I'm craving a man-hug tonight,
initiated by strong arms picking up my under weight body
letting me believe I'm re-enacting the lift from ***** dancing.
And as those arms hold me close
I would bury my face in his neck
where after shave meets his soft pulse and the warmth of my breath.
This hug would be so tight,
tight enough to squeeze the pain out of my soul
and be incredibly protective at the same time
beating away the nightmares of reality late at night.
A hug that draws out all the tears that should have been cried
until my eyes run dry
and start shedding all the rejection accumulated throughout this plight.
An unconditional man-hug with its ends free,
one not subjected to a **** in my mouth
a cigarette
*****
a cigarette
couple of poems
insomnia
and a cold bed.
I crave for a man-hug that will liberate me
from the pathetic standards I've set for myself,
of how I should be treated before handing a piece of me in exchange.
One that would numb the little voice in my head
which goes on and on
about self-deprecating *******
bundling together all the mistakes made over the years
and spanking my self-confidence
until it dresses up in a short skirt and high heels
and runs into the arms of a narcissist *****.
A man-hug to step in and save the day
when loneliness breaks in,
and murders empowerment, independence and positivity in their sleep,
then opens the door to insecurity and fear,
who robs all hope,
leaving behind intolerable darkness.
I crave for a man-hug that follows through to the end
with stability and consistency,
like mom's cooking or my best friend,
or daddy's instant reaction to defend.
One that's tangible and attainable
without twirling my fingers around forgotten jewellery,
phone messages
or a drunk memory
just to remind myself what it felt like,
but only to be reminded that it can never be felt again.
Though I'm craving a man-hug tonight
I will have no luck.
Because anything with "man" in front of it,
will always just be a ****.

i tried to distinguish
all my awful feelings
from how i really felt

i tried to extinguish
the fire i spread
from the one i lit myself

ripping scar tissue
the scabs on my lips
are these just the cards i’m dealt?

am i the dealer?
do i need a healer?
or more concealer?
a realist with a fake smile
i’ve been in this dentist’s chair for a while

I've nothing to offer
but
my simple writing on papers.

With hesitation do I dedicate to the half-empty,
but there's a vision of a girl I can't quite shake:
up to her Achilles tendons in rambunctious folds
of rank, grabby, carnivorous sea.
Disgruntled and shivering, but there all the way.

She’s the rare bird convinced of common feathers,
not so much ugly duckling as self-deprecating swan,
never so bold as to lock eyes with the water
for fear of seeing herself in clearest view,
and never seeing for sure that she’s a heart of beauty.

Not that she cares, anyways.

She's got the sappiest music taste—
though I’m not supposed to know that, either—
characterized by aplenty
of heartfelt bangers we loved in youth and pretended to be over.

She's no Mr. Brightside.
But ****, when she cleans up...

The only silver lining she believes in is her sharp-edged contour,
cutting as the retort she’s got ******* on the pulse of.
She just doesn’t need to shout to prove it.

I've the off-and-on friend who resents without saying,
no words to spare when she's busy as of late struggling to breathe.
The silence I took for elegance is suffocation,
but at least black lung is still the vogue, I’ve heard?

And through the struggle comes a wicked perfection:
the ability to lay waste with a whisper,
and revere only in the rawest quiet.

Her humor, sometimes for the offensive,
is the most potent sense of feeling
that doesn’t take looking at her own self.
She as herself could light up a room.
If only it weren’t so much easier to fall short.

Because never would she outwardly want to be on someone’s mind,
(little does she know she jumps to the forefront of mine)
yet in that same reluctant, teeth-grinding urge she denies herself
in the desire to find her good lighting,
I have in the desire to let her know she is beloved.

But to tell someone they’re poetry to you is a pin in the grenade
that these budding wisdom teeth just can’t grasp.

She’s there now in the sea I still liken to her eyes.
Windows to the soul akin to a place she hates,
just as capable of resentment.

All I know is I’ll be torn asunder if she loses herself
beneath the brine of a bottle or the message of faux-hope within it.
In a churning silence of the drink,
there’s no honest sentiment with which to compare.
Lost at sea, with no quality control,
fool’s gold is such a fine, agonizing release.

Yet on she heads, carving mountains in her path, for a swill.

Still, every time I see her again,
I know I’ll never help loving her some,
while I pretend there's comfort in the fact
that most of us had to sink before learning to swim.

sure, first we had the schism
of the church & state...
"oddly" enough...
we now live in the 2nd tier
of schism -
  the segregation of
                  state & media...
no?
    really?
         we're not?!
           i'm kind of enjoying
this ongoing schismatics -
    the segregation of church
from state, at least left us with
the Vatican (i.e. the church-state) -
but this, current...
segregation of state from
the media?
      **** me cram my testicles
into a monkey-wrench
and subsequently watch me laugh...
and there i was thinking,
that psychiatrists,
were the new priests of
the secular age...
prescribing the alt. to
the metaphor of cannibalism
in the form of big pharmacological
pills, to replace the wafer for
bread,
or the watered down wine /
grape juice of the...
    so how does that party trick goes?
is that the wine turned into blood?
symbolically:
   turned water into wine:
   flag-wise...
  white,
       cardinal...
  and then burgundy of
cardinal red teasing the bishopric
coloring of purple?
i'm not here to undermine
the faith...
   i'm here for the self-deprecating
humo(u)r...
you don't even require
atheism to get a laugh
out of the conundrum -
you, simply need...
the deviation from the catholic
rites...
           an apostasy -
but sure as **** it's there...
secularism has allowed
journalism a monastic status...
first came the schism of
church from state -
   which remained intact in
the church-state of the Vatican...
so... FAIL...
secondly had to come
the schism of the state from
the media...
               i'm watching a schism
take place...
  apparently...
        the comparative concern
of church's divorce from
the state was easy,
having imploded into the Vatican...
but the divorce of
the media from the state?
        apparently... not so easy...
the media is already locking-down
on obstructing the schism -
arguing from an entertainment
perspective...
       a century or so later,
and still, the persistent,
media symbolism -
     of crafting caricatures of
a state...
   as the state embodied in
nothing more than subordination
to its will...
media is the new church...
and if the separation of the state
from the church took so long...
how much time, do you "think",
it will it take, for the state
to segregate itself, from the media
baronage?
  i suspect - as much time as it
took to segregate itself from
    the church's cardinal-lineage.

