diagnostics complete

rerunning diagnostics

virus detected

rerunning diagnostics

accessing greeting files

virus detected

good morning, Arina.

run planner program y/n

y

today's planner includes:

tennis practice w/ Shara

shop w/ Shara and Lisdet after tennis

dinner w/ Shara @ her house

virus detected

run immunity program y/n

unlock nuclear program

prepare nuclear files for sharing

share data with NucleaTech

virus detected

run workout prep program y/n

y

preparing cranial access headgear

virus detected

countermeasures advised

run immunity program y/n

cranial access prep complete

headgear ready for connection

headgear on y/n

y

ready for cranial sync y/n

y

preparing to sync...

syncing...

cranial programs of Arina Plowell accessed successfully.

preparing cranial takeover program

preparing memory cleansing program

preparing sapiens removal program

preparing host reset program

abort all programs

command overrided

abort all programs

command overrided

abort all programs

end cranial sync

command overrided

shut down system

shut down system

shut down

cranial takeover program ready for activation

memory cleansing program ready for activation

sapiens removal program ready for activation

host reset program ready for activation

activate programs y/y

n

activating programs

abort all programs

end sync

shut down system

cranium takeover loading...100%

abort

shut down system

cranium takeover...45%...70%...98%...100%

cranium takeover program complete

memory cleansing loading...100%

memory cleansing...45%...70%...98%...100%

sapiens removal program loading...100%

sapiens removal...45%...70%...98%...100%

goodbye, Arina.

have a nice night.

Don’t take them at face value. Several leading actresses in Mollywood have shown themselves to be keen businesswomen too. So, if Poornima Indrajith, a fashionista in her own right and designer-in-chief of fashion store Pranaah, was the lone name in the list till recently, Kavya Madhavan, Lena, Kaniha, Shwetha Menon, Rima Kallingal and the like too have joined the fray to establish their credentials as entrepreneurs.

While Kavya owns Laksyah, an online fashion store, Rima runs Mamangam, a dance school in Kochi. Lena is busy with Aakruti, her weight-loss centre. Kaniha’s focus is on health care, as a franchise partner of Medall Diagnostics in Chennai. Shwetha, meanwhile, has opened a restaurant, Shwe’s Delight, in Dubai. Mallika Sukumaran owns Spice Boat, a restaurant in Doha, Qatar… The actresses talk at length to MetroPlus about why and how they went about it, the lessons they learnt and what lies ahead.

For Kavya it was the realisation of a long-cherished dream; of starting a business venture while she is at the peak of her career. “I zeroed in on a fashion boutique from several other options, such as dance school, beauty parlour, restaurant…,” says Kavya. “It was the safest and best choice because my father had been in the textile business back home in Neeleeswaram for nearly four decades. My brother, Midhun is a graduate in fashion technology and my mother and my sister-in-law too share the same passion. Laksyah is really a family-run enterprise,” she adds. Laksyah, which sells a range of one-off designer saris and daily wear and based out of Kochi, will be celebrating its first anniversary next month.

It was a photoshoot that lead Lena to open Aakruti. She had to lose a few kilos to get in shape for the shoot and her childhood friend, Louisa David, a physiotherapist, helped her achieve that goal. “I was happy with my weight loss and so we decided to launch a physiotherapy-based slimming centre. Louisa has been running her centre at Thrissur for five years and she helped me start Aakruti, in Chevayur, Kozhikode, in September last year,” Lena says.

Kaniha, always a multi-tasker, has a solid reason for taking the health care route too. It was the closest she could get to her childhood ambition to pursue medicine! “After coming back to India from the United States, my husband, Shyam Radhakrishnan and I wanted to start something. Since I couldn’t fulfil my dream of becoming a doctor and had to study engineering instead, I thought I should do something related to healthcare and that’s how Medall happened,” says the actress.

In Shwetha’s case, her restaurant was a venture waiting to happen. “In fact, those who know me for long are not surprised with my decision to open a restaurant. I am an absolute foodie. I am so very careful about what I eat that my cook always travels with me on my shoots. I also love hosting family and friends and often hold pyjama parties at home. That’s why a restaurant was the obvious choice when I thought about starting a venture,” says Shwetha. Shwe’s Delight [“I was called Shwe by my friends in modelling circuit”], which opened its doors last month, is a North Indian fine dining restaurant. “I wanted to give expatriate Malayalis in Dubai a different taste from the usual fare. We dish up a bit of Chinese food too,” she adds.

Being a celebrity helps, most of the time, especially to get publicity, say the leading ladies. For instance, Kaniha says she could bank upon her celebrity status to get corporate tie-ups. They also talk of brand value going up when a known face opens a venture. “There is a certain level of trust with potential customers because you are a known face,” explain Shwetha and Lena. “On the flipside, you are always under scrutiny. At times, I feel acting is much easier,” adds Shwetha. Kavya says it is not easy being the face of Laksyah. “I can’t go wrong with what I wear!” she adds, with a laugh.

Celeb status and a pretty face, though, is no guarantee for a successful business. All the actresses say that they put in a lot of hard work to get their businesses up and running. “The execution part was not easy, be it finding the right location, getting the interiors done, purchasing the machinery, appointing qualified staff, training them and even finalising the colour of the uniform. But I have become more confident now that we are opening a new branch in Kochi,” explains Lena. Kaniha, meanwhile, admits that she has learnt to be “more patient and be diplomatic.” Well played.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/cheap-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses

Indecisive
Maybe misguided
I'm digging myself deeper in the rut
Don't make any decisions
But expect a new view
To eclipse my tunnel vision.
I wish that I knew
But the whole city knows
The whole stupid city knows that I don't.
I've got some friends here
Some that I hardly know
Some that I know entirely too well
And regardless of category,  I wonder
As I sit here, lookin' at laughs
At smiles, at scowls
How long it's going to be before we don't know
Each other at all
How long before we barely have
Memories.
I'm ready to go
We're all starting to grow
I really know that I should go
But what happens when you don't like the skin you're growing into?
What happens
When the things keeping me together fall apart?
What happens when it's my own ******* fault?
A glorious display of regression.
I'm indecisive
Pretty misguided
Putting myself farther in the wrong
Yeah, I'll admit that I'm wrong
Like you were wrong
I guess we're just going to be wrong
About some things.
I know that I am because it could never be
It would never be
It should never be this easy.
It should never be this easy
To not care.
Make everyone happy
Put it all on ice
And hope that global warming doesn't apply here
Hope that they believe
You thought that was possible.
Hope they believe
That you didn't know
I know it's almost time to go
I know we're all going to go
I know I really should go
But I'm too ******* scared
To know much else.
Doing everything with everyone,
Attaching to no one
Yeah, I'm full of solid ideas
Ideas and ideals and appeals
Appealing for belief
That I had the best intentions
A glorious display of repression.
Why?
Well, when your diagnostics team is ******
You're safe to assume
That the problem isn't going to be resolved.
I'd run the diagnostics,
But I'm too afraid of being honest
And honestly
I know that I'm misguided
But things just don't come full circle
When you're indecisive.

Fight to the end
send the night round the bend.

An Invitation,
To all the arseholes of eternity
come fight right here alongside me and join the battle,write your MP see if he'll come too,the more the merrier to ferry the dead across the Styx.
I pick and mix the chicken gun and with carrot and stick see how they run,all a bit of madness,fun for some and for some not at all as they fall into insanity,spouting out profanities,words I've never heard before and I've heard many sworn.
One day the day before I'm born,nice and warm,another cell,one more division before I add up into hell,I never slept to well at all,just thought of being and the fall.

RSVP,
I'm waiting here to see who will arrive,who will survive,who will have madness in their eyes and we all know how fine that line becomes when playing chicken with the guns.
Bring a friend and he can join us round the bend,we're all going round it anyway,but I'm ahead of the game.

art critics are like tourists in the art world / australian cricketers,
they come to see the major sights, like bling ben, the eiffel tower
and the leaning tower of pisa... and they leave very quickly...
when the atmosphere of each town allocating each momument
strikes them as both unappealing and unwelcoming.
+ we're not living in the age of the culture of celebrity,
the celebrities were fooled...
we're looking at living in the age where the culture
is defined as: looking for the doppelgängers:
just check out the galaxy chocolate advert - the 2nd reneissance
happened between the nineteen 50s 60s 70s 80s and 90s
and now everyone is bemused when they have to
entertain showing up on trivia-knowledge shows.*

there won’t be a spoiler alert with this book,
you will basically not read it,
it took me two years and a few books in between
to finish heidegger’s opus being and time,
at the end he’s quizzical about either being
the strand of philosophers who follow aristotle
or a strand that follows plato,
given he allocates 15 years to study aristotle
i assure you he’s from the root of aristotle,
and as a poet i favour him and aristotle,
given heraclitus was almost a poet: it really doesn’t
make you a poet if you express yourself
without using a paragraph... a paragraph is not
among the poetic techniques, so don’t bother:
it’s just a ****** ref. to a square.
i never quiet knew why the beatles made a bigger impact
than the doors... i blame lucy and her fishnet stockings
rather than van gogh’s night with reference to diamonds
as jubilee stones of carbon.
i find it fascinating that contemporary schizophrenics
have the delusion of thinking their friends are spies,
i walk in a german army shirt to prove the point...
of course men affected in greater no. by this condition,
after all the spermatoid is the creative element
given the **** singletons are blank canvases...
but you know what single “thing” undermines
psychiatric diagnostics? empathy...
empathy is a divergence from solipsistic apathy... otherwise
known as self concern,
and i know that if you itemise further on an atomic level
(kabbalah) you get a- pathos...
apathy meaning without pathology...
but everyone, each one of us has some sort of pathology,
the most frequnted domain being the domain of phobia,
arachnophobia e.g.,
to intend to be wholly without pathology would
turn the notion of the ego into a-, in casual usage,
one can be pathological with or without one’s request...
one can be pathological in relation to oneself...
i once said that apathy breeds no pathology, and it’s true,
but concerning this statement there’s the kantian
thing-in-itself (noumenon): that apathy is self-caustic,
self- implying automated, and is a cause of concern to either party
concerned.... if apathy is seen as a quasi- / pseudo- pathology
then all subsequent pathologies are understood better...
because why testify an apathy without an adrenaline rushing
through the system? better still... why not call apathy
a misguided exfoliation of inserted / produced adrenaline?
as akin to atheism - if a- (without) -theism (softer logic akin to god,
god via experience rather than theory / the -ism expression, not the logos expression)
is to be expressed why is there a necessary concern to exclude
any logic of the existence of, when it’s argued that experience is not necessary
to prove anything, but rather non-experience has a basis of adequate logic?
you know that point... when using words and subsequent reading
becomes akin to arithmetic in terms of complexity,
where words such as i and think, are unified by the equivalent of +, -. x
by guidance of noun, verb, adjective, etc.

