Congratulations
You proved you could too
Congratulations
Pull the trigger like you said you would do

Congratulations
The bullet entered your brain
There it started to spin
around and around

Congratulations
Then out of your mouth
down it went
and hit the hard ground

Congratulations
There was no one around
They could find no one
Who heard any sound

Congratulations
I remember the times that you said
You needed another man
Like a hole in the head

Congratulations
Well how is it now
Do you think your better off
Now that you're dead

Congratulations
Some say you were just crazy
Certainly now that your gone
You can't argue or dispell

Congratulations
I'm angry and sad
But I guess if the nail fits
Then pound it to hell

Congratulations
I bid thee farewell
Congratulations
You were my really so swell .

AWAY WITH INJUSTICE, AND BRING SOMETHING NEW ON OUR SIDE.  YOU CAN BEHOLD IT ALL AROUND, IT CAN BE SEEN FAR AND WIDE.
LET US CONTINUE TO FIGHT FOR JUSTICE, AND REFUSE TO LET IT STOP.  DON'T THINK ABOUT GIVING UP; WE HAVE TO REACH THE TOP.
AWAY WITH INJUSTICE, DON'T ALLOW YOURSELF TO LOOK BACK.  WE MUST STRIVE TO MOVE AHEAD, INSPITE OF SUFFERING LACK.
LET US BE THE GOOD EXAMPLE, DOING WHATEVER IS RIGHT.  LET JUSTICE DISPELL ALL DARKNESS, MORNING, NOON AND NIGHT.
BY, AUTHOR & POET, SANDRA JUANITA NAILING

Good Day spoken in a bad austrailian accent
bad juju voodoo clear light poltergeist on disablity
Hoarding every scrap of miserable memories attached to trash
your apartment is a holiday for nightmares and childmolesters
******* magazines, old sanitary napkins , bad vhs movies
lay like dead soldiers waiting for the war to end
Black bags and boxes scattered every where are villages to rats
and every unknown pestilence you can only read about in medical textbooks.
half eaten pizzas covered in pickles dried up sadly looking at empty pills
You have no hold on me I can't understand your pain nor will i listen to your overdramatic ******* about whoever
or scheming to defraud Walmart
Your mutilation is a scar spelling sociopathic miscreant child trapped in an old mismatched shell of no clear gender.
Your diagnostic prophecies from the dsm5 dismissed like school on a snow day.
Will commands the unentanglement
uncurse
unfear
dispell  all your contradictions accusations monologrhthyms
bad music choices and echoes of muttered mustard.
only truth will be uplifted
Peace be with you
whereever you are currently infesting enjoy your dora the explorer ice cream
Was there ever a floor in here?

My lungs are filled with more nicotine

than the average 90 year old pack a day smoker, you see

smoking runs in my family.

And if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that all it takes is a spark,

a spark that always has the best of intentions

a spark that always was meant to help

a spark that’s always to catch a glimpse of the unknown in the dark

and then there’s a flame and an ember and the soft, hollow wheeze of

smoke.

Entering my newborn lungs because of your newborn stress born out of your

newborn wedding dress.

You just wanted to make sure you looked good.

And you should.

But now my lungs are filled with the toxins of

broken hearts taped back together

tragic love stories, more than I can remember

of men, come and gone,

And more men come along,

one’s who like new kinds of smoke

the kind that involve words like

****.

stem.

****.

****.

***.

Or how about illegal?

How about enfeebling an infant to make sure you can pay rent

because you’ve spent every cent of his

child support from your

******

sticky

divorce on

***.

****.

****.

A habit that’s taken over for too long and it’s only a matter of time before I’m…

gone.

Because every time I open my lips to breath. To dispell the smoke, the poison, to exhale, to express, my lips are sown shut with your tapping cigarrete

and gossipping nicotine

and looping heart-broken scene I’ve seen more time’s than I can count

And if this is what you’re about,

Always needing a spark

A flame

A ****

A ****.

Or any other addiction that will never last quite long

Enough, I’ve had enough.

There’s a window to fresh air that I now know you’ll never help me reach

but once I get there my lungs will sing gospels of

Love that stays.

Of drug free days.

Of a mother’s loving embrace that doesn’t involve a wheezing spark.