What is this
Satirical mask
That weeps self-deprecating tears
Through plastic slits
Down over a contorted smile
That mocks society
In pictoral flagellations
Of an aching conscience.

I used to hate your healthy avocados...until I had one
Not that your coffee tasted superior to my tea
But what's taste when you season mine with gun powder?
Yes, In case you did not detect
There is a lot of hate in this one
Call me aggressive and spiteful
Whilst holding your rifle
They say hate begets hate begets hate begets hate
So for you to understand
I put aside my ignorance and try to walk in your shoes

OK, let's start:

A lot of trees
Beautiful sky, delightful breeze
A rich land where tenants are a many and they shun the proprietor
I know I promised to be nice
But let's face it for that white picket fence, someone had to pay the price.

Start again:

Sunny coasts
Bacon, eggs on toast
Walk the dog in the park, life is not all that hectic here.
To make it clear, running out of coffee is my basic fear.

Flat stomachs
In fact, six packs!
Cupboard full of knick-knacks
and plenty of time to kick back and relax
Never-ending supply of niceties

Calm waters
Long walks along the harbor
and perhaps a tall pint of lager at the pub

Throw some juicy ones on the barbie mate!
Who cares if 6.2 mil in Somalia are starving mate?
You say to me:
"survival of the fittest, Darwin mate"
"It's so difficult to fit in" I say; so tiring MATE
Did I say that right?
I'm Mohammad, as James in a play called "Aussie Catch Up"
and I don't know how to play that part

What else can I say? they gave me a voice (although in English)
between the self deprecating migrant and the middle eastern rag head, the gave me a choice

And by the way my boss tried to anglicize my name
Said Sebastian had a nice ‘ring’ to it
Well go ahead, march to your colonial tune and have me sing to it

Oh healthy avocados, you're too ripe for my liking
Maybe I'm just used to a bit of rawness in my diet
To be honest
I have a heavy heart, a dark one
Maybe to reconcile, you should take a step
a very very very very very very long one

Darkness seeps between my fingertips
Even when my hands are clutched to my face as tightly as I can when I am crying alone
Fingernails digging into my skin
To remind myself that it is real
Sleeves pulled over my fingertips
So no one is forced to see the hideous things
Especially me
The way a murderer's mother shuts her son's old bedroom door at night when he has been jailed
To shut out the memories
Concealing what is unpleasant
At night I don't wear makeup
So when I wake up at 2AM to use the washroom
I keep the lights off
And fumble blindly through the black air to find the door handle
So I don't have to look at myself
It's getting worse everyday
A new kind of pain
And I don't understand
Why it hurts so much
But I think I'm going to stop telling people about it
I'm going to stop mentioning it no matter how much it hurts
I'm going to stop being self-deprecating in public
Because it just comes across vain, self-pitying, annoying, attention-seeking and fake
I want people to stop telling me I'm pretty
I want them to stop lying to me
Even if it just to spare my feelings
So I will stop putting them in situations
Where they must lie to me to be polite
I'm just going to be silent now
They already have to know how ugly I am on the outside
No one needs to know
What an ugly mind I have

I see you, love
Dancing on the line of apathy
Self-deprecating voices chatter away in your head
The light of inspiration has dimmed in your eyes
Your heart beats absent-mindedly
Dolefully complacent are your days
In and out- smiles to fool them
Rotating doors of relationships
Faces change- your role play stays the same

You know why I'm obsessed with makeup?
You know why I literally BREAK. DOWN. when I see myself in the mirror on one of those REALLY ugly days that I have?
You know why I seem f!cking vain and beauty obsessed and attention seeking because of how self-deprecating I am?
You know why I am currently crying...alone...on my bedroom floor...kind of pathetically?

Because now I'm a little bit scared
That maybe I DO have a disease of the mind
Maybe I DO have something in my head that isn't right
It just seems so impossible
Because I mean
I look in the mirror
And all I see is this hideous shameful beastly girl
So ugly
In fact, I genuinely feel terrible for the people who have to look at me
and I don't know why
I just don't see how anybody could ever possibly think that I am pretty
And for some reasons I'm crying right now
And I feel really alone
But no no no
There is no way I really have dysmorphia
Is there?