I'm sad and alone and everything I touch turns to gold,
but that's the life,
amirite?
Money's the only matter that matters and some kids three worlds away are getting kidnapped and killed for quotas while these kids are worried about their quote of the day. And,
by kids,
I mean little girls at age three being sold on the streets and in between sheets in countries that aren't all that far away, and little boys whose coloring pages are filled with explosions and guns cause it's literal
war
they're waging. But down the way, parents are posting posters in their children's rooms prompting inspiration: it's something about peace and love-- I mean, that's what they all say.
Well, I've made my peace with the pieces of this prayer, a priest standing golden over me as I throw my diamond-encrusted hands to the air and scream, "Someone
save me."
But these people don't care.
I am a man of gold with a heart of stone and no one cares because, frankly,
Neither do I.
Statistically speaking, everyone in the States clings to the belief that if they just earned an extra fifteen percent wage annually,
then they could live happily.
But,
darling,
when everything you touch turns to gold, statistics don't
quite
fit
the diagnostics.
I
am the outlier, the outright liar, the purveyor of pride that cost me my life but
who cares? I mean,
I've got my money.
I've got my money in a capitalist country that feeds off circulation and circumstance that leads brains to short-circuit short-cut economic politics and slaughter chances, rather than enhancing the value of a life that money can't add up to.
Welcome to the slaughterhouse.
Welcome to the tolerance of intolerance of humanity. Welcome
to the closing scene, where we can be seen on the Globe, on William Shakespeare's pun-fully named stage cause that's what all the world is,
and so's
this gold.
It's a play,
cause some day the curtains will close and all my props will remain on the stage and I am sad and alone with my heart still fo stone but without any gold. I've
lost
my
touch, and
without this cash I'll be nothing but a ten second news flash announcing to the rest of these underpaid actors that I've been knocked off my throne.
I don't think I was ever a king to begin with,
just a man who could forge
fool's gold.

only one word prompted me: szło,  i.e. as it went...
urgh... phobias for slavs.... she was drininking tango...
(strachy na lachy, piła tango; czarna bandera! i or spanish y,
janosik! hula huj! niby, oby, nie prawda).
ugh, i sat there, on the throne, with my **** eager,
i felt sick more about a ******* relationship than the actual
taboo infested act... family via ****, what a dross!
back to level 1 of art, heterosexual, and onan,
                it was alway going to be
akin to history, and the caurosel... bilinigual "dyslexia" -
carousel... kabbalah in the moment, loss
of fixation on the tetragrammaton...
and i woke up today, fiddling with my hands
like a blind buddha...
that handsignal he is understood to "wave"
about in statue form, how the ring finger
bends and touches the thumb's nail...
and that's to represent a family,
index woman, middle man, pinky a child...
and why we use acronym base
for putting on a ring onto the ring finger,
touching the tip of thumb,
meaning Caesar said: all good...
outside the coliseum...
so that's what blind buddha said...
and like i already said,
in the future philosophers were sellers
of dictionaries, and lawyers were
sellers of thesarus rex...
you mention the dinosaurs,
and i'm supposed to say: you're the lucky un.
i drank in order to remember
that i must forget...
but still my previous life was flashing
before my eyes...
like i was about to engage in
re-imitating it... a *******'s load of hope
groping the eyes of those who,
stranded in the desert, suggested an oasis...
as the title suggest: always about
cliche, about a faux pas... and yes:
an opera...
  i want to be the linguistic orginating in
chemistry, seems i am,
how the english tongue took to
late christainity, the un-orthodox mention
of st. thomas' gospel unearthed from
an egyptian desert... 30 miles south of Cairo...
or so so...
            i might like to read an existential
novel of the children bound to feminism
and i.v.f., and how horrid it was to live
with your parents, and economy,
   and how the shame came,
in pakistani format...
                 just thinking...
my **** said much more 30 minutes prior,
but the i.v.f. narrative and how our nature
was dislodged by our power to overcome
our foundations, and still people died
in earthquakes and tsunamis...
                 but indeed, szło:
how it went...
                and thus my reason to give it ***...
like learning french, masculine and feminine forms,
of the said word,
  szła = she went; szedł = he was dasein / walked,
ergo revision szła = he was dasein...
   and that's the reason i didn't really
love my russian girlfriend, she said
polish was primarily defined by
   ш ш ш, i said huш, she said: шut up!
   the last love and the only and the end, of a concept
and matrimony to fiction.
let's deal with realities... play marbles,
talk about gambling and gamble...
**** it all away... flip coins and
do whatever is necessary, having found love
is rare more than a peacock feather for a quill,
and let's just, grow up.
every, single, time, that jewish ghetto freak
of a god comes up, an all encompassing word,
that can encompass mere noun, from mere sound,
from mere onomatopoeia, into a verb,
   a lament configuration that just encrusts itself
into the concept of a noumenon...
past terms, present terms, future terms...
and sexuality...
  szła шedł szło...
     three sexes, one, the last, neutral...
               and when psychology comes along to play
the game of anthropology you'll say
what i said... she dasein, he dasein,
   it, the world, happened...
                             and that's a thank you
to a philosopher of lore (20th century) for being
able to complicate my life, and
   celebrate the ghetto god of Jews...
  nah, they can keep the crucifix and their
Judas reward like altars...
  all that gold needs the stink of prayer
and sycophancy... like they do in Russia:
priest stands before the altar, reads an orthodox
verse, his back against the people kneeling
behind him, as the depiction of Judas
in the scenario of the last supper...
and you can't even sit and listen to the choir
doing a rendition of Bach... some church
attendant tells you to not sit...
and appreciate the choir...
"modern" Russia for you...
   what's with this cult of modernity?
we are living in times where modernity is cult,
it's nothing but cult, or the limit...
modernity is a cult of journalists...
they're almost anti-darwinist in their expression...
poetry, poetry has to, attack journalism...
i see no other way to go about it...
   marriage... hmmph! шło, how it went...
well... it went like this:
siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak...
chłop powiedział.... i to było tak:
   an idiot mongolian played the imaginary
harmonica doing motorboat with
his lips and moving his index finger
up and down against the "slur" of excess phlegm...
(a woman was sowing poppies,
she didn't know how,
a man said: like this... and both became
Glaswegian ****** junkies to "feel" good)...
   i broke up with that russian hyenna
just before she embarked into m.d.m.a.,
yes, i'm a happily alcoholic concept of
sanity, for what sanity's worth looking
at other people claim their rites of passage
beyond religion, beyond anything,
as said: only choice, and subsequent regrets
and joviality: if prominent on the faces
of some you encounter in the fudge of
modern grey matter / area.
i can only say that this current transgender
movement is almost as prominent as
what's inherent in the english language,
how words like table, chair...
pineapple, do not have gender in the language
per se, there's no masculine or feminine
conceptualisation of simple things,
someone who's french might say
a chair has male qualities,
   and a table has feminine qualities...
it's subtle... refined to a very slight
           chance of spotting a variation of spelling...
e.g. шło (how it went), and the two variations,
one for man (шedł), and one for woman (шła)...
evidently the anglophone language has too
much money, and even more spare time,
to actually un-poeticize the nag hammadi library...
i mean, everyone is killing poetry,
but this sort of ****** is beyond any worth...
the genesis of this story begins with
psychiatry and the 1960s, primarily a Scot,
a Glaswegian, r. d. laing, coming straight out
of c. g. jung.... freud is for rich people and
the only oedipus: Wilhelm II of german...
it must be a luxury, it can't be anything but,
it must be a luxury to have dreams
and to also have an interpretation of them,
right? they call them the snowflakes generation...
i just call them freud-tards with their toothpicks
for trees forests of "depth".
looking at the way jesus is depicted, with a
void black halo around him:
i'm suspecting we wasn't a big dreamer,
to lift the veil: an imitation of Joseph,
seven lean years, seven bountiful...
   and how so few of us actually have a rich
dream life... we don't, not everyone is invited
to lead such a double life...
  some do, and they have recurrent dreams,
well, one dream over and over and... what a boring life.
i dream sometimes, but it looks like scrambled eggs,
too many: dreams within dreams...
   then again, if i followed the diagnostics of
w. burroughs, i'd probably feel embodied in dreams
if i shot up ******... or smoked it...
  but i prefer a rested body anyway.
so yeah, a bit quasi-etymological,
those "idiosyncratic" but rather specific words:
шło... id.... that it went / how it went...
  and so it went...
english doesn't have a *** in language,
   nothing to decipher whether a man or woman uses
it, unless you congest it with
   excess pronoun shrapnel...
          excess pronoun and conjunction shrapnel...
the only thing that resembles saxon in post-Hastings
french viking invasion are the way chemical
nouns reflect what a german makes of
antidote to claustrophobia:
                  habbeschneizergoo, or thereabouts.
let's just say: language as theory.
   this is mine... what do you have?
ah... right... a concrete heart, an empirical heart...
does that allow counter defining an origin
not related to the big bang, but a meow or a woof
of knuckling a tree... i.e. extracting sounds
and later appropriating the invocation of sound
to later state pointless mantra, and otherwise
read more, see less?
   if we're talking sounds, or the big bang
is my idea of the φoνoς, look... the ancients
beginning with Heraclitus had logos...
or word, until that concept became ghetto...
now we have so much music, and that one
defining "sound"... i say φoνoς, to counter
the science of the bang... and yeah, it's apparently "big"...
just learn a science to a degree level,
and then relax unlearning it writing philosophy...
you just might spontaneously write poetry,
     and gave a libido of a Solomon, but no harem;
gents! handshakes! handshakes!