3:40 in the morning
the pain wakes me
I find myself clawing at the bed sheets
grinding my teeth
my mind escapes to some place serene
the first snow fall
the sunset
my love's eyes first thing in the morning
my body contorts....
I think of a baby's giggle
people dancing a number
chasing my friends at 11 years old down the block

I begin to shake
I think of soft serve on a hot day
sinking into a hot bath
kissing so sweetly in moments of tenderness
my father daughter dance

I get ****** back into the ache
I fight it
I dispell it from my mind
like a thorn in my side
Mind over matter
matter doesnt mind
pain the only reminder I'm alive
I must embrace this

A poet's cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in *****,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick--
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould philosophique,
Or else she learn'd it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonair,
An apple-tree or lofty pear,
Lodg'd with convenience in the fork,
She watch'd the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty wat'ring-***;
There, wanting nothing save a fan
To seem some nymph in her sedan,
Apparell'd in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.

     But love of change, it seems, has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Expos'd her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within:
She therefore wish'd instead of those
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton with her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.

     A drawer, it chanc'd, at bottom lin'd
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies' use--
A drawer impending o'er the rest,
Half-open in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there;
**** with delight beyond expression
Survey'd the scene, and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease ere long,
And lull'd by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclin'd
The chambermaid, and shut it fast;
By no malignity impell'd,
But all unconscious whom it held.

     Awaken'd by the shock, cried ****,
"Was ever cat attended thus!
The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me.
For soon as I was well compos'd,
Then came the maid, and it was clos'd.
How smooth these kerchiefs, and how sweet!
Oh, what a delicate retreat!
I will resign myself to rest
Till Sol, declining in the west,
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,
Susan will come and let me out."

     The evening came, the sun descended,
And **** remain'd still unattended.
The night roll'd tardily away
(With her indeed 'twas never day),
The sprightly morn her course renew'd,
     The evening gray again ensued,
And **** came into mind no more
han if entomb'd the day before.
With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room,
She now presag'd approaching doom,
Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd,
Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd.

     That night, by chance, the poet watching
Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat
And to himself he said, "What's that?"
He drew the curtain at his side,
And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied;
Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd
Something imprison'd in the chest,
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolv'd it should continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consol'd him, and dispell'd his fears:
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The rest in order to the top;
For 'tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In ev'ry cranny but the right.
Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond apprehension
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest
Anything rather than a chest.
Then stepp'd the poet into bed,
With this reflection in his head:

MORAL

Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence.
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around in all that's done
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.

I come to you by way of my pen,
to dispell some rumors told.
To hear the lies being spread,
does make my blood run cold.

There is no basis in facts,
that I have a heart of gold.
Never should it have been said,
that I could be a beauty to behold.

Then there is the one that states,
that I have complete self control.
Aparently, someone out there,
swears, I am not yet looking old.

I have a group of so called friends,
that claim I am not thick-skulled.
Some even swear I am demure
and have never been overbold.

It's a shame that lies like these,
have a way of taking hold.
Eventually, they may have even I,
resembling this picture they mould.

what's it like when all forget you?
how does it feel when the world just quits too?
they fell in line and left me stranded.
forsaking friendship to become branded.
society says, 'congrats. you're normal.'
to me? less kind. 'you're far too formal.'
slow change, it seems, can't hurt enough,
for friends must then forsake your trust.

dear sir, you're kind, i'll give you that,
but good sense spots my shameful acts.
so sadly i must now suspend
this bond you've known. now this portends...
we know through life you've suffered greatly
we also see that hurt known lately.
she broke your heart, we all know that.
just quit your tears. she won't come back.
assure you now, i surely must.
that karma shall prove to be just.

we don't quite care that you're left out.
deny, we will, without a doubt.
see? we're still here. semblance of care.
it's strange how you are not aware
for false support and apathy
are truly acts to help you see
that we've in no way cast away
the friend you still are, day by day.

it's in response i wish to tell
you cheats and fiends of wanton hell.

