1970 Odysseus visits cousin Patsy in New York City she introduces him to her best friend Lauren’s older less attractive more reclusive sister Tanya Mulhaney extremely wealthy family father founded corporation manufactures pinball machines which years later develop to video games then casino empire he favors and spoils Tanya but dies suddenly her envious sisters and mother gang up on Tanya is pale skinny flat-chested copious brown bush Odysseus sits in bathtub with Tanya and he probes in a way they hits it off maybe no boy has ever touched her in that way her complexion is so fragile slightest fluster prompts pink blotches on her cheeks neck chest back he admires her book smarts he’s attracted to her refined strangeness he thinks her bush and flat-chest are **** she laughs shyly offers to take him around the world he accepts Odysseus tells his parents Mom goes crazy yells into telephone what are you a ******? you father and i work like fools to send you to the best schools so you can make something of yourself you’re going to throw everything away to be a ***? i tell you we’ll disown you you won’t have a home to come back to do you hear me? we’ll disown you! she sobs how can you just walk out after all we have done for you? you ******* kid! Odysseus takes leave of absence from art school he and Tanya take Iberia jet 12 hour flight with stopover in Iceland to Belgium Tanya sinks into one of her moods swallows several pills to help her rest sitting on other side of Odysseus is curly haired skinny talkative musician claims he has jammed with Miles Davis and other jazz greats Odysseus says yeah right and i’ve shown with Johns and Twombly where exactly are you heading in Europe? musician answers he is a scientologist on his way to visit L. Ron Hubbard in England Odysseus does not know what Dianetics are and wants explanation he asks many questions and musician talks for hours they enjoy each other’s rapport as jet descends in Brussels they exchange home addresses in the States 9 months later when Odysseus returns to America a friend notices scribbled address while skimming through his travel journals Odys! how did you get Chick Corea’s address? do you know him? do you realize how brilliant he is? he’s a keyboard virtuoso! Odysseus questions Chick Corea? who’s Chick Corea? he looks at journal page then says oh that guy i sat next to him on the jet to Europe so he really is a famous musician huh? wow!

in October 1970 Brussels is damp chilly Tanya wears hip-hugger jeans black turtle-neck top North Face shell she huddles her arms around her chest smokes cigarettes looks through hotel room window out into gray overcast sky speaks in defeatist voice i didn’t bring clothes for this weather she picks at her plate in hotel restaurant glumly vacillates later in bed after refusing *** decides they leave tomorrow fly to Canary Islands for several weeks to get tan before traveling through Morocco during winter months Canary Islands are laden with Swedish tourists including bikini clad young girls many not wearing tops Odysseus is thinking about how to swing some of that Swedish free love once Tanya gets drunk succumbs to Odysseus’s ****** overtures it is good  one day while returning to hotel from beach 2 Spanish police stop and question Tanya and Odysseus police order to see their passports then command them into squad car police bark in Spanish rifle through their daypacks point a finger Odysseus can smell alcohol on their breaths Tanya and Odysseus are terrified police drive off main road to remote location abandoned ruins no one is around police order them to step out police drive off laughing Tanya’s complexion is crimson she sobs they could have murdered us no one would know who we are or where to find us we’re lost where are we? Odysseus looks around replies don’t worry we’ll be all right i watched where the driver was going we’ll retrace their trail

they fly to Tangier travel south by train Tanya is irritable insisting Odysseus carry her backpack Casablanca is ***** 3 men peer from sunglasses act suspicious wear tattered trench coats Tanya and Odysseus snack at cafe which provides hookahs for smoking hashish Odysseus scores several grams Tanya laughs suggests they rent car drive south travel to sandy beaches of Diabet for 6 weeks in the morning she paces around French hotel room with cigarette in one hand ashtray in other like she is sultry 1940’s Hollywood actress she stays in room and devours Penguin Classics Tolstoy Stendhal Proust Huysmans Zola turns out Tanya is sexually frigid she buys Odysseus anything he wants but does not put out they take train Marrakech it is sun drenched with blue skies mountains in distance Odysseus wants to go out explore get ***** with the natives he visits Medina daily witnessing many bizarre scenes he does not understand a woman squatting over an egg a man with no legs dragging himself through marketplace holding up cigarette butts in his hand he meets a professor who is out of work because king of Morocco has closed the universities due to teachers’ strike professor explains woman squatting over egg is fortuneteller and man dragging himself has been offered crutches many times yet makes more money playing off pity of tourists cigarette butts are for sale the professor invites Odysseus to visit Berbers in mountains Odysseus persuades Tanya she reluctantly agrees the 3 travel by bus in first-class front row seats vehicle filled with lively families chickens pig bus driver has assistant who lugs people onto bus or shoves them out door at a midpoint bus stops in little town everyone exits bus then men women children urinate in street local venders sell trinkets snacks Odysseus buys nibbles shish-kabob that later professor informs is roasted cat and dog they reenter bus wait suddenly butchered lamb flank is flung onto Odysseus’s lap a man climbs aboard bus stairs then grabs large carcass and heedlessly walks to back seat Odysseus wipes blood and slime off his jeans Tanya demurely giggles bus climbs mountains arrives at small Berber village professor leads them along narrow winding street of shanty huts sheltering merchants open kitchens professor tastes from various steaming iron kettles finally decides on one they are directed to rickety roof where they sit wait a boy comes up with plastic bowl filled with water and small box of Tide following professor they wash their hands then minutes later proprietor brings up simmering *** of couscous serves it with scratched raw plastic bowls no eating utensils they eat with their fingers Tanya seems bothered declines to partake she withdraws into silence after meal she becomes irritable complains of headache says she needs to return to Marrakech she remains standoffish on bus all the way to French hotel

after Marrakech they take boat trip to Italy while onboard Odysseus meets Italian Count who has an eye for him Odysseus wears Jim Morrison beat-up leather jeans Bruce Lee t-shirt scraggly whiskers Count wears thin manicured beard tiny red Speedo swim trunks Tanya grins amused Count offers Odysseus and Tanya to be guests at his villa in Milan city flourishes with stylish clothes loud lively restaurants classical sculptures covered in car pollution following several weeks of aristocratic wining and dining amazing 11 course elegant soiree Odysseus botches compliance with Count’s desires they are asked to leave Tanya laughs hysterically they board train to Germany based on Tanya’s tour book they find historic hotel with wind rattling windows coin operated hot water bath in Munich Tanya stays in room Odysseus goes to dance club meets brown-hared pale skinned German girl neither speak the other’s language he pays for hourly rated room they play German girl in animated gesturing warns him as he is going down on her but he does not understand until several days later scratching beard finds ***** seeks A-200 lice treatment German version leather pants disposed Tanya knows but says nothing she buys Volkswagen they drive through Black Forest Tanya wants to visit King Ludwig’s castles Odysseus does the driving mostly they listen to the Who’s “Who’s Next” and Joni Mitchell’s “Blue” he follows Tanya’s instructions not knowing who King Ludwig was eventually he learns Ludwig was colorful character built extravagant Disney like castles and friends Richard Wagner Bavaria is cold gray brown deep forest green scenic Swiss Alps visible in southern view they drive from Neuschwanstein to Linderhof to Herrenchiemsee then Freiburg lodge in bed and breakfasts Tanya grows restless by all the driving decides to ditch car along road in northern France as Odysseus unscrews car license by road side several cars stop French people concerned they need help Tanya is anxious hoping for clean get away from abandoning vehicle they board train to Paris Tanya speaks a little French in spring of 1971 they are backpacking in search of hotel on Left Bank it rains all morning sky is overcast Tanya reads “Pride and Prejudice” Odysseus draws in sketchbook at sidewalk café sitting next to them are older Parisian couple man detects they are Americans he turns to them expresses in English his contempt why can’t you Americans learn from France’s lessons in Vietnam? Tanya and Odysseus don’t look up they feel like dumb ugly Americans within days they leave Paris

