palm,
It would be yours,
And all that was in it,
Yours as well.

Could I have given more?

I have, in truth,
Done my best.
I have given all that I had,
And all that I could,
And still more that was not
Really mine to give.
I have never wanted so much
To give all of everything,
In every way,
To someone.
And it tears at my heart,
Claws of gargoyles,
Nails of coffins,
Thorns of roses,
That I don't have a way
To do such a thing for you.

I am only sorry
That what little I did have,
Likened to the offerings
A peasant might possess,
Were of meager proportions
That could not satisfy you.

My heart shatters
As a bauble falling
To an unforgiving,
Concrete end,
As I tuck myself
Into a half-empty bed,
Wishing your warmth
And your smile
Were coming at me
From the other side.

If a pair of arms to hold you,
A pair of ears to listen,
A mouth to speak kind words
And remind you how much
You are loved,
A heart that beats for you
And shakes violently
At the thought that it might have
Lost its worth in your eyes,
Are ever what you seek,
And are what might make you happy,
I will be here.

I will always be here.


I am so sorry....

*...that I failed you.

I’ve only ever wanted a husband to love me, and that’s all.
Baseline singular deepest dream
I’ve had it my whole life.

But what I have is shame, sitting on my back, shoved down my throat, piercing through my heart, freezing me up

I’ve let them all down
Everyone I love
Everyone who loves me
Everyone who loved me

To my mom:
I’m sorry I don’t get out of bed everyday.
I’ve been really sad, I just need some time.
I’m so ashamed I can’t do what you want for me

To my sisters:
You guys are the best, you’ve been my support
I’m ashamed because I’m scared to call you

To my friends:
I want to be there for you, I want to be good to you, I’m scared I’ll fail you
I’m ashamed that I can’t even text back when you’re all so kind to me

To my church:
I want to be a better sister, a better servant, I’m terrified of being a burden
I’m ashamed that I’m scared of you and I’m ashamed of how much I cry when I’m with you

To everyone I met:
I’m sorry I unfollowed you, I’m sorry I hurt him, I’m sorry I disappeared, I’m sorry there’s no good answers, I’m sorry I couldn’t live up to what I tried to be.
I’m so ashamed that I can’t be her, that I’m not there, that I didn’t become your friend and family. That it’s my fault.

To Joann:
I’m so very sorry that I couldn’t be your daughter and that I couldn’t take care of your son.
I’m very ashamed I can’t bring myself to write to you and try to explain or even just apologize.

To you:
I’m ashamed because I think you’ve read the things I wrote. I’m ashamed that I’ve been so depressed and hurting over a lot of things, some concerning you and some of them not. I’m ashamed that it’s me you were with. I’m ashamed that I have hurt you, to any extent. I’m ashamed that I exist being the person I am and I’m ashamed that I was so wrong. I’m ashamed that I know that we can’t, won’t, aren’t capable of talking for a really really long time because I know I can’t handle it.

I am ashamed because I am so locked up and frozen in place because of shame and because all I’ve been able to do is cry.

My hand shake.
They tremble,
As I try to grasp this bowl
This glass.

I cant control it.
Id stop,
To keep your anger contained
Off your face.

Its disappointing.
I know,
I've been told it before
Trust me.

I'm sorry.
I'm incomplete,
I wasn't ever given a choice
At all.

Everybody lies.
Except me,
What a terrible choice
This honesty.

My body.
Even now,
It cannot keep its **** together
How sad.

When I am most confused,
I can feel a profound sense of happiness,
Within debilitating sadness.
It is the sublimation of emotions.

It's strange
the way a cluster of neurons in your head reacting to some particular stimulus can make your heart feel like hamburger meat
As if there really is a hole in there, and everyone can see right through it.
What kind of strange fiction allowed debilitating pain to come from a mere firing sinapse?
How unfitting, that such an incomprehensibly small and silent event begets the destruction of worlds.
You'd think
that with the breaking of a heart should come some ceremony
Smashing of a gong, ringing bells, the flight of a thousand crows or even the sound of breaking glass.
But we're left with heavy dreams that tug at our consciousness and even heavier moments upon waking and remembering that you have a hole there, that everyone can see right through
that didn't even warrant shattering dinnerware.

for all i care to remember...
        looking into the mirror was more or less...
something akin to:
"squirting"... **** me! SQUINTING...
      well... the contortion of the eyes...
"worrying" about a double-chin...
and of course... enough stealth acne
to make me... the bride of beelzebub
how i'd joke to myself...
         beelzebub sat on my face and *******
a tonne of... dead maggots...

           i never knew i was athletic standing
before a mirror...
i probably know that i am less athletic now...
but... looking into mirror made
sense... once...
   this russian girl...
    in st. petersburg...
   we were in "love"...
       and there was this great aventurine bed...
and... a closet with two mirrors...
and... we'd be at it...
i was looking into the mirror...
and she was looking into the mirror...
it was like: the opposite of *** on l.s.d. -
because it was like...
beyond the missionary -
the "******" of the mirror...
   as in ***... it leaves you wanting
to ******* to the *******...
because... hell...
without a mirror...
could you capture the face moaning
contorting like an experiment out
of the gehenna harem?

     for all the *** toys sold...
all those exceses of... woman's lingerie...
outfits... nurses...
   blah blah... it really takes a mirror
to spice things up...
this dead-eyed mirror canvas...
the dire-dead-necessary...
    tooth-fairy: ref. the red dragon...
i needed to see that she needed to see
that i was ******* her... and that she...
was being ******...

           mirror mirror on the wall...
**** the fair and the fairest and the fairies...
i have come to understand that mirrors...
work best...
when... not stressed to exemplify...
a concern for beauty...
   or... something that is worn...
clothes look... terribly important in a mirror...
esp. by someone wearing them
when allowed to be digested / investigated
by a mirror...

but... a mirror during ***?
when you're not performing inverted missionary...
doggy... and she's lying with clenched ****-cheeks...
i was in love once...
which also implies:
i ****** like a race-champ pony!
the mirror always helps...
i wouldn't know: whether s&m leather
and straps would... and whips...
made much of a difference...
when... the mirror... the ghost ******...
the: satan you could get away with...
if you didn't utter a comprehensive word...
but ensure a strict rigidity to...
onomatopoeias and syllables...
and... exfoliating nouns...

        upon memory being summoned...
i'm getting a bigger hard-on thinking
about all the encounters i've had with the police...
there's always at least two memorable
encounters...
getting poisoned in a nightclub...
getting on the bus...
getting off the bus... dropping like a pancake
onto the cement...
     being roused... asked by the police officer
whether i was o.k.:
making a slurred and lengthy apology...
giving my address...
and being... taken in a police van... in a cage
for a sinner... like a taxi...
back home...

    losing my virginity to a pair of handcuffs...
for ******* in an alleyway...
getting screamed at...
one officer cuffed me...
the female officer had a pen and pad ready...
in an alleyway where it was discussed:
and who's alleyway is it?
i'm too drunk already...
if i walked into a pub on friday come
10pm i'd be asked to buy a pint
in order to use their toilet...

         it's one sort of luck... gambling...
betting on a horse...
but another... being hand-cuffed...
  and then... having the hand-cuffs...
taken away...
              as this dialogue happened in the...
"invisible" shadow of the alley...
i can't exactly imagine what the onlookers
saw...
           a teasing of authority...
drinking a beer on a bench outside
a pub on a friday night...
which is... basically... taking away
the revenue... of being sardine packed...
and pyramid schemed... for failure...
but my... what a glorious night...

so i asked: and where am i... permitted...
and blah blah...
that ******* mirror... and that aventurine bed...
the same thrill during ***...
like... the thrill of stepping into a brothel...
without a need to ***...
the 9 of them: all nazgul attired in scrutiny...
before "the pick"...