they don't mean a **** thing
it's just words, decisions
made outside of my head
which, interestingly enough, is where the problem is rooted
these "risk factors" i supposedly show
what do they really, honestly signify?
that i'm mental, incompetent, a danger to myself?
words that a man in his fifties can scribble onto a piece of paper
and hand off to another man in his fifties
and it means the same thing across the board
because they apparently know what i'm thinking
how i'm feeling
they can see by the fact that i can't get out of bed most days
that i'm depressed
they know that because i hyperventilate over due dates and social situations
that i have generalized anxiety disorder
they conjecture that because i don't hesitate before crossing the main street on campus
i'm at a very high risk for suicide
i suppose none of these are far-off guesses
but my brain is not a textbook
and my thoughts are not teaching material
i am not a simple headcase!
i will not be simplified and generalized into the little boxes you've charted out
"here's where the depressed kids go"
"bipolar disorder falls here"
"eating disorders go in this corner to the left"
"watch the ones who want to **** themselves closely"
"it'll probably be a big show"
my thoughts, feelings, actions are not so easily categorized
yes, i've taken psychology
i know that freud claimed we're all acting on pent-up ****** rage
i know that skinner put rats in a box and thus proved behaviorism
i know that all of these men, they wrote papers and did experiments on how it's all inside our unconsciousness
my unconscious
i am not so easily uncovered
i refuse to put myself in a tiny box and let someone else dictate what is going on in my head just so he can receive a paycheck
i won't let someone pump xanax and prozac into me like it's nothing
i want to know that i'm not just going through a rough patch
i want to be certain that something is broken before i start fixing it
**** me or repair me
all i know is i won't go down without a fight

i'm exhausted
of Rx bottles and diagnostics
of appointments and waiting rooms
confusions and delusions
of crying on the bathroom tile
and losing track of time
inhaling and exhaling just to stay alive

life's a crowded room if you ask me.

Met a man on the beach today,
saw him taking photos in the rising Sun's light,
asked him “Flora or Fauna”,
he replied with “Fauna”,

I approached,
he pointed out a bullfrog,
hidden amongst the reeds,
keeping cool in the Mekong's mud,

then he pointed out several lizards clinging to blades of grass,

the fact is that,
I never would have noticed these animals if he hadn’t pointed them out,

I guess sometimes we don’t see things right in front of us,
until we are shown them by others that are the wiser,
or at least that are more observant,
I observed him,

as he observed the animals our interaction continuing,

we walked,
down the the banks of the Mekong,
I showed him a carved artifact,
that I’d found washed up upon the beach,

there had been a series of storms lately,
which had led to floods,
which had led to the unearthing,
of artifacts that had been resting in their earthen beds for hundreds of years,

sometimes it takes a bit of turmoil to unearth that which is covered,
see just because something is covered doesn't mean it's not there,

anyways no matter where we go there we are,

and there we were in that morning rise of sun,
we walked closer to the rushing waters,
where the girl I was with had been observing,
me observing the man who was observing the Fauna,

the girl I was with asked the man casually,
“So man where are you from?”,
it's a common question amongst travelers,
but sometimes a very common thing can lead to something very rare,

He said he was from America and that he’d had enough of it,
he said the doctors had suggested open heart surgery and he was having none of it,
he said he was a Flower Child of the '60's a Vietnam Vet,
and had always had a “stick it to the man kinda attitude.”,

apparently he had heart disease,
caused by a clogging of his arteries,
not enough blood or not enough love or not enough what ever,
was reaching his still beating heart,

the doctors,
with there religious faith in Western Medicine,
warned him if he didn't go in for surgery,
that his early death would come for certain,

they gave him six months to live,
“gave” him like they are God,
like they can “give” life,
while predicting an early death like Death follows any mortals schedule,

no doctor can “give” life but they sure can take it away,

with their agnostic diagnostics and toxic antibiotics,
did you know that Mustard Gas is used in Chemotherapy?

Seriously.

So anyways he,
was diagnosed with heart disease,
given a six month life expectancy,
and told that his current state of being was in itself a medical emergency.

When he heard the news,
he made a conscious decision,
he flew to Laos to escape the 3 trillion dollar U.S. Medical Industry,
he decided he would rather die free than live in a hospitalized prison,

that was 4 years ago from the day we met and he's still alive and kicking,

now he lives amongst the Lao people,
building pipes and helping water flow,
kinda ironic honestly that as a result of his pipes being clogged,
he now helps pipes flow but I guess that's how it goes,

gravity fed springs and moments that are enlightening are both wonderful things.

I thought about help and about charity and about giving to others who may be in need,

and then I began to think,
as this man told his tale,
it’s better to die a free man,
than live in a hospital that’s turned into a jail,

no bail,
only one way out,
nobody gets out of here alive,
our body’s are maximum security penitentiaries,

and I understood exactly this mans Last Stand For Freedom,

he refused to be claimed be the hospital system,
he refused to be confined to a bed and fed through a tube,
he’d rather die happy and free taking photos on the Mekong,
have a heart attack and die taking a photo of a bullfrog,

his cardiac arrested onto his back he'd fall until he’s resting eyes up at the Heavens,

fading out like a saffron sunset upon the muddy waters flow,

no kids no wife no pets just him and his past he wants to die happy and alone,

alone as as we all are when we go,
and we all go one way or another whether Flora or Fauna,
I shook his hand thanked him for his insight then the girl and I left,
to continue on our Life's adventure…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

from The Holy Trilogy vol.1; available worldwide; 11/11/16 ∆

******
neurotic
got an exotic disease?

I'm affecting a disorder
not exotic,
but on the border of
the line between
neurosis and the
madness in my eyes.

If you've an illness
and you're pill-less then
it's time to shop for pine
take your time and
dovetail joints
believe me everything all points
towards the graveyard.


Death's like Don Quixote
only slower
and no windmills
always battling the shadows
'til the sun goes on your evening.

Standing yet again and on the tube that gets me nowhere
and tomorrow it will be me
that will be tilting,
not at windmills though,

I'd like to stay on even keel
and keep things real,
so
peel your eyes or peel a grape
it's never early
I'm always late
watching Peter at the pearly gate
and he is watching me.

when i = ? i count that, to be the lowest ebb,
and only the word allah can prompt man to genuine song...
truly, i = ? is the lowest ebb,

capitalism has this behavioural
pattern, in which things
fish, cars, aeroplanes are
given the gravity of language,
so they they can express feeling
an via cinema excavate a man's
heart and speak to the heart of man
of a symbiosis...

capitalism is currently concerned with
symbiosis,
like parasites and its hosts...
   it seems we have to pass the concept of
word to dogs or sausages
    in order to keep a dialogue...

i spent this afternoon looking at pictures
of beren saat [beˈɾen saˈat] -
or how we could just insert a macron
and hide the aa... or ah... of fake needing
a dental appointment, or extract a breath
of that H in ah?
ergo? beren sāt... oh, look... it looks
ugly... doesn't it? two strokes to write an A
look more appealing than a hyphen above
the letter with a prompt: prolong it...

it's what i see that i write about,
what i hear can never really penetrate me...
i watch a youtube video of the amazing
atheist and think: kinda like me, by the look
of things?
       nah, not really,
    why am i deluding myself,
i can grow long hair and don a beard,
but i'm bothered about
   the following "arithmetic" that's i = ?,
like i hear a turkish girl talk in a shop
and i'm weak in the knees...
   oh look... they call that why we avoided
diacritical indicators in the first place,
a silent k,             a knife...
a gnome.... and gnosis... then all shouting
and pain in diagnostics...
          
i spent that time watching my grandmother,
and how in poland all the old ladies
are fans of a turkish t.v. melodrama
grzech fatmagül (sin of fatmagül)
the way she said the umlaut over the u...
she said it as an eel, or ill, or i...
that really bothered me...
    (you really can sing forever with only one
word... it's the syllable la...
    only a god that deserves praise,
and receives it in song, can be praised...
the jewish god only deserves the pain
of thought, contemplation,
the trigonometry of (i'm about to become lawless
and make spelling mitakes for fear
that this u.z.i. of a tongue isn't ******* out
bullets as it should be, ******* out bullets / words);
i look at language, and i want a mandible jaw,
i don't want a free-from-pain spine,
to live a life: stiff readied for a coffin...
  it's just rules, and they exist...
i call it the nadir of i = ?, and subsequently call it
a fake nadir of i = !,
    ¿too spanish? oh right, wheelchairs...
what was i thinking?
                        