cross English Channel by boat they find temporary apartment in Earl’s Court in London it is overcast almost every day within a month they move to larger place in Chelsea with backyard with run down English garden Odysseus weeds garden plants tomatoes lettuce carrots radishes flowers Tanya stays in her room smokes reads at night they go out to ethnic restaurants one night they visit Indian restaurant a very proper English woman sitting at next table orders exotic fruit for dessert Odysseus asks waiter what kind of fruit waiter answers mango Odysseus has never seen or tasted mango English woman delicately eats the fruit with fork and knife Odysseus orders mango for dessert he attempts to imitate how English lady proceeded fruit slips around on plate finally out of frustration he picks it up in his hands bites into it he is aroused by how luscious mango is sniffing with nose scraping fruit’s skin with front teeth then ******* the seed Tanya makes a face suddenly the seed slides from his grasp shoots across table Tanya’s cheeks neck turn scarlet voice raises stop it Odys! you’re disgusting! are you intentionally trying to embarrass me? why are you doing this? he replies i’m not doing anything to you i’m enjoying the most delicious fruit i’ve ever tasted who cares what it looks like? later she laughs about incident offers to buy more mangos promises to take him shopping at Harrods tomorrow he goes along with their arrangement until it all seems like pretty background scenery to an empty intimacy missing all his friends back at art school he writes about his loneliness he feels trapped in Tanya’s web several times he sneaks English girls into his room when Tanya jealously confronts him he admits he has had enough and wants to go back to Hartford she suggests at the least they fly to Bermuda for several weeks to get tan before returning he declines on June 30 1971 Odysseus returns to Hartford and Tanya moves to San Francisco on July 3 Jim Morrison overdoses in Paris

if you can find c. g. jung writing an answer to the biblical Hiob, i can be found writing this... or as the Lad Bible states: be your superficial you... so when she's not her superficial self... you can just play the awkward monotone speaking caveman that you weren't before she played you that superficial card of hers to tone down your interests.

you know why i'm fascinated with schizophrenics?
primarily because they are concerned with
an inorganic medical condition,
there are, absolutely, no reasons to suggests they
are organically prone to premature degeneracy,
they are what the Alzheimer old man calls an angel,
and what the "angel" experiences from time to time...
to cite a non-typical schizoid experience -
a splinter in the mind?
when i wrote my previous poem, i was listening
to the song *the parting glass throughout,
on and on and on... the rhythm took over...
and when the "poem" was finished i retracted myself
into my room and first played auld lang syne
(with lyrics and English translation)...
                           and then... the pure instrumental
of knee-deep-bagpie... bagpipes, sure, horrid,
screeching drowning-lungs of magpie
cackling cut short into a carbonated highland water...
     oh don't worry, what this comes down to
is personal experience, such negations of ease
are not like the black plague, or a.i.d.s.,
they don't come into contact with purely-riddle
human incompetence... it takes more than that...
certain conditions are not viral...
you can't interpreted them as political malevolence
akin to a political movement... primarily because
the numbers don't add up...
                    the complexity of thought is
the complexity of regarding the mind as an abstract
of the brain, given the brain has no accuracies
concerning abstraction when stated against being automated
to a pair of kidneys... i too wish for a La La Land sometimes...
but that's not the reason people allow ***** donations...
     but you know, it really gripped me,
i wrote that poem, listening to the parting glass,
and felt nothing, nothing... because i was so
formulated to write what i wrote...
  i wrote the last bit, walked into my room,
and played the second version of auld lang syne...
the royal scots dragoon guards pure instrumental...
   and you get to weep these cold tears
after an insomniac cold shivers getting warmer with whiskey...
              and whimper and bite your bottom lips...
because you're hardly a woman fainting
and the drama isn't in you...
               and it's actual tears...
people laugh and cry saharan tears, meaning: it never
rains over it...   i see Sahara as the ancient version
of the Himalayan mountain range, suddenly reduced
because god is fickle and well, aren't we all?
           if any of us are alive to read or speak such
encodings... there will be a desert made from
the Himalayas that will be called the Himalaya -
but that's really being optimistic.
       there used to be mountains, mountains in
north Africa, Gandalf! but they crumbled in deserts!
where once a mountain range, subsequently a desert...
where now a desert, once a mountain range.
can i please get a taxi to leave this current
history and Darwinistic revisionism of it as telling
us ape Adam had more psychology about him than
Charles XIV? i want to hear the geological version
of Darwinism! but am i hearing any of it? n'ah ah.
       so yes, upon hearing the scotch dragoon guards
pipe a full whiskey sodden breath into the
         bagpi - i heard the word counter to my scrambled
narrative... king... king?!
                   which is what's bewildering about
a medical term deemed premature dementia...
   it's an organic impossibility...
but given society is an inorganic organism
and all our socio-political mechanisms aren't exactly
organic, there might be some sense in this piquant
dabble in an auditory hallucinogenic experience -
which, evidently, people find frightening,
since they occupy defining their thinking with
hearing so much, and when seeing a homeless man
think so little...
                     logic? a particular arrangement of words
that does not provide kind rubrics for the testimony of
the many...
                    i can hallucinate this auditory "addition"
and competently go on my daily business,
or my nightly business finishing a bottle of scottish amber...
some people cannot...
                 what i see it western society predicating
their poor knowledge of Alzheimer's as if searching
for some genius to explain what happens to the abstract
functions of what the brain represents
                 in terms of how the brain and abstraction
can't be cleanly separated, i.e. to treat the degeneracy
of the brain as succumbed to, but not succumbing to
the elaborated foundations of the "brain"
within the trans-physical functions of the "brain"
within a framework of memory, vocabulary, memory.
people first attribute the brain with too much
           concern for abstraction when in fast the driving
force for abstraction is the now-vogue zeitgeist
"psyche does not exist" -
                            and when the brain degenerates like
a heart or a kidney can... people start to freak
out propping out a Frankenstein revival that brain
cannot in-act upon...
                                 they told us the brain is fat...
          then they tell us only 0%, or fat-free yoghurts are
good... isn't the case for the epidemic of dementia
due to the fact that we're censoring fat?
what feeds the brain? fat! what are we censoring from
our diets? fat! fat free ******* yoghurt!
                             where does the modern epidemic
stem from? censoring fat! you anorexic ******* morons!
  you know why i put extra fat in the way i cook
meals, you know what orthodox cooks tend to
like a sizzle of a lump of lard? brain food...
     and yes, some call it eating a lot of nuts...
well then... fry me a ribs-eye steak on a handful of
cashew nuts you crazy *******!
            this is what drives me crazy concerning
auditory hallucinogenic experiences...
there are no drugs that you could ever sell that people
would buy to experience an auditory hallucination...
primarily because people made thought
   an auditory experience...
                  that's the norm, i'm not talking Walt Disney
here... and people enjoy music because it feeds the heart
in a way averse to images that feed the libido
or dreaming...
    the point being, my "hallucinatory" experience lasted
for less than a second... some ***** on l.s.d. trips
for half a day because he finds modern movies boring
and finally gets to appreciate cubist contortion
mechanisations... i can do more damage with a second's
worth of "auditory" hallucination than that little
hippy can do away with 12 hours, and only end up
writing a haiku thinking he can suddenly conjure up
spirits of Shinto like some Gilgamesh *** Bruce Springsteen;
then he shaves his hair and travels to Mongolia
to learn the index against the lips motorboating
harmonica... and i end up saying: thank you;
cos it wouldn't be twangy without that kind of a tranquiliser
to stabilise excitement beyond encoding sounds.
          i can tell you how ******-up my internal
narrative has become, so i'm defeatist,
here's how it looks like when i get agitated...
               writing on a white flag...
      oh look: wavy! wavy! i'm waving it...
going boats full of nuts and bananas!
             you ever hear the story of a psychiatrist
jumping on a table and barking when a conscription
  cadet tried to fake being mad?
      she did what i just wrote and asked H. Clinton
to reiterate on the campaign trail.
                    inauguration 2017:
   i solemnly swear, that H. Clinton barked like a ruffian
poodle on the campaign trail.
  beside the point though, schizophrenia is an inorganic
manifestation of an actual organic degeneracy -
it's a negation-of-ease for dangerous people...
     people who probably have a music taste outside
the top 40 best selling albums (let alone singles)...
                   and they're quick to pick up on this grey area
concerning premature depression...
                it's trendy these days... people who are melancholic
are people who are like Homer, wrote the Odyssey
went blind from making too much heroism from
      the cannibalism at the gates of Troy and couldn't
handle telling a single lie after having written such an epic...
   or as Virgil convened: Paris didn't escape,
Aeneid did... no one knows what happened to Paris,
       probably choked on a raisin or something:
it's ancient history, if you're not going to talk about it
in a callous manner, then be prepared for careless mannerisms:
pout, **** *** cheek, shelfie!
               what i am seeing is this quote:
a butterfly on the Galapagos Islands... a Tornado in
Colorado... the poetics of quantum physics,
or misplaced potentials of counter-quantifiable
simultaneous counter-interpretations...
    the butterfly effect? under the umbrella corporate
otherwise known, from ancient times: a metaphor.
hey, we started reading into hydrocarbons,
there's no way to talk easy for us...
                           for all my love for one inspiration,
i lost my love for him when he said that not tying your
shoelaces (i.e. spelling) was because he thought it was
indoctrination... you know who i mean: Mr. Chow Chewski...
   spelling? that's like tying your shoelaces!
         question is... who would ingest a hallucinogenic
drug that didn't utilise the multi-coloured world to
an excessive amount to be prescribed, say, an U.V.
phosphorescent spectrum of seeing... when, given all
that... sound occupies this realm of b & w?
               who could create an auditory hallucinogenic?
can you imagine it?
                             most people with a weakened cognitive
membrane would go nuts... as the case has been proven
many a times...
        but given the fact that no such hallucinogenic exists,
or that "auditory" / cognitive hallucinations are
disregarded even though Descartes stressed this
   notion of a substance / thought, and an extension /
       sensual disparities with regards to cohesive uniformity,
i.e. regarding over-stressing a particular sense
      and never reaching a former cohesion...
           can only mean a circumstance later described
by Kant within the framework of the noumenon -
    i.e. perhaps you've seen too much, but heard too little...
perhaps you've tasted too much, but had barely a sniff of
                  more...
        the original thought when exposed to a cohesion
of uniformed senses, experiencing a discohesion of
             a presupposed sensual "uniformity",
returns back into a form of thought, i.e. an extension...
                only because the thing in question is a
presupposition, not a supposition that can be countered
with a proposition, i.e. since we all made mistakes
presupposing, we have become prone to propositions to
suppose otherwise... in terse terms: invent politics.
so what i termed "auditory" and "hallucination"
and conflated them in a prefix of cognitive-, in consolidation
i meant to say that: once all presuppositions (thoughts)
disappear by the miraculous ape that man either is
or wishes himself to still be... and we deem to say:
   reality...                 we only have suppositions (extensions)
               that appear...
                         by the miraculous ape that man never
was and wishes himself to nonetheless be:
  in that consolidatory ref. to the last trinity of Cartesian
thought: substance - in the former the formation
of will... in the latter the complete lack of it -
                              to the simpler scenarios,
we already have knowledge of prisons and asylums...
            because internalising such possible scenarios
never leaves the many to be grafting such possibilities
with enough calm as to persevere for the sole purpose
of understanding, as what point can a noumenon-unit
enter the argument if not from a reflex
                       as this continued narration explains...
none of this was reflected upon...
reflection in such circumstances usually means weaving
a machete at your neighbour...
                                  the noumenon-unit
the ping-pong factor in all of this is a reflex action...
         not a reflective action...
               i am no king no more than i am a pauper...
   now imagine if i tripped for 12 hours on l.s.d.,
having extracted so much, from an "auditory" "hallucination",
that, in the realm of the mind, is neither a minute,
nor a second, nor a nanosecond...
               it's unitary equivalent is simply that of: a word.

