This is a poem of a girl. A girl who is so cliché, that she needs to write angst-filled poetry to keep herself conscious and her thoughts free, but is too hipster to believe it. A girl who is too freckled to be fair, too fleshy to be flirty, too conspicuous to be classy, too prominent to be petite, but too small to be seen. A girl who’s piercing blue eyes absorbs everything and regurgitates emotions like a tampered slots machine—excessi vely and noisily. This is a poem of a girl who is so over-stimulated with color, texture, love, and life that the numbness in her head is a pink eraser. A girl who was brought up to have opinions and dreams as long as they kept her on the path to perfection, poise, and parenting. A girl who is experienced enough to know the difference between sorrow and guilt, manipulation and cowardice, hysteria and hyperventilation but is too naïve to know why certain boys are a bluish green, why math is a bafflement, and why ground up chili peppers in dark chocolate ice cream isn’t everyone’s favorite food. This is a poem of a girl who salivates at the mere thought of classical music, couture fashion, and feminine heels. A girl who breathes in culture like a caterpillar inhales hookah smoke. A girl who Alis volat propriis (flies with her own wings) but ultimately plummets to nosus decipio (Let’s just cheat) because her humanity held down her Heredity. A girl who thrives on music of every variety: as long as it can paint out her emotions in front of her. This is a poem of a girl who is so acerbically witty and harsh that she could unarm Napoleon but is so vehemently protecting that Mother Theresa herself would be awed. A girl with an attention span of a fish, short-term memory like sea foam, thoughts that outnumber armadas, and a bad habit of dehydration. This is a poem of a girl who talks but shouldn’t, speaks but doesn’t, and who is so badly burnt by the enticement of affection that her wallflower camouflage is now charred ashes around her stubby toes. A girl who has such infatuation that she could pin Lust against the wall and make Passion jealous. A girl who wears red lipstick because she knows it will keep a man’s gaze for 8.2 more seconds than with chapstick and the 50’s will never grow old. A girl too nervous and traditional to make the first move, but too strategic and over-analytical to lie back and forget. A girl who loathes the word mamihlapinatapai because it describes her every circumstance since the day she befriended the purple-brown boy who thought her personality tasted of Raspberry ice cream and to this day she still can’t pronounce it. This is a poem of a girl who needs a bed so crowded and protected with blankets and pillows that her monsters can’t penetrate her mazed-up mind. A girl who drinks tea with her lips, and philosophy with her soul. A girl who can’t spell the alphabet backwards but can make great mnemonic devices. A girl who can’t tie ends together because she doesn’t want to leave anything unsaid but whose tangents are kite-strings. A girl whose sentences are distracting fences in front of her literal eyes but doors for her mind’s eyes. A girl who has Synesthesia but keeps it quiet because of the condescending kids in kindergarten who called her a freak, and a liar. This is a poem of a girl who thinks about Death and whether he is a snatching thief or just the ferryman. A girl who dances with her eyes shut, her heart open and her toe-socks on. A girl who will clean her room at 2 am because she can’t handle the sight and the night is too lively for sleeping anyways. A girl who wears her heart not only on her sleeve, but on her chest, open as a blushing book playing poker with hockey players and still winning a game. A girl who’s emotions are kept in a Tupperware box and left in the refrigerator but if you shake it hard enough the lid just might pop open

i can only recommend that, when reading a piece of journalism, you have a book of poetry handy... gathas & sophia are in no conflict, but sure as well the resentment between gathas & diurn is best settled by reading a newspaper, with a book of poetry at hand.

i never drink to anticipate a precipitation of
words -
  i write in a non-anticipatory air -
   just like i believe in an impersonal god -
so sieve the madmen from the madmen,
and arrive at the authentic man.
              i drink, that's no surprise -
the surprise is:
    give me something worth reading
written by a sober man...
         hell, you find a dozen, you have yourself
a little party akin to christianity.
     i know that in a drinking session i'll
have a few words gushing from my silence,
i don't write these observations from
the heart: i pull them, right out, from my ***...
   as i usually compliment a day,
looking at the **** just excused from my body,
lucky for me to note:
red wine does wonders for digestion -
        the plump **** akin to just enough
fibre being digested...
  who would have thought that red wine
does miracles to a **** about to be ******* out.
one worthwhile observation thought,
in the chaos of language that is god,
the first child - gathas -
       the second child - sophia -
    the twins - vera & simi -
           and the 5th child - *diurn...
it only takes the the child named
diurn to bypass the squabbling of
ancient pleads for affection between
gathas & sophia -
          just have a book of poetry handy
when reading a newspaper article...
  philosophy is akin to poetry,
with a standard of paragraph -
          let's just say that poetry is:
philosophy - without a claustrophobia
and leisurely allowing enough
            space, to make no man myopic.
what came after diurn is best believed
as offshoot strands of *******...
         most likely encompassing
   dei: sine septem, sine mensis,
  sine annus, sine decas, sine vivo.
after all, diurn married the nymph
oblivi -
               you only learn to forget
a day, when someone decides that you
must remember it...
                deliberately...
       to remember such a day is to
enlarge its purpose, its importance...
as they say -
     videor est plus quam actum per se
ex fide dignus,
    plus nihil decipio, curo statera,
    quando curo id, alibi -
to appear is more than being an act in
      itself, out of authenticity: nothing more
than a deception worth minding,
             when minding it, elsewhere;
yes, i know, it's pig latin -
   then again, pig latin is what you get -
i still have the right to complain -
educated in a roman catholic school,
   that was too lazy to teach its students latin?!
so much for the so called "roman catholic"
school teaching the mother tongue -
   maybe that's why i never took
confirmation -
hey, baptism i was a babe,
   by first communion i was somewhat unaware
of things, but when confirmation came?
technically i was "born" a catholic,
but unlike richard dawkins...
                       i haven't been confirmed...
that book by the german author
about the gnostics -
                    that book: hooked me...
after all, the most interesting people in
christianity are the gnostics -
            i love that: surd-g 'nostics -
        'nomes whenever i grind the grr and
manage to be a linguo heretic and do add
the G - Gnome...
            Gnostic -      dia 'nostic? what's
the diagnosis on this chap, dr. hauzer?!
like i said, i know i will drink and write a poem,
obviously the quality is debatable -
but i never pull a poem out from my heart,
i prefer the ***...
           as a recurrent thought occurred -
  i'm still trying to smuggle in diacritical marks
into english, seems it would be easier
to smuggle in a dozen or so afghani sardines
or a tonne of tobacco from the ukraine -
     i first tried it with the german eszett -
   to be fused at the beginning of an english
word:
   e.g. not soma, when in fact ßtatic -
         not seemingly, when in fact ßmouldering -
     not satire, when in fact ßtrict...
not supposedly, when in fact ßpam...
          not sister, when in fact ßquare -
          but the english won't buy smuggling
diacritical marks, like i said,
sooner to smuggle a dozen afghani sardines
than a single diacritical mark.