   *** toys... can i please get a mirror in here?!
it has to become a standard for a healthy
sexed up relationship...
    a mirror can overpower any...
frivolity of during-***: attire...
  the imitation ******...
a mirror is... just that...
                 *** with: in third person narrative...
but... smirk-giggle:
you catching her eyes getting ******...
and she catching your eyes: ******* her...

so tame tame... unlike reading...
  the tame blushes of marquis the sade...
never to mention... this philosophical adventure
of ******... which it really is...
impeccable... trouble with: thought put into
practice...
                yes... that horrid... Fritzl case...
but unlike the idealist scenario...
the mother was notably pushed away from
the grandiosity of the sin...
and it was done... in public... with...
a purview of... shaking established social norms!
it wasn't... a rabbit-hole of horror...

              which is why i'm glad i do not
have children of my own...
   i once spent an afternoon with...
my... grand-aunts son... my uncle...
don't ask...
         and i looked like him and thought...
well... i have most certainly had more
fun with cats and dogs...
i was a complete mute...
i didn't feel like cuddling this piece
of cubism... it looked human and even
contorted like one...
perhaps if it was mine...
i could have... somehow...
            "relegated my inhibitions"?
                 n'est ce pas?
         to have children and begin with...
that ******* of differentiating vowels from
consonants... and then... building consonants...
what... 5 vowels... 21 consonants...
5 x 21 = 105 variations...
       prefix: ab, ac, ad, af, ag...
                     eb, ec, ed, ef, eg...
                           IF only! oof!
                 the suffix - ba, ca, da, fa, go...
                                 bat cat dad fat god...
and then... the 21 x 21 consonant variables...
squared to the power of 5...
because... chinese is... frankly...
so simple...

   - it's summer and...
            since i would otherwise... require ink...
to write... and the paper would somehow
be always readily available...
no need for ink...
the summer months are terrible...
for no requirement of ink...
what is ink?  ink is...
                         i need october...
i need november... december... january...
february... half of march...
i need to borrow ink from the night!
i can't scribble in these arab / kenyan months...
these sun-seeker months
of idle by the dream-pool... load of...
overtly-talked... less thought...
therefore... no need to scribble...

    i need the night for my ink...
                           "punctuation marks are in
the constellations": oh yes... honey sweet...
what's it called? cliche? we've all been there...
i too would sacrifice Hector before the altar
of Achilles if i were Priam...
                   only because: he was called Hector...
and the other was Achilles...
and i was called Priam...
       in such times... what were...
the trully... common-place names...
of stunt-men and extras?
   i'd like to know the equivalent of a john smith
from ancient greece...
what would one call: him?
            
        perhaps: i tend to think about *** when
i... most probably had a dream...
jerking off is a bit like...
checking one's blood pressure...
or as a diabetic might... ***** his index
to check the sugar levels...
i write about "***" when i've had a dream...
the dream...

i was talking to a man about cars...
notably... cars from...
america and germany...
circa the years... 1920s through to...
                the 1970s...
          and... then... the talk of... a motorcycle...
a specific motorcycle...
   a triump street cup...
                 a BMW R18... but not quiet...
whatever it was...
                    for the love of a double-decker
bus and a pair of legs...
                which is not...
to have emotionally invested
in *** was something a much younger
version of me would have done...
i thank the prostitutes of curing me of this...
debilitating disease / dream...
              which, i, prescribed... myself...
so no... i hardly think...
there were any... mummy or daddy issues...
i would skip several scenarios:
as much as i love riding a double-decker
bus... i abhor... taking a taxi...
       even if it requires me to walk...
2 miles... i'd rather walk:
for the love of legs and... voodoo dolls hanging
like corks... bend the knee: they might say...
bullet to the knee-cap... if you ask me...
again...

     perhaps i wasn't born english...
but... after... 26 years among them...
                          it "sort of" grows on you...

- man can perform a thousand:
dodo project genocides in one sitting:
on the throne of thrones...
before jumping under a baptism:
fully attired in the ganjes pyjamas
in one sitting: on the throne of thrones...
to "squat" while *******...
*******... *******...
"scented candles" of taking a shower...

i write about *** every time i have a dream...
it's to succumb to the lesser...
escapade of me...
i can stomach subjectivity...
but having to stomach idealism...
is another matter: altogether...
i would like to worship the men who
have had their fill...
and settled for the swan blockade
of the widower romance...
the widow swan...
the black widow: a ******* spider...

none of it... i ****** good i ******
well... come the prime of the age 21...
she was a gamer side-kick bedded...
she prescribed me...
                        Bulgakov...
              reading a ****** to a prussian...
or reading a ****** to a RUŚ: example: ditto...
                  i have heard of how
love supposedly closed and opened borders...
we are so antithesis "different"...
we aren't... some western "communist"
zoo study:
the people who say and then...
lucky us paupers...
who have to "loot" the infrastructure
of the vacating ****-tunnels...
because... someone has to ****-off...
their tongue and... gerbil fidgety!

albino chimpanzee and...
boxer gorilla fed on...
the promise of bulk... with nothing
but... the promise of fruits of your
labour... and nothing relating
to protein... or fat... of complex sugars
known as bread... none of that!
still: that fudge-packing bulk of
gorilla bicep protein: amass!

   - as ever... the murk: before the deep-water...
the... inverted demigods
of h. p. lovecraft...
because... cthulhu is... "somehow"...
not the ******* son of Poseidon?

acid-quasi-monkey asks...
   placid-didgeridoo...
                a constipated: not funny...
attempts! at solving a crossword!
-frankenstein-myrhh:
                        ******* dangling...
                                    (-) - Fatima...
is this... "Syria" yet?
  concerning the second coming...
concerning...
Syrian civil war... something...
*******... miraculous...
has happened...
or was about to happen...
and that it didn't happen...
better that it did:
but since it... didn't...
best we cover it up...
                corpse bride:
               Khadija **** Khuwaylid...
if ever: Stephen Vizinczey...
was a (prophet) Muhammad...
in praise of older women...

    ...a Fatima... fleeing the Syrian
civil war... because... Ramses II
was... telling apart the 7 good years
from... the 7 ******* years...

tell you what... it's no fun...
when you've been given the need
to bend the knee before the altar
of phantom power...
if i were 16 and she was 14...
if i was 18 and she was 16...
if i was 60! and she was... 20!
would it matter?
               if i was jerking off aged 8...
you want to know...
what... the last prize is...
the last... difference between...
"consent" of two adult adult...
with their *******-riddle
of a theatre of ***?
     you want to know?
the thought of ******* someone...
under-age...
no! no barbie! no ken!
the theatre of thought...
of ******* someone... underage...
who is... displaying...
teasing ***... in that primodial seance
of grief to ward of mother from
the ******...
and father from the parentage of
school!

               you ever want to see...
what... a kick in the jaw looks like...
omnipresent onlooker...
of some... unpardonable crime...
that it has to be ***-related...
              i wish i performed some
unpardonable crime on a *******...
i guess a kiss is a kiss is an unpardonable
crime against a *******...
i need this heart to shelter itself
in stone! i need: a heart!
of hard-earned: rock!
               with each sentence:
i find it impossible to not....growl!
to howl! to spew a bickering of...
wolves... of hyenas...
a wake of crows!
            
              i want toi write an echo!
hye! anoooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
i want to hear...
the microscope itching
of a marrow...
of maggots working toward
a closure of expressing: scotch fudge!
i want! maggot marrow!
i want! the lost sounds of...
what the fox already minded...
in...                       χαoς! ρει(γ)νς!
yes... the gamma is a surd...
                 in this... english... equation...

last time i checked:
the cognitive theatre of the forbidden...
****** "lax"...
it's enough to tease the affair with
mere thought...
to have... people "bothered"
that one thinks... such "things"!
while the girl... prime... aged... 14...
teases you with...
exfoliations of...
                      script and... censure...
like a skirt...
but of course...
you're the dodo-project genocidal maniac
about to sport a new: cushioning
extreme...
of an ******* like...
you're minding teasing...
a high-blood pressure!

          can i allow myself a giggle?
a crown of: a dozen demons laughing
as relevant: to the 12 strong cohort of...
cognitive lapses of reason?
          
