i can't stop feeling this pounce of melancholy,
and i mean: it's like a lynx pouncing on my chest,
i can't even claim a clinical dimension to it,
it's a sadness that comes on two fronts...
   it's a sadness that i left Poland when i was 8,
and the greater part of my life was spent
using the English language...
         and i find the Anglophone world so devoid
of consistency... all this post-truth
          labelling...
       this throwing of the cartesian maxim the other
way around, the "i am" really does
   predated the "i think" scenario on the hopes
of asking for a genesis, a (0, 0) / (ο, ω) coordinate
beginning... yes, i know more of a dougnut
   and less the orbit of a planet in the latter case...
     i can't believe i'm getting this technical -
but it sometimes happens, you know?
i don't really like it... i'd love to write about less
claustrophobic matters, less constrictive intellectual
matters... and before you shoot me down
by denouncing the crass lack of motivation -
                i am frail in undertaking another "poem",
and i mean that as a way of saying:
              terse narration and no claim to technique,
or at least that's what i know is modern...
           i watch the following list of videos
as a sort of freak-natured lullaby while drinking
Obey the Walrus         I FEEL FANTASTIC
Agamemnon Counterpart       Username 666
Cursed Kleenex Commercial      There is nothing
Performance Olivier de Sagazan 2008  
     The Wyoming Incident        My Dead Great
Grandma’s Coffin in My Own backyard!
K-Fee Car Commercial       Pretty Woman
Fatal Diving Accident        Girl Goes ****** During
Makeup Tutorial       Paris Catacombs Lost Footage
Shaye Saint John – Hand Thing (yes, copy & paste
given the uppercase lettering, i can be lazy
once in a while) -
                          so i do see a lot of potential in
these clips... if you can't dazzle them: might as well
scare them...
                      but i watch them and then write
a native-language poem while listening to
    music accompanying a zbigniew herbert poem
by tadeusz woźniak - and i get all nitty gritty
when using a language i should have forgotten
aged 8... and i type one out and i am brought
to tears with it... and then it vanishes from the html
blank...
             and then a deeper horror sets in,
which Ezra Pound would have liked
and it merely means: ten quotes by Horace,
a video, with only 230 views on youtube...
                    no one would dare say carpe diem
like a cliche after seeing this video...
             but still the sadness persists...
and i can't make it systematic, not systematic in
the sense that it might appeal to the zeitgeist of:
the January blues, or... i need the pharmacological
rainbow...
        i have a miniature vineyard... enough for
35 litres of wine... and i make the wine myself...
i pick the grapes...
i crush them, i buy the yeast, i melt the sugar until
i get runny sugar-thick water,
   and you know? out of the 5 litre holders for it...
i get about 10 pristine bottles of wine,
roughly in the range of 15% a pop...
                   from 35 litres i get about 10 pristine bottles
of wine... quality-wise: the stuff you'd expect to
buy in a shopping market...
       and that's the sad part...
it bothers me that i've waited for long for the wine,
i might have mentioned it a few months back that
i do actually make my own wine... but given the addiction
it's a product that could only last for something
worth celebrating...
                     these days people speak of a marathon's
worth of abstinance from the stuff for a month...
    which is a bit sad, given that if people ventured
into producing their own alcohol, they'd have
a Dionysian month of binging on it... and then having
11 months being sober... until the natural cycle comes
back, like the rare event of a comet...
    i'm sad i lost a few poems on the way...
but i'm also sad that the drinking should begin by spring
and that i'm ****** already...
                  that i'm still buying whiskey,
and when i do actually drink that one bottle of clouded
wine today, i'll feel a sense of the most minute accomplishment...
   i can't stop facing this industrialisation of
everything... whether it's alcohol, or art...
   or intellectual debate...
   sure, i'll listen to Breitbart for a bit...
then i'll listen in on how we've began mutilating
language... then i'll think of god, and recount
kant's concept: imagine the pangs of despair i felt
reading through the second volume of the critique -
if you do: you'd be surprised by what's involved
in transcendental methodology...
    what could possibly obstruct you in the existence
of: said word... not enlarged in religious practices?
   i am comforted by the fact that kant deals with
god on a non-religious basis...
    religious i mean: worthy of a reciting only one
book a thousand ******* times and building churches...
if god is merely lodged in your mind and allows
for a narrative, who is sane enough to take that
narrative initiative from you, considering the fact