Words Studied For This Writing:
------------------------------------
English: Zoup, please.
What it sounds like in German: Die Zoup bitte "Or" The Zoup? Bitter.
English: Uh, the night tea is great!
Pronounced in German sounds like: Eww. Is nachte. It's Gros "Or" Eww! Is nasty! It's gross!
English: Here.
Pronounced in German: Here.
English: Ha! I see an icky Sir's downin' Zoup.
German: Huh? - Ick- Taste. -Sie - An Icky herran down en Zoup
English:Yes.
German: Ja "Or" yeah
English: Skinny rides here. Skinny? Hmm.. horseback.
German: Dunne fahrten hier, Dunne. Hmm?  Holtzit back! Or.. Do not **** in here; do not! Hmm?  Holds it back!
English: Oh! I beg!
German: Oh! Ich bitte "Or" Oh! It's better!
English: Come back, Father.....
German: Comeback, Vatter "Or" Come back, Fatter
English: Nexxinline
German: Next in line.


Let's make a story with this .

First Act

-Enter Customer 2 in an American diner. She orders a
unique zebra-flavored soup called Zoup, created on American soil, but it's claimed to have had its origins in a restaurant located in Worms, Germany; as per usual proud fashion.

Customer 2 to Rude Waitress: "Zoup, please."

She sipped the complimentary drink placed before her as she awaited her order. Iced tea, ***** glass. It was reportedly their best tea, brewed by the Barista on the night-shift, whom did only speak in broken English and Spanish. Therefore, when the customer enjoyed her tea, she was glad it was nightfall and privy to the better drink and expressed her approval.

Customer 2 to Night-Shift Barista in simplified language:

"Uh, the night tea is great!"

The Barista nods politely.

Rude Waitress, apparently jealous because she makes the Day-shift tea, is curt to Customer 2:


"Here." she growled, slamming the Zoup on the table.

Things get quiet.

Just then, Customer 2 recognizes a crusty man who claims to have been knighted in a former life before joining a Native American tribe. She addresses him sardonically.

Customer 2 to Crusty Man

:
"Ha!" " I see an icky Sir's downin' Zoup!"

Crusty Man responds, unmoved:

"Yes."

Customer 2 cautioned him that he was being tracked by the infamous international assassin, Skinny.

Customer 2 to Crusty Man in mock Native American tongue:


"Skinny rides here ...

Crusty Man: "Skinny?"


Customer 2 (deepening voice)

"Mmm, horseback."

She makes gestures with her hands of a man riding a horse.
And follows it up with mimicking a successful hit on Crusty Mans life, complete with tongue hanging out of mouth.

The rude waitress then pleads to a deceased priest aloud to return to save them whilst making holy gestures frantically.

Rude Waitress to a deceased Holy Man:

"Oh!" "I beg." "Come back, Father...
Father Nexxinline?"

End First Act


This Final Act was created using the same exact words used in the English language, those in  quotations that is, as were in the First Act: but then translating them into German, the conversation then became a bit more humorous. The Background was filled in to fit the context of the meaning of the words sonic qualities, as certain German words sound similar to English words, though they generally have different meanings. The German word sounds brought a whole new meaning to the English words spoken, and with this contrast I finished the Final Act. Since most do not know how to pronounce certain words and dialects of German language, I took the sounds created within the language and converted them to English words of phonetic similarity. These words were not translated back to English, as that would put the conversation exactly where it began -I rather made them easier to perceive.

Background Final Act/. Skinny from First Act is now in a diner in Worms, Germany, (pronounced like Vorms with  a V.)

We begin with Skinny's response to being asked how is the Zoup by the German Waiter.

Skinny dryly to German Waiter: "The Zoup?" "Bitter."

He takes another spoonful into his mouth.

Skinny: "Ewww!"  "Is nasty!" "It's gross!"

Skinny to German Waiter in disgust: "Here!"

And he pushes the bowl of Zoup into the waiters face.


German Waiter to Skinny expressing consternation

: "Huh?"

Skinny commands him: "Taste!"

The waiter does so reluctantly and winces in clear disgust.

Skinny:

"See?" " Icky heron down in Zoup!"

German Waiter to Skinny knowing German Zoup  is flavored with heron, not zebra, and failing to see the point retorts

: "Yeah?"

Skinny then crude and vengeful 'expresses' a good one from his basest dwelling silently; but deadly with a grin. It was a most foul smell.

The waiter is exasperated with this crudeness and makes commands of his own.