so now attend. you'll hear this voice
it's time i've left you all no choice.
before i'm gone you'll know the truth.
that you were far beyond uncouth.
your forged endeavors fooled me not.
i won't forget that you forgot
all that i've done for all of you.
but, foolish, still, i stand quite true.
despite this pain that you all caused,
it's not as though my throes just paused.
there, in my time of greatest need.
i meant it when i knelt to plead.
i'm strong enough to fend of much,
and this you know, and so, as such
why can't you see that when i tried
to reach for hands when mine were tied
that surely then, in dire straits
i was, for sure, no pride abates
in simple scenes where i could hold
my head aloft, and remain bold.
i needed you. i couldn't see.
my vengeful fear had blinded me.
my love for her had left a curse
i couldn't shake, dispell, disperse.
i doubt that you shall ever know
of hurt that could consume quite so.
a scalding burn that transcends each
of prior wounds; pain you shan't reach.
up to this point, since i was born
i've struggled, fought, withstood the storms
not as a bridge that needs support
but as the the ship that sees no port.
i waged war with the reckless sea
of life-dealt pain and misery
alone i dealt with constant bathos.
fears born of stable crushing loss.
she left me shattered, nothing less
a beaten, battered, ****** mess.
i felt that i should quit this game.
who was i fooling? death was tame
compared with such a crushing blow.
how could I cope? i didn't know.
for reasons still unknown to me
i held onto complacency
which is to say i've not a word
that fits to shape that form absurd.
a huddled mass of spiteful spleen.
how cruel to force my heart to wean.
i needed love to quell that force.
divert my torture. stem the source.
i thought that what i'd done to try
to be the friend that never lied.
that stayed beside you, resolute
would pay off now, here on this route.
that sounds much worse than i would like.
but friends are friends, and friends alike.
i love you all, and i just hoped
for you to help me as i coped.
it seems that asking this was wrong
as i was left to sing this song
to empty seats in empty rooms
true solo, this. my heart assumes.

Satisfaction is impossible
Still stubborn hope arises
From a heart that aches
And throbs for distraction

For a word a touch a taste
Will push away discomfort
Dispell despair and doom
Carefully Close the chasm

A language without words
Seals the gaping gashes
Knit from time and touch
Becomes a healing action

Bedroom ceiling had myriad patterns
Mostly latin symbols as well as horific faces and designs
A dark demon with long fingertips and red eyes taunted me each night
One week straight
Many visited yet none in physical form
Yet seemed so to be
The shadow people were sent to absorb my essence frequently
They were very swift and darty
Yet I could use my hands to dispell them
One night they had one young one with them
You see...they have to be gone before daylight and through open door or  windows
The sunrise approached with young one stuck inside
They pleaded from outside window to save it
Scrambling I kicked out the screen and threw it out
Then from that point on formed an alliance
And would warn me of impending dangers

Cellar door creaking
Smelling cedar growing fear
Whimpering bound gagged

Footsteps dispell dust
Grunts sawing screaming bleeding
Bound amongst fresh stumps

Breathing draws closer
Demon opens cellar door
Your turn dripping blood

my blood has fallen asleep and at ease to your beauty
your eyes

I beg
to breathe in the skin of your thighs

you move faster
and I move further away-
with you
from everything you represent
your prose and the most you disobey

leave you I may
beautiful woman
leave you I will
meager minds and griefs hearts to you I dispell everything
you may not see brown eyed,
I for now
have given all my insides to you

I walk away against my will

for you to display ---
life
sprung into things you must discover
and below you I hover
hoping that the feeling will not absorb me
like water into a sponge
like blood into a lung

I am beaten down

hurt

and I understand that breathing comes in hand
when in place of a human
who does not yet understand

I have lost.
Count.
Or stopped.
Counting..
On others.
I exhale.
To dispell.
Hopeless.
Nights.
As i drag.
Heavy.
Feet.
To.
Ward.
The darkness.
I fall.
Tier after.
Tear.
To tare.
A.
way.
Sadly.
Division wins.
Again.

Brighter horizons -
that I did ever see.
An act of treason,
to dispell rainy thoughts.
And brought forth -
a change of season.

The řåïñ is gone
and sweet songs -
surround my surroundings  
But for how long -
till it starts raining again?
And for how long -
will it remain - I cannot say

BUY CUCULAINS CASTLE PUMP BEAUTY IN TO SIGHT,
PERFECT GARDENS OF POTENTIAL,
PHOTOGRAPHS POTENALLY PERSONAL PRICE.

IMAGINE IMAGES OF MOMENTS IN "MIGHT "MOMENTS,
DISPELL THE ANGER OF SADNESS ,
FROM HANGING PICTURES,
GONE BY BUT NOT FORGOTTEN.

MAKE MOMENTS TO MANY MILLIONS OF..................

Tears that stain my face, Trickle their way
down my cheek and neck,
Resting on my palpatating delapedated *****

Mending the cracks and sealing the wounds.
They stare, wonder, speculate,
let them.