I feel embarrassed
Like I come across shallow
And stupid
And makeup obsessed
Because I can't ever see myself as pretty
NOT EVEN ONCE
not even decent
Not even reasonable
I just. see. UGLY.
and ashamed of my face,
And ashamed of my obsession
With cosmetics
Because it is like the only medicine they made
To fix this affliction
Makeup can make up for how ugly I am
maybe it can fix me
maybe I won't hate myself anymore
but it never does
and I hate crying alone!

raïsa patel (cbc journalist),
lindsay shepherd and
some self-deprecating humour,
   from some random ******,
as requested...

there's only one
to go place to counter...
grzegorz brzęczyszykiewicz

https://tinyurl.com/jop9ofr (youtube
video, from the film:
   how i started the second world war,
cult classic)...

so here you have...
a clash of orthographies...
we'll leave english
out of it, since...
    it doesn't have an orthography...
you can't exactly call
       i over ι
                    or j over ȷ
         orthography...

it's good to know that i've come
across this video...
  lindsay, as always: looking
in full bloom...

   an article... over...        ï ?
       r'ah-e-s'ah?
  i can give you the phonetic
    transcript if you want...
zuname?
     patel...
       oh... from the geographic
region where H is a surd,
but is included in the spelling?
e.g.?
     ghee: clarified butter...
oh don't worry,
we'll get to the tongue-twisting
phonetic revision...

  it's not "that hard" after all,
some of the syllables exist in english
already...

grzegorz brzęczyszykiewicz

(cracks his fingers)
right:
    g'je-
  ****... the english sometimes
treat G like a surd...
    to get a (g)nome for
one's garden...
  or in cocker's two-bit:
   'arden... namely to ha-harden.

lucky me, being the dumb ******
in these parts...
i've moved beyond
being "offended" by
someone not pronounciating
something correctly...
  i just don't expect it...
      i just giggle...
   and think about what else
i can find, as being, unusual
in this, particular of all
the tongues in history.

   rz is a grapheme -
very much akin to the french:
   je suis!

     i'm not even going to bother
with
                          ę

nope, not going to bother...

cz is akin to the english grapheme
  ch-...
  where there's a Z
   you'd short-circuit and think
of H (except in the case of rz)...

   the same goes for
   sz, which is akin to sh-...

which brings us to the second
tier of orthography concerning
the grapheme     rz...
       ż...
                it's synonymous:
phonetically... but not in meaning...

rzecz: je-eh-ch: thing...
                 (th- is a grapheme,
  off: -eta, one of the greek eF so'unds)

see... we're having such
a fun time in english...
no clear orthography given
no diacritical markers...
a simple playground to
prance around...

    żubr: european bison...
the animal only exists in poland...
and, yeah...
poland is also famous
for the fact that...
the storks (bocian)
   chose poland for the summer...
god knows where
they migrate for the winter...

i could have written
out the full anatomy of the mouth...
notably the question of
   y: which is not why
where i'm from...
                                technically...
you would learn
the sound         ý...
i wrote acute, but it's more:
hollowed out...

   hell... if we're going to be pedantic
about just three graphemes,
i.e.
     raïsa...
     so... r'ah-e-s'ah
      and not:      rye-s'ah?
oh god, so much fun...
        with only a few diacritical
markers...
   i can play phonetic games
with... whenever starts
to be pedantic, over so little
that's in their possession.

Always scanning
Always searching
Every face
Every glimmer of red hair
It's a weakness, that red hair, she said
With a self-deprecating smile
Are you her?
The one we've been looking for
The one to complete us
A three-part us
So many criteria
Chemistry
Values
Maturity
But most important,
Belonging
So much longing
To have hands as full as my heart
Am I ignoring the possibles?
Am I looking too hard,
Trying too hard
To force something out of nothing?
Gaining nothing but
Another gaping hole
Wounds to lick clean,
Scars to soothe
His and mine
Learning how to trust
Again

I shouldn’t be a mom

There’s no reason i should allow myself to bring children into this world
Children with the same problems that I have
How selfish of me to think and assume I deserve or am worthy of allowing myself to bring someone into this world with my issues?
The anxiety, the depression, the self deprecating thoughts

I wouldn’t be a good mom

How could I look into the eyes of my sons or daughters and know I brought them into this world to feel such immense pain?
What would give me the right to bring children into this hell full of negativity, poverty and intense drama?

I couldn’t be a good mom

How insanely asinine of me to think I should be projecting my problems into my spawn?
What part of my last twenty seven years of life would prompt me to believe I should feel the happiness and pride the mothers and fathers around me feel?


But what if all my honest, true, real self realization would make me the best mom ever?

Enough-
Its enough having these corporations run our nation while the infiltration of money making keeps destroying world peace aspirations-
Its like Satan and his manipulation keep telling me that success lies in the accumulation-
And the accumulation of that money making is what makes life exhilarating?
And the exhilaration of materialization keep growing as a representation of America’s successful creation-
And soon it becomes discrimination-
Upper class elevation vs. lower class stipulations-
The poor patient vs. Rich patience-
The barring margin of APR regulations-
Keep our nation rotating-Gaining speed and evaluating-
The appreciation of desperation is all for corporate gaming-
The memorization and commercialization keep our nation deprecating from the rest of the worlds visualizations-
Our accreditation creates frustration-
Segregation and integration by the new world organization-
Integration to a peaceful appropriation is questioned by this American administration-
AND I QUESTION IT?

Dear The Boy Who Is Wasting My Time and Emotion,

I can do so much better than you.

no you can't

You are hurting me, every time you speak to me, you break me a little more.

Get over it Princess. You deserve it. God, you're pathetic.