  ******* before a mirror is my...
my memory and my last concern for...
"adventure"...
a ****** ******* a russian girl so freely...
she fed off of us as...
     spinning a willow to confine itself to:
those rhubarbs in... "retro"...
no... i'm pretty sure... "they"...
the western communists would have minded
it coming across as...
  rhubarb... dreads... stiff 12" drizzle /
drool bits of a tight-knit white sporting ***!
my... oh... wait...
not exactly 16... so... no...

my... what?!
    this has to become one of those...
most... "unspectacularbly": "a least"
in what's to be digested... "fogiven"...
when... there's that teasing-**** of a per-se
readied for her rite of horror to be
met with ******* the...
upper... echelons...
to the queue! to the loiter!
to the...                cue: no dry martini equipped...
sort of... joke as... a variation
of... escapism: to excuse...
fixations... of social hierarchy...

    i am hardly a misogynist...
            it's almost... fake...
how feminists point out... death-pull...
the misogynists...
clinging to philanthropists... i suppose...
it's like...
"someone" forgot...
to... mention...
the benevolent in misanthrophy...
the happily allied to the ivory tower...
whether you're a man or a woman...
or a man pretending to be a woman...
or a woman pretending to be a man...

who is... the misanthrope?
            the solipsist...
the atheist: should you be god?
the altruist... the... fiddly-bit... extreme...
the... autist?
         who is... your... claim for...
******-****** ruleZ the world?
mother of all perfected children...
a bit like jerking off to...
those gravure beijing models...

ava lauren? she is... an aged looking
*******... closure: madame...
she earned it...
her skin is like leather...
you dare to: wear it...
   but... oops: the ubermensch...
these chinese "brides" are not...
photoshopped...
they're genetically edited...
it was apparent that china
didn't have a soul...
in its summa summarum...
or in its christ redeemer...
when... india has its rich
polytheism... pedagogy:
shiva the antithesis of vishnu:
the thesis...

    i can feel... at least!
i can feel abbreviated with the raj master...
sport...
sending a few "*******" to beijing!
let's hear a story...
no... i'm fuming mad:
i'm dying! to hear that coin-flip
of a tail: of bending the... fuckning knee:
capping... as one might!

there's a <100million of "me"...
there's... a >1billion of "them"...

   while:
            i ****** off to...
          genetically edited creatures...
the western world can hide
behind its setting sun: metaphor...
photo-editing... while...
the hot-**** beijing is...
gene-editing...
west-world 1972 bronze age:
"staging a coup"..

             yeah: gurran-gu-dag...
the arabs and their bangladeshi...
queen-bee sorted...
           elizabeth II...
royal ascot...
  i.e. lamborghinis raced on knightbridge...
because: arab playboys are to be...
minded...

write long... to ensure...
people read short... little chance
of censor-loved-up-pseudo-i.q.-heroes!
100 years later: you become a pseudo-Proust /
a Joyce... but... that also implies:
you're stiff up at the neck...
in death and sand... and worms...
in a grave! so? no turkish kebab:
no malmuk / no janissary resurrection!

Secrets
Hidden within your own
Mind's eye
Truths
Yet more often than not
Debilitating lies
Moments
Some, much needed to be forgotten
Others, cherished
Memories**
So many stored so deep within
Others have been banished
Faces
Too many to tell their names apart
Wishing some to vanish

Yet all these things can tear at your heart
Some make you stronger
A fighter
Wiser

It just depends where you start

I proposed the theory to you once that after a certain point we are the ones that lead ourselves down that dark path. Seeking out numbing blackness because we know that it's "safe".

I don't know whether or not you believed me.

But let me reiterate it again, for myself.
'cause I really need it right now.


The first time you find yourself in the dark void, you hate it. It hurts so bad. You just want to escape. You don't speak the language and nobody seems to be able to help you or understand because you can't articulate what is wrong.  

But bulimics, anorexics, and self mutilators know that you can get use to anything. They've learned that pain is subjective. You see, repeated exposure to painful and dark things breed familiarity and comfort. And even, briefly, a deep dark happiness. A childish sticking of the tongue at the world, a ******* and a ******* to all those that hurt you. "Ha ha" you say. "Do your worst. You can't hurt me as much as I do."

For me, submerging my soul into the darkness eventually became a soothing balm. Protection from the loss of happiness, disappointment, people letting me down, friends not answering their phones, husbands being jerks, not liking myself, not liking anyone around me. Happy and joy was too big a risk. Being hurt, hurt too bad. And I would pretend to pray, I say pretend because I didn't really want help. I wanted to wallow. I wanted justification for why it was ok for me to be there. I wanted to be able to say, "this is just who I am."

I am not minimizing pain, or the people who feel it. There are a million reasons for depression and sadness. And we even need some sadness. Grief, I'm told, is a necessary part to loss although I can't fathom why right now. Why must we feel pain? Why do we have to keep on experience wrenching and heart breaking loss day after day after the day when it happened. Why I can't I c'est la ******* vie and move on?

I think because the fear of loss of people, happiness, whatever it is we are afraid of losing, is debilitating if we don't face it. If we don't throw open the cage door to the tiger(figuratively), we'll never find out that it's the fear that keeping us (me) from experiencing life. Because life is pain, just as much as it is joy. And by trying to keep pain away we end up keeping the good **** too. And looking back, all the previous pain opened doors to helping others and helping myself. Perspective man, that one day there will be sun again. There will be light hear-ted moments not over shadowed by loss. And by acknowledging it's there, we can take back the power. Because letting people hurt us is often times our fault more than theirs. And when I stop focusing on myself I can see the hurt that my "aggressor" is feeling. We are the total sum of our experiences. And we have switches, and sometimes they get flipped.

I told you about my life changing moment. The last time I sat on my porch sobbing and asking God why. The moment my prayer changed to empowerment. The moment when I asked for help.

" God, never let me go there again.'

It's a muscle. We can't control what we feel. Sometimes we ARE sad. Sometimes we ARE hurt. Sometimes we ARE reeling from inexplicable pain and loss. And it's ok. It's ok to be sad, hurt, lonely, as long as we realize it's a temporary place, not a residence.

I told you,

I had to learn to run away from the dark well of perpetual sorrow. I had to learn the bad wasn't forever, and the good was only as far away as I let it be. Like a dream catcher in reverse. I had to let all of it hit me. The good, bad, ugly, sorrow, joy, and sunlight. I had to adsorb it all, and then release the bad, negative **** that I let consume me before and enjoy the good ****, knowing I will always find more. I've got to exercise that muscle, and find relief.  


And now more than ever,
today
tonight

I need to know there is the possibility that I will be me again, and have life again.

I need to know that your absence,
is not the end.

would you mind reading this and giving your thoughts? http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1533551/narcol... it's my boyfriends and i think its really good, Thx :)*

Matthew Conrad  5 minutes ago
i could write many things, the biggest constructive criticism these days concerning any output of poetry is rhyming, rhyming tends to disguise the poet in not digging deeper, in all honesty rhyming poetry is dead, instead there's a desperate need for a narrative, a captured narrative, rhyming doesn't really show you anything other than a strict technique of how poetry used to be written, a very neat Victorian standard of trying to not show your emotions; but to rhyme when talking about something as debilitating as narcolepsy feels like the problem is not really embraced, whereby the rhyming only embraces the routineness of the problem, like a swing... to and fro; if he could just do a carpe diem (seize the moment) rather than stress a whole lifetime's worth of it not changing by engaging in rhyme, for example: ask him to write about a dream, get him involved in remembering dreams rather than the dreary reality, after all... he spends a lot of time in the dream realm. but like i said, poetry these days is really trying to not use too much conscious technique of what was used in the past, not rhyming does not make poetry not-poetry, it just shoves grit into your eyes... creating a sense of spontaneity... plus you feel less constrained to be forcefully hitting an echo.

p.s. necro-lepsy... i'm awake all the time, and i feel i'm dead, the poor guy just sleeps a lot, i'm always dying.

most days i just wake up, and think to myself: hell, might as well crack open a beer, other times i think to myself: a girlfriend would be useful, the perfect fidgety object for my compassion, the necessary constant prancing, the concern for a household with napkins and curtains and scented candles, but then i turn toward amusing myself and the beer waits for me, and so that's how the days pass, me slothful in many yoga-like slouches patting my beer-belly and feeling content.

i just realised it, one coffee later,
sunny weather - looking directly into the sun,
and noticing it's the only thing that reveals
vibrations, look at long enough and you can
almost see it rotating, i can't explain it
any other way, it's this pulsating ultra-violet
thumping of the rotas - i know it sounds
absurd to state that i can see ultra-violet light,
but if you look at the sun long enough
there's this strange shadowy-white pulsation
evidently chaotic - some would say there's
yellow in that orb, perhaps with a telescopic
photograph or something, the way
everything glistens like a newly hatched chicken
egg with the fatty glistening on leaves -
yes, oddly enough there are lipids (a type of fat)
in leaves, they're called *acyl lipids,
arabidopsis leaves and what not - a scene
in a shower, bubbles on skin, fatty skin doesn't
allow water to congregate - cooking pasta,
a little bit of olive oil added to the boiling pasta
doesn't make the pasta stick, bubbles of fat floating
about - so there are these fatty acids - so i'm guessing
lean anorexic alkalies - shtick men -
suberin-associated waxes in seeds and roots -
to then realise that you haven't finished Hemingway's
for whom the bell tolls having chosen it
over homage to Catalonia (formerly known as Aragon,
hence the Aragonese) - left it, page 165 or something
with a bookmark of a Warsaw bus ticket (2.50zł) -
oh sure i liked his over works, but this was his
bestseller - and that's the thing with bestsellers,
once the hype spreads it's just that, a hype,
bestsellers don't genuinely feed you anything worthwhile,
you could probably read a moveable feast about
twenty times - bestsellers are a bit like buying
life insurance and then ******* off under a lorry
in a traffic accident, without having the capacity
to be injured into a debilitating state and using up
the insurance payout - just like a bestseller, you buy it
and never get to finish it - it just isn't demanding
or intricate to the extent of perplexity you expected -
a literary Bergman - because any other host would
dare dabble in cinematic existentialism other than
the Scandinavians?
                                   and this is the point where
i loose the plot - because there isn't one -
first i was musing having a beer, then talking crap
about seeing ultra-violet light by staring at the sun
directly - then fats in leaves... who the hell would have
the patience to read this ****?