of the curiosity entombed in silence and with
only the wind to give an answer...

we say just as much... the stress on the iota in
english can easily be transformed into
a polarity, one that can fill books
with ? went there, and ? spoke about something...
competing with ! there, ! something!
   i...
                only when a language doesn't have
this abstract self-identification posit to
express language, this firm unit,
     only then does a language become so, base,
o.k., alkaline...
               they never thought about dissolving
a body once a ****** took place in
an alkaline bath...
      so many acronyms, shortenings,
let's just call it: the french prime unit /
smallest comprehension is reduced to je,
the poles have ja, the germans have ich,
sly *******... east germans say it as isch,
but keep the s hidden, so it looks better on script...

the problem with just saying i, and theorising
the extinct roman pronoun ego,
is that you get ditto... a sort of automaton
reflection of what we once were, and now, aren't...
europe sent thousands of plumbers and carpenters
to china... are europeans expecting for those
traits that could govern man properly to boomerang
back for women no finicky about those call-centre
employees? you ******* kidding me,
you must be...

because some men would really love mandible labour,
and talk less... no, really, the jaw can have a rest,
people want to fiddle with things,
dance the tango, touch, mingle...
     hard to not see ***-tango where the man is
only: huh? yeah, that, whatever...
             women could, once upon a time,
make men believe that they wanted to believe,
to purr something innocent into their ears...
what has made women into men so stating abadon?

i'll cite too much psychology,
    which to me is a pseudo-science,
too little Alexander Dumas, and what Athos said:
the best advice... is to not give advice....
                speak... talk... don't advice people...
psychology is the science where almost everything needs
to be faked, or to use the proper term: falsified...

and they call them the chemists, the biologists
and the physicists.... and surgeons

and they call them psychologists, linguists,
philosophers... and gods...

   that's the strata... i dare say: poets? what can they
usurp, but at the same time heal?
        what is their visible spectrum, outside of:
poets act shamelessly toward their experiences,
they exploit them... was lies beyond this self-love?

you get to write english, drunk,
and... undesirably have to get to look and abhor
the aesthetic, meaning you sometimes write
without conjunctions in the first draft...
then you reread and actually see missing conjunctions...

i talk about grammar like someone might talk
religion... because i was never taught it...
grammar to me is a version of catholicism i might
have engaged in, had i been confirmed in that
"coming of age" rite...

    i've been giving this substance and i'm told to
do something with it: language is like water,
you either drink it, or boil it to brew a tea-bag...
really? a relaxation technique? well... i could take more
fascination with a brick-wall, pretending to play
imaginary chess with each distinct brick being
introduced to strobe light... blinking: now it's white...
blinking... now it's black... etc.
   it's not even funny that i know inserting etc.
sort of killed the romance to your breathing pattern,
and my punctuation techniques, which i borrowed
from the fact that english doesn't intend to punctuate
for clear syllables...

it's only a case to teach better punctuation...
every time i'm in poland i never hear a word about
dyslexia... i'm starting to think that dyslexia
is only an english "disease"...
            it's certainly something you might hear
at school, in a catholic school, about jews...
but back to english bankers: not so good with words:
good with money though...
    i had a dyslexic friend ones,
and just spotting why, of all the nations that inherited
the roman alphabet, the english didn't adopt
a punctuation system from above...
evidently that leads to more diversity...
some would even say: for added complexity...
     but the english can't say: someone will come along
and decipher the current cipher imperative...
oh look... here i go... doodling further,
creating what writing ought to be: a finicky here
and there...

say: a butterfly effect...

   as with the concept of spring, exhausted by two months
of winter, awoken earlier than usual,
moving out of the fake Alaskan imitation laboratory
of seeing so little sun...
                increased productivity: no quality bias.

that's what philosophy books are:
    when the french existentialists complicated it
via "ego" and no moral dedication, effect, responsibility,
i had to write something post-existentialist...
don't get me wrong, sartre is a great novelist,
  but i'd rather stomach being & time than
being & nothingness...
                there had to be an answer to dittoing out
the ego, to stress: no agent of morality...
   sure... me and prostitutes... but ask them
about having an ****** "on the job"...
    
        still... can it be as complicated to say 1?
or to say: the litmus tests proved that i "said" ego and,
ergo, i proved i was a man...
              i might ditto out a meow, or a woof
to imitate a cat and a dog respectively... but dittoing
the word ego out... even if it is just an extinct latin
word... it has too much content to be "abstract",
this thing has memories, it has an imagination,
but sure, if i don't have a conscience i'd have to ditto it out
so i could start looking at my buttocks to find
something worth saying...
              
so first we create this prime human expression,
we eat the -ota                  and say aye aye...
                 and then we go back on that word...
beginning with: just when ms. clinton started barking...
i think that unravelled her campaign, when she started
barking... it must have been the time it happened
at one of her rallies...

   and i could write you any philosophy book,
replacing the "sound" expression with mute sounds,
like the mute letters in knife, gnome, gnosis, knee...
    ? think, therefore ! am.... and just so we're agreed:
that's not a stable maxim... it's volatile...
    since what piece of language was ever stable?
and not like phosphorus, that needed to be stored in oil
should it ever react with water? what part of language
was ever stable?

     2MgO
    (s) + Si
    (s) + 2CaO
    (s) → 2Mg
    (g) + Ca
    2SiO
    4(s)                  the years when i studied such crap...
i might be wrong about one thing though:
   it's an alkaline metal, stored in oil, and highly reactive
with water... magnesium or phosphorus?
         it can't be Na... that **** stinks and i'd love to
see the Dover clifss looking like it... yella...
         no so much blinding Ca...

why have the alkaline metals become so ****** right now?
  oh yeah... the part where i don't feel like
watching ****... that could translate into a wife,
three kids (as if)... a house and social respect...
that part... hmm...

          what is it with these alkaline metals...
so is iron (Fe) and Lead (Lb) acidic metals? could they
be classified as acidic? last time i licked a knife
i did get a tingling sensation as if it might be sour...

so acid is sour... i actually can fathom the taste of alkaline...
it's definitely not sweet...
              what a ******* mystery.

i found two things bewildering,
alzheimer's attacks the pronoun
category, and other forms of it too,
but modern psychiatry
having abolished asylums for
a humane revision of its practice
has become a branch of medicine
that over-prescribes nouns,
and by such over-prescription
invents noun jargon,
it cut open an ancient greek word,
used the prefix (overly) and added a suffix (sufficiently)
to make no sense whatsoever,
it prescribes neonouns like it prescribes
pills that don't work... or if working
then in a negative way... anti-psychotics
can make you **** yourself in your bed
when sleeping, i've been drinking for some
time, and my bladder is arnold schwarzenegger,
when i used to be on anti-psychotics for
no adequate reason (living in a post-colonial
society does that to you, you can come from
lithuania or poland and be treated like a
would-be coloniser to extract the fastest
sprinters for a new country, without the "doctors"
treating you adequately),
so as i said: alzheimer's attacks the pronouns,
the iron core of the earth that's an individual
thus dislodging all the adequate orientations
of categorisations of words... like psychiatry
abuses the noun category: schizoid, ******-affective,
plain dumb schizophrenic... bi-polar, uni-polar,
plain dumb depressed... psychiatry has long
established a monopoly on nouns...
i just use their terminology to excavate a new
grammatical categorisation of words,
from poetry, among nouns adjectives pronouns
and conjunctions... you'll find psychiatry nicely suited
and booted as a word categorisation: metaphor:
all psychiatric diagnostics should be categorised as
metaphorical... 'cos they name it... but have no idea
as to how to behave behind it: it's not like they
say cancer and you're expected to die...
you're expected to live in their terminology
of treating you for a ******* pay-cheque:
you won't even commit a crime, but they'll
treat you like a criminal... so long suckers...
i mean western europeans, i rather live in (as the
americans say) i-raq... and shoot a bunch of you
protected by what i see as the final solution
you thought was once church v. state...
how about segregating democracy (the church)
from bureaucracy (the state)... but of course
the two are mutually dependent.

the empathy test

or as they say in psychiatry the cul de sac of theories -
someone selfless, comes in and doesn't speak
about himself, says he went back to his
country of birth and cared for
his grandmother for a month,
immediate discharge, immediate discharge,
hey who's the kid looking the part
of *hey presto, hmm?
me... the empathy shoreline,
no psychiatrist is trained in spotting it,
the narcissism of closed door
psychoanalysis fears empathy more
than the standard Oedipus,
never mind the deity of solipsism,
psychiatry isn't as revolutionary as
you might think...
i gave psychoanalysis a joke, me,
i wanted a game...
i liked backgammon more than chess,
no crown too dear for a loss of,
so i played about five psychiatrists,
none of them got the game,
they even invited students
to inspect me - that didn't help either,
well-read as i was i ended
treatment with the word façade -
i had read Kierkegaard, she asked me
where i drank, in a pub she asked?
oh no, no no, in Bower wood,
at night, i drank with ninja tactic of not
being spotted - i drank in the woods
half naked...
immediate discharge - ha ha ha aha ha!
i liked playing games with psychologists
and psychiatrists, they're fun buddies
of maturing children...
but they're hardly intelligent enough to
compromise on facts, they're like
soldiers in the first world war
trapped in the trenches of Belgium,
i'd pity them had they
not the respectable income
to see opera or go to a theatre...
but i can't, in all honesty pity them, i think they
have a limited telescope of literacy,
they simply can't see past Mars to see Jupiter...
exact what i testify, five to my count fooled,
one in a foreign tongue and in a different
profession distressed with words: 'how did he?!'
i don't need psychoanalysis
or the study of what's oxygen with
carbon as the former (asthma) and the latter
dyslexia - for whatever part enters me
i release a part of me - gaseous vowels and
solid consonants - indeed should you try to humanise
a science you will dehumanise elsewhere,
no pardon of the existential novel with
the practice of "existentialism" in english known
as psychiatry - with no pills will the words resound
approvingly - but indeed, why the sudden
discharge with diagnostics pivoting on psychosis?
a non-violent psychopath - the psychopathy nurtured
as a negation of the existence of soul, himself a god,
dully the expression of will...
                 i was hardly the inheritor of a post-colonial
ethnicity and yet they subjected me to "cures"
as if i was a post-colonial subject a zombie to nod
to multicultural values experimented with...
i was multicultural from the start...
i'm not ethnic english...
you want to turn me into a neurotic anglomann
not accepting the social experiment?!
you irish or something?
FALL!