Stop texting me when you have a girlfriend

but you want him to, secretly

I am going to find someone someday who is so much better than you.
Someone who will treat me right instead of treating me like I'm his
Plan B. I'm going to find someone who doesn't drink and get high to
work out his problems when he can't even legally drive yet. That's not
called "being complicated and deep" as you seem to think, it's
called "being an alcoholic and a druggie". I'm going to find someone
who reads, who likes the same books I do and won't make fun of the
series I love that saved me from myself when I wanted to **** myself.
I'm going to find someone with a good heart, who CARES about me,
who will not be Broken but will be okay with me being Broken. Who
will fix me. Not someone who just wants an ego boost like you do.

you will never find anyone like that. You will never do better than
him.

You really aren't who you used to be

So? You should take what you can get, stupid girl. No boy has ever
liked you, and no boy ever will. No boy has even called you pretty
besides him.

You're bad for me.

You are not worth anything better

You say you are sorry and regret hurting me, but I don't believe you

believe him

I want to believe you. So badly

so then just believe him!

but I can't

you stupid ugly worthless *****...

And even if I did believe you, you don’t even like me. You haven’t
even spoken to me for a month. A MONTH you *******!

You’re not worth noticing or speaking to. Why would he care? Just
take it. Take how he treats you and deal with it. It’s what you deserve.
Get used to it, *****.

Even if we talked for a while, for a long while and you managed to
deceive me enough into getting close with you again, then if you asked
me out and we went back down the path we were on before you
dropped me so easily, I could never trust you. You text me flirty texts
while you’re WITH HER! You HAVE a girlfriend and NO girl deserves
to be treated like that. No girl deserves to have an unfaithful boy who
is in her life, but is not committed to her when he claims he is.

You deserve that.

Not even me.

Yes you do.

So I don’t deserve to be treated the way you treat me. I get a mini heart
attack every time you text me and I’d like you out of my life.

Don’t do that. You’ll regret it. You are so, so alone you stupid *****.
What are you thinking?

I can do better than you. I can find someone who likes me. Someone
who’s idea of a good time doesn’t involve ecstasy. Someone who
doesn’t need to be drunk to say something nice to me.

Oh please. You will never ever find anyone.

Please just stop now. I have bigger problems than a boy like you.

Your problems could be solved with a  boy like him though!

I told you that you didn’t hurt me. I am lying. I’m not going to let you
keep hurting me however.

But the pain is so addictive. Let him keep hurting you. It makes you
feel like maybe you’re worth something, if you have his approval. If he
tells you you’re pretty, it makes you wonder for a second if the mirror
is wrong. You will never be convinced, but it makes you wonder, for
just a split second. It hurts, but it’s a lovely split second. Listen to me!

I’m NOT YOUR F!CKING CONSILATION PRIZE okay?

Yeah. You’re right about that, at least. What kind of ******
consolation prize would you be? Who would want you? You’re not a consolation prize to him, you’re just a another girl for when he’s bored. That’s all you deserve to be. Take it, worthless. You’re ugly. Take what you can get.

Usually, this is where I’d say: I’m sorry. Goodbye. But I am not sorry
and I’ve apologized to you far too many times so far and I shouldn’t
have. I had nothing to be sorry about.

You always have something to be sorry about. Apologize that he has
to look at you and your ugly face. That you exist. That you are wasting
space on his phone with your picture and your contact and your texts.
Apologize for being so difficult and annoying and desperate and
pathetic and self-centered and self-deprecating and say you’re sorry
that you ever offended him by being so pompous as to believe for even
just half a second (or half a summer, as it were) that you could be
worthy of his interest. Because you are worth nothing. You are not
enough. You are inferior. You are a failure. A waste.

So goodbye.

-Ember.

You’ll regret it later. You will never find a boy as good as him. Ever.
You will never even find another guy. You don’t deserve him, let alone
anyone else. It was a fluke that he ever ended up with the misfortune
of knowing you. You will never do better than him.

Yes I will.

No you won’t, you stupid ugly worthless *****.

Yes. I will.

i see love and light and cringe
at its generic quality, all the same
all beautiful and endearing and encouraging
and i can't help but feel the cynic in me laughing
at the mawkish displays and efforts
and at my own generic skepticism

just one charming quality of my
self deprecating form of narcissism

If my life were a movie it would be one of those films that gets hyped up to no end because I’m one of those kids with the rough childhood who just wants to make it
When in reality it’s just a less action packed but just as dark dc movie
My story has also been confused with a marvel movie since the protagonist is me
And i can't help but cut my overbearing traumatic tragedies with self deprecating comedies

But my life to me feels more like an edgar wright movie where the action isn’t as exciting as The fact that I was able to get out of bed this morning
And my day to day reality will forever feel like a motion blur of edited out negative emotion
I think Maybe my life could be a wes anderson movie stuck in one color palette for the rest of my eternity
And my maturity tends to overwhelm me
my journey is like an anderson movie because i tend to create a world around me
Taking time to shape my own protected reality so that the outside world can’t hurt inside me

If im being honest though i want my life to be a spielberg movie that grabs attention of all ages coming from all sorts of places
I want to spin my truths into his fantastic fantasies where no one equates my past with me
But at the same time I want my life to be a blast from the past john hughes movie where i find a way to stop my past from haunting me
And everything ends up okay at the end of the day because my minds overbearing insecurities
No longer have control over me