that you're not bound to kneel and read only one
book a thousand times as if that one book held
the sole capacity for your vocab exfoliation and learning
of the alphabet?
     how can you ever be bound to a cognitive detestation
of god? that really must be painful...
considering that thought is so ****** whimsical, frail,
   picky, panicky... give it all you want...
you can't establish a cognitive detestation of god
  on the simple ground that thought is being bombarded
by a 5:1 ratio of the senses versus 1 non-sense -
    which god evidently is: given the numbers of
the good-church going folks... kneeling lunatics i call them...
but the simple fact that you want to do a lobotomy on
yourself with atheism, is a bit like saying
you'll censor the mathematical statement 1 + 1 = 2...
      at least the concept of god is: language exists...
and can i add to that? if a being as such exists:
he wouldn't consist of games... the verbal colliseum
of anagrams and crosswords... language you seize
to be entertaining... it would spell out a clear
format: a x, y, z      vector precision:
    starting from point (0, 0) moving to (1, 1),
  (2, 2)        to ( 5, 5) etc. you'd get a y = x graph...
   not a ******* parabola of nuance and political
chess... or nuanced ***...
                    and is that a.i.?
           well: the french question about man inventing
god because it would be useful is much better said
these days since we we have the capacity to create ourselves...
and given how it looks: i'm going to be a caveman
trapped in a two-dimensional world of the collective
consciousness by the time the true avant-garde in this
medium starts... creating a god became boring...
so many had to recreate himself in the robotic form...
    man is currently needing this exploration...
forget the space project... it's a case of definition...
but i'm still melancholic about the wine...
     i've been waiting to sniff it and feel the sharpness
of the alcohol for a good 3 months...
       and i really wish i could write in my native tongue
so easily as i do in my acquired tongue...
     i'm sad because i'm drinking the whiskey
prior, rather than getting completely sloshed on
what alcoholism looked prior:
    it's that curse of town insomnia and how we don't
celebrate enough of what comes with natural
cycles...
              which means that ontology is dead...
given we've managed to tame the seasons...
  means that any ontological question, based on
the cycle of wine-making, brings us to a more dreary
position than with nietzsche's god is dead...
look here: at least you have something tangible...
   you can't erase god from thinking...
it's the primost a priori essence of every, single man,
it's not an a posteriori fact,
god is there, in that a priori medium like space
and time...
                              and why do people never claim
that god can contain a dualism, primarily because
the herd is encapsulated by a monotheism?
              if god could ever be an a posteriori you'd
be forced to experience some sort of revelation,
and later encounter the evil contained within the concept's
dualism, so in actual sense: be considered mad:
for not making certain choices in life and wishing to
reach for the pulpit... mind you: i had such an experience...
and my life didn't become better for it...
     evidently i should have pressed harder for
the ontological argument of: marrying the girl...
but then the same ontological argument came back
to me when i started making wine...
                      meaning i could produce alcohol
on an industrial level... and forget any ritualism involved
in consuming it prior... since i would only be
left with an addictive socio-pathological use of the
once celebrated, collective engagement by waiting for
autumn to ferment and keep me warm through
the winter... which i suppose is when all the Greeks
were kept together... drinking and ******* rather
than bother to exploit natural resources like gas and oil...
but hey! that's just me...
         but there's a sadness behind this...
start making your own wine and you'll see it...
which is to say: i don't know whether i'd have lived
a happy life with my russian fiance...
             i have only a quantum idealism to mind
expressed by fanciying myself counter to the history
i'm writing right now...
    so why is god as a priori bound as time and space?
well... why would you otherwise get so many eager
atheist gobs to reach for an argument?
                  i find that the most authentic atheists are
murderers... why? they have transcended
    the cognitive debility of an atheistic argument...
      i'll prove god does not exist by "thinking" about it...
my my: what a lovely congregation you have there!
      i'm not even trying to be clever here...
  well... there's an antidote to this scenario...
               so he's permanently lodged in our a priori
  "consciousness" (might as well do away with psychiatry
******* about with its three-layer cake of
con- subcon- and uncon-) -