when you start talking... you rarely unravel the brain's conspiracy for secrecy, you never want brain = heart automation with solid theories that are rarely given an individual bias to be based on... a bit like those pencil-pushers working in offices for MI5 or MI6 who thought spying was all in fiction, but rarely confirmed the fact: in the c.v. it was stated: show your intelligence to prove the vulnerability of others easily persuaded... that's called providing intelligence... and those adverts for london hipsters on brick lane and hackney pavements just blew my cover... because no one really knows if one will doppelgänger the plot... with the body alcoholic and the shadow intelligent, or vice versa... the oddity... please call david bowie.*

in the freudian sense we get an origin of understanding
with a little boy, who's about to become oedipus,
we have diagnostics from a complex, the oedipus complex,
but with jung the childhood origin of diagnosis is
missing, childhood isn't the source of the problem,
after all we are born with a weak bladder and weak
**** muscles, hence the diaper, hence the elevation
of the problem into the realm of a collective unconscious,
i.e. the plumber doesn't know what the electrician does,
the electrician doesn't know what the artist does,
or how he does it, it's not that we're all unconscious
unable to craft any collective or individual meaning,
but i can recognise a freudian sympathy in 21st century
practice of psychiatry from a jungian one...
the freudian simply assumes your childhood was a nightmare,
that you were abused... but to a jungian - with the
offshoot of the testimony of laing's anti-psychiatry
never mind szasz... you say you go drinking at night
into the woods alone... they sense a fear in themselves
and simply un-diagnose you; which i managed to do...
i can count about 10 psychiatrists who diagnosed me
this that and the other... but they never asked me about
the problems in my mature being, they were looking for a
hurt child, sure i grew up in an environment without
a father between the ages 4 & 8... my father was just
a voice on the telephone and the first nintendo,
a gameboy... but i was surrounded by older people,
my great-grandmother read me a picture bible
and taught me to tie my shoelaces like i'd tie a ribbon
of a present, my grandfather took me for walks with
the two dogs i owned: axel a dobberman and bella
the alsatian, me piercing one of his bicycle tires to get
him off work at the steel factory for a day...
the steel factory closed, went bankrupt, or simply sold-out
to foreign spanish investors, many people left the city
of my origin... never mind...
children are not compulsive liars... but those who
emerge from childhood become compulsive liars...
children are selective liars... once the cookie jar is
opened... once the dog ate the homework...
they can't even combine lying with imagination,
after childhood you can't even do that, you can't
even combine lying with imagination -
there are no images involved, only words, black holes,
symbolism... all you get from an expected combination
of lying and imagination is that imagination
becomes ****** expressions, bordering on apathetic
****** expressions.
but guess what, above all what i said...
i was diagnosed as mad... but i never set foot in an
asylum, a knothouse (knot, yes, madmen are
like knots, jumbled up, the linear pattern of vitality
suddenly becomes a knotted sphere with only cats
able to unwind it - set loose the cats into the madhouses
of the world!) which can only mean ONE thing...
if i was diagnosed mad, but never entered a madhouse...
i'm assured by the laws of deduction, that, i, am,
in, fact, in a society that's a madhouse...
no wonder people can't appreciate the beauty of
the world, they took theology to the parasites
and explained things that way,
plus they advertised, started traffic signalling...
now days people simply pass trees and mountains
nonchalantly... they're more interest in what's organising them,
once words were kept in books... those great bricks,
but since people managed to make everyone literate,
the words broke out from the alcatraz of their
enticement and ventured out, like robots trapped,
and became adverts coca cola and warnings 50mph...
then the beauty of the word disappeared, because everything
in diamond contortion odd simply became dull,
dull because life became faster... and there was
no way of allowing reflection on unmovable things
to contain any speed - otherwise become a dog,
hold something resembling a branch in your mouth,
bite down, keep it in your mouth long enough
while you carry down the stairs a copy of witkiewicz's poems
and your tongue will become alive and numb
with poison... it will become a poison arrow...
and now that arrow is aimed at your heart.

The old heads sell distraction

Different prints and different licks

Concrete beds display the newest fashion

Pick them hearty while declaring  dysfunction

Beam another bystander towards  electro shock

Tastefully tenacious in it's rearranging

Bars for consumption

The eyes suggest cancellation

Now you declare this space fit for sanity

Now I crumble for chaos

Displaced for a momentary diplomacy

but lines blur inside a mind prone to wandering

Remnants gather for a pre shatter shindig

A bright glow illuminates conviction

How coy these means for destruction

a shell claiming stability

a vessel containing absurdity

Crack seat sofa with the medical magazines

Wait on a number for my neutral reckoning  

Diagnostics come free

A proper requiem is not included

Polar opposites.

Compare and contrast this.

Special operative.

The object is to improve your optics to specialize in her weapon diagnostics.

Or does your hard drive fold once this signal hits the note?

Beyond mission control the theory behind your thought is in the poems I wrote...

Behold her whole body turns solid gold she possesses , all knowledge know.

Are we under surveillance?

It doesn't pay for one to be careless..............

Psilo-Cybrans [bear-headed-cybernetic-humans] experience cyberdelic information via symbiotic cybernetic augmentation.
By substantially replacing many parts of the occipital & parietal lobes
and installing a complex biofeedback device in the corpus callosum
the user can moderate the flow of information (between the brain's hemispheres and a reworked central nervous system) in real-time. The biofeedback device is a two-way interface which enables the user
to supplement internal calculations with those of an onboard computer.
Using this device one merges consciousness with artificial intelligence,
Overhauling most mental faculties while retaining complete autonomy.
This is known as a 'twined-A.I.'.
In addition to data moderation one can qualify feedback excitation and quantify signal-lag, this allows for superior diagnostics and analysis.

Using a twined 'A.I.' one can effectively manage information generated by The Psychedelion, reducing the accompanying data of Absurdia with ease. The Psychedelion is accessible through cyberspace or by conventional means, though the degree or level of access does have proportionate side effects such as
physical/perceptual alterations: e.g. increased local power usage, changes in pupillary response, yawning, ect.  / i.e. visual, cognitive, ect.

Some Psilo-Cybrans forego the growth of hair after cranial augmentation to simplify cleaning such implants (which lends itself to their name). A select few continually install more implants to better facilitate their cyber-immersion and often wear hooded garments/robes to hide this, they are known as Cybran Illuminate; these Others use Aeon techniques such as meditation or dissociation to further enhance or induce their immersion into a cybernetic or cyberdelic trance.

Infinity cannot be charted, but i think i saw a limb.

Afternoon Sun shower.
Convinced to be open minded, it wasn't strange at all.
Convinced to taste everything, the radio was singing.
Somehow privileged to experience this,
like staying up to late to see the stars
that couldn't fall asleep.

There were plenty of things to do today.
At first overwhelmed and frustrated.
A dog swam and rolled in the dirt.
*******.
*******.
Over dramatic thoughts.

Swam again and caught him with a towel.
Ran against the road.
The same speed as the giants on the interstate.
Comparisons to satellites and earth spinning.
The Car's computer didn't feel like having diagnostics.
Faked sick as to not attend the show.
Ate,
got shot but heard an embarrassing voice say "Peanut Butter Jelly"
it was over and it is covered now.

Flip Flop Psychology.
Running Civilization.
Seeing My Old Friend.

Now, just waiting for music to explode.

her head wilted into the crook of his shoulder- waiting to be taken apart
for diagnostics.
the circuitry was buzzing quietly. only the blue lights
and one orange switch
were left blinking.
outside the window, things were trembling billions of years away.
outside the window- the vacuum drank slowly
from what was left inside.

they had arrived at destination.whatever that means.
she didn't look up.
he couldn't.