German Waiter to Skinny

:
"Do not **** in here!" 'Do not!"" Hmm?"  "Holds it back!"

The odor horrid reached culmination with another waft of steam from Skinny and  resulted in the excommunication of Skinny.
Skinny yet found himself vindicated and agreed to leave the establishment as was demanded. As he exits in self satisfaction, our waiter tells him not to forget his Zoup and the prideful waiter Stolz mocks him in jest by spooning a mouthful into his jabbering jowls, as he does, he turns pale and ill and silenced, reassuring Skinny he had a reason to be disappointed.

The German Waiter refusing to admit defeat tells him:


"Oh, it's better!" Referring to his bias to the Zoup from Worms, which should be renamed Houp, but the words don't translate that way.

THEN Stolz realized his best customer, Skinny's hefty brother, Fatter, was running out the door in an attempt to escape the stench which lingered and but grew in force, and the waiter pleaded with him to return.

German Waiter to Skinny's brother:

"Come back, Fatter!" but Fatter kept running and giggling sophomorically.

The German Waiter to a diner full of people gasping for fresh air and no desire for Zoup at this moment said in defeatist sheepishness, gulping before asking wishfully... pouting, whispering:


"Next in line?"

I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.

I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.

I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.

I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.

I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.

I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.

I am a Citizen.

Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a ****, a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;

A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.

Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,

I'm elastic.

Hope.

It is our duty.

Pray then, with me.

That those influential,
The decision makers,
The great leaders,
Public figures and speakers,
Intellectuals and all
Whom the spotlight warms,
Deserved or no,
Wake one day without hope.

Just one day is all I ask
Enough to in the following bask

They are infinitely small.

May despair shrink all
To their proper size.
Let the greatness of Earth,
Heaven and all of the Other
Overtake all and smother
Pride.

Let hopelessness all ignorance divide.

One day
To see themselves in those they detest.
One day without purpose
To give evil and folly a rest

Deconstruct their great wants
Oh, Defeatist.
Replace in our hearts
Love with completeness.

Lend an ear to these words.

Just one despondant day
To end all of the ploys.
Allow us to join the animals in the woods
With their small, eternal joys.

Lonely part of me,
***-starved and kamikaze,
Will need only you.

i.

i really want to write this like a poet, but i'll probably
ramble on, i want to create this poetic haiku
or what one might call a punchline
in a joke, i will, obviously,
           i will (obviously) provide
how the alternatives would look like,
but sometimes i think that the poet
is enraged by the idea of the narrator:
or the consolidator of personae -
defeatist poets write from a personae
perspective, as if each poem is
a new and nuanced character -
a nuance of the narrator,
   yes: not novels, a plateau of literature
that poetry is...
           the setting is unknown,
but these people simply congregate
and say something, akin to the burning man
festival, and then return to their
day jobs...
          i don't know why poetry is less and less
resonating with music: maybe because
the old critique of poetry being faced off
with philosophy doesn't make sense
given that there's this rainbow of musical
tastes and the general diversity?
looking at the classical circumstance of
poetry vs. philosophy makes no sense
when the *logos is removed and the phonos
is inserted in its place...
   bad grammar, bad spelling... why look for
meaning in words in the almighty sphere
of all things holy, when in the trenches
   people are shooting bullets not at targets
but at empty space?
    that's why i love the notion that writing
can become something akin to a will to power:
the power over not of those illiterate -
urbanism has dissolved such a concept...
  we became literate in order to read adverts:
or the iconoclasm of the alphabet:
pretty coca cola nearing arabic for all
those magpies out there...
           the myth goes that the magpie spotted
the shimmer of a silver spoon and stole it
and as the debate of the fates go:
i was to marry a rich woman and leverage
myself into a calm suspense... but it wasn't
to be. such is the case: when writing
can become as difficult as arithmetic of numbers,
and certain blemishes on the fountain head
of humanism that's literature can provide
the right arithmetic complexity...
   given that, what could possibly be the sum
total of this "poem"?
  the irony of the cartesian 1 + 1 = 2...
                in terms of meaning? in a polyverse
   of the what if? universe?
        a cinema better than the Hollywood industry...
that could fit into my concept of man enduring
for eternity, even with the vain hope of challenging
his mortal frailty... have a historiological cinema
of the what ifs... i'd sit in there and be like: wow!
Adolf graduated from the Vienna Art School
and world war two didn't happen?
    the treaty of Versailles wasn't a version of
colonial powers against expansionist politics
concerning a European nation? wow!
they basically didn't join the club of colonial power,
and they were punishing the colonial powers of
the time... or that's how i see it:
i don't see myself needing to ascribe myself
to pronoun pluralism in any shape or form:
it just breeds some overt concept of paranoia;
and obviously this has nothing to do with the title,
because it i shunned the narrator, i'd be a poet,
and if i wrote a cutiepie version of this
i'd feel hungry for not having played the piano
long enough while tipping a glass of whiskey
into my mouth... just is the curse of
enjoying typing: hurrah for our loss of handwriting
and that beautiful circumstance of writing
words with connectivity - by modern standards
undecipherable as if Hebrew or acronyms
and emoticons: puncture after puncture and nothing
concerning waves or serpentines of encoded talk...
beautiful... absolutely beautiful.
  the new form italics? syllable-ism, to stress,
punctuation marks in words: beau-ti-ful!
there, goes a weeping pair, that's Ludovico Arrighi
& Aldus Manutius...
    and what i do understand, and it's pivotal,
take the concept of a narrator out of the prosaic mosaic
and take away the concept of personae out of
poetry, and mould the two together...
you get an implosion worthy of a Hiroshima...
a bit like what the Beatles conceded too after
releasing their revolved album... they stopped
live touring... they had an implosive moment
and said: as any artists in the background,
we are the invisible hands of the plumbers
who connected toilets to the pipes: hey presto!
the Beckton ****-stink on the A406...
poetry can become this...
        it can also become something akin to:
etymology is a version of archeology,
although there's no physical space to engage with it,
   and i know why Heidegger turned the word
being into beyng... it's not a mutilation
of the word, he was practising a version of
archeology (not etymological) in that he was
excavating (as archeologists do) an archaic word
from the modern equivalent... Sherlock Holmes
of the black forest... found an amber tear
                      wedged in a tree...
i never know why they called it the Baltic sea...
i'd change it... i'll start calling it the Amber Sea...
given so much amber can be found on the shorelines
of it...
             and yes, this prompted the additional bits
in the title: considering the idea that it's twice as important
as what i will eventually write with dues for
the lightning bolt's worth of a title...
    language has to be mandible, language has to
be plasticine... it can't be dittohead bound -
strict, regulated, ivory encased in a museum hush...
   esp. if it doesn't need something controversial to
be spoken... exactly at that point...
          what was i originally intending?
            language as form archeology? perhaps...
no! no no no... the pro-life vs. the pro-life debate...
    a destitute woman, perhaps a *******, perhaps
a woman who was *****...
                         as the laws in Poland currently stand:
she has to give birth...
      i never said i agreed with the stranglehold of
my "brethren", i simply said
           bilingualism as a rhinosaur (dino remnants?)
        stampede against multiculturalism...
what is the perspective? i respect the culture that
assimilated me, only through having the capacity
to speak the language of the culture i was born in...
    multiculturalism has no respect for its
host culture, the multicultural argument goes:
if i speak good enough English, i'll still be able
to wear Pakistani pyjamas in public...
it's the hijab wearing English-pristine girl who
knows ****-all arabic: but speaks good English,
so she's assimilated well enough...
       and there's me... when everyone is going
muddles berserk in their groin regions
     flirting with bisexuality... so few flirt with
bilingualism... well: how could all that fucky-sucky
go to waste, eh?   multiculturalism doesn't work
if the person attempting integration doesn't
have a moderation minder,
    if you don't respect your own original society
in the least, as in: ensuring you keep your
mother tongue and do the utmost to speak two
languages... multiculturalism of people who
don't do this are just plain lazy...
   lazy!           is that an excuse if you were born
in a host country? only if your parents were
so worked up thinking that knowing two languages
was a disadvantage... and so the byproduct
of all things that aren't part of the multicultural
franchise... if you have no respect for your mother
tongue / culture when moving to a different
country... you don't have respect for your
country of birth... or in a more succinct way said
by Napoleon: a man who knows two languages
is worth two heads... etc.
       ah, the debauchery of narrating and not
orientating yourself around creating characters...
bliss... and also the main reason poets feel guilty
about writing poetry... the missing characters.
but onto the title and the main point i was going
to make...