I am flabbergasted, ashamed, and angry after philosophy homework
which straight up flabbergasts myself because I’ve always questioned everything
after reading a selection of Seneca’s letter’s ( ancient spanish philosopher)
Spastic Fury is an understatement
I understand this was written in a different time period
but I have to discuss this **** in class.
**** like why crying is for the weak or
how practicing habits less fortunate
than one is subordinate to
will strengthen thy noble soul for future preparation of fortune/misfortune
blah blah blah
I get all of that **** I understand the validity of living a pure,
un-judgemental, strong willed life.
what I can’t get out of my OCD head
is all of the **** I’ve been through
that was and continues to be detrimental to my sanity
and no it’s not out of vanity you naive ******
it’s called PTSD and it can be debilitating.  
I know this portion of reading is designed for
the average freshman unsoiled mind, free from
trauma and full of promise but I’m not your average person.
I never will be
I remember the times I didn’t want to be a ******* person
and those moments remain anchored right on top of my mangled innocence.  
Seneca claims crying is a form of selfish weakness
I claim crying is stronger than taking a razor to the skin
crying is stronger than puking until you’re dizzy
crying is stronger than getting high until you can’t
remember why you started crying
in the first place
It took me 17 years and disgusting amounts of therapy
to accept my hurricane emotions are not a form of weakness
because everything I feel is a million times more real
than the ******* we hear, see, or talk about
I know tragedy occurs everywhere to anyone
unfortunate enough to be there
but in terms of my salvation
there is an expiration date on
how long I can play in the sand before I’m choking
and gasping “i’m sorry’s” in-between scratchy breaths
I knew college would be hard,
but at least in group therapy
there was actual motivation to speak up

The world is too uncertain for us to be sure of anything. Personally I don't think there is an absolute truth. There I said it. Take me away Nietzsche, I'm with you on this one. We are all so different, all so set apart in our unique, frail and wicked mortality. To have one single frame of existence is debilitating. If this difference is so telling of our humanity then why the hell do we have truth? To what purpose? To contain and unite us despite our individuality? Suppose the truth is given this way: A newborn and a goat are expected to survive with just a small patch of grass. Which of the two gets more chance of survival and existential fulfillment? How can that be when those two are apples and oranges? Their circumstances are so opposite. How is life supposed to be fair to the newborn? I am not saying that life is fair because hell it is far from it. But do we accept that unfair principle or make our lives a little better?  Will his happiness be on that grass as well? Of course not. So he looks for new ways to be happy. He has his own truth.

To this end, I have questioned everything from my faith, to myself, to people, to science even. Life grows along with time and so are our realities. This is why these past few months I've been contradicting myself to the point of thinking I've gone mad. But the fact is I've grown from these experiences of letting my two polar opposites meet. It is honestly scary when these inner voices start jabbing at you like pointed needles.I am a walking contradiction and my mind is a maze of paradoxes and questions with no answers. Eventually, I got used to this mentally exhausting activity. When something entirely different from what I believe be it an opinion, an idea, or a controversy) speaks up in my face I've learned to accept them not as the truth but as possibilities that could very well be right or wrong. I will never be always right.

People are so used to the concept of certainty that we have altogether ignored the existence of possibility. Or the gray area to which simply no one end exists. I realized that we are all predisposed to find answers, to hang on to some sort of explanation to a world so phenomenally ungraspable. It is to the detriment of our open mindedness enough for us to fabricate truths which may very well be coverups for the all too universal fear of the unknown. We are afraid of floating in the ambiguous nature of our lives that we'd rather correct this with assumptions.

My legs and arms feel like they're stuck in mud
Trapped in a swamp of murky memories
A liquid so thick it hurts my lungs to fight the sinking
But theres no reflection here
So I won't let it swallow me
Most of the time I forget I'm fighting
The pain is so typical my body feels numb to it sometimes
But when I'm not rejecting my reality
Or repressing my circumstances
The all too familiar feeling
Anchors my body down so heavily
That even the idea
Of continuing to fill my lungs each moment
Is exhausting and debilitating.

The rare moments when I let myself feel things are excruciating
Anxiety claws through my chest
Like a rabid raccoon fighting for freedom
As terror bubbles through each of my muscles,
The only remainder of proof left
From the unspeakable and disgusting acts of others,
The memories I don't have anymore
The ones I choose to forget.

And yet they still keep trying so hard
To **** me into them
To make me remember them.
I didn't ask for this.
I didn't ask him to touch me.
I didn't ask her to hit me.
But I'm the one who's still stuck here
Fighting my past
Fighting myself
There's no reflection in this sludge of memories
Because I can't bring myself to look for one
I'm afraid that if I see myself in it
See what they did to me
See what I didn't do to stop it
I'll lose the last bit of sanity
That I am so desperately holding on to

it will never make sense
that the mechanics
of the human body
allows for a person
to bite their own
tongue or cheek
mindlessly
yet with such force;
eye-watering
and debilitating
a momentary paralysis
of fist-clenched frustration
and wordless fury
the blood that flows
cannot be stemmed
must be left untended
and simply spat out
     or swallowed
before that metallic taste
taints every mouthful

When men tell women they have the flu
That they have never felt so bad
The universal response, alas it’s true
Is for women to go stark raving mad!

Men with the flu are not taken seriously
By members of the opposite ***
Their illness the subject of great levity
Despite the debilitating effects!

Men are often told to simply stop whining,
(Like women never complain themselves)
Though it’s obvious their health is declining
They are just told to “get over your selves”

They tell us to grow up, be a man
suggest we need to grow a pair
“I work when I’m sick and so you can”
We are informed with a deathly stare.

We are told to man up, to stop snivelling,
They question whether we are men or mice
“Try giving birth if you want to know about suffering”
A phrase thrown at us more than once or twice.

They are always convinced it is just a cold
Though our temperature may be sky high
They are often adamant and will not be told
Though we feel like we’re going to die

Though sneezing and coughing like never before
Though our whole bodies are obviously aching
Sweating and shivering, every muscle sore
Yet they seem convinced that we are faking  

We are accused of being overly demanding!
They tell us not to be such a Mummys boy!
And though we might expect a little understanding
Most times they cannot even bother to try!

You would not think it was too much to ask
But it most certainly seems to be
though we are incapable of the simplest task
we can not get one ounce of sympathy

They accuse us of expecting a full time nurse
Though all we need is some loving care
But all the arguing just makes us worse
They never see they are being quite unfair

It seems that they really could not care less
they could not be bothered even trying
we feel bad enough but all this added stress
only makes us feel we’d be better off dying!

They accuse us of making a song and dance
Of making a mountain out of a mole hill
And really us men do not stand a chance
Unless we can prove beyond doubt we are ill.

Thank God for researchers at Stanford University
all men will forever be in their debt
They took the issue of men’s health very seriously
And studied the subject in depth.

They published their findings in 2013
Confirming the existence of the “Man Flu”
The research and conclusions are there to be seen
Facts with which no woman can argue.

It outlines facts you might not have known
Which may make you feel much better at once
It seems it’s men’s high levels of testosterone
That seriously weaken the immune response.

It is only because you are a real man,
because you actually have a pair
that you feel sicker than any woman ever can
it’s a scientific fact, so there!

So next time we get sick hopefully
Women might just believe that it’s true
Perhaps we may be taken more seriously
just in case we have the dreaded “Man Flu”!

