So sometimes, I still double back,
To these little pretty things-
Where I entwine my written words
with depictive new meanings.

Happy birthday, I must first say
To my Albanian commerce kid.
When we met, then when I left, I
always appreciated all you did.
Next comes the apologizes, I'm sure you know what for
The fact that you showed up, for me?
Confirms it even more:

Julia Kruja, you're an incredible person- such a beautiful soul,
Its a blessing to call you 'friend', and remain someone you know.
With unconditional support- unwavering sincerity
whichever way things go.
Despite my lack of clarity, selfishness and pain- you're always there to meet with me, make plans again and again.

You instill this worth back in my soul, by treating me the same- removing judgement from your heart,
Regifting hope inside my brain.

Happy Belated Birthday my friend

and you sometimes try to get over a tobacco hangover...
so that means: excess phlegm...
you apply quasi therapy to your
neck muscles and massage the
cavities beneath your forehead
(internal nasal lines equipped
with two furry caterpillars -
otherwise known as eye brows) -
and this ****** of a headache
is going nowhere... you coughed
for about an hour,
     took a **** to alievate the mental
pain of a throbbing brain,
that keeps bashing like a hammer
against the insides of your skull:
mainly through being awake for several
hours and not bothering to
empty your bladder (which by now
is the size of a watermelon);
but stashing a **** in your ****?
                   that's what a homosexual
tongue feels like in your ear...
you listen to it, and listen to it, and when it
stops: you go to the bathroom and
sit on the throne of thrones and relax
for a bit... some fetishist cat will want to
take in the experience with you...
        "i think" i'm at the meditation phase
of this reflection... cats and human excrement...
never knew the two went so well together...
like oysters and lemon juice...
but given that cat **** has a stench so foul
it could usurp the scent of sulphur from
the "depictions" of hell (scents are hardly
depictive, so... description of hell)...
        lucky *******, oysters... i once dated a girl
that thought it was funny to pour
salt onto snails...
                        but i can beat that!
back in poland, in the most obscure place
imaginable... two boys... a frog smeared with
lipstick and a packet of matches...
              boom! a dancing prince on fire;
which is why i rely on memory, or (ars memorandum)
rather than take to imagining harry potters:
it gets you the money... but doesn't give you
a hard-on to just sail... enya: sail away sail away sai
that haunting celt-elf type of mmm...
       lost for words: or just plain lazy because
digression, really requires speed,
         and the speed it requires has to (also) include
punctuation marks.
    it would have been easier to just cascade and write
boom!
boom!
boom!
               but not right here... what was my original
point? oh yeah, a typical tobacco "hangover" (yes,
because it's more like getting rid of excess phelgm that
has built up inside of you): but please!
please! someone find me a poet that writes about
the experience of harbopuring a tapeworm: i'd love
to hear from them in verse.
           so you cough and you cough
   and the three piglets live their "happily ever after"
in the first "house" they built (wigwams or igloos...
of just hiding under a mammoth sized wig;
scalp that ****, right down to the base, where a hoof
ought to be!)
seriously though: you take a **** and you refill your
sharpshooter round of ***** and ms. coca
            and you ponder the **** once more:
          death-bed regrets? why didn't i shove something
"else" in there? don't know, i was keen to compare
it to animals and the duty: she cats?
they're almost always ******* about the act,
that look in their eyes that could put oliver reed's
hellraiser antics to shame: given the look in their eyes
while doing the ***** bits: ****** come out!
      ****** come out!
                                  male cats? they're almost smiling
while doing it...
                (i think this is the part where you
can mutually acknowledge that i think my writing
is ****... comparing over drunks?)
               tobacco "hangovers"... you finally end
them, by harking...
          a bit like barking, but what you're really doing
is spitting the excess phlegm in your nose
      out of your mouth... disgusting, i know,
but what can you do... turn peafowl?
                                but you really do have to go
through this process every day (never mind
the headache: brain throbbing **** of skull:
thump thump thump... thump thump thump...
hammer sickel, hammer sickel)...
oh wait, that brings me onto my original prompt:
  a video (big fan, you tube, we channel),
and it's nothing like i might actually write a comment
in the "description" section (or simply add to it)...