ii.

over an egg.

iii.

can't we simply argue the point
between pro-life and pro-choice
over breakfast of scrambled eggs?
or poached eggs... or fried eggs...
or eggs boiled for 5 minutes
so the yoke is all runny?

iv.

and they said there's no purpose to
abortion...
         the most popular food of
choice for breakfast... is an abortion.

v.

i'd say... make sure those pro-life protesters
stop eating eggs...
           they're eating abortions...
but ****... can you imagine anything
                          more yummy than an egg?
don't worry, Darwinistic existentialism
of furthering the human question
   has already been answered by an abundance
of the Mandarin and the Sanskrit population.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Early morning sunlight barges through the curtain holes
There is no hiding after
All the misgivings of last night and all nights before
Must disappear faster

Light is beckoning you unto itself
Tears must be swept under the rug
Light illuminates as is on rich and poor
Could it be your only wake up hug?

So grab her hand and walk into the light
Make her your own
Leave the banalities of this world behind
Don't miss, don't mourn

Chaos is a ladder to a more conducive unknown,
A daredevil chance at advancement and progress.
Maybe it’s defeatist to react to it with scorn.

Being in the belly of the beast’s sickening to the bone,
Discomfiting and a tad demeaning, fraught with distress
Chaos is a ladder to a more conducive unknown.

One might wonder how much one can condone.
Being caught in the crosshairs is the best moment to assess.
Maybe it’s defeatist to react to it with scorn.

A stiff upper lip to mask a frown
Will keep the peace so as not to appear under duress
Chaos is a ladder to a more conducive unknown.

It’s fairly hard to be attuned to adversity, everyone’s a greenhorn
Nevertheless, it should spur us to be hot on the heels of success
Maybe it’s defeatist to react to it with scorn.

Superstition takes one’s eyes off the prize, hence likely to bemoan
Fallibility rather than take the bull by its horns; a caricatured mess
Chaos is a ladder to a more conducive unknown,
Maybe it’s defeatist to react to it with scorn.

Surrender if you can't do
or
render if you want to
there is no place
for a defeatist, a flaccid mace.

Cry if you feel so
or
try if you can take the blow
no one remembers the grey
the ashes are forgotten in the tray...

Lie if you feel insecure
or
die in the quest to procure
the wind gratifies the soul
who walks against it with a hunger for galore

Defy if you can't take the heat
else
Comply if you expected the beat
don't sulk and forfeit the game
stand steady and take all the blame

Unite if you dare to share
else
Divide if you can't be fair
The trophies just shine for a while
Later, they gather dust in the exile

Believe if it invades your sleep
else
Relieve if it's beyond your keep
Don't make promises, you cannot tend
Don't demean the hopes, you cannot transcend

Walk the road for the sake of the journey
And
Talk if your words quench their yearnings
There is no pride in yelling the sermons to the mass
the words will finally bounce back and hit you at last....

I'll never overcome these scars
Riddling my body like prizefighters
I've watched the sky fall at midnight
And clouds race to the horizon
Felt the sting of a scorpion
Licked the venom from a snake
******* too many
Cautious too much
Wasted the chances
Ruined it all
Tasted defeat
Only to savor the taste

I've missed those I shouldn't have missed
And left the ones that stitched to my side
Kissed you moments too late
Laid dead flowers on your pretty grave
Left myself hanging from the swinging noose
******* too many
Cautious too much
Wasted the chances
Ruined it all
Tasted defeat
Only to savor the taste

Overstayed my welcome
I'm always leaving too soon
******** too many
Cautious too much
Wasted the chances
Ruined it all
Tasted defeat
Only to savor the taste

I’m too tired
I’m too scared
I’m too busy
To freaking care
My kids need food
I’m to poor
And I’m hungry to
Thats why things
Never change
And you know
It’s true
The struggles
Never end
No time to mend
We seldom get second chances
To start again
Life keeps us on
A broken hamster wheel
Round and round until
We feel
Breathless
And
Powerless

The clock doesn’t tick,
I forgot to change the batteries,
again.

The humidity seeps in from outside,
I left the window open,
Again.

The air conditioning remains off,
I lost the remote,
AGain.

The weight I longed to lose never left,
I cheated on my diet,
AGAin.

The world left me behind,
I forgot to participate,
AGAIn.

Things could have gotten better,
I didn’t even bother,
AGAIN.

God Almighty. It puts the fear in you.

Jesus Christ. Again?

Yes, again. Don’t be a ***.

Oh please.

Jesus.

A hanging silence.

You know William Paley?

No. Go on.

Oh. Paley’s Watch?

******* go, James.

Uh, Paley’s Watch is a theory that the universe is too complex to exist by chance, and therefore there must be a creator. I mean, just like the existence of a watch presupposes a watchmaker ‘cause it’s too complex to be there by chance.

And you eat that?

Yes, or something similar. What offends you so ******* much anyway? So I believe-

It’s defeatist. Jesus Christ, the only reason you and anyone else believes this dogshit is ‘cause you’re ******* terrified of dying, and the reason a ******* graveyard puts the fear into your thick skull is ‘cause you want to join them when you croak. That’s what it is, it’s ******* insurance.

Another silence.

Okay. Alright, fine, it’s insurance. But I am playing this insurance, see, into my benefit. I believe in the creator, and if it turns out he’s watching me he’ll put in the good word and I spend my afterlife in eternal sunshine, and if he’s a scam like you say it is I join you in blackness or hellfire. I win either way.

Oh, very faithful, doggy. Arf arf.

Oh, for the love-

What’s life worth if you’re so sure where you’re going? I reckon I’d rather drink and steal **** and burn in hellfire than **** away my life in the service of some shitbird in the sky who may or may not exist.
Jesus, mother-

Stop ******* blaspheming.

********, James.

You steal my eyes
And it's okay, I don’t even need them
I don’t want to see anyone but you anyways

You take me for granted
You take me for reasons known only by you

You pierce my heart, now it's useless
But, I don’t even really need it
It belongs to nobody other than you

You cut out my tongue,  and I’m left speechless, a defeatist
But , it's okay my lips need only to say your name
And I’ll waste away, to nothing at your feet again

I’m hollowed out, can’t you see?
You’ve ripped out the soul from within me
Now, I have little to show for anything
When you take me for granted the way you always do...

Nothing worthwhile is easy
Life is difficult
You have to challenge yourself
To exceed no expectations
To fail with grace
Not regret
It is not over yet

So What Is … " Strength " … ???
And What Is … " Weakness " … ?!?

Well Strength Is NOT Within HARD HEADS ... !!!!!

Who ALWAYS Tend To Have REGRETS ...
About The Things They're QUICK To Express ...

That's WEAKNESS To Me … !!!
Making Speeches Lacking Deepness ... !!!!!

Just To Be …
Some Kind of … " CHIEF " … !!!

The Kind Whose Speeches PROVE They're WEAK … !!!

The Type Who Like To CONTROL Mics …
Because of FEAR That Their … " Veneer " …

Will Be EXPOSED When TRUTHFUL Quotes ...
Expose The Dope Shuvved' Up Their Nose … !!!!!
WEAKNESS Is Shown By Minds Now BLOWN ….

By … Class A  Drugs And Wannabe Thugs …
Who ACT ALL TOUGH When They're DRUGGED UP … !!!

But Physical Strength Doesn't Make You STRONG … !!!
TOO MANY Men Now Are … " Strong And WRONG " … !!!
BEATING UP ON Their Children's MOMS … ?!!!?

These Men Are WEAK And That's REAL SPEAK … !!!!!

Would These Men BEAT Their OWN Mommy … !?!
Ask Them THAT And You'll See Them … CRACK … !!!!!