The bad news alas, is that there is no cure
Though they are doing the best they can
So if your man gets the flu, ladies be sure
To be more patient,take great care of your man!

how far can analysis go,
if philosophy books do not
utilise grammatical words / categories?

i dare say, let's begin with
that mathematics calls coordinates,
a simple (x, y, z) of the algebra
that translates into
  (1 across, 2 up, 3 diagonally) -

in language, that's a bit more
complicated:

   the category of prepositions stretches:
on, in, from, with, counter(-) -
with or without the hyphen affix making
counter a suffix...
                against is still minded
as a preposition...
                               as...
  
oh god, i believe in the trans-movement,
although i believe in the transcendence
of grammatical categorisation of words,
minus the meat & two veg,
and minus the floral pattern analogy
of female genitalia... for ****'s sake.

language, you must admit, has more
coordinate "starting" / incision markers
that mathematics had or ever will, "have".
why?
                 simple... 26 beats 10 digits...
even if there's the c k q...
              Siamese i.e. -
               the grapheme ae...
                      whatever...

  i hate the devilishly debilitating stance
of having perfected language and
treating this perfecting as anti-"scientific"...
   your parents originated from norwich?
if not so: i'd think so.
                    
       i'm about this | | close to losing
my temper and frying a belgian waffle...
calling in Thai with a crisp Eloise salad and
reminding the inclusion of the use of tamarind...
that over-salty peanut butter paste...

i hate being the person to break it to you:
language can be re-celebrated
having tasted the piquant pompousness of
over-exaggerated establishment of science
as a quasi-religion...
                          
language can be as scientific as an -logy
affix -
    as long as it minds the bouncy-castle
of grammar, notably categorisation words
of the orthodox caste choice of woo-woo-wording...
it's best to begin with shrapnel,
notably the already titled observation,
correlation between mathematical coordinates
and worded "coordination"
        via prepositions...

               we already sharpened
the islamic five pillars into two:
  a- (without)
                             the- (with) -
the prefix distinction, unfortunately is only
entertained by the indefinite articulation -
since a definite articulation has a higher name,
most distinguishable...
            
                                  there's a "point"
to "the" point, only given that "the" point
   is gambling on "a" point, without a recurring
point of curbed ambitions of
                   said: "point" being demaned
  in the first place...

in the existentialist vernacular that's also
called: juggling the "ditto" / inverted commas -
two things are apparent:
                        three things are being said.

only when language is "unnecessarily"
complicated does life become the so craving for
answering: life's short, life's simple -
  yes, but that being said -
language is elongated, with death being
the centipede to a butterfly's two weeks' worth
of gilded glide and pomp and
         colour-dyed circumvent of
the numb-packing grey and, everyday.

While I likely have no rhythm
and tend to trip over my feet
that would hold back a dance.

While I have debilitating anxiety
that highlights others’ stares
I may still give it a chance.

No, see, the reason I won’t dance
has way more to do with my body
and the fact that I’m trans.

As I move through the world
I feel the weight of my identity
in both physical and mental distress.

Of course everyone has baggage
that doesn’t stop them from jiving
but not everyone has to carry it on their chest.

Dancing requires movement of my entire frame
but the person I see in my head
isn’t the one that light reflects.

How can I move without highlighting
the feminine figure my clothes conceal?

How can I jive
while hiding how my chest wiggles?

Can they tell?
Girl?
Guy?
What do they see?

The questions anchor my body to the ground
So I cannot move.
I cannot dance.

it all makes sense after a beer and a whiskey, honestly, as honest as is this statement, i'm only a misogynist with regards to white girls, who i find so, so adequate for feministic fickleness that they could never produce 1 billion blue indians or 1 billion chinese.

i tell you how it started, i was at university,
first year i met this french psychology exchange
student, she was older than me,
she got drunk at one party and crawled into my bed,
when i climbed and felt frisky,
she just told me to put a ****** on,
prior to she was stiff watching some cartoon
by studio ghibli, man i was young and frisky
about loose the white of virginity and enter
the blackness of personal psychologies
passing via the rainbow of the visible world,
it didn't work out with isabel, we climbed
arthur's seat and took a picture
while she scolded me for napoleon
and the duchy of warsaw as the re-emergence
of poland but missed marquis de sade's picture
hanging on the wall... who's sick then,
the one who pleases the many or the one who
displeases a few?
plato's picture also hanged on the wall...
she was oblivious to the fact that an 8 year old
child can be categorised as a native speaker,
because that's when i started my anglo oral examination
to speak it.
later i spotted her after my first session with a bottle
of whiskey in lycra, going to the initiation ceremony
for the lacrosse team... i never joined... i just puked
into a bucket.
you never realise that when people label themselves:
i'm an atheist... i'm a christian... i'm a muslim...
i'm agnostic... you see the labels... you see how
they rememeber of themselves in terms of nanometres?
they kept their memory very cancerous...
the proto-socratic maxim in modern times
stands as: remember yourself, knowing nothing
is worth the existence of an encyclopedia -
feel and make the facts absentee...
just remember yourself as some point in your life
to re- re- repeat yourself so i can known you
as i can know myself, just so we can interact
like in a school playground... if you don't...
forget it... stay with your ***** **** stiches of a partner
and tell me whether your children got an a at a-level.
so he told me about her eagerness for *** with
strangers... she was apparently abducted...
so he told me he ****** her... believing him...
not getting enough... i went to a brothel in my second year,
and i didn't really understand the emotions of
someone who's ~******* outside a brothel,
well she really did let that one rip among one of the
major proofs of solispsism: someone farted in a crowded
space and appreciated by himself alone,
all the perfume companies who even hired
the best chemists could produce the scent of solipsism,
therefore the proof of solipsism: we appreciate our own
but loath the ****-burp of others; hey, i just took
all the theories of existentialism into hades via ****.
but that's the thing - back when darwinism was
active, active enough to build pyramids, motto active:
strength multiplied by ****... back then...
chaos known as god entered and said this that
and the other... we can now say democracy is safe...
demo tapes everywhere, half complete scripts...
but the limit of democracy comes when
you start to disagree with yourself... that's the limit...
obviously a high proportion of people
succumbed to the democratic weakness
and started to disagree with themselves or
the ontological starting point and ventured into
ethical questions to give birth to conscience...
first year was magical, second year had a highlight
where me and this guy played golf on the street
with glasses, smashing them next to a graveyard...
about a dozen jewish couples got married
when we took over stomping the glass with golf sticks...
so it's like this, make memory as selective as nature is,
as bizarre as the colour of magpies and parrots...
plus... you wouldn't get existentialism
if you changed the cartesian expression that
thought precipitates into existence...
sarte's explanation that existence comes prior to essence
is true, he stresses the essence: i think,
but existence doesn't really precipitate into thought,
because then we're all analogue: god doesn't exist
because of such and such parasite...
this world is beautiful but harsh, but with harshness
comes adventure and with beauty laziness...
what's crucial is to curb the precipitation of thought
into existence... unless you innovate and materialise
a telescope or paracetamol... for the majority of us
the one thing guiding us is not res cogitans,
but res vanus... not the thinking thing, but the empty thing,
and the empty thing is primarily filled
with the first linear association, thought, and later
being - which is why most of us think about being millionaires
but never are... and therefore create the lottery,
then we put our thinking into to being millionaires
as a mere chance, luck... which is really emotionally debilitating.
i agree... an unjust world of freedom with a just god
who's whimsical existence has freedom like ours...
rather than a just world of slavery with an unjust
god who plays us like puppets;
go on, complain... but that's hardly a logic i wish i could
understand like 1 + 1.

I am your disease,
every time I come around you vanish me
in every cry whimper or sneeze
I am the ****** in side your head
you are to scared to embrace
I am the horns of the devil
and the smile upon the angels face
I am the dream you cant control
I am the drug that makes you go

we've turned into the monster
that we fought not to be
deep in a darkened whole
black eyes no longer see

burning bridges
perceptive imperfection
a left hand turn
in the right direction

I am your release
everything you want you take from me
echoing your disease
all you are and all you will ever be

elapse relapse reprise your demise
I am the horns of the devil redesigned
objects perplex reflect there subjects
I'm the smile upon the angels face

you are the moral in my dark soul
the purpose to be found
a voice tells you to let go
it's more beautiful 6 feet underground

laying in bed dreams of voluntary aggression
upon waking disappointing depression
or are we being naive now, thought dissection
deflect suspect rejects, infection perfection


who will even see the things we create
think it's great to annihilate the whole human race
debilitating thoughts not knowing how to feel
like naive dogs lost without there master

treasure pain, because without pain
there is no pleasure hit the main vain
insanly refrain from the mundain strain
bane lame thoughts plains of blood stains

I'm asking not knowing what is real
conditions of contradiction & elusive entities
entanglement of putrid bodies
in a mind stricken by poverty

We all have wolves,
Hidden beneath our sheep.
A smile concealing
The debilitating anguish
That consumes every cell.