Now i see that in actuality other peoples movies are just too much for who i truly want to be and how my trauma impacts me
I mean between my all of those boring biographies and my abundance of favorite movies
I’d want my life’s movie to be full of images depicting my fondest memories and all my angsty gen z tendencies
If my life were a movie i’d make it about how I am, or was, or am going to be
If my life were a movie I’d make it about me

.and i thought that only Metallica took back their mojo from the current musical oblivion... but it seems... the Prodigy did likewise with their new No Tourists album...

i'll be honest... English humor?
bewildering...
               just odd...
                      black satire,
or out-in-the-field plain heap of
ridicule...
        German? humor?
                       what? i thought
the Germans were pure logos
and absolutely no pathos...
   wait... oh... right...
schadenfreude... and irony...
but back east?
                 the Polacks have their
own version of humor...
it's primarily self-deprecating...
the older the ******,
the more they joke that Poland is
the Cinderella of Europe...
    what with the mild non-existent
hiccup due to democratic monarchism
of the aristocrats,
who... well...
   let's just they had their patron "saint"...
Konrad I of Masovia...
who... in attempts to conquer
the Prussians... invited the Teutonic Order
to aid him...
        and obviously the Teutonic
Order, outstayed their helpful hand
culminating in the battle of
Grunwald (which in the east is like
the battle of Hastings)...
yes yes, the dates...
  but Rome didn't make it to these lands...
i used to live about half an hour's
bicycle ride from a flint-stone
      mining community...
  sure... you can have your genesis monkey...
i have a flint-stone mining community...
now i get American humor...
    why?
                its pompous...
and there's nothing intelligent about it...
well...
  who the hell needs intelligent
comedy?
                      i don't want to think:
and then chuckle...
               i want to chuckle prior to
whatever impetus to think about
having laughed is left.

- and then the financial crisis begins,
in whatever year it was,
2007 or 2008...
       just like with the raiding heretical
Sunni Muslims who seem
to not understand the ideology of
jihad: a holy war,
yes... but to reclaim conquered lands
formerly in the possession
of Muslims...
this... this is the second tier of
expansionism, right?
but jihad is a type of warfare
to reclaim lost lands...
sorry... i'm not about to become
a clone...
    ah... wait a minute...
i figured how someone like
   Joel Osteen can speak so persuasively,
the whole point of his sophistry is...
well... just read one book...
and reread it like... countless times...
i must be scatter-brain by now,
reading the number of books i've read...
if i only read one book...
oh hell yeah... my confidence wouldn't
falter, not even once...
   i'd be like the equivalent
of a cardiologist: specializing in
all things heart related...
         point being...
the financial crisis didn't really
affect Poland...
    and this whole Hijab Party
central?
                             i might be a mere
citizen... but my heart is
entombed in the people...
            once criticism though...
  why the **** did you have to bury
leszko kaczyński on the Wawel Mount?
why not in Warsaw Wileńska,
where the presidents are buried...
hell... closer to the Belweder Palace
to boot...
       so... we're moving the capital
back to Krakow?
if i had the time, and money...
i'd seriously think about the noumenon
of how a certain part of Poland
was not affected by the bubonic plague
in 1347...
                 or Islam circa 2005.

oh dear one
lost across the sea
so unknown to me,
how fair thy little mind
thinketh and playeth thy harp!

no man shall raise a hand to thee!
least ye scorn him,
banishing him
and his brazen knuckles
to the brazen edge of
the whole brazen universe.
shy be he not!
lameth shall he be forever.

but two shovels should be found
and used for to dig unto the ground,
a new grave: doubly wide and doubly deep
for two of the fairest of them all:
the maidens lost to the wilderness,
left to her own devices and thus
self-deprecating her selves
into planetary alignment
with that new planet they just found
that's like 1,000 times bigger than Saturn
and with millions of icy rings.
forever cold shall she be!
forever unknown to me!

bear witness to thy handiwork:
my shoulders, lips, and toenails are all mine;
for a moment they were thine
and in breaking my peace
i thus aireth my whine.
and i'm fine. really, i'm fine.

taketh no liberties with me!
giveth no light,
shareth no warmth!
beseech me no inquiries!
for i have not an answer that makes sense,
nor a limb that works perfectly,
and not a day goes by
that i don't ponder you.

yet
the
moon
pondereth
the
sun
forever
and
ever
and
ever
bu­t
never
the
two
shall
meet.


wandereth, fair maiden,
and i shall wander, too.
but should you face about
my eyes will surely see you.

Milked and Pasteurized in infancy
I come of age and choke on the breast I've suckled and wrung.
Explore an open door of opportunity to meet the man who settled the seed.
Disappointed to find only horses, cracks, and neverland keys.
Recognize a social scheme of getting in, getting off, and moving on.
No longer ignorant in bliss,
Apparent to me that daddy left and all that's there is mother mirage.

She's climbing a ladder to complicated bliss,
Pockets full of posies, pills, and thrills.
Mind full of confliction,
self-deprecating inhibition-
hypocritical actions to condone.

Bake a cake.
Make a mermaid sandwich to oblivion
Talk metaphors to your minion.
Fake a place.
Call it home.

Be the hammer in my stone, help me tumble n' bow to your throne.
Sold me sideways lies and theory
Hypothetically, it seems to me that $commission$ was gained
from blackened eyes and skinned up knees
Come to find the wrinkled hand that led me was none but my own.