                   and he's not lodged in our a posteriori
"consciousness" - i hate becoming the fiddler on the roof -
because what then? experiencing the omniniscence
and the omnipotency and whatever other trait that ******
thing does, would translate as what?
     at best a monotheism... or a place where people concentrate
in numbers... not necessarily worths of being beyond
the estimates concerning their congregation...
            it's dangerous to claim a god in the a posteriori
realm...
                that's why the safest place to keep him is in
the a priori realm... where all the big things happen,
or don't happen, depending whether you're from New York
or Hiroshima...
                    and following from kant's distinction
in transcendental methodology concerning time and space...
and god...
                 it dawned on me that he did see a distinction
between mathematical language and the lingua of
  doodling and anagrams and all those poetic jives that
give no precision...
    if time... then space...
                    if god...            then nothing...
and how are dual in the a priori realm...
       only that with regards to time and space
i'm more likely to throw a 1, or a 2 into conceptualising
these things, than i am to throw an a, or a b into it...
    algebra is secondary in talking about these two mediums...
why? because i'll get a definite rationalisation of
time and space... if i tell you the fastest man on earth
can run 100m in under 10secs...
                       if i throw in x y z into this: i might as well
end this whole narrative with: oi! Zeno! give us
that Achilles joke!
                when i mean god i mean: medium of
communication... that's not necessarily a democratic
omni-versed plateau of sponging everything every human
has to say...
       but i primarily throw 1, 2, 3... 4, 5... 8, 9 and 0
into the a priori conceptualisation of time and space...
  but if i do the same when i throw in the other symbols
into the a priori conceptualisation of god and nothing -
sure, mathematical symbols can be phonetic encoding,
as one, two, three, four... five, six...
          but apply them as one two three four to time and space
and there's no way to rationalise time and space,
because time and space is met with a nonsense
in dealing with a phonetic encoding of 1 (as one) -
due to the vacuum of space... and the timelessness of
    time as a ref. point fixated upon... let's just leave
it with the vacuum of space... 2 overpowers two (because
of to and too), 3 overpowers three (because of free)...
4 overpowers four (because of for)... not only that:
but they're more about photographic memory
and visual conceptualisation ease - no one really bothers
   a - z to be anything more than: what they actually
are as phonetically: awaiting pronunciation.
sure... letter can become mystical in a sense of:
   y looks like a tree (other than pine),
           H is a rugby goal...
                               w is a cosine graph...
                    y is a serpent's tongue...
              but that's mysticism and that's also: fair enough!
what bugs me is the opposite of the a priori
magnetism... as opposed to space and time...
god and nothing...
     well... if i throw 1 and 0 into a priori thinking
about working time and space...
  i'll get, say: 365 days in a calendar year...
               or that the acceleration of earth if 9.8 metres
per seconds squared... (cubic gravity evidently
becomes a bit pointless -
                                        imagine it:
   9.8m/s(superscript)3...   or 9.8m(superscript)2/s...
or whatever variation...
no wonder the chemists got the ****-end of the stick
when they were told they weren't allowed into
the heaven of superscript... but sent to the subscript hell
of writing dwom oxygen... ah shame: Faust! i'm coming!)...
yes... but throw 1 - 0 into the a priori
"conceptualisation" opposite of time and space,
i.e. god and nothing... the best answer you can get
is matthew chapter 1 verse 8... or SIX SIX SIX!  boogie man!
well... not... you throw in the symbols α - ω
into the a priori "conceptualisation" of god & nothing
and you get, e.g.: δατυμ -
which basically means: it can't be meaningless -
       otherwise we'd be stuck with animalistic intuition
and intelligence, overloaded with sensual intelligence
and not marred by the murk of thought...
  how this devolution happened is beyond me...
  no amount of wit makes up for the sensual sharpness of
a monkey shouting at a congregation: spy! snake!
and all with the bare minumum of phonetic distinction...
    thus α - ω are slightly meaningless when it comes
to time and space, i know these symbols to enter
this a priori venture, but we're still primarily talking
about using 1 - 0 symbols to get at the knitting-work...
just like in verse, i say of a crossword
    sound of Valhalla (4),
                 and you say: 1 across... horn!
                              and then we get the pretty picture.
3a.m.
       and the wine ritual is about to begin...
      