I KNOW That's FACT Just Ask MY DAD … !!!

So Many Hide Behind Their PRIDE … !!!
Until They're Asked To … MARK THEIR Card … ?!?

ACTING HARD Is WEAKNESS MASKED ...
Behind A FACADE ... Like KU KLUX Guards … !!!!!!!

I'm English Born So KNOW The Score …
About RACIST Hoards Who Are WEAK For Sure … !!!!!

The Type Who SMILE And Act ALL NICE …
Who Wear No Masks But Have WEAK Hearts ...

Well As Time Transcends ...
Black Brown And White Still Hide Behind …

... IGNORANCE And PRIDE  … !?!?!

"Mate, you're alright, it's just your friends who I don't like !"

"Don't you mean my kind ?
If you don't like, them, can you really like me ?"

What Kind of Strength Lies In Deceit ... ?!?

Now That Modern Slavery's Reached London's Streets ….
Who Amongst The Sheep's Willing To Speak About MP's … ?
And Their Devious Deeds And YES About IGNORANT Police … !!!

Well THAT MAN ...
Would Seem To YES Be … ME … !!?!!

But Is it Strong Or Weak … ?
To Speak Against Those Who HOLD Control … !!!

Especially When THAT So Called … " THEM " …
Are More FRIGHTENED of Blacks With STRENGTH … !!!
  
Than Those Who CLAIM To … " Hate Our Race ! " …

Yeah I'm Talkin' Bout' Blacks Who Like To … " ACT " …
As If They're PROUD When They Ain't … " James Brown " … !!!!!

Godfather of Soul A TRUE Funk HERO … !!!
Whose Strength Turned GOLD And PLATINUM TOO … !!!

But Who In TRUTH's Stepped In His Shoes …
And Aired His Views … On Black Issues … ?!?!?

Okay There's Been
The Odd ... One Or Two …

But In England WHO … ???
Has Made A Strong Stand As A Black Man … ?!?
And Had His People ... SUPPORT Him …
Like Malcolm X ... or ... Doctor King …. !!?!!

Blacks Seem To NEED To See Blacks BLEED … !!!
Before They BELIEVE That We NEED TO SEE …

More UNITY ... EQUALITY …
More STRENGTH of MIND And LESS Gun Crime ... !!!

Is it STRONG To **** One of Your Own … ?!?
Or Is That The Will of A WEAKENED Soul … !?!

Bowing Down To Those Who STILL KEEP Hold ...
of Chains and Whips Like … " Days of Old " …

My Heart's Turned COLD Because I Now KNOW …
That I'm Getting Weak ... As My Youth Goes ….........................

I Guess My Prose …
May Seem Well … DEFEATIST … ?!?

Well That's Because I No Longer Know ….
And REALLY Can't Tell What TRULY Defines …

….. " HUMAN " …..

" Strength or Weakness ? "

I learned this in undergrad; That I'm a "yes person" defined. In self-defeatist monotony, I think I burned out my mind.

Hypocrisy personified, notebooks filled with lies. Prerequisites were full of ****. Required, to them, didn't apply.

Monopolistic macroeconomies, business school taught me to hide. A complete lack of self-reliance, an endless search for a diagnosis.

Cross-tabulate, over-analyze. I swore to them, "I'm fine." But, what's an existential crisis? I'm just asking for a friend.

Procrastinate to copulate, never finishing on time. My inability to articulate, dying to feel alive again inside.

Hesitation turned desperation, finally deciding to speak my mind. It only took me five years to admit that I was just too starved to shine.

and i know i'm comin off
just a little bit defeatist
bout how they toys and elitists
and enjoy all the *****
but i'm tryn tell
you i really dig u
and ur fine as hell
ill even wash ur dishes

I was never going to be that person,
you know, the one tightly closed like a rosebud
pushing away all signs of blooming
the gloomy defeatist drenched in the blood
of the past like an English economy booming

I was never going to be that person, I decided
at eighteen, black jeans, idealistic and slightly misguided
I never understood the funny commitment-phobe trope on TV
not even when I got into poetry
and saw someone language fantastic weave webs of words about feeling dead
I could never get my head around it

I was going to be passionate and opportunistic forever
feeling everything to the very core of my being
I figured detachment was something that they felt
when they decided somehow to give up believing
and that pushing someone away was a choice
unearthed by some sudden urge to fly
and if you don't give fear a voice
it can't swell and crash and block out your sky

But you don't just stop seeing good in the world
and it starts innocuous, easily dismissed
they don't like me, he didn't call back
okay, move on, you won't be missed
They don't mean to hurt you and you know that
but you become the person who doesn't call back
It happens like that, careless encounters that you couldn't care less about,
in fact you prefer it this way, never stay over,
never let anyone stay over, always play the game
and always win, never care much, never care enough
It's what everyone's doing, it's meant to be fun, and love,
well, what is love anymore?
You don't know. And that's when you lie to yourself at night
because half of your bed is cold and the places you go,
they get old, and people finding excuses to leave
leaves you unable to stay awake or sleep.

So I became that person.
I didn't mean to, it weaves between vague memories not important enough to catch a hold of you for a second,
and apathy is easier than fear and loathing I reckon
and second guessing is second nature
I was a creature of habit who accepted nothing greater
but my walls had blocked out fear and anxiety;
no waves of panic nor joy could break the fortress in me.

I became the tightly closed rosebud,
and when I met you I still was
when your expectations are on the floor, you don't feel worthy of anything more
So it was fun at first,
with no expectations came freedom,
my nerves quelled by a casual reassurance that this would lead to nothing better or worse,
calmed by my own demons.
And then you said that you loved me.

And the walls didn't immediately crumble,
and my eighteen year old self would've grumbled
and not understood me at all
And the fear raged like a tidal wave over my sky and around me
and I boxed myself in and bricked myself up
Immune to the pain and the joy that had found me.

You reached through the sea and you banged on the walls and you screamed and you screamed and you screamed,
and I could only love you from a distance,
or else drown in the storm I'd dreamed into existence.
I placed my hands against the walls and felt you on the other side,
I thought you'd have gone by now,
left on an outgoing tide,
but you still said that you loved me.

I couldn't face the storm alone so I shut it out and shut myself down
but it hadn't swept you away and you clearly weren't afraid to drown.
How anyone could cling to walls like that I never understood,
but I started to build a door from bits of old driftwood,
You told me from the outside that it wasn't as bad as it seemed,
the storm was quieting a little and the horizon gleamed
I built that door with everything that I had, gluing together bruised and barkless branches
working towards a time where we could stand together on the threshold, facing the whirling ocean
a time where I could turn to see that the door was not still broken.

Opening up that driftwood door was like waking up from a dream,
you stood there smiling, relief painted across your weather beaten face, seawater still dripping from your hair,
and the threshold was mine to step across,
that little step toward solace, scary storm be ******;
and we stood together, facing the ocean.
It wasn't whirling but reflecting sunlight for the first time since the walls went up,
and I turned to you and said
I love you.
And then I started blooming.

He just dreams craves to be nothing
soars he never on ambition’s wing
a win for him is not even worth
he’s happy to be a loser from birth!

He talked so little they thought him shy
the teachers caught him looking at sky
never won a reward or a good grade
but you know of loss he isn’t afraid!

A good job wasn't meant to be his
a girl to love him lend him a kiss
the one he took fancy soon took flight
found another guy winner and bright!

He doesn’t regret not having a fat purse
his lack of aim and mediocrity’s curse
he would rather give away the game
retrieve from dust a windblown poem!

They call him a loser a defeatist a flop
a toddler lifelong while others gallop
he is contented with his chosen pace
happy to look around not run the race!