Hot gazes, a flash in the pan,
A gaze to distract, to dispell
to intoxicate, to forget.
A shallow drop in a dry well of tears
Emotions like a cloud over the well,
Grey and ominous with the promise of rain

Rain rain go away,
Come again some other day,
Some other day when you won't see,
This shadow of my former me.
Tears trickle past my heart,
leaving a trail from begining to end
from my eye to my stomach.

Glistening paint that covers the holes
But does not fill them.

My stomach touched by the tears has an adverse reaction,
Does flips and kicks that would make an acrobat jealous to the core
my chest heaving with sobs of wretched,
sobering gasps of shocked air

I can't do this. I need to stop the self-destruction.
I need to regroup, regain control, and stop.
The clouds shake and thunder rumbles,
threatening to release their heavy load.

Rumble, wave after wave,
a crack of lightning,
a release, a temporary reprieve
then a following panic, confusion
as I realize I'm IN the well.
the well is not a well of tears,
but an endless wall of brick crushing me
as a constricting snake,
slowly feeding off of my life until I am no more.
As I awaken, I trace my index finger lightly across the stains,
those stains that stain my pillow, and drip black,
burning ink on my heart.

Oh what those tears could heal and tear that
I might be torn in half and sewn up again
one final time
to let it be finished.

You make me hurt
You make me crave
You make me want to see a meaning within every
Wasted line in every dark moment I've left behind
You make me wonder
You make me wish
You make me want to run head first into a brick wall
With only prayers and a hard head to save me from dying
You make me scream
You make me cry
You make me want to write you an angry poem just so I
Can feel the hatred dripping like blood out of every line
You make me ponder
You make me hate
You make me want to hate everything that I am and everything
That I have let myself become since out deterioration

I want to hate you
But instead I crave you
I pull myself deep inside every moment I have alone
To disect every thought I've ever had to find a meaning
I want to wonder about better things
but you make me wish for you
I find myself running toward a wall over and over only to hit
It again and again but each time still hoping it will be different
I want to scream my hatred for you
But instead I cry out your name
I can't gain control enough to make myself dispell you from my
Ever present memory long enough to convince myself I don't need you
I want to ponder life without you
But you make me hate life itself
I want to become someone new someone better then myself because
You killed me and won't let me remember anything else

How beautiful did it all feel like
When you fabricated your doting self

Each time I gently pushed all my hair, behind my ears,
only to confront the zephyr from your rose like lips,
I failed to espy the thorns it bore.

Each time I’d smile to a crisp lie
Overlooking the fact that you had done it again,
You’d always do it “one more time”
And I’d always unsee the paradigm.

How beautiful did it all feel like when you perceived me as personage
Worthy of your attention
Worthy to have a claim on some 5 seconds of your life
Which you floundered to call mine otherwise

You were just busy. I dispelled my doubts
but you do love me. And its you I couldn’t do without

Each time I am pushed to pacify my kernel
I invent this story of how everything you do,

Is so that one day, you can see me
burgeon into a beautiful  flower
Never did I know you’d pick me
to impress another bossom, that very hour

Sometimes I hinted the stray in you
But, when had I ever learnt, to put enough trust into myself.
So each time you told me you wanted to stay
I’d let you. I’d let you in, and I’d tell myself, come what may
You’re the person I love, today, tomorrow and everyday

How beautiful did it all feel like
When I refuted the presence of your masquerade
When each time you’d destroy me with a different raid
and I still liked to believe you’d be there to aid

You are just busy. I dispell my doubts.
But you do love me. And its you I can’t do without.

Our bodies
demand pleasure
to dispell fear.

We work hard
to keep death
at bay.

Every ******
says to death:

I am still here
and ****
I feel good.

  ~mce

The clock had chimed it's
Midnight song
The scribe did ponder doom
Lamplight broke
The shadows long
Within his spacious room.
The light it flicked and fell upon
His sleek head so neatly groomed
It shook as he recounted wrongs
Sad countenance assumed.
No matter how the
Clock world gong
T'would not dispell the gloom
The devil had scribe
On trident prongs
His wraith o'r Poe did loom.

Edgar Allan was in deep despond
As he thought of angel seen
he had escaped the
Benighted pond
For her, his he'vnly queen
And tho he had no magic wand
To bring about her gleam
Again to hear the lovely sound
Of her wingtips keen
His heart once more
began to pound
Thinking of his dream.