Clouds and pressure, gray skies blowing
Lightning stabs electric flowing
Thunder bursts like a heavy drum
Ears are hurting from the thrumb
My visions clouding turning black
Hate and anger, rage attack
Shouting screaming arms unstilled
Fury flows and hope is killed

Hate......so much disdain, loathing, detestation
Pain burns, an inflammation
It creeps and crawls beneath my skin
An evil thing that dwells within
Horrid gross it swells and swims
Extending into all my limbs

I cannot stop this terrible storm
And when I see your beauty form
It slows and stalls and loses heat
Then it dies but not complete
Something hidden, always there
This evil presence in my lair

O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
  Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
    Felix! in imo qui scatentem
      Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.

               GRAY, ‘Alcaic Fragment’.

   When Friendship or Love
   Our sympathies move;
When Truth, in a glance, should appear,
   The lips may beguile,
   With a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection’s a Tear.

   Too oft is a smile
   But the hypocrite’s wile,
To mask detestation, or fear;
   Give me the soft sigh,
   Whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm’d, for a time, with a Tear.

   Mild Charity’s glow,
   To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
   Compassion will melt,
   Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

   The man, doom’d to sail
   With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,
   As he bends o’er the wave
   Which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

   The Soldier braves death
   For a fanciful wreath
In Glory’s romantic career;
   But he raises the foe
   When in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a Tear.

   If, with high-bounding pride,
   He return to his bride!
Renouncing the gore-crimson’d spear;
   All his toils are repaid
   When, embracing the maid,
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.

   Sweet scene of my youth!
   Seat of Friendship and Truth,
Where Love chas’d each fast-fleeting year;
   Loth to leave thee, I mourn’d,
   For a last look I turn’d,
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.

   Though my vows I can pour,
   To my Mary no more,
My Mary, to Love once so dear,
  In the shade of her bow’r,
  I remember the hour,
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

   By another possest,
   May she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere:
   With a sigh I resign,
   What I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

   Ye friends of my heart,
   Ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near:
   If again we shall meet,
   In this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

   When my soul wings her flight
   To the regions of night,
And my corse shall recline on its bier;
  As ye pass by the tomb,
  Where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

  May no marble bestow
  The splendour of woe,
Which the children of Vanity rear;
  No fiction of fame
  Shall blazon my name,
All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear.

My shattered life is like the forsaken Black Widow spider.
The victim's detestation does not even show passion to me.
I bit my victim in two and also hurt them in the process.
The more I hurt my victim in the process, the more woe I have
and hope they are still my friend tomorrow.
The deeper I sink my teeth into my victim,
the more fatal my poisonous venom becomes and hope the fatal
poison doesn't execute them.
I think of all the hard times I've had, just by being nice and
friendly, but it does not work.
When I let go of my victim and hope they do not smash me,
But have the time, I get squashed and hope my sin are forgiven.
Then time was wasted for unanswered dreams and in the process
making new friends.
But I never did.
Life has gone without a prayer, without friends and for someone
to love me.
The next time you see a Black Widow spider, ask yourself,
"Could my life be like a Black Widow spider's?"

Proceeding in the wake of mankind's scourge,
Spoken are the words of this great demiurge,
At dusk the cowled of the night shall emerge,
And convey a true evil on God's Earth to resurge.  

Unleashed and unfathomed, behold the words of a phantom
Turning cities into craters and the oceans to chasms,
Imagine: a picture perfect world, can it exist,
Without the plague of the human race, lost without a trace in abyss!