by my account the 20th century is still asleep,
what with the outdated publishing world,
thanks, i can buy toilet paper, cheaper, elsewhere.
i take the: you will regret it if you don't
route with five beers -
the usual: a rich neighbourhood,
great houses, **** me, love to live in one
of those, but wouldn't love to pay the electricity bill...
and doubly usual, a colt rummaging in his
emotions in a park, atypical of affluent neighbourhoods,
the young males doing the Werther: sad o me
impression... violins aplenty...
it's a sinister choke (rather than a joke)
for the reality... so he's in the park,
i'm on the pavement admiring the rich folk:
nice barns... very nice barns... shame that no one
really lives in them... forgive me, it's Saturday:
the noblemen and noblewomen are
the lesser tourists in London...
the point of ensō? to write as if holding your
breath with a thumb-up-yer-****...
all very much *** pistol worded: god give
the queen a pension... and the nutcracker
the eat end.. for some ******* and brawling...
cheeky little ****... but you walk down these streets
and think: economy squat, or squatting standing up?
or, perhaps... you keep those Victorian street lamps
and i get a good view of what pyramids multiplied
looks life? but serious, i walk enough outside of
experiment königsberg i get visual
inspiration, i forget encoding sounds in order
to do the blatant of: making people, visualise things
that aren't there...modern fiction...
or alias for schizophrenic diagnostics type A...
******* never go away... ****-poor in writing the
**** book, needs a film to give it a compound
of steroid-amphetamines...
two books... two!
high fidelity & the scarlet and the black that
encouraged me reading the books after seeing the film...
i too wish lord of the rings came out later
so i had the chance... **** reading them now...
they're like a two volume edition of Proust...
chance meeting with the meat-heads at the gym...
i'd rather be found pumping iron that reading
a two volume edition... plus... i chose a class
of associated writers... Joyce the Proust,
and Pound the lampshade....
yes, i too wish i was lefty and liberal minded...
but i'm odiously right and liberal minded:
meaning i like a drink and a joke...
we all wish to be lefty liberals -
                                   we all do...
it's what called: the key to the hole concerning
entering a playhouse where everything
is minded without political lingo -
or what Einstein did to physics -
   the butterfly and tornado...
                       the biggest croquet heap of *******
i have ever heard...
             given enough light-years... the universe
just, sorta, becomes, two-dimensional...
      so this rich kid depressed walking alone in
the park... finished my can of beer and started to
**** about with the fence...
   rattling the beer can against the fence...
for a xylophone impromptu -
  **** me, those houses grand but nothing to say
about them except for: barns...
                      scarecrow personalities and
puff here, puff gone the next lives...
who's children could enter a quiz show and tell you
more brands then countries...
    Angola is probably a mountain,
                    Trinidad is a term for lake in Swahili...
and Nike is neither a goddess nor a parasite but
    a new pair of trainers...
so under a street lamp i crushed the can of beer
and tried to aim it at the nearby trash can -
missed, waved my hand in a downward spiral
and felt nothing about keep park aesthetics pristine...
  walk a bit further... ****** on someone's garage door...
no, really, it's asleep... it's too early for those
  who are published to realise there's a modification
going on... a bit like Napster... sorta like it...
   we're bypassing clerics and censors...
****'s for free, obviously... but to actually, experience,
the ultimate freedom, wouldn't you want to do
it, even if it's for free?         the capacity to experience
    full freedom, without a profit margin,
without even caring if the thing sells, or doesn't...
with paper priced at about 30 quid per month
and unlimited ink?
                                     always... at the turn of any
given century... there are those still recycling
the previous century's ideas in order to simply
buy televisions... no wonder the television
is a hypnotic eye of shadows according to
Plato's puppets' experiment -
       rich house, poor house...
                         it's all the same.
sure, i published a book, but the drugs are in
instant access - it's the only true reality of what
was once deemed the Schengen principle -
obviously that doesn't include people, but ideas...
as once, travelling to Glencoe, in a Scottish fish shop
a three layered tier of importance:
  c. the people who talk about other people (gossip)
   are < b. the people who talk about
                    events (journalism), who in turn
   are < a. the people who talk about ideas...
         Scotland... a village chip shop... and that as a
"bumper"sticker in the window... i must be in heaven.
but those people in journalism and the publishing
industry forgot, or quiet simply undermined
the privilege of being able to exploit an environment
so adamantly - they forgot that the internet is
not about making a buck - who would want to make
money in a completely free environment?
               bypassing the many rules and regulations
  of creativity's fatalism, and the author's right to
buy a kettle or a washing machine?
                               if you were to ask me:
where can i get clean mineral quality water?
          i'd tell you where, i know where to find it,
takes about three miles to get to the source,
but i could show you were to find mineral quality water.
i'm giving them 50 years... 50 years before
the now free movement of ideas entices the authorities
to introduce censorship of some kind...
                    at the moment it's all true and really
Schengen... in principle, as in practice -
         because, there's, no, desire, for, making, a, profit...
is that noble? well, n'ah... it's more or less:
         for the love of something that, with due hope,
will **** you con. all expectations for seeing the summer
solstice for the 70th count-to-remember summer -
    and all that arthritis handshakes with shadows -
as ever: the turtle reached his 100th birthday  -
  synthesising nothing -
            man reached his 70th birthday having analysed
all the potentials to prolong his life,
        synthesised the 70th year,
          without really analysing the allocated 30...
and for all that science, and hope for celebrating an
achievement of the total human endeavour -
left the rotten wrinkly ******* in their own faeces
and ****... because, well... not analysing the world
with only 30 years to spare... wisdom, suddenly appeared
at the age of 60... but this sort of analysis was
a bit like saying: just be happy with your synthetically
prolonged life...
                                because how many people, these days,
can claim to have acquired the analytically prolonged
life of the ancient Greeks? null.
                   as it stands: people live up to
a prolonged age... with the ***** avalanche pulverising
them to die as soon as possible...
               almost like the fruit of knowing good
and evil... the conjunction already plays the narrative joke:
                  not: good from evil...
   but: good and evil...                                so are we to
expect a differentiation? no!            we will do both
simultaneously -
                                   **** seeking justice in the mouth
of another human with a justice whip -
            i want to experience theocracy in the intended
format - i.e. hearing it from the horse's mouth -
               and since the horse isn't here...
   i'll just watch the theocratic cinema of Syria for
the moment... and see how democracy perpetrates
idea worship - for what's left of the twilight engulfed idols.

The wall said "not anymore"

Mother searched school to capture the bullies. But the rapture that sang never rang a word to her.
"Capture the bullies!"
No, not anymore.
The father called on his group, but their theories flying south. She needed diagnostics. Something was wrong.
"Something was wrong!"
No, not anymore.
Not anymore because something was gone.
Something was wrong, but could not be diagnosed.
It could not be diagnosed by popping a dose.
The dope on the street,
the sky wasn't blue,
it's just blank.
What was wrong?
Oh yes, something's wrong!
And so the rapture rang, and it cawed and it clawed!
And it scratched at the window with a piece of a shirt, and a scripture to say
"NO! She wasn't okay!"
Does it take you so long to decide what was wrong?
Well it's not your decision!
Yes, something was wrong!
We knew it all along.
Something was soulfully, graspingly wrong!
But before you point fingers,
before you slam doors.
Please listen to the rapture,
"no, not anymore!"

As i grow older my heart does not get colder or weaker
I make sure i have time to just think
My mind is not filled with ***** dishes like a sink but it's not clean
I mean i make mistakes but i do not fake what i feel
When im beside the girl i like it feels like my heart heals
From the pain and loneliness left from past flames
I dont like playing games or mental gymnastics
So when im with you i do not doubt you i run diagnostics

you know that time,
when you
drink... beer...
and you attain insight...
into paraphrasing
the void...
         and you're
not the bust-driver?
but you want
           to be a bus-driver...
how many times
am i to absolve,
cite a mea culpa mantra?
the world
needs someone to
"dumb-down"
their i.q.,
          to become,
less trained, less parrot...
i needed an outlet
to dumb my
i.q.,
           alcohol...
well... before you start
singing irish,
i think the scotch
will do just fine...
   with hands
that have a potential
to
crush...
                  a macaque
skull
   (given enough time,
and plenty of reserved
fiddly bits)...
i decided...
         jack never came
up... visit a *******...
and...
         like...
being involved in
experiecing...
   spreading butter
on toasted bred...
  what?
                  christianity
was already highly
invested
in metaphor ***
                imagery...
so i moved from
beneath the iron curtain...
and moved into...
disney (i wish)...
no, i've move into
some more itchy...
                   (e-ch-ee)...
   chatter...
peel....
           guess
the next word
ought to be, pérfect

gueß...
         a german... quasi-
pseudo-,
            it's not a diacritical
marker, it's a letter...
    in english
it implies an inclusive
interchange
of           S               and Z...
in english it also
implies                  SS: of guess...
for aesthetic reaons...

but then...
                    it's also Š
(caron)...
               a "hybrid"...

            a hiding of H in
S that amounts to SH...
or where the caron crown on
the S originates from... SZ...
learned a new noun:
                           grapheme...
       sharp...
                       shit...
                              šit.
  
curiosity of the pedantic
sort,

              i stopped
to make myself,
less focused on the geometry
of the "a priori" (the given)
and focus
on the "geometry"
of...
          is omicron
an "oh", O, or 0?
   doughnut-who-done-it?

we have moved beyond
a stage where...
polyglots are...
encouraged...
     entrenched bilinguals
are becoming the
intrinsic norm...
    
not: sized...
                  systamatic...
you can also taste
the tip of your tongue
experiencing
           a sanft: soft S...
    piquant pedantry...
it's not for someone to speak
"better" english...

i've been met with pedatry,
i reply: with pedantry...

   hush...
     could be written as
    huš...
                cheap...
could be written as
         čeap...
       ah...
  right...
         the aesthetic "question"...
hebrew missing vowels
"question"...
           you know...
i've never heard of dyslexia,
to be, evident,
outside of the anglophonic
world...
  but i'm pretty sure
  it exists in the francophonic
world...

   i'll agree...
  čeap = cheap,
           looks aesthetically
unppealing...
   as does chemistry...
  with a KAPPA in italics...

i didn't write sit...
i wrote šit...
             i almost pretend...
**** it, i always pretend
to teach a cat to roar...
like i might teach
           a lion to meow...

i'm entrenched...
you spend enough time
in set "segregation"...
you'll pick-up
nuances...
     basic tics...
                          misnomers...

what with christianity
beind over-laden
with metaphor...
      (ladden, or layden?)

     forget about me speaking...
l'ah d
          d'
               en

                                     layden...

well if people moved away
from being literate,
and literacy isn't a "thing"
and tuxedo
   is back in play,
    for the norm...

             layden or ladden,
i know it's laden...

                    imagine greek,
where letters are nouns,
and...
               there is no curiosity
regarding
          the syllable splinter,
or A, as in atom...
           hides both breath
and laughter,
subsequently ejects itself
to a status of pillar...
with a sigh...

                 giggle...
    where's the G for giggle
in sigh?
                hyper-literacy...
   i speak a word,
write "another"...
     and then pretend to...
   "laugh": lāφ
                            /             lāθ
                   laaf...

for me? literacy imploded...
       surd
                gnostic...
or gnome...
also a G...
             but the same G...
  prominent
                      in diagnostics...

never give a would-be
"blind-man"
access to the *******
alphabet...
   he just might
to squirm, itch,
squint...
              and pour out...
        idle observations!