Guess your conscious forgot it's name
Guess your soul forgot my name.
Careful Grace that saved a wretch like no one.
She's carefully steppin' around your toes,
She's gracefully getting tired of recreating this unreality.

You're a ******' rabbit in a hole.
Lit a match and you've lost all self-control
What breaks you makes you.
What takes you, stakes you out to come and **** you, fake you
Knock on hidden hills door to get more
Swallow the roof that disproves your critics
Keeps you loose and ******* the alphabet dry.
Swallow Cold Alphabet Soup.  I try.

.within these words is the simple question... i'm a misogynist? i'm a misogynist? i'm such curious as to how i could get away with all of this if i, truly were a woman, but as being a man, i am prescribed the sentient double-knocker of: a ******* mea culpa!

so i spent the afternoon making
two curries...
   by now... cultural appropriatio:
whatever the hell that means
having an arsenal of indian
spices that would scare both
the russians and the h'americans
with their nukes...
but like i said:
i concede:
                 the blue indian cuisine,
i.e. from the Bengal
or the Punjab?
superior to my bland salt &
paper...
although...
when it came to the chicken chettinad?
i'm not here competing
for the white-boy-eat-a-lot-of-chillies
olympics...
one standard red chilli,
four kashimiri dry chillies,
and yes... some standard chilly
powder...
       if i want to burn my tongue:
i'll drink near-to-boiling
water... thanks...
don't know... i sometimes make
so much curry in one afternoon
i'm happy to forget doing
the stereotypical male thing of...
watching the 6 nations rugby,
or the skii jumping competition
from Letho (Finland)...
   it's like... i'm transported back
to Edinburgh,
  doing 12 hours of lab. training
once more...
              hell... no lab. work for me:
but i guess... blue indian cuisine
is the closest thing to a chemistry
experiment, notably an organic
chemistry experiment...
mind you:
   have you ever wondered why
you tend to eat a little bit more
of the sauce...
   if you don't dice the chicken,
move away from dicing chicken
*******, and instead fry (which will
come later)
       whole chicken thighs?
or... marinate them prior to...
          curating them via
                   the method of poaching
them in the sauce?
diced chicken: so bland...
         esp. from the breast....
but the meat... cooked whole...
esp. as a thigh (the best bit of
the chicken, and with the bone
intact? oh god!)...
my few favorite curry though?
the one i made later...
    a... sali murgi...
   (yes, the H is always a surd...
   moor-ghee...
    butter of the moors)...
      with those beautiful sali
crispets...
          on top...
   also... who would have thought:
dried, apricots... in a curry?
oh i don't mind this...
   "cultural appropriation"...
me cooking curry is...
so much more than someone
donning dreads...
and... by the looks of it...
          i might even, slyly,
cook better than some natives...
well i already know that
i can speak a more orthodox english
than some of the natives,
i knew that back in high-school...
  started in class 2B...
moved a year later to class 1B...
(class... tier, same thing)...
a year later i was in class 1A...
and it went like so:
    1A, 1B, 2A, 2B,
              1C... 3A, 3B,
                      1D, 2C...
and no... there was no 4A or 4B...
(it skipped every two numbers
and every two letters)...
so... me worried that i might
not cook better than some
Indian's grandmother?
   not in the least...
              a, woman, cooking?
please... give me a break...
             what's that story:
if she overuses salt...
she's thinking about something...
if she underuses salt
she's fostering ill-will...
she over-cooks the pasta
she wants a divorce...
she under-cooks it...
she wants you to start recreationally
running because you have
a "beer-belly-flab"...
yeah... i'll say it...
WOMEN DO NOT BELONG
IN THE KITCHEN...
        mind you...
i was helped by a standard-bearer
to the antithesis of saying so...
mother dear...
   mother ed gein mother dear
(this better freak some people out)...
ah...
but you know what?
frying the potato sali...
last time i used a *** and a standard
cheese grater for the potato...
ingenius...
however many chemistry
experiments i ever did...
no cliche american high-school
"faux pas"...
          but then...
like men are supposedly unable
to tell the difference
between
burgundy and cordovan...
         the **** is a...
               julienne peeler?
yes... mother dear...
or... grandma dear...
                 any other woman in
"my life"...
   no really... but i always like
to keep the ed gein joker card
in play...
   for breathing space...
             all the other women in my
life were...
    for two worthy exceptions...
the nurse in the hospital
where i was born...
                     birth-mark scared...
thought it was better to
shove suckle of a feeding bottle
into my mouth so hard
that i would suffocate,
and almost die from
a premature heart-attack...
ended up with an.. "enlarged" heart...
last girlfriend...
  now... i don't even want to begin
with that story...
in full agatha christey
alias poirot paranoid-mode...
****** her for 7 hours one night
prior to leaving St. Petersburg...
****** her in the batch while she was
on her period and it was
the first time she told me to put
on a ******,
after she first told me to take it off...
so yeah... the curry was great...
we lated sat together
like jesus mary & st. joseph
watching the t.v.
   ah... China's one child-policy...
back in Europe
i'm a dormant serial killer
and my mother is actually my sister...
and my father is a *******
Anglican priest...
or myth, or ghost,
  counter... "god"...
of me turning to the public stage...
BUMPER STICKER
RETRACTION FROM H'AMERICA...
if he died for "our", "sins"...
why is the mantra still:
  the mea culpa of...
"allowing" him to die on the cross?
so we watched a movie...
book club...
staring...
   jane fonda...
  that guy from miami vice...
that woman from ms. congeniality,
that woman from back to the future
vol. 3,
          that woman from
        father of the bride...
                       and DREYFUS!
fifty shade of grey...
   cameo by e. l. james, walking
the dog?
                         yep...
        anyway... watched that...
prior to, dressed up real fine...
was asked where i was going...
to buy some beer...
   walked to the local for some cider...
had to endure a interlude
with a drunk west ham supporter
talking to the colt cashier about
working in outer east london
but being an arsenal supporter...
the movie though...
book clup...
          so it ends on a:
and they lived happily ever after,
didn't it?
            yeah... it did...
but as i was walking about...
the demographic...
   my "neighbour"...
a single mother who still has her
son living with her -
who should look like he's ageing
but... to me he's still
a stunted cabbage-patch
                       of a 13 year old...
a daughter who sometimes
crashes...
      walking home with
a... "catch"...
                           a man...
                 who i would seriously
make ******* antagonisms of...
elsewhere? in the... vicinity?
similar stories...
                      around here
i'm the jesus, the messiah's
mother and my father,
                 the ghost of st. joseph...
last time i wanted to play roulette...
my mother was visiting
     her parents,
both of them slept at my uncle's
house,
i hosted a birthday party...
                and...
  ended up ******* a black girl
in my room on a chocolate couch...
how's that?
      don't even ask me how
i managed to persuade a thai
    bisexual with cheap polish beer
and jazz...
        done brutally / i.e. realistically
in the garden...
with a my own persistent zenith
of surprise...
the thai surprise...
           of reaching into her *****...
really... sport's bra...
and you just picked her up
   from a park bench lamenting
into the phone drinking beer
at the same time, + the short hair?
really? no... moment of "suspence"
           of... the thai surprise?
there were always the odds:
3:1 - she's a woman...
        or 4:2 - she's... he's she's
                               she's he's a man...
oi! shem?! what's up?
which is it?
(3? mouth, the floral pattern,
and the ***...
                1? choice...
  well... if you've already started
courting?
              there isn't one...
4? how many points of entry
between two men? 4...
   but how many choices?
the... teasing *******
literature and wanting to experiment
or...
   the "homophobe"...
which only applies to...
   ****** taqiyya...
                        or the thai surprise...
oh i'm pretty sure i've met
a few homosexuals in my life,
but all of them had
the courtesy to... dismiss homophobia...
what was "homophobia"
and became "trans-phobia"
was forever some borrowed
from Islam... ****** taqiyya)...                
    