The bust of Pallus, pastey pallid
Did o'rlook the crime
While Poe sought to
write a ballad
It seemed nothing
would rhyme
His heart beat like a mallet
He, a poet in his prime
Would not take to his
Down pallet
'Til seeing his sweet, sublime.

Lenore. Angel of his dream.


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) October 1, 2014

.hey, so much for jack kerourac's on the road... but i have found this most pristine tour-guide... as that h'american hobo... "7 years later" duping the tourists down in Amsterdam... h'american... what else? well it's hardly the Nepal you were looking for... or those grand sand of Arabia with a Lawrence: better suited for a... what do "we" call them? androids... david... citing: the trick is: not minding that it hurts... stoicism or some otherwise weathered down, other... point of (a) queue? and yes... red hot chilli pepper's song: warm tape... off the album... i forget... is underrated... in between the salvos of... those lyrics based around a "narrative"... but when the chorus comes in? melted butter in a thick spludge of crème fraîche.... yes... i want to love like a john frusciante... but i know i never will... i see too much economics to: "bed the pardon"... ****... "beg" the the pardon... the girls i once loved have probably forgotten me... moved on... the prostitues "in-between" were always "her" tailor of best arranged hair via - gay riddles of "the cut" via never having to mind a barber... and all those manicures! mein gott! there was a time and a place to squeeze in politics of the "fathomable" populace... and a "perhaps a chance" to raise children? dire consequences... to no avail of... the otherwise prior mentioned: straits... there were times in my life when i felt in love... that i could give give give and never ask for anything in return... lucky for me i started to age and not perform the portrait gray act of stay-young-forever-young-vampire... i clinged to love, once... it was such a beautiful spring... a spring that could last within its season a spell of over 5 years... then... reality and autumn and a need to dispell delusions... she probably still "loves me"... with someone else... cameo cinema of memory? where, am, i? love, oh love, what a burden, a hurdle, a responsibility... it's never this quickened escape ease of breath lodged into fiction... somehow always constricting, somehow always burdensome... somehow and somewhat always... never the homeless cherry picking of mutt that made it to an elevation of being under the christmas tree! why would i have children "these days"... well... there's no history i'd be allowed to teach them... and modern day-old journalism? i thought the people were only willing to fudge bulimia down the throats of their "listeners"? i still want to love like a john frusciante... perhaps that's the mosti can offer... best sentenced to a riddle escaped with at a bechance of keeping distance.