tara mccarthy - laura southern:
how feminism hurts women.

                      i'm just a sucker for the drool... or nasal...
or whatever you like to call american linguistics...
          zombie oogh?         hooh?  ** ** **?
                             now i really feel like a viking, pillaging
people's punctuation styles and reminding myself (cognitively)
how it sounds in reverse... on paper... in script and not
in conversation... and it probably sounds a bit like this:
         and article in the times newspaper (editorial section,
just after the opinion section of journalists... like some
quasi reincarnation of dialectics)...
   the video's content? right-wing women cry valkyrie:
left-wing women respond: cut off the genitals and it's a community
founded on christian heresies unearthed in 1945, in egypt,
when the world was almost going to end (nag hammadi)...
                boy cry wolf, eh?
                                        so that video...
and the "anonymous" writer of the article
   seedier media (subplot): social networks must recognise
         their responsibilites and crack down on hate speech...
the two outlets go hand in hand...
         if mccarthy (the real one, the homosexual)
was alive today, he'd be like... perfect:
    the whole concept has automated itself via digital
human connectivity, now i can go to the beach
and bounce my beach ball and get suntan lotion
applied to my back by my boyfriend Fred;
                yeah, that mccarthy; (joe).
                    
i've had worse days, but they usually end with:
i start to write thin, and then get bulges that don't seem
to fit, totally anti paragraph...
                          (too much american media,
too much american alter media, matthew, i'm seriously
going to punish you for this)...
split conscious alternative realities?
      ******* talk without a well paid narrator
to create consent of any art form to begin with.
   second deathbed confession?
how to write a poem that would eventually lead
to a neat conclusion on form, i.e.

| begins here






                                                   ends here |

and all the line breaks are |
                                            |
                 ­                           |
                                    ­        |
                                            |
|
|
|
|
|­
               behaviour-wise... alas... but at least i managed
to get a sneak-peek into what inside out (pixar)
would look like... it was a three way conversation...
3/5 (three out of five)... i'm missing anger and i'm missing
disgust... oh **** me: so 1. joy, 2. sadness, 3. anger,
4. fear, 5. disgust...
                                 to be honest i'm seeing all of them
and writing pointless fractions concerning
                    ethnic correlation to something that looks
like that thing i, also am.

I still recall quite well
the stairs I had to walk
an odd site I thought
to myself at first

Up to the first floor
completely in the dark
we walked cautiously
careful not to miss a step

It wasn't a large room
in fact it was relatively small
a restroom to my right
the kitchen straight ahead

And tables to my left
we found ourselves a table
the place was scarcely decorated
yet very depictive of its genre

The lights were dim
little red lanterns
randomly scattered about
emitting a faint glow

I remember the smell
of noodles rice and fish
of soy sauce, fried foods
and sizzling beef as well

A blast of scents
flooded my senses
streaming in through my nose
making my mouth water

With anticipation
as my intense hunger
overtook me
I imagined extreme flavors


The temperature was not too hot
and it was not too cold
It was just right
I smiled to myself

Contentment filled my body
the atmosphere put me at ease
I glimpsed over my shoulder
and saw her turn to me


I attempted to study her
what was once an easy read
however, became a book that I
had never even seen before

Something was not right
Her eyes they did not shift
pupils did not dilate
she didn't even twitch

a realization hit me
she was left unaffected
by my searching eyes
no reaction to my action

the lights became dimmer
making the room turn dark
the four walls closed in
I felt myself suffocate

Food became sour in my mouth
Aromas became intoxicating
Gone was the peaceful tranquility
that I had associated with this place