Laughter choking the soul
With vines of self loathing and contempt.
Enduring every second of
Soul shredding agony
Thinking of you bestows
Upon me.

The ghost of your love
Haunting every thought.
Blades slicing every inch of flesh
bleeding me dry would be
Welcomed.

If only to forget you...
For only a moment...

As a little boy he wandered,
explored the forest
of life. One small, smooth
and jagged piece seeking out
those around in hope
that they’d one day
latch together, make a whole.
Trillions, gajillions, infinitillions
of parts, each unique, each
the same in a relative way.
Faces appeared and stayed,
others faded away. Ideas
blossomed gently, exploding
to states of mind, concrete views
or dust scattered with the wind.
Slowly he grew.

Some fear attachment,
but this boy lived for love.
Love for souls, life, ecstasy,
youth, holding hands, dancing,
grooves and groves of wonderment.
Some years went and others didn’t
but this boy(‘s puzzle plot)
had expanded to an extent
unbeknownst to him. Smoke
and mirrors mystify and cloud
the lucid mind.
Sometimes the crystalline clarity
never returns and the pieces fall,
a part of nothing
but ignorantly serene delusions.

This boy got lucky, though.
Some light, some gustling breeze
scattered the foggy reflections,
debilitating for so long.
The natural allure of a young lady
can lift a man from any sinkhole,
be it momentarily or neverending…
He saw those bright brown eyes
shining one day. A sublimely
beautiful face no words justify.
In he walked from the rain
and called out, hey!
So it began, the pieces reappeared.
For now, the others didn’t matter.
Two minute beings in a sea
of colored cardboard fragments,
secure. This girl, she showed him
the big picture, or lack thereof.
She pushed him to create for himself,
for her, them, noone, everything.
So they dreamed.

i was about to start writing this up when i thought:
another whiskey Quincy? **** storm,
spilled the remains of the one i barely touched
before having to pour myself a:
puritan Scot in Cheltenham.

now, i heard people say any town in Essex
is a ****-hole...
                            fair enough...
but there are darker recesses of England you
must get to know before making that
assumption...
                  sure, London, proper London,
zones 1 - 4, E17 (post code, outer reaches,
Walthamstow, used to have a dog racing
track - played there once,
like a typical Paris catwalk, those hounds)
can skive off Greater London
                    like New York can laugh off
New Jersey, it's pretty much like that...
the only thing is: Londoners don't know what
exists outside this area: the buffer zone.
this is the buffer zone...
                 you experience England outside of
this very sensitive area of integration,
take for example a 3 hour coach trip to
a little town of Cheltenham in Gloustershire
not far from Oxford (a hub of learning)
and Bristol (Massive Attack, and that
bridge by Brunel - funny, engineers are above
architects, in that engineers build things
that *work, architects are like science-fiction
novelists rather than scientists -
do you know how many problems workers
experience, because an engineer
"forgot to mention" something essential in the plans?
at least an engineer gives you a read table,
all architects work for Ikea -
          ah, here's pieces a - z,
put it together yourself) - anyway...
              spilled my Quincy whiskey, now i'm a puritan
of scotch - unlike that damning quote from
1950s Hollywood: whiskey with a drop of water...
   ok ok... a little **** of ice floating about...
when will the nagging stop? no one says jack
about putting water into authentic absinthe...
      why? cos it goes cloudy green when you do!
(too much digression, news paragraph).

   i was leaving London on Friday,
murky the way i like it... Albert Bridge never seemed
so out of cinematographic urgency -
               but the west end with its grand buildings
appealed to me to start imagining
                    Oscar Wylde ghosts leaving these places
for promenades in top cats and tiaras for the ladies...
                     west London... the best way to see it
is in transit... preferably rather urgently...
                    and in a coach with other people not paying
attention...
                       the Thames receded into the estuary (
as it does), those housed in boats experienced a wake-up
call with a 10° ***** into the mud -
                                past the Chelsea pensioners' abode,
past many monuments to be exact...
   and then onto the open M4... past Windsor Castle
and the streak of aeroplanes about an aerial mile
apart landing at Heathrow -
                                  3 hours later, there i was,
in Cheltenham - chitty chitty bang bang,
apparently dubbed the hub of all English literary
endeavours - well, if you're going to host
a literature festival, wouldn't you claim to host
it with at least one patriotic son of the word?
did i see any statue of a famous poet or writer in
that little rugby stockpile of excess triceps?
nope.
           well, at first i thought it was cute...
                                a little Portobello, albeit
without the St. Petersburg paintwork on the houses,
houses as grey as the skies...
                                           got lost looking for
the b & b hotel i was supposed to be staying at for
the night, went into a gas station, asked,
i was apparently only adjacent lost -
                           old school, map printer and no
g.p.s. on foot -
                                  i once read a map and navigated
a car from an obscure Essex city,
to an even more obscure city in eastern Poland,
past the dreaded Penta Germania consisting of:
Düsseldorf, Duisburg, Essen, Wuppertal and
obviously Dortmund -
                                           i call it the whirlpool
of navigation...
                            anyway, so i found the abode,
what a nice little place it was, shied away from
all the traffic - a lovely garden,
a room fit for a journeying writer,
          actually, everything a writer could hope for
to lock himself away and write,
            tunic scenic - everything to ease the literary
constipation - the surroundings, the whole decor,
i even took a picture thinking: shame if no
Balzac were to not emerge from these rooms...
                           i sure didn't,
i dropped all the things, took a shower,
went into town to do the g.p.s. topographic of
the city so i wouldn't need a map in the future -
bought a bottle of whyte & mackay with a huh?!
apparently this brand isn't popular...
               went back to the room and found myself
drinking in front of the dreaded sight...
well... it was a room fit for a writer...
               but it had a double bed in it...
and a mirror at the desk...
                                    i downed one puritan glass
and looked in the mirror: i don't need your company.
looked away and found to my amazement the
truth of modern writing: the industrialisation
of writing... it emerged in the 20th century when everyone
did it by himself, with a typewriter -
        the industrialisation of writing on an individual
scale can be quiet debilitating when trying to
rekindle the quill... i didn't write anything, i doodled,
and those were bad doodles, it wasn't writing,
it was doodling... i drank a quarter of the bottle
and went out...
        went into the first bar, ordered a Guinness and
and sat down by a table with a
(later disclosed) Gloustershire University student,
a Canadian, jacking-off a script for some
B-short-movie in a public place: to catch the oozing
exfoliation of inspiration from crowded places -
if ever that worked, it might have ever worked
in a graveyard...
                             we were joined by his friend,
some peasant, we got chatting, boy, it was such a thrill
to exchange names... the Canadian's name
i did remember: Darcy...
                          he had that look about him that made
it worthwhile to remember his name,
ah, when names fit the image...
                         chubby, pig-blondish, hairy...
i'm guessing a native of Quebec...
                               but i could be wrong.
so a few hey hey, yeah yeahs later i asked if they
knew something about this gig on the festival slot
that was starting tomorrow, 5 p.m. and for free...
sure sure... got to eye the guide... so i asked:
so, maybe we could meet up at this place at this time
and go from there....
                                  Titanic looked more graceful
sinking than the reply...
                                                 i had to really check myself,
this isn't London psyche chess, this is:
we are small people from a small town,
we think a charming stranger is a serial-killer...
                    the Yorkshire ripper case scenario,
not last... first.
                              i might have been ******* a lemon
by then and pretending to be drunk squirming
a Buddha look - i pretended the polite noting down
the details: suddenly i didn't think like attending
this ****** venture that would start at 5 p.m., end
at 12 a.m. and according to my travel diary:
having to wait 2 hours to catch the 2 a.m. home.
so i went to the first instalment of the "literature"
festival... lemn sissay and salena godden -
and i have to admit, it was a corker - a true
a champagne cork popped and hit the crystal
chandelier and i laughed... and that's how i lost my
virginity to "spoken word",
                                         i wasn't listening to poets,
but i was thoroughly entertained, i swear that
at the end of her performance Salena pointed into
the dark (great tactic, how can they be nervous
if they can't see anyone? they stand on a pulpit of pure
light and see black ahead, where the nerves?)
and said: esp. to my friend over there...
                i might have involuntarily back-laughed /
snorted like a pig trying to catch enough lung volume
for a ha ha...
                          got chatting to this lovely middle-aged
couple: told them: i'm being ***** with gags.
                prior, i was watching the queue build up
into the room, with a god-awful grin on my face...
i couldn't take it off...
                         perhaps because i was looking at
the demographic and thinking: where are my peers?!
i spotted about three people in a close age proximity -
the rest were farts and soon-to-be-farts...
                             now Sissay freaked me out...
in a good way... i met the two after the show,
i brought two copies of my own printed work to give to
them... i had to ask their publicist if i was allowed
to touch the Aegean marbles... luckily i did,
but then i asked the stupid question to Sissay:
so who were you trying to imitate when your eyes
were bulging out nearly gauged out like a Pink Floyd
song video of: teacher! let these children go!
               i should have associated something African
freakish in mask, a strengthening - the sort
of look that New Zealander rugby players put on
to frighten people off when dancing the haka -
he really did talk like that...
                                       the little devil voice didn't help
either... but i only asked that "stupid" question
while mumbling something about how hard it was
getting published and how anyone aged nearing 40
forgot the free press of the internet emerging and
how he asked for a q & a after the performance...
and... hand on my heart:
                                   got asked one question...
          and answered... only one question...
                                        a complete and utter ******* meltdown...
   not: oh yeah, so who's your major influence...
                      a Samuel Beckett moment from not i.
later i standing outside and smoking, a grand English
dame of the west approached me,
chitty chatty kiss the hand later i got to say the most
famous line known to the current Englishman:
unfortunately... from Essex.
             honest. anyone asks you in Essex the question
they always ask: so where you're originally from?
                         anywhere else in England
they just ask you: whe