There are only so many poems to write about heartbreak
only so many ways to say "I love you and I hate you"

Only so many ways to personify the Night and hold her accountable
for the thoughts she shoves down one's throat, fear-dripping and cold

There are only so many ways to reach out in metaphors
desperately grabbing at any emotions their words might stir

There are only so many poems to write about being a stupid kid
with a mixed-up head and a heaving heart
with a cynical mind and a disappointed shout
and only so many ways to cry it out

Only so many half-smoked cigarettes and sweet perfumes
Only so much room for oxygen tanks and desperate goodbyes
It's getting crowded here with heavy clothes and defeatist tones

But there are so many of these murky nights
and only so many ways to get by

The flame
In his chest
The same
To the rest
But twisted
As he was
Blessed
But gifted
With inferiority
And was horribly
Conflicted
Of the message
He was meshing
With the decrepit
Feeling
Of his fleeting
Half stepping
To the
Recollections
Of his blessings
That he was tempted
To dissect
From the crowd
Inflicted
Despite the
Shroud
Of clouded
Bouts
Torn from
The panicked ****
Of the phobias
He knew they were scared of
And glared
Right through them
Before he opened up
His coat
And started shooting
Proving
Others wise
In the silent
Reprise
Of 45's
And nines
He smiled
In the exile
Of fear
Escaping
Through
The fading
Lights
Of dying eyes
In the wild
Surmise
That with each
Trigger squeeze
Eased him
Into shame
As he
Aimed
To please
For the release
Of lives
Crawling
For the
Finished
Lines
And in gorgazmic
Slitherings
He delivered
The final blows
With power ups
And scores
Progressing
The killing
As he reloads
With shrilling
Grins
And stints
Of compassion
Fashioning
The rationed
Satisfaction
He received
From the screaming
Mothers and babies
Brothers and maybes
Splattering
On the plastic trees
Of escalators
And skeezes
That laid shuttering
Headless
Upon the exits
Of his
Insurrected mind
And he was just fine
With dying
In kind
And he was just fine
Shining from
The shrine
Of Santa
In a sonata
Of solidarity
To the led
Soldering morals
In a story
Of victory
And of
Personal glory
For the lords
Of defeat
Seething
In the completeness
Of a defeatist
As he stuck
The heaters
In his mouth
And was out
Without
One doubt
As to what
Nothing
Means

Defeatist dread
sits in the pit of my stomach.
I'm weighed down,
like a brick tied to my hope
dragging me to drown.

I feel so choked
every expression is strained
strangled in my throat.
If I could sing or could scream
I would let you know.

Is it apathy,
that grounds me to despair
or the horrid prospect
that deep down
I already knew the end.

I can keep adrift,
breathe through make-shift
gills.
but I can't tread water.
webbed-less
not weightless.

Either the black balloon of your tune has popped
Or our love has taken a turn for the worst n' stopped
Either the night bird has gone deaf n' struck dumb
Or our love is no longer light and ain't worth the sum
I'm seeing the sure tell signs as I step away
Some day I hope I remember the way we were sweet May
Plainly the particulars were paraphrased oh so poorly
Written in black scribbles as I scratched myself with rusted thimble
I reached inside with a hidden pride
But retrieved empty parcels shattered into morsels
Neither the night knows me nor the sun which hangs high
You were the one I needed even though I at times did despise
The paths of ours were marked from the start
Like a captain at sea standing naked in the dark
See the hot wheel disillusioned defeatist unbuckling his gun
Hear the wind when the thing used to be young
A young woman with your heart never turns out to be much fun
I took a step in the right direction
And looked up to the sign which pointed broken n' sore
My eyes pinched in a ten second cinch
And when I made out the letters lined in black as crow
They read "Anywhere is where yah' need to go"
Cat whisker rustles during the midnight hustle
Of the mad hatter heroines and fire men who can't stay sane
Each store front is filled with the finest of the modern wares
When you look at me don't you know that you stare?
Upstairs the bed boards don't creak when you speak
With magic and morose you can tell yourself honestly
There ain't no place else to live except with Her majesty
Stuck in a moment that I can't seem to want to live without
I sit down alone in the crowded bar room to order a stout
To the left of me is a women entranced by another man's stance
And to the right of me is a crumbling bumbling bitter romance
Either I'm in the right place and I am home at last
Or I better stand up and get outta' here fast
So the hours that past weren't ever mine to for see
And the past is just another kind of disease
I guess the talk is never better then the walk
And the voices that whisper in tight alley corners
Are truly meant to be sheathed and tagged by the coroners
Sit near the clock to hear the bartender pant n' heave
The sight of his fear is something you wouldn't ever believe
The way he washes ever glass as if he's pulling the mast
With ten nickels and thirty cigarettes you'd think he'd never bicker
Dear angel neat easy winged and breathing
Fly through my window tonight
I'll read from atop this tree just you an' me
Right through the twilight which Heaven has even caught sight
Please don't smile for I know that you think this is a joke
I'll tie the knot if I'm lying and I'll even buy the rope

Now where is there to go?*
                                         \\
                                           *No where is there to go.

To my mate Stevo....with love*

‘Tis perilous, Sir, to write our thoughts to paper,
To commit our living words to those unknown,
For regardless of the flair expressed in writing all with care
The interpretation’s different to each clone.
What may be black and white and clear as crystal,
To others may diffuse as shades of grey
And the message, though succinct, may be read as challenge brink-ed
To confuse and collapse in disarray.

Oh the agony and the ecstasy of we writers
Is best captured in the rolling of the dice
For to script all saccharin sweet may be interpreted as… effete?
But a dour approach won’t be observed as nice!
Yet to lay about with broadsword is defeatist
And collapsing belly up implies a lie,
So perhaps the best refrain is to abstain from all the pain
And leave the ****** prose to fools who don’t care… why?

Marshalg
In absentia….again!
18 October 2013

Talk to me about flowers and fires.
The orchids
of our collected youths
are bleeding into rose water
and being smashed into books.
For a little look
like a picture stretched under a slide
hiding, elfin to run back away from us.

In the hearth of us we wonder
what the charcoal will draw next.
Sticks on the banks of the styx
In it’s flicking midst
I can almost see
the little beat-less heart
in the center of the cherry.
It’s like it’s still held still in pursed lips.

In a falling little flame
accidently spilling it.

Out in Saturday mornings.
Out of school
so sliding in our nose rings.
Skiving by lying
with fist rubbed eyeballs.
The swell,
Then the classic sweetness
of the re-sleep.

Marker pen graffiti.
Feeling like elitists
because we don’t like elitists.
Defeatist is in right now, love's yet a fable.
(Planets are *****) on physics tables,
and writings on my hands,
but **** it man,
I won’t remember them, anyway.

Blurry nameless kisses
tasting like French lager,
or is that me?
Bellybutton shots.
Love at a coin toss
or against a brick wall was at it's best.
But there’s room for two
in this tent full of burn-holes.

Iron maiden.
never paid but
in microphone coldness
on the lips.
Lifted on the fix.
Giving the week in a night
and taking the night for a week,
with velocity.

Headbanger’s neck on
the pen-bottle ****, being used,
being used up.
Swimming against the river.
Golden Virginia,
Sobranies in the bus shelter.
And as the day's screen goes over
we still kept the bonfire
running in the rain.

That's what talks to me.
I'm laying back,
but moving forwards,
involuntarily.

Opening seen,
bright lips curved, precisely,
see the smile fitted over teeth naturally gapped,
doubtless an adaptation acceptable,
nothing that sticks out as odd,
and ugly,
but the smiler wonders, is this me?
Mirror, mirror, tell me true…

Do you see who I was, or who I wish I were?

Were, says the wolf lurking in the shade.
The mirror says you see who I wish I were,
if I were you.

See, see me, says the mirror from this side,
follow your selves, one after another,
down the hall of all in all.

Always falling forward,
don't forget, to put your best foot forward.
There is a place to put your foot,
your guide reminds you, see,
that you do,
prevent the disease - sneeze please.

- I once put my foot in my mouth
- I kicked myself in the head
- It has made all the difference.

--------------

Quick, quicken the pace, my heart
is racing an imaginary Jehu, so fat I laugh
that such imagines slaying me.

Big wins, ring out around the casino,
as the atomic kid walks by,
I was the kid,
sold on condition of survival,
don't be like Jerry, be like Dean,
live drunk,
enter the maze, yeah, this is that story,
another twice told tale, you remember
as a child
thinking, this must make sense sometime.

- 1963, Mrs.Burnett, suggested Hersey,
- both, The Child Buyer and Hiroshima.