                 oh but reality is brutal
on this level...
                         no... not rosey ****
friends, best buddy psychotic
                  lingering ex-girlfriends...

so i drank one cider,
watched match of the day
for all the premiership highlights...
drank two more ciders...
in between taking
a king's salute of one's
most worthy subject:
    a 10cm length of fudge-like
****...
forgot to *******...
and found myself thinking...
'what if the opening
for david bowie's song
from the man who sold the world,
the width of a circle...
could ever become something
-esque shape of things to come
by audioslave...
that subtle rhythm section...
what if all rhythm sections
of songs could have more
a more subtle air about them,
so that the rhythm section
doesn't have to compete with
the vocals...
   harmony...
                very much unlike
the rhythm guitar of Metallica...
what then?

i'll speak my mea culpa...
but i'll also imagine myself
nailing him to the cross...
and then dry *******
the erected crucifix
                         with him on it...
yes...
    and he might have died,
but i somehow managed to live,
in order to understand,
rather than forget the omni-****
banality for...
    the spec-attache-of-the-wrongly-
reattached-to-the-omni-****
as-stand­ard-the...
                            particular man.

inclined to be on a, "jonestown massacre"
style... motiff?
         please...
                  i'd need to dumb
my language down to a level of
understanding that
could no longer be riddled
with idiosyncracies,
          and, subsequently
become: peppered with rhetoric...

who doesn't,
made of flesh,
borrow a segment from
     idolatory,
of these, of all of all
of the possible days...
                oh.... subtle translation
of the german reality
at the peak of the 19th century...
what was the twilight,
or rather... who were the idols
of that frame of history?
wherever i look now...
i cannot see what twilight
there's is to speak of,
other than via my own
post-mortem...
    and by then...
             i only seem to want to convey:
but i am only making
a snippet of what an status
would perform
otherwise:
full swing wholly engrossed
in idolatry do...

        nibbling...
to better explain metaphysics...
id est:
       as simply as possible...
with a...
                 underlying principle
of metaphor...
   and subsequently:
   a literalism that only dabbles
with ridicule of,
what centers around...
self-worth,
    and self-worth-attainment,
best mitigated by
   a self-deprecating comedy...
         that... is provoked
as a modus operandi...
                by an undermining,
tragico-comic...
         of a... noumenon,
self-excluded:
              deprecating comedy per se.

thus:
   the self, returns to the "self",
returns to "the box"...
               which ends up being...
something almost bearable
to have to endure,
esp. when stacking shelves
in a supermarket.

Verbosity
A patchwork quilt that I roll roll up in
Stitched with syllables
Like a little phonetic sausage
So deep inside you can't hear me go
Dur dur dur.
(insert self-deprecating quip about being a wiener)
laughing track
But it's cozy and neat.
And if you do
I'll rubix cube your dearest mind
Til I'm tucked deep inside once again.  