As far back as I can remember
I wanted to be a
Paleontologist
Someone who looks at the old, decayed
Bones of creatures that never asked for
Love.
I wanted to be someone who dug through
Inches, feet, yards, miles of dirt
For a charred fragment of bone
that was so far away from
Home that the only
Contact it could make with its family
Was through the wires of the
Telephone
I wanted to be someone
Important.
Then that phase passed.

Later on, I wanted to be a writer,
Because there’s something about
Creation that’s so spontaneous
That it can lift souls higher
Make hearts lighter
If you do it right.
I wanted to write an expansion of
Cliché in such a grandiose way
That could make everything
Seem
Just right for some night when
That rush of creativity spills through
My fingertips
Like water dripping from the stalactites of
A cognitive cave of irrelevance
I just wanted to write.

Well, then that phase passed
And I wanted to be a doctor
Because there was something about
The cure that kept me up at night
Wondering how innocent and pure
That baby’s face is as his mother is
Carted down the hall on a gurney,
Who barely lived to see thirty years
On Earth
Whose constant fear of
“How will they survive”
sat on the first tear she cried
When her doctor diagnosed her.
That woman who had so much time ahead of her
But whose debilitating cancer always kept her from
Home.  
So much so that “home” became an
I.V. bag and a hospital bed.  
So much so that
“Home” went from fireplaces and kittens
To MRI machines and seven minutes
To live,
So much so that “home” became a myth.

And there are a lot of myths
Today.
There are myths today so farfetched and
Filled with hate, like
“It’s a choice, the one with whom you
fornicate” and
“It’s not that you’re a bad person, it’s that you’re
a disgrace, but I’m not trying to discriminate against
you.”
And they say these things with such distaste that they
Forget those with whom they’re supposed to relate
And love.

But now, love has become something
Blurred
Something obscured by religious fanatics and
Old, dusty books
Something regulated by governments and
Followed blindly by people at the risk of being
Burned, something
We’re afraid of.
Love.
The most toxic word
In the English language.
The word that makes and breaks
Empires, the word that lights
Fires in the hearts of men and women
In the most remote places,
The word that connects hearts
Instead of faces,
That fills a thousand vases
On the altars of every church
That allows people to
Love someone for who they
Are, and as each heart races they
Find the real meaning of  
Love.

Because here’s the thing.
“There is no love without hate”
Now that’s one of the few things
You can appreciate,
Your right to hate
Please.
Don’t feed me that line.
Because we both know that,
When you’re older,
You’re just gonna end up
Crying in the corner
Like the spoiled little
Brat you’ve always been,
Like that boulder of hate
Was never lifted off your
Shoulder
And why should it?

So let it fall.
Let yourself give in to
The pressure
Of defeat,
Like that dinosaur
That only wanted
Something to eat
But instead was
Cheated out of every
Chance it had to live.
Feel it burning
Deep inside you
All that hate
Yearning to get out
Let it consume you.

Maybe someday,
Someone will dig up your
Bones.  
Maybe someday, someone will
Remember you.  And
Maybe they will label you.
By your species.

guilty until proven innocent...
tomaš (sh) komenda...
   25 years and hardly...
a shawshank redemption story...

but...
   that... the anglo-saxon
pre-:   ordained... supposition...
      assumption...

    innocent: until proven guilty...
last time i checked...
it's nearly impossible...
man is no architect of gravity...
as a law...
   a killing is a ******
with a thought invoked...
   but by chance: it's a homicide...

innocent: until proven guilty vs.
guilty until proven innocent...
protestants vs. catholics...
otherwise...
       some injustice happens...
but it's like a ***** lottery...
then the whole system: kneels...

at least there's a story of redemption...
beside: death the sole redeemer...
given some magnitude
of the golgotha crucifix...
dear mother death...
         i pray to you...
   because... i see a puppet of
a crucifix... even though...
        
              innocent until proven guilty...
how much of wording
is...        would you ever posit
behaviourism against ontology?
                       a meat-grinder of ψ-ops...

it's not unfailable, this motto anglo-saxon
motto: innocent until proven guilty...
driving on the left side of the road...
whereby... coming to a roundabout
you experience... clockwise "gravity"...
well! pitch-perfect!

innocent until proven guilty
will make you dream and dare...
               there's the capacity to break /
if not merely to strain the law...
                   because? isn't it obvious?
i abhor the nuance sensation
of the presumption of innocence...
a lie is so cheap: an unbearable lightness
of being (to borrow from miland kundera)...

innocent until proven guilty...
a filter: for not of all transgressions...
but the obvious ones...
        innocent until proven guilty...
  the act itself is proof...
             witness...
    but the reverse...
guilty until proven innocent...
is it as primitive thinking as:
protestantism is the dawn...
catholicism is an auburn sunset...
and orthodoxy is... a prized china set piece:
touch at one's peril!

wouldn't: guilty until proven innocent...
work as a deterrent
         that... somehow...
                    the transgression of law
will always be proven...
        to be: aligned to the shackles of
original sin...
              it's not like: having the stomach to...
digest: innocent until proven guilty...
you could play the gamble...
and hope for the thrill of: getting away with
it...

jack the ripper... the zodiac killer...
the man who discovered beer (ref. plato)...
                            and... albert hofmann...
i sometimes wish for the experience
of the latter's "igloo"...

                      couldn't it be a deterrent:
guilty until proven innocent...
perhaps... given the serial killer's glee of
compounding a series of events...
running with the grand pillar of thought
made concrete and non-experimental...
hell! let's line them up!
count to: neun­und­neunzigluftballons...

come to think of it...
can man pass... not... man cannot attain
the capacity to pass a universal law:
to create a universal law...
   he can find a universal law...
but he can never write one...

the knowledge of good: and - evil...
       because it's subjectivity...
            always will be...
there can be an objective law concerning theft...
an objective law concerning killing...
but... just because it's objectively refined...
and escapes the perils of fiasco subjectivity...
it's still not a universal delight...
it's not: water boils at 100°C!
                                 gravity etc.

i can't comprehend the notion:
to drink one's sorrows away;
whenever i drink... i invite my sorrows...
and whenever i have an inkling
of being alone - there's the seance
of shadow clinging...

otherwise the go to painting;
     a drab cold nearing autumn evening...
and... rain droplets on a glass...
imitation of a george seurat...
or it's not necessarily music...
but it's a polyphony of rain teasing
leaves and a wish for tin roofs...
always that wish for tin roofs...

            will pedagogy some day...
address the need to...
      manifest itself in... a study of...
psychopathy?
    it's not somehow desirable to
know the capital of mongolia...
or whether or not albania was
incorporated into the mini-soviet
project of yugoslavia...
      but somehow knowing
whether your friend is a psychopath...
i.e. whether he has a body...
most probably thought parameters...
but... he fakes the nuisance of
a god and therefore...
is incapable of a constraint of a soul...
i was naive too many a times...
but the last time i was naive:
i became exceptional in my reaction
to it... this debilitating aura
of a robinson crusoe "syndrome"...