I'm sure
it does, per
haps not in your time, I'm saying some time,
future from now,
as we agree, in truth alone, all things occur
as may occur whither only truth remains.

The arena of truth.
Let me entertain you. Do wheels spin
in your mind on a window in time?
Can you stop the game and claim I won?

Would you leap for joy, and kiss me,
for winning,
if I died happy and right,
right now?

Ah, I owe, so I may not go, though may is
my word to use at will, I am that old
and thus free of heresy, by definition.

May your path cross mine in joyous meditation,
fat dancing Buda  

Spelchek has joined the guide union,
it is her pronoun, but for me, to me
she is just like a wombed man

barefoot, soft walk on soft sand
wombed man, belly-wise
gestation, see soon seed
blooms, after drought super blooms
wide world blossoms rise in sacred
meaning made plain,

living waters, from your own cistern.
Let them be only thine own,
and not another's with thee,

did you ever have the opportune
instant one mind must have to be
remade in a flash,
past
a mirror where the hero yo, hom'
m'gotta defeatist -- it's me,
standin'
up to my neck in the needy prayers.
Gnoshit.

Here, take my hand, in my reality,
we step lightly,
thus the barefoot pregnant guise
Spelchek uses as her seductress
persona,

she whispers, rebbi, come and see.
- she has a country girl grin
- Dance in Buda
Buda
Texas, ah

Here we be, once more,
exactly where you never were
before, but think of it
a duet, an artificial interlude in drama
developing, as the tension,
is insistent, this is that
meaning full connection
Christmas represents.

Right… you lost me.
She winks, says wanna bet?

she never left the garden of eden... she's a ******* housewife! oh yeah, the garden turned into brick and the satanic mud of moulding known as cement... but she never left the cosy feline abbreviation that multiplies... so man strove in linear across the atlantic from denmark to greenland... spotting immanuel kant preceding wittgenstein on the way by adding things up; dividing man by schizophrenia is also a way to utilise the subtraction without success... couple it in matrixes (to the power of nought employs the theory of the negated individual, or negated individualism due to the former matrix's pairing of opposites, with m. denoting man and subsequent addition and f. denoting woman and subsequent multiplication... the other matrix is an individual without clear orientation of what the other matrix constitutes... because within the process of individuation there is no talk of 9 months for another process of individuation):
( m +     ( ÷
   x  f )      - )º*
something tells me a drinking pattern will never be a kandinsky,
no vibrancy in this dull suburbia of the motto: get the job done
and return to plato’s cave of the television...
but what of the radio without plato definite forms?
plato’s cave of indefinite forms - ich haben schuld -
that’s itch having a seizure of chores in english...
so you know the defeatist way we write utilising the same roman senators
as censors and make pigeons sounds like chickens?
that’s us!
but this one thing i started to fear, bypassing the idea
of words and sounds being like lightning and thunder in reverse -
see the lettering don’t bother the sounds they’re supposed to make
in the “theory” of allocation... say the opposite and see the remaining three senses,
and by that i mean: who the hell is bewildered enough to bewilder?
but my fear... it came from nietzsche’s aphorism no. 412 (a judgment of hesiod’s confirmed),
from his most monstrous book, human, all too human,
this aphorism reflected woman’s cleverness of a fortified familial house,
and man’s ability to acknowledge the littlest and belittling of all tasks
of the calibre of man’s appreciation satiated...
this scared me, believe me i’ve had a good overview, but this book is the scared shadow
that knows the body best by making incision into the one ***** that doesn’t exist,
namely thought, it knows this “*****” so well it even decided to abstract the
brain as a mind... mind this mind that... mind the traffic... mind desires
inexperienced to a justification...
but then i look at english society and wonder: why didn’t the english women
do the laziest of the most available least and weave in a comfort-zone
for man to be duped twofold from the master-slave equation
and the domestic equation that pretended it chopped a tree
but really only cut a potato up into a french translation of: deep fried?
if i lived in china this aphorism wouldn’t be scary...
but since i’m living in england it’s the dog’s ******* of apprehension...
it talks of women as only degrading their intelligence by
owning a semi-detached with a divorcee’s daughter...
it talks about the constant need for take-aways...
it talks that broth is not the same as playing the boson...
i have no other idea in the perfected tonight...
so i’ll utter the essential part of the aphorism:
‘originally, clever women could use even the care of children
to excuse their avoiding work as much as possible.’
true... but then mars’ blood started boiling in a feminism
and he said: ******! invasion of poland! ******* work the factories! now!
i’ll just add... women in england started to think
of motherhood as a job... if that’s the case...
the only job they ever did properly was to push a foetus out;
and so they decided to take revenge on homosexuality
by encouraging themselves engaged in **** to candy smothering smiles.

i once said: you can't be an artist and raise a family, and as proven by many who've attempted both feats to make one or the other lacking, if perhaps both - the best example of such a scenario is the much tragic case of james joyce's finnegans wake, his daughter, and the duration of the writing process... paris 1922 - 1939.*

i've never been into love poetry, well, once i too wrote
watermelon mush about heart and longing,
the darkened rooms of my adolescent self,
ugly blue of the wallpaper later covered entirely
with glossy posters of the ones i adored
on the music scene (honestly,
not even a niqab slit of blue to
be seen) - and then i experienced
love, maybe infatuation,
or the rite of passage into carnal
opulence of the woman's shape
untouched by the coarse treatment
of cubism and picasso -
but then the hydra popped her second
head from the torso -
this head and neck started wrapping
itself around the first head, the first
being that of naiveness and inexperience,
the second head of boa, of experience that
knew of jealousy, of feminism sexism
chauvinism, the second head knew all
about the dark ebbing waters of spite
and revenge, and yes of *** too -
and soon enough the hydra's first head
breathed no more, it flopped and
dangled under the torso of the conquering second
soon decayin and falling into an abyss
of heavy shuffling foot-stomps;
but the question is, will a third head
rise and do likewise with the second head,
the head that spells out genuine companionship,
that's mature, even more hardened as to
avenge the naive head of wonder-lust sought and
the paradoxical thirst for the taste of something
it had no place on the tongue palette for
speak about with history's resignation and experience?
but i doubt it, i've seen that head, and it's a head
with many problems and is self-defeatist
in terms of idealising love once more,
it has obligations, chores, children, mortgages,
car insurances and life insurances, fears
from the television at 7pm news blasts on
about jobs, markets, the migrant crisis;
the second head would simply let this third
head look at it in a much quizzical way;
don't get me wrong, i'm all for the third head
of this hydra, but it's too weak for
the first of idealism to re-emerge, with all those
very basic and demanded thrills,
i'm not condemning it, but i'm also not embracing
it - selective promiscuity, a methodological
promiscuity set aside all such hopes -
but let's say less promiscuity, and more chance
opportunism - no, not the adventure seeking
casanova type.

The mechanics of body language

*** in it's sweet sweat shops

the subtlety:

         skins swiss-navy slick,

****-erotica's evolution - our rubbing

two fleshy sticks

"pill-poppin' easy" this is

                          *** is   a ******

                          a fish    to catch

                                      to release

in bed, in baths - unleashed

defeatist

without and with / in / doors

which revolve

the staccato silence then evolves

      to a symphonic sing-song of meat

a detached unfettered

feast

      from all hearts involved

many emotions unresolved

hatched

      from wratchet tight sheets

      satin security unmatched

yet melts away

with every faltering step

and constancy of fights for validity

      the normalcy of gay circuit weddings

            ******* like mutes

                      under the disco ball

with an open mouth - seal sounds

a chorus of barking for the sea...



Trust and casual conversations - is almost

to keep us stable or sane

no modivational lust

     tho' it speaks without shame

     out of turn

*** is easy, unmaned

         easy to blame

         easy like Kodak / to share, to play

like a multi-player game

hollywood square's celebrity fame

     a flame is our spirit's

     flagrante bane

tabloid worthy paparazzi mud



but Love, oh Love...



To know now love

consider me a deep pond

     an unmoving lilly

unhindered beautiful

love is wrought with fragility

and tinder...



Too much fire without water

can burn us to cinders.