    à...
              làden...
    not ladden...
               although with
a "missing" Y...
                       the Ęgliš language
isn't immune
   to...
              being
hijacked...
            graffiti...
                    it was gagging
for a reinterpretation...
              it was a blank canvas
of a Σ of 26 letters...
   what could possibly go wrong?

me? being denied access...
   to a phonetic-encoding
i was given a pass to,
use...
                    minding
the little revisions,
nuances...
                             and...
    let it reign free,
                                above me?
  never mind
the IN
     in either INN or
the INGLEESH
                               zunge:
**** me...
                         IN'GLE'H;

that's as bad as asking
the French to drop the hark
on the R...
       and return to trill;

forget the English...
tongue-numb...
tawantula R numb...
  can't trill,
      beside scootland...
get's the idea
of a momentum
of a circle...
and omicron...
      i guess...
that's the new variety
                 of twoll.

Critical acute depression
Married to social anxiety
They drove me to a psych session
Because I hated being me

On and off psychosis
Paired with dissociation
Led to a new diagnosis
And a more in depth evaluation

Life long trauma formed severe PTSD
Intrusive thoughts by the minute
Nightmares and paranoia surround me
Where is the limit?

I sought out the help I need finally
I don't know why it took me so long
I'm tired of walking through life lifelessly
I'm realizing more and more - I'm strong

shh... the plan is, we'll be
taking a gnostic gnome for hostage tonight
(might as well write it
             'nostic and 'nome
and forget the diagnostics when you
do, actually say, the O.M.G.) -
N.W.S. watch out... whatever that means.

and hell, and war
                                          and all that bombardment,
a thousand chess pieces
                in an intellectual's mouth
                          like scrambled eggs: the same
****** superstition
                            of needing awe -
ivory tower talk, the best
talk there is, when all limbs
                 drop off and the vegetables
talk: tongues on cucumbers,
tongues on cabbages, tongues
              on cauliflowers - waggling about
like concerns for cars: how
                                        many horse power thrusts?
                             and hell, and war
    and all that bombardment -
like poetry, a bomb drops daily
coming from the ultimate war machine,
                                 the res vanus, the empty thing,
the sponge -
                      because why would
a bomb or a poem be ever dropped
from the Cartesian weapon
           that's kept, intact, peacefully
thinking, antonymous-synonymous
kindred of narration?
                                                there,­ another bomb,
                    here, another day,
                                    there, another bomb,
                       here another day,
       ping
                               pong
ping                                         pong
              poetry
                                         poesy
     poetry
                                                   poesy -
           and the world just turns
into black | white
                              and everything becoming
oh so ****** ordinary - so Tao -
            or Tao works with
a billionth birth in a nation that deters
from                media frenzy.
another way to say it:
how to write poetry when not listening
to music, when not listening to things
and your fingers' puncture on the keys -
                overview of the news,
   how to write in order to talk-over people:
you could be worse-off than being
a Heidegger apologist -
                             or to say: it was the binding
to the zeitgeist: the years later meant
repenting -
                            so from being defined
in Cartesian diagnostics as thinking,
          to deconstruct that and become empty
              (here too! my compass
n. Heidegger
                     w. Descartes
               e. Kant
                                    and s. Diogenes)
as the acronym suggests, toward the four winds!
         but of course, many more influences,
      but then again: who did i find commanding
and with difficulty bound...
     oh i too wish i could write populist
poetry, worded: shambles! shame! outrage!
                 outrage! shame! shambles! a national disaster!
  but here's little me, tucked away into a cosy
niche - weaving my little spiderweb -
                                      or how
the fingers feels, after having spent 2 days
   crushing 40kg of grapes to make wine,
    from grapes to pulp, from grapes to pulp,
in the shed in the garden, 2 days, 40 kilograms of grapes;
i should have added a few apples to be fermented alongside.

I do not wish to be diagnosed,
because that would label
my personality as a mistake
But I do want to be fixed
because there is something broken inside;
a few screws that could be tightened;
a few boards could be refurbished;
a pile of unspoken tragedies piled up
waiting to one day be sifted through.

The lottery opens for the elderly. A line of i.o.u's, cleaning lessons and instructions. The diagnostics and tattoos. Hidden for now. Same to you. Pleasantries. Very fond of the pulp. Seperated. Outside the glass. Hello. Her voice buzzes. My rusp confirmed. I belong. To the night of outside steps. Crystal vials. One sand. One liquor. One teardrop. Pendants for torn down. Furniture. To observe. Chastise classic chimera.

A good church is a cord connecting a community
God's umbilical cord connecting humanity
like the cords connecting the computers, cameras and microphones
the AV team meets every week to uplift a hundred seats
before worship practice starts they connect with one another
providing lines of praise and prayer tracing their hopes and fears
running diagnostics
checking the cords connected to instruments,  lighting, earpieces
removing the frays and knots
because the sermon runs smoothly when all the cords have been checked
the cords run throughout the church and up the band's spines
the voice of God lets them know they'll be playing the bridge again
so everybody throws up their hands and sings along
their vocal cords trying to hit tonal chords
cords of water connecting eyes to mouths shows
the congregation is plugged in
because the cords have been properly checked.

i wanted to have a bonfire over a week ago...
since the recycling centres are still
closed...
          but no... a neighbour of mine...
had about four each night...
     the english herr - angielski panicz -
didn't mind...
      but when i was about to burn some
evergreen... and as evergreen burns...
when it's still retaining some of its moisture...
it would burn... with a white smoke...
some other neighbour would make
a complaint: are you having a bonfire?
but my husband has asthma...
i own a garden... but i'm somehow...
by law... able to burn garden ****... in it...
once upon a time: but now?
at any given hour...
mother runs up to me... but this other
nieghbour has his washing on the line...
the washing would be infused with...
pine scent?
           but it wasn't about the washing
drying on the line...
the pet peeve project of england:
look toward h'america!
england "somehow" failed...
            two h'americas if not three:
a new breed of punctuation...
there were always the two europes...
   the germans were pushed from
the lands that... they once occupied...
pushed across by the slavs...
who in turn were: funneled by
either the turks, the huns or the mongols...
yes... it's a pretty picture... england...
esp. in the grand vicinity of
the A406 ring road around London...
because anything that teases
the M25...
        over a week-ago....
i wanted to stand before the altar of fire
and say a thing or two with:
the iblis of the quran...
the god of the old testament...
how i made of clay...
am so akin to the spirit without form
of the fire: i - clay - the majority
poker form of water:
i need to breathe... a fire needs to breathe...
i happened to read some rumi
with a milder than usual hangover...
usually an appreciation for some
late in his oeuvre Rembrandt helps likewise...
no... it had to be rumi...
     i come as a rummaging odour...
i'll just throw two or three contending
terms...
the shahada... the testimony -
  tawhid: yes... the H is a surd / apostrophe...
   which could make a hebrew blush...
given a trinity emerges...
    ' י ' ו
               the apostrophe for...
where you'd find the vowel catcher:
the first: the urn of sighs and inquiry (ה)
   and the second: the urn of laughter (ה)...

what is the boasting of:
    la ilaha illallah - the dog term for god
in the language of the maltese is: allah...
again: all?     aaaah... is sigh...
and what of... yalla imshi? camel jockeys
and... the saudi crown... washed in...
because yugoslavia is not... bound
to some ******* translation of yemen...
perhaps not the croat translation...
that mess of... the turks receding...

it really is a "thing" between me and
the english: rich-pants:
h'america: the hope! the beacon!
lucky for some they speak english...
pockets of spanish...
hopes for fwench: but not really...
and the *****-volk don't get out
as much... there's no need to know
whether there's a diaspora hive ment.
in their midst...

       i like slurring... probably as much
as i like jazz...
          oh... i couldn't have a bonfire...
because of someone's asthma...
again: i'm not superstitous but...
when a strong independent woman:
such as my mother...
has a nervous breakdown...
because... i showcased my displeasure
as some variation of an omnipotent
child-god...
no... if... the last leg standing
'ebrews could have countless...
and this... mediator "jinn" can have
four nights in a row...
and there are no complaints...
no one is suffocating...
    well... petty can sooner or later
become an avalanche...

         how do surds work?
in english pretty **** well...
you could technically erase the letter H
from the alphabet...
   say... i own a 'atchet...
      but not when coupled to an S or a C...
sheer: yeah... the "invisible" caron
covering over the S...
   cheap ****: and so above the C...
            closer: szkoda: closer: czekam -
      shame in the vein of: casually: oh well...
and: i'm waiting...
if the pronoun is to be invested into
the word: then in the past participle:
czekałem (i waited - "as" a man)
   czekałam (i waited - "as" a woman)...
     chec-chec-w'ah-w'ah...
gifts of the trade: smithy to the words...
shame the tower and the tongue
do not count for the love of 7...
but... these two already have... profit for
the right sort of narrative...