       just please ask for a pretty face
with an explanation of:
"stop living in the past"...
   well... so much so...
that it is in the past...
therefore: i see no future barraging
in with a me... and the same mistake...
it's not nostalgia...
it's a debilitating learning tool...
         the damage has been to grevious
that... at knife-point...
licking metal...
is enough to stun me into a freeze...
but at the same time...
conjure up a mythological serpent
ordeal... loss of eyelids...
perpetual brain-frying insomnia...
  
          the psychopath the lizard
some poor schmuck a variant of petty mammal...
it's almost like mammalian predatory
feasibility doesn't exist...
                     but when it does:

this grand celebration of the strong
preying on the weak in herds...
the grandiosity of the lion
the lean chop of diatribe herd...
unlike a feasted upon...
domestication privy...
               quote: misquote...
islam is an ideology that abhors
the concept of pork...

but... is quiet willing to pursue
passing a white flag of bite when it's
served a... caron-nibbler...
a pristine choice of protein via
a crab...
           or a lobster...
             "we" have yet to make
concessions of staging our coincidental
loot of time...

mine is... from the backward prime of
eastern "europe"...
               is romania a "south"?
       is greece not... western?
                  innocent until proven guilty
vs. guilty until proven innocent...

i am not... going to argue...
i'm not convinced by either side...
it's not like i can be: unconvinced by
a technicality of thorough greasing and
pristine fail-safe mechanisation
of replica example of a gravity churn...

but there can: if there isn't anything
concerning a must... of a debate...
that the maximus prime stage of putting
theory into practice can be...
somehow... upstaged...
      
       that drinking with others has become near
impossible... red wine aids my digestion
of facets...

            it has to be some welcome:
a fragrancy of innocence...
peppered with a lineage of redemption...
but that's hardly enough...
nor / or is... creasing paper...
before the grand oration of the kite
and a democracy of the wind...

gulf wind zero! zephyr guiding a dozen
zeppelins! my stomach churns...
a prospect of butter and -y....
lame... hand at the -shake....
               all details are somehow...
a becoming of the intra-personal...
              the devil becomes:
leftover detail.... some variation comes
to mind: deus ex machina "contra"
**** in machina...

that man is always a contest
between gods...
                 and the... man an architect...
the bridge than swallows
the canyons, whole...
with a passing that's... a nonchalance...
the pristine effort lined up
beside... a jurisprudence...
to guide a bridge across a canyon
or over a river...
but to somehow...
           grease an objectivity vs. subjectivity
quality, demand....
and express it in a quantity of
the universal...
              
thesaurus rex:
objectivity is quantitative...
subjectivity is qualitative...
                  
    a... rather than the: pursuit of "happiness"...
**** out the sun-worshippers...
   arab-cake and kale party...
           bishopric of lost nuance...
this fake before the amnesia
and some variation of the viking invasion...
    my happy-sorrow...
  my sorrowful-glad...
                             the double-thread
of hugging silver birch trees
for ulterior concepts of: the welcome project!

come 1am of a today...
and what's coming to a tow with
a tomorrow...
i must be hindering the nocturnal
markets of fresh fish of Billingsgate
from a 5am prized banquet of a yawn.

Kimartham Saatva

Slowly essence simplifies
the All Souls curious inquiry
we question and ponder
we dwell and lull our minds to wake,
grasp entreatments to effortlessly and lazily
assist the slow pull from deep in the cave.

We struggle,
strain
our muscles, wring them round
squeezing us into stress and anxiety,
anxiety's merciless choke around your throat,
smashing our hearts between guilt and shame.

Shame, you have no shame!
Good! God Bless the Shameless!

Those who fear God, don't get “it.”
They don't hear its love-filled breath through the trees
they don't feel the truth in a handful of pacific sand
they don't see epiphany in the vast, soft, rolling expanse
of the supple, green morning hills gathering the mist-fog close
to the young glitters of the valley lake,
the peace-keeping mountain peaks.
They don't think of Music of as its own universe.

When we jump off diving boards, or seashore cliffs,
those few short seconds of airborne flight-falling
Prove
We need to challenge our mortality.
Climb that mountain, that hill, that jungle gym!
Climb those cliffs, those rooftops, those fences!

Doubt is a sickly, ******* life-leech.
Fear not Doubt, nor its debilitating effects.
Fear not Love, nor the fear love may breed.

Compare nothing and no one and none.
Comparing brings the misconception of the past-you and the now-you
with the misunderstanding of the someone-else.
It's completely countereffective and can put you at a new low.
But if you compare nothing and no one and none,
the result will astound your heart and mind and eyes.
You'll jump, fall, and crash into the water quickly, and be
Enveloped by Enthusiasm Vibrant.
If nothing is compared, there will be nothing different happening than what is exactly happening at this very moment
and nothing to doubt, nothing to disappoint,
Nothing to Fear.

I am grateful for every instance of
Every temporal, circumstantial, emotional, conceptual, verbal, aural, visual change in perspective and understanding
comprehension - “getting it” - is as rare as real.
True truth is simplicity of self and possessions and ties and responsibilities;
The splendor of the Ideal Utopia is
The sacrifice of complexity and adoption of isolation simplicity.
Isolation – separation from the socially dependent on the acceptable.

The closest you could ever reach nirvana quickly:
******.
Sensual ecstasy
Tangible overload
Absolute deprivation in the convulsions of pleasure
because it's the utter absence of the sense of self.

Why else would we welcome our ******* with
Affirmative cries
oh yes yes yes!
That startle our neighbors from their lifeless slumber.
Remember, when they pound on the wall and demand that you cease your path to nirvana,
They are simply blushing in awe at your shameless approach.
They are doubting their capacity,
fearing the possibility of an inability
To Be Free.

Cast Doubt and Fear from your mind,
Maybe you've heard this before,
But in a different context.
Maybe you've been told not to doubt or question or skepticize
the concept of sin or the authority of the Bible.
I heard it all throughout my childhood.
I heard stories that incited fear and shame and guilt and confusion
and I heard lessons of love and morality and sin and authority and exceptionalism and arrogancism and mercilessness
that only made sense if taken in objectionless.
When I Thought, all I could hear in my mind was -
What the **** is all this?
Excessivity – how does the grandeur of cathedrals not nauseate you?
Obvious manipulation of the awe we possesss.

We own nothing of nature yet we insist on state and country lines,
on property, on political parties, on religious beliefs, on ****** orientation,
on wealth and health and age and wage.
Stop the ******* belief in “otherness!”
There is only ONENESS.

We delight in friendship and family and small talk and deep talk and ***
Because
They remind us
There is and is no otherness or oneness
there's only Noneness
there's only Oneness
Omni-nothingness.

As a child I did not know whether it was the act itself or the knowledge that I was the receptacle for malevolence and cruelty that made me so vulnerable. At first I thought it was God's punishment for something I had done. I took an inventory, desperately seeking the deed that triggered the retribution. But I could not identify a single act. Even my accumulated errors, transgressions and unkindness’s did not exact the cost. Then I understood: if I could not isolate a deed, or pattern of deeds, commanding the punishment, it must be me. It is not what I did. It is who I was...a fundamentally, intrinsically and irredeemably bad little girl. I negotiated my adolescence and early adulthood with the mathematical symbol for "less than" (<) attached.

I would like to be able to write that I am no longer negotiating my adulthood with the same mathematical symbol attached. But that would be a lie. It is pervasive. It is formidable. And if I do not keep it contained, I am so afraid it will be debilitating….I've been down that road a time or two. At times it has enveloped me, penetrating my pores and drowning everything essential and vital inside.

Undisturbed, it is docile, sated. But aroused by even the slightest hint of beauty or strength or grace it is a painful reminder that I am...somehow...contemptible...that I am still fundamentally, intrinsically and incorrigibly...what? Flawed, imperfect & bad? You may say, "But we are all flawed and imperfect. And our flaws and imperfections make us more interesting...more truly beautiful...more human." And perhaps you are right, but this inexorable deprivation makes me somehow subhuman... less than human...permanently broken. I am a receptacle for malice.

I skillfully deflect praise directed my way, an effort to soothe the inescapable conflict inside. Moderate praise induces a subtle twinge of embarrassment; more effusive praise incites the consuming and agonizing feeling that I am irreparably damaged, hopelessly broken. It has contaminated, compromised and diminished every accomplishment, soiled every success. People sometimes tell me that I am humble and that it is an admirable trait. But the modesty and humility they identify helps me to mask the mortification stirring inside. I have gotten so good at hiding it from others that I have nearly learned to conceal it even from myself.

At least that is what it feels like...right now.