being a video-tourist with roosh v:
the sort of h'america i always wanted to see...
like... gaining another 50ml shot
of whiskey under the belt and notches...
is like... imagining *******
ava lauren in a 1970s italian ***** movie
style... when even *** in a pornographic
movie feels: sensual...
joel osteen... an iron maiden gig
looks... just the same...
when the skin becomes a sterile experience
of leather: when wearing shoes...
and a belt...
when this worn skin becomes
this most adored leather...
when the exhausted "beauty"
of prostitutes becomes: something
equivalent to... working out the mandible
artifact... akin to the chew and jaw...
the old continent seems to sigh...
i once missed Handel's Messiah for a night
at the brothel with the Bulgarian harem...
the grand-orchestra of the acronym:
U! S! A! U! S! A! seems so vague and...
bewildering... i'd love to be an atheist in
h'america... so... ridicule prone and
the high-end sort of bag-full-of-counter-virtues...
but i just can't be...
i like being a god-fearing man...
skin... ****, i need to tend to my german:
wann haut wird leder...
akin to: when **** cheney half-had
a neu-herz...
we do come most humble...
we are, oh the most pristine: wenigkreaturen...
ZAMAR-ZNIĘTY... frozen... (he)...
unless... you see that R-Z outside of deutsche...
in the fwench: je, je SUIS! form...
hard to keep those two 'uckers together
in a rz-eton... (Ż)eton casino...
orthography... who am i to preach to a people
so... so figured out with their metaphysics
that orthography, quiet simply,
doesn't, concern them?!
i'm still thinking about ava lauren and
all that 1970s italian *****-sensuoso *******...
why not to forget? pontius pilate clause
akin to louis XIV paranoia:
the power lies in how "it" is perceived...
lying... i don't mind hearing about hog-mucking...
i just mind when it's don juan
mucking up a nun: that's not a nun...
i don't like hearing about:
the goat in sheep... in the mouth of a wolf...
i can stand metaphor...
i just don't like curtains made from iron...
or burgundy tinged silk...
or some other: BLATANT lie...
the one blatant focus for puritanical "superstitions"
of: third eye blind of the other is...
this... bogus f-ck-wit of an underbelly...
there really was a time when i wanted
to see little-life everyday-sort-of h'america...
how the... whittle people lived...
then i figured... no more and no less whittle
from where i'm sitting...
maybe i should be standing?
but at least i come from a continent where...
(a) a striptease is... like the slipped ****** pill
no one wants...
(b) the ****** don't bring their cameras
and film you while you're at it...
(c) and a (d) and an (e) that i will not even
debase myself with...
perhaps we do speak the same language...
but... that's as much as
relates shoeshine to a shoe
as it relates mewwy ol' england to this...
grand posturing that's the u. s. of... a.
perhaps i need to see the sights of: Moldova...
or... Switzerland...
last time i heard being land-locked is the new
best thing... given aeroplanes...
i did want to mid-west ****-hole h'america...
from england... eh... m'eh... all i need is to go east
of Germany... if i find myself in
the West Warsaw coach station...
i'm practically in Ukraine...
everything reeks of this... sediment of roach bathed
in rust... a perfume of mud,
concrete, and lazy metal...
and of course the doom and gloom of the skies...
like 25th of december in Chernobyl...
you just want to start aiming for sparrows
with a pellet gun and break your teeth
on sifting through dirt and haemorrhoids...
and by these standards?
punk will never bother to re-invent itself...
not with pink... and "pronoun concerns"...
or whatever you these days call a f-cking mullet...
and yes... because even if i could...
the white picket fence...
the 3 brats worth of a brood...
the gene patriarchy drive...
the alcoholic / neurotic spouse...
the dog name Bono...
and... each saturday a: bonfire of concerns
for my children's schooling...
sober: but the alternative is no better...
personally? as an "atheist"?
i'm not really thankful...
i can't be thankful for all of this...
last time i checked...
some people in this world are required
to have an omni-litany ruling over their ***-lives...
they want to feel: *****...
why would i even be an atheist?
to speak out something, snarky?
to be prone to... too much ridicule?
there's only so much comedy you can invest in,
before you realise: oh ****...
i'm not a stand-up!
this monologue has no stage...
no audience... it's going to eat me up
like any other solipsism without any escape
into a soliloquy!
atheism is a "thing" in h'america: no wonder...
who said it...
they're a bunch of puritans in public...
but in private? citizen porky?
you know... pig rubber masks and spandex
and s & m and... yawn...
a striptease is so condescending...
6 weeks of celibacy...
nothing: excuse me... *******?
i'm excused with the personal-relief...
yes, the line is drawn... once given the snip
but not the kippah?
em... **** galore: up in their air...
rotating toward... Mecca...
with the prayer...
like... i have the scalp to scratch my head
and ponder...
imagine if a circumcision was akin to scalping...
personally... do we even need ears?
i could be the first to say:
but not really...
a matrimony begins with...
the snippet... which transcends the symbology
of rings... i might as well see it as...
for a woman: she is to offer her virginity...
for a man? he is to offer his *******...
problem solved! Libra rejoice!
she gives up her virginity - which she will lose...
he gives up his ******* - which he will lose...
i can almost see Aaron making these
Levi demands...
what am i thinking...
i will never get to see ****-hole mustard seed
h'america... i'll sooner see Kazan...
but i still don't see the point of making
the loss of a woman's virginity to be equivalent
to a man losing his *******...
after all... prior to the snippet...
he'll *******... a woman will *******...
but... em... what the arm will not do:
the "oyster" will quench...
an i am a gentile figuring out the proper ways
of the monotheists...
speeded up eventuality of apes watching
the descent of dragons and dinosaurs...
bound to the noble profanity of swans...
and widow and widower swans...
brid-brains! of noble emotions!
huh?! no! not us!
i can see the point of male circumcision...
when it is brought with the virginity of a woman...
being circumcised with one woman
is much more than putting on a ring...
un-lucky for me... two protruding veins
like the caduceus worn into the skin of matrimony...
it's not simply that i won't:
i... can't...
hence my infernal tongue.

__________
one can only begin with: Б and В -
and then the nuance:
whatever "nuance" there was,
to genesis an adam and eve -
apple and: pears to combine
for the image of Иосифа лестница..
                  ц - ß - צ (tsade)
                   like one might begin with
something along the greek:
P and Π - amputee R...
rolls... rolls... past the goal