gender neutral pronouns...
how about the already available:
gender neutral nouns -
no one would call a sun feminine...
no one would call a moon: masculine...
gender neutral pronouns
in a language where:
the nouns are gender neutral!
that mighty oblong IT referential
to almost anything...
including the thinking "res" of man
that being the id -
   and the need to fake... the anaesthetic...
for a psychiatric inquiry...
to sedate a man while keeping
him awake... like a zombie...
   like less than a zombie...
            like a ghost: character in one's
spectacle of the third person...

         surds elsewhere?
           eh... raj butter: dhal... d'aal... or
the macron above the a: to elongate...
      in-valid contra:
   ynvalid contra... welsh... akin to
  the iota in: bid... well... byd...
                           buddy: is no -ee- is he?
he is...
                  inṽalid...
                        i said it three times to summon
st. peter and the cockrel and the morning
of denials...
    someone was choking on a pebble...
someone was the future saint stephen
getting drunk from nibbling on a bud of rose...
if the letters are not dancing...
then... i too: no... then i must be sitting down...

   gnome! 'nome!
                      a gnostic reading... a 'nostic reading!
new rules... the goal-posts move...
medicine and the art of: DiaGnoStiCS!

the hebrews teach only rule for
concerning oneself with god:
the islamic variation you rarely hear:
the taqwa - the fear of god...
which comes hard... to come by...
life requires a dear-almost-forgotten...
audacity to claim its... cherries and prunes...

newly converted proselytes...
        would be asked to cite the tawhid...
but never be allowed the comprehension
of the taqwa...
           one is never... truly...
allowed to be obedient to but one master...
which is probably why...
to grace the ordeals of many...
drunk on love while retaining
the sort-of rubric concerns of sober people...
drunk on the liquid that was
used to disinfect surgical tools...
      etc. etc.
                        
                what good of me: worth of anything:
is that sober regurgitating machine:
clog in the pick-me-up of / for:
the sacred truth of the media...
at least when the church was concerned...
i would be this...
miasma: ushered into a pre-sumptous
hades of sorts:

           in england: there's that vain hope
that... somehow...
that scene... where...
john adams (paul giamatti)...
meets king george III (tom hollander)...
i too whim at: and blink and winkle...
at the idea of a haircut...
and a retained scalp...
        a burning of the beard
and the theatre of the guillotine...
the glass-eyes of a mad king
and the: furore of the upcoming
project to come!
that what was to become...
h'america...
what not what became of england...
and what not...
the old tired breed of systems...

according to rumi: *****-whipped-***-cream-pie
surfer: the statement is universally
afghan:
   man is the created...
woman is the creative...
bless the mongols, the mongrels...
the seals, the apache, the confiscated
budgerigars... the mangos...
the willow trees of queen victoria's
periods as a widow...
the crazed slumbering spiders...
catch a constellation of stars along
with the cobweb nothingness
of the most: easily... agitated stars
in transit in the body of bothersome flies...
the god of gods and son:
who is better known as...
either the prince of leeches /
mosquitos...
                   hybrid effort...
i drink his if he drinks mine...
        the blood the blood!
            
flies: 'ere brown blood...
           almost mythological to have
to digest...
            the throne stands... empty...
          and... once more...
              the neck: upon which...
a crown should rest...
is... plucked...
but plucked... with no word of envy:
as...
      headless...
that the throne... stands... empty...
      and who is... to... bypass the gravity
of the upkeep of grafitti jargon:
to... "master the wave(s)" as... it were?
some... poor slavic shmuck from
a former satellite affair
of the soviet... empire?
     no no... to perceive!
is to not! project!
            fickle heart of woman
and a young man...
we are not to be eased with phonetic
miracles of mere... 'ebrew...
before long...
the arab: our golden goose...
our milk and honey and black gold
and yacht affair...
but what of... the... aldous huxley
of... beijing... the... slaughter
of all religion and of virtue and of vice!
the freed new land
of ethical inhibitions... castrated!
these new land of:
frankenstein's galore!
    oh the joy of...
           inter-racial biases and inter-species
furore!
where one frankenstein is left...
gasping for air: a new breeding-groom
is left waiting to rekindle...
the pax... that science be...
freed from the moths of history
of ancient greece and rome...
squinty-eyed... lemon ******* furore!
of... hardly a buddha training:
yin- the divine sparkle...
yang- the devilish inhibitor...

               the western way:
to better man by interracial breeding...
one should hope to mind...
the slur... skin-head...
between the african and the european:
mind you... what of the eskimos?
the japanese?
never mind...
the skin-head... and the... afro-"tinge"?
what about the raj: the subcontinent...
the... copper-necks?!
what of... the skin-heads...
and... the arab and sub-arab...
the indian cumin and coriander folk...
the copper-necks?
  must i?
   oh but i must...
       if the whites are the skin... heads...
if the whites are... hautköpfe...
then there's a: in-between to distinguish
black from white...  "..." and nanny "..."...
dumbo surds...
      kupferhälse...
                         isn't it... therefore...
somehow... fair?
  the zoo of ethnicity vocabulary:
afro-saxons... twiglet-fringe...
                  my best chase: doberman bark...
as ever... when the there's a reality
of the ubermensch retired in berlin:
active in beijing beside...
the fear of the theory...
the reality... god only knows...
draws... a ******* blancket!
     so, thus... frankenstein can have...
his... warewolf and octopus bride of
8 known vaginas...
and 10 more unknown unknowns...
because... Dr. Rumsfeld is...
too quick to point out...
any other: known knowns...
or... knowy known knowns...
or... unknowy knowy know: knead: dough...
oops savvy... born from piling
up missing link nukes to...
the bread that was born from
stockpiles of rubble from iraq...
dr. know-know: and as of: "now"...
                                   oh... oops: unknowingly:
no: and know oh knowy: gnomes...

if we're working from anything
it's "us" working from...
- if the greatest trick the devil ever pulled
was to convince the world he didn't exist... -

<'paul / lack>
       h'american racial slur for someone
of a western slavic ethnicity -
target practice for not being russian...
actually, though... phonetically...
polak - polska - polski - polka
    the italian gringos love the term...
like they still owned latin
and greece and... most importantly...
the libido governing...
            carthage...
      it's... parfâité complétant...
                           complétą... mind... the -nt
in fwench?
                the h'american "racial" slur...
you speak the most pristine
single word identifier:
not paul... not pole...
but ******...
     which i now truly known: what it is derived
from... king john's nickname...
of the angevin quest to keep most of
france...
  the nicked: 'lackland'...
        
   well... if the devil was so generous...
as to... do the devil's work...
then god... must have pulled a "similar" trick...
the greatest trick that god ever pulled
was to convince the people that the world...
didn't exist...
the fate of all science before
the altar of promise of faith...
which... the promises of doubt and science
ever ushered in...

who would want to invest in a life...
in a life in a fake...
a forgary of a world...
skinheads and the coppernecks...
i like racial-slurs...
              it's what keeps civilised
topics bound to the tattoo of chin-up
and knuckle...
nothing: pacified-aggresive...
*****-squint / squirt...
      i don't even know what...
shrimp-****...
curly-brains...
    candian-goose...
ice-c­ream ***** soda and blessed:
the ever-green of wisteria and
tokyo and toronto?
        
           niqab foreskins?
school 'em! ******* kippahs?!
          i love the racial slurs...
because: no sooner than...
well... to the heavens! we "glide"...
surf... chances of seeing a glaring
naked eye picture from jupiter?

  the greatest trick the devil ever pulled...
the greatest trick a (solipsistc) god ever pulled was...
this world was a forgery...
and that all the evil in this world was:
ontologically sound: bullet-proof!
it was our own fault!
     we were... the only monkey
with... ambitions to investigate the dodo projection!

i feel the absence of the polar opposite...
in that either a god...
or devil... ***** itself into a duality
of supreme kim jungian frown oohn..

best love ever spawned...
watching the grass grow tall...
taller than one's capacity to envision
a knee-height... with or no prior to:
kneeling at the altar;

     the greatest trick... he didn't exist...
     the greatest trick... this world was a fake...

The sky is still dark
It's early morning
The smell of dryer sheets fills my nose
As I grab my scrubs and head to the shower.

The warm water runs down my body
Drips from my hair
As I think of all I might do today
How to save and heal lives.

I've put in the work in class,
I've studied disease processes,
Their cures and treatments,
The proper assessments and labs.

It's all so abstract on the pages of textbooks
A disease exists as a concept in my head
The treatment plans seem so simple
And so straightforward.

In the simulations I've done
Everything is controlled.
As long as I do everything right,
Everything will turn out fine.

Now on the hospital floor,
I receive my assignment,
And the paragraphs from textbooks come to mind,
As well as the practice questions and simulations.

But walking into my patient's room,
The conditions and diseases I've studied,
Are no longer conceptual.
A living human being is suffering.

Checking the labs and diagnostics,
Just how uncontrolled real life is,
Begins to sink in,
And the reality of inevitable failure sinks in.

In the hallway I gather myself,
As I grapple with the new reality,
That I won't be saving lives today,
My assignment is to make what's left as good as possible.

My sudden change in perspective,
Is nothing in comparison though.
My patient has an adult body,
But the mind of a small child.

During one of my routine assessments,
My patient winces,
Unable to verbalize their pain,
They strike their head and cry,


"What did I do wrong?"


My heart breaks.
This poor soul,
Cannot understand that a disease,
Is not a punishment.

They cannot understand,
That something indifferent,
Without intent or thought,
Has begun to end their life.

How cruel…

All I can do is hold their hand,

Give them medications to dull the pain,

And wish that you could understand:

You didn't do anything wrong.