Ignorance tragic, the magic of bliss,
Static damage to the rabid on this planet of ****,
An example of this: the progression of time
Deteriorating in abundance, a final judgment for mankind.

Exterminate the population, man, woman and child,
Convictions, the arrival, apocalypse nigh!
None will survive, total disaster, blood stain alabaster
Abstain, refrain, salvation from a heavenly ******* shall be sought in vain.

Unexplainable cataclysm,
The missing piece of the puzzle unseen in catechism,
But it was written somehow and somewhere
And the emergence of its purpose was unclear, deny what you fear!

The end is near, malevolent seraphim invade,
The end is here, a feeble humanity kneels and prays
It was revealed, none prepared and none spared
And act of evil, fitting for the slaughter of a people.

Mephistophelian ascension,
A requiem for the souls of the ruined be sung
For a destruction, beyond all human comprehension.
Alarum with no human intervention!

An apoplectic annihilation, fed lies by inhalation,
Microbial immolation, infected detestation,
Evasive evasion, catastrophic, melancholic
Leaving mankind intoxicated by his own narcotic

Whilst hypnotically induced, the demons invade,
Equestrian quartet lead the massive evil brigade
A battalion of stallions, on fray to slay grace
Laid to waste in the face of the inhuman race.

To keep pace, without a trace, Messiah on Fire
In dire need, erase calumny the Heavenly liar feeds
Desire breeds and hatred grows
Within those a crueler fate chose the pyre to bleed.

An ascension to an unknown throne overthrown,
A crown adorned in thorns be thy Kingdom's scorn
To the Black, I am sworn, prophet to the swarm,
The scores of the forlorn born to battle in the storms

Of Ragnarok, the magma rocks rain from the sky,
The Earth will end in fire, watch the genesis die.
Terrestrial crucifixion, the mortals' last affliction,
Desperation bringing forth a dogmatic dereliction.

Infliction of pain, deadly diction to the slain in vain,
A spoken name, confliction causing friction
An addiction to the wicked, auspicious yet pernicious,
Foreboding a sinister outcome of ecumenical wishes.

It's getting kinda old,
You know..??
I'm drained and tired,
Worned out by your fights.

Our fights.
Your words always accepted,
While I bury mine unspoken.
The one sided fight,
Where the opponent is silent.

No,
This isn't fair.
But fair doesn't exist.
Fair is a word that is created in fantasies,
Fair is a word spoken only in fairy tales.

I want this to stop.
We want this to stop.
Wait, don't you.....?
You don't speak the words,
But your actions strongly differ.

With every moment we spend together,
You explain to me the answer.
Why,
Why you treat me different now.
When nothing has really changed.

Your abhorring stares and frowns of detestation.
You tell me,
I don't belong here,
I took away your freedom.
I deserve to die.

You want me dead.

What lies in your eyes
are the lies that I despise
doesn't come close
transparent as a politician
yet I still listen
in hope that my optimism
can twist it
into something I can believe.

Your smile can erase
every trace
of my abiding detestation
for something as smile
for a moment
for a while.

I trust the haze I feel
the curtains which in my heart
only absorb the light
in my mind
I know there is only the devastation
of your cold night.

Silent
is the barred mind
of a Girl
of a Boy.    

Colored prints
of my colored prints,
and America wasn’t great
to those whose hands build it.    

And their anthem plays on,
disguising detestation as protection
resentful the Sun’s
never made love to their complexion.

My stomach flips
When I think of you.
My head spins,
my hands shake and
my legs palpitate at the
thought of losing you.
I enter my own world
of the blues where the
monody is being played.
I see the Dybbuk with it's
venomous blood thirsty beasts
dancing to the lugubrious ditty
It's a place of hatred and detestation
where love doesn't exist.
A place that's perfect for your
Stygian soul
As soon as I look into the Dybbuk's
red boiling eyes the memories sneak
out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks
The pain I feel is unbearable and inadmissible
And all I can think of is a way to escape
from this love prison.
But oh, I realized a little too late
that you're the king of the sinners
and you turned and twisted my heart
and I'm just another victim of your favourite crime...