And I'll softly pontificate about the genetic code
and how it made your irises not quite hazel
But still able to illuminate spontaneously
teal, laurel, cyan, the sea
And if you'll pardon my hyperboles
They draw me strong as an Atlantic tide
This ocean that ***** me the deepest inside
Aesthetically, the contrast is startling to your skin
An artist would capture the portrait therein
But really, all you need to know
Is they're the prettiest
prettiest ******* eyes
I've ever seen.

And I'm sorry
That when I get nervous
My heart is a little effervescent
My words become too efflorescent
(I seek not to strangle you with King's English Shrubberies!)  
As you stand before me, incandescent
My dread is that you're
Evanescent.

...

But that thing about your eyes.
All you need to know.
That thing about your eyes,
Not to mince words

But I think

I'll feel that way always.

I can’t help feeling like we treat people and words like trash.
I love you’s go in recycling.
Tinder messages in the garbage.
And all of the memories and dreams we shared together end up
rotting in piles that let off a particular kind of smell.
It permeates your nostrils
no matter how you try to escape it.
2.
I felt like a piece of garbage today.
3.
I’ve felt like a piece of garbage every day since we broke up
4.
Better yet I felt like I was left on the sidewalk;
discarded for someone else to deal with.
I was your dining room table
a bit scratched up and bruised
but still solid
still standing.
Now I’m alone on the sidewalk watching
as people pass me by-
Me wondering: if I still had value
would someone have come to rescue me by now?
5.
I still have a hard time imagining how
I would fit into a new space.
It seems like an impossible thought.
I find the self deprecating thoughts come faster
cheaper
easier
I’m waiting for garbage day to come.
For the anticipation to end.
To have an answer.

My attire, flyer than a kite
Bellowing higher
Floating, but ******
Sober, I'm told
The only state I'm in
Ain't about sin
Just a means to avoid
a loose mind
Of a multiple kind
Where happy and mad coincide
Follow me through the workings,

Go inside.

Where the mood pendulates
side to side
With reckless abandon.

Manifest in a man
To have childish tantrums
Self righteous in  his self deprecating anthems
To spring one's phantoms alive.

This, I strive to evade
I hide, but to save
No one else, but me.

Everyman for himself!

The mantra (sadly) of anyone seeking to be Free!

i. There are moments when I think that I write until the words run into the ground. I reuse metaphors and recycle imagery until the English language is used up and nothing but compost. But god, it is like yours can speak life into being. They are a breath of fresh air in the cave where I’ve been hiding, and for the first time in a while, I remember what light tastes like.

ii. Every night I have tried desperately to feel something, anything, squinting at the ceiling to try to force a single tear out and pretend that I remember what emotion is. But you remind me what the ocean feels like on my cheeks.
And it is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known.

iii. Sometimes, the only reason I still believe in God is because someone had to have sent you here to save me.

iv. It’s been a really long time since I’ve believed a compliment. And it’s only because you have worked your way into my life well enough to know my imperfections and then continue to see beyond them.

v. I can see my future more clearly with you than with anyone else.

vi. I get into trouble because it seems I romanticize everyone who comes into my life, constantly thinking of them as a better person than they might be.
Except you. You are literally as amazing as I think you are. (And just as you are the only one who can compliment me, trust me when I say I know what I’m talking about when it comes to you).

vii. I swear, if my life ever flashed before my eyes, I would see only high school swim meets, camera-******* photo shoots, squirrel watching, Prom, late night conversations in the glow of the moon, and a brief glimpse of a girl struggling to read my clearly too-fancy name tag.

viii. I realized while writing this, that for the first time, I am actively trying not to be self-deprecating. I guess if someone like you can love me, I want to work a little harder to try as well.
You are right; we bring out the best in each other. For a while, I thought that I could only build others up by tearing myself down. But with you, I feel like we can take over the world (which we will). I hope I have loved enough to make you feel the same way

ix. Thank you. For all that phrase is worth and then a hundred times more. It cannot even come close to conveying what I feel right now, but then again, I was the one who was never comfortable with emotions to begin with.

x. I love you.

I find the glass to be half empty,
He finds the glass half filled,
It's the same thing,
Except it is not literally,

Each one of us forgets, conveniently
That the glass can be refilled
Just as easily as it can be drained empty

And it's up to us
But we are too busy clanking the empty glasses together
Till they shatter,
Or, try to drown ourselves,
When they overflow.


I take a step in,
He repeats,
We both try to co exist in a way,
That neither of us are actually leaning,
Both trying to be friends,
With strangers' acceptance of how one is
I like to chatter, he wears a cloak of silence,
Except there's not much difference between either.

And it's up to us,
But we are too busy screaming to override the unwelcome words,
Or try to dance our imagination on the tune of silence,
Away from the cruel intentions, camouflaged with soft words
Except there's not much difference between either,
We both are shaped by our hurt, and undone by happiness.

I find the life to be a continuation of misery,
Add in some whining and self deprecating poems
Different faces, worn by the same ghosts
Different paths, same dead ends
Pursuit of ever evasive happiness,
Life is never changing.
You think every thing changes,
It's just me who is always going to look the same
To you at least

And it's up to us,
Whether we remain the same or not,
To grow up and grow apart,
Or to Shrink in and fade away
Except I look around,
And I know for you, it's always me
And you look back
And know I'm the one who has always been there

I find the glass half empty,
You find it half filled,
It's the same thing
Except it's not literally.

I'm the self-deprecating monster you brought
back to life. Mouth sewn shut and my
brain is only programmed to survive.