Crazy
Wild and free,
Climbing the earth
In nature's tree.
Sipping the suds
From bubbly seas.
Creating love
Out of detestation's
Seethe. Scribbling
Quick the words
I know, I am the
Poet
You seek
To know.
My vibes you
Take in, from them
You grow, from you
I glow, because you
Are all
My inspiring
Muses.

And then the wind came…
Out of the house I stormed
I stepped onto the ground
Thanking it for being the only thing holding me up
And then the wind came…
The wind came and wrapped its cool arms
Around my heart
Stroking my hair and
Giving me the comfort I needed
I then looked at the ground in detestation
Cursing the ground for locking me upon it
The wind reached for me again
But the earth forced me down, down, down
Never to feel the comfort of the wind again,
Leaving me to think of how I wish the wind had never come.

Her pants will not ascend up the body.
They exhibit the various mountains and valleys of exhibition
that exhibit all and every stifling opening in the land between the limbs.
The progenitors apparently never trained the lass in class.

Her pants will not ascend the body.
I slam the image processor shut
and beg the higher powers for more cloth
but the portrait remains hung in the palace,
exhibiting, exhibiting, exhibiting,

weakness and detestation in the wake of insomnia,
for she can spine-chillingly be pictured in the movies they show,
the ones with palm and sand and ******* for all.

When the tape ends its shift as a documenter she still exhibits,
plagiarizing the greats like a trombone entertaining itself with exhibition,
its brass perpetuating nausea and its horn emanating
aromas of catastrophic consequences

while it sits there like a *******, echoing the words of the vivacious
director in the silk scarf of silhouettes and the exhibition of pure animosity,
that pops and fizzles like the dying carcass of an ****** ridden rodent
who decrees that Cersei is the finest in the land.

in the tsunami of self loathing,
i am not going to swim,
i am sitting numb,
staring at the walls,
questioning myself,
why am i this way?
why can't i be what they want me to be?
why can't i?
i hear the waves of ocean of detestation,
crashing on my mind,
destructing my trueself,
shaking the buildings of my self confidence,
i can feel the water filled inside my lungs,
and this time,
i am not swimming,
i am not trying to save myself,
i am drowning,
and i don't want anyone,
to save me from drowning,
coz i know,
they can save me from demons,
but no one can save me from myself....

I live in a world,
full of magic and creatures.
Where no one can find me,
hiding in it's features.
A place all of my own
Where I call it my home
It lives in the back of your mind,
so someday I'm sure you'll find,
the wealth and beauty that lives within us.
They call it imagination.
Well call it detestation
of the world we once knew.
Now its all falling,
because of their calling
my home a world of make believe.

A white lily
floating down the river Styx.
Untouched by detestation.

Is she my hope?
my warmth?
my salvation?

Or is she something else,
Meant to drag me under?
Plunge me into Cocytus,
my flowing lamentation?

A pure flower in the wind,
taken in by smog and chemicals.

An angel of darkness,
destroyed by earthly woes.

The secret love of my life,
now the thing I detest.

A delicious dish of food,
now a plate of cockroaches.

A strong tree leaning on her own,
now dependant on another.

A sight once seen as perfect,
I now puke at the very thought.

A taste so sweet and rare,
ash in my mouth and stomach.

Liptea be thy secret,
pain be thy end.

If thy purity can't be so or mine,
in the ground belongs thyself.

Feeling like the end of an era.
The era of
respect
and communication.
The era of mutual
agreements
feelings
interests.
The end of an era
of
trying and
caring and
giving two *****.
The end of an era of
pursuing and
speaking and
engaging.
The era of introspection,
and reflection,
and self detestation.
The end of the era of
strained relations.
It was the era of
“I love you”s
And I wanted to end it
with an era of
honest responses.

Go home,
you’ll be fine.

And I'll await your place,
Among the stars above,
It's just who you are,
But then you seem so far.

You try to rough me up,
Make me plead,
Then maybe I'd say goodnight,
So you can say goodbye.

You are everything,
That I am worth,
And you can't see,
Help me please.

You try to rough me up,
Make me plead,
Then maybe I'd say goodnight,
So you can say goodbye.

Scream at me,
Tear at my heart,
So then you'd ask,
Could you help me please?

You try to rough me up,
Make me plead,
Then maybe I'd say goodnight,
So you can say goodbye.

Scalding water,
Inside the palm of your hand,
And I'll take all that to pour down my throat,
So you will not let go.

There are countless of metaphors I could create to express how much you mean to me, but the one idea I haven’t quite put into words is this; when there’s a warm breeze brushing against my skin, there could be a storm tearing down the trees in your backyard. While Florida’s gust of wind is messing up my hair or calming down my anxiety for the night, a Texas thunderstorm is tearing your house apart, and the reason for your last breath. And now the trees in your backyard aren’t the only thing the storm tore apart, but my heart too with every grain of faith left in me. The Florida wind isn’t going to mess up my hair this time, but the Texas catastrophe will mess up my mind and the love we once shared from a distance. A person’s last breath and the narrative of it has never been more important to me. Thoughts rid me of sleep when this is what they whisper; the detestation of the miles between us only multiplying, wishing it was you whispering sweet nothings only inches between us instead. Wanting your fingertips brushing against my skin instead of the breeze in the middle of the night. There are too many moments I long to, not have sun kissed skin, but my skin kissed by you instead. I just pray the trees stay in your backyard and you become the reason my hair is a mess because I’m tired of giving the credit to this dreaded Florida wind.

Glazed in white this porcelain skin you entrap me in,
I am sundered from the beauty that clings in detestation
My beauty like a crystallise will be fragmented from here.

Slate crevasses like a web clinging to the surface entwine
Aloft as they perch on every part of its superficial holdings
They edge ever deeper till all that was pearl now descends.

Cascading into oblivion where like autumn leafs magenta tears
Descend like ruins that now like coal wisps fade to nothing.
Now there is exemption from what manifested in thought.

This lingering lucent thought given form, but never seen,
Light permeated off its featureless misgivings a kaleidoscope
Of emotions ran free touching all surrounding, static now standing.

There stood a moment of porcine imprisonment ,featureless
Yearnings to touch, but then a tear of crimson detached and a
Rose web did start to ascend from where it collapsed below.

The circle of what would be what was only a matter of time
Created where form became static then birthed in non caporal
Form touching those near as it had yearned all that time before.

I had spent the majority of my life dosed up on antipsychotics,
pills floating in my stomach in a desperate attempt to flood my brain with sanity.
Grown men and women asking me questions and then putting me somewhere with white, cushioned walls.
And if I did so much as raise my hand to defend myself, i'd find myself being restrained by men in white clothing.
I never really saw daylight.
I'm writing this letter to whoever may read this as i need to apprise of why I did such a thing.
I selected the first woman I saw, I saw plenty of women within the white walls, but none with a complexion so beautiful and so unique.
I had this urge since I could detect detestation,
It was as if i needed to make my mark on the world as I has not done so before.
The urge seemed infinite, I could not cease the sensation.
The last thing I saw in her eyes was my reflection.
That night, I watched her blood drip from the coffee table to paint the carpet red,
I watched the whites in her eyes grow more intense,
And that night I lost my virginity to the most beautiful woman I had ever met.

Dreams shrink with age and our aging bodies
follow
Disappointment underlines the expectation of
self
Deprivation withholds participation from true
form
Death in shallow waters and the stream of
always
Downfall isn’t anything without the rise of
hope
Dawn sprouts life on days we don’t
believe
Detestation dwindles when our first choice is
love

See?

The buzz of the computer gets me down
does?’t stimulate it at all
condemned to doing nothing
****** to worthlessness
a zero with nothing to lose and nothing to win
drowning itself in chaos of meanings
with no final meaning in sight
sure sure
death will be the final meaning of it
there is one more year left
maybe more maybe more
one more year is like one hundred of them
and it wants to sin
for that short feeling of freedom
flattening itself on the ground and twitching
flattening itself on the ground and twitching
saying anything that comes to its mind
making noise
with some ability to defend it against the rest of the world
provoking distress and detestation
always somehow trying to throw others into the arms of disillusion and pain
tchutchutchu
childishly trying to do what others don’t
with little success
destroyed by its inability to understand feelings
still the same *******
a zero asking for being erased
with nothing to say
with poor style
with no gentle moments anymore
repeating itself all the time
boring and lifeless
faceless
a desperate but sometimes convincing actor
hopeless writer
mean
ugly
weak
lazy and soft
not a man but it
a cry-baby
with undefinable ambitions
like doing something that would touch somebody
like make others trust it
by saying the ******* it usually says
like gaining unspeakable high virtue
by being something close to a *****
genius, indian, bohemian, child and pig
not knowing what it does or why
not knowing what it does or why
drinking too much
shaking legs under the table endlessly
eating too quickly
making everything around stained and *****
smoking too quickly
hating itself
adoring itself
stupid
animal
with a few natural instincts
making too much about itself
with no will
strength or (chances to stay)
not even strong enough to **** itself
with no peace
with no love
with no listeners
zero
with nothing to lose
and nothing to win
how can anybody trust it
how can anybody trust it
people beware
it ***** you up

with no peace
with no love
with no listeners
zero
with nothing to lose
and nothing to win
how can anybody trust it
how can anybody trust it
people beware
it ***** you up
——

I had spent the majority of my life dosed up on antipsychotics,
pills floating in my stomach in a desperate attempt to flood my brain with sanity.
Grown men and women asking me questions and then putting me somewhere with white, cushioned walls.
And if I did so much as raise my hand to defend myself, i'd find myself being restrained by men in white clothing.
I never really saw daylight.
I'm writing this letter to whoever may read this as i need to apprise of why I did such a thing.
I selected the first woman I saw, I saw plenty of women within the white walls, but none with a complexion so beautiful and so unique.
I had this urge since I could detect detestation,
It was as if i needed to make my mark on the world as I has not done so before.
The urge seemed infinite, I could not cease the sensation.
The last thing I saw in her eyes was my reflection.
That night, I watched her blood drip from the coffee table to paint the carpet red,
I watched the whites in her eyes grow more intense,
And that night I lost my virginity to the most beautiful woman I had ever met.

Hallucination detestation
What makes you so real?
If seeing is believing
I say, show me what you feel
We all set sights on something more
Invisible design
But clothe the naked eye should it paint
Dreamscapes of divine
And mystifying possibilities that redefine the mind
Into a monkey god thesaurus
Quite synonymous with time
In of which chakras to unlock
Have no beginning, middle, end
There is merely being present
In the peace you must defend
And the source of its creator?
Is an omniverse immersion
Flowing through the world around you
Bathing you in the conversion
Of obliterated egos
To the one who reigns supreme
A monarch metamorphosis
No lesser king or queen could deem
Unworthy of esteem
Because you are the soul master
Of your consciousness regime

Peoplephobia

You’ve heard about them all,
The misanthropes, misogynists,…
But have you heard of peoplephobes?
Detestation of a group,
Fear and loathing
Women, men, trade deals, the globe:
You-know-who - I think he’s got it.
Actions show it,
Does he know it?                      
Groundless, baseless,
Senseless
To the point
Of being foolish.
One who has it
Doesn’t know it,
Has not conquered anger, temper and self-interest.
All those traits of vice that simply aren’t nice!
Traits that ultimately cause destruction
Of the self and those who follow.
Hollow traits that scoff the poor,
Prizing, praising the well-off.
Leaving Latin, leaving Greek
And colloquially stated,
New created,
Peoplephobia’s the thing
For understanding would-be kings
And you-know-who,
Thanking God that it’s not you
Or me.
Which would be woeful, sorrowful and lousy.

Peoplephobia 10.17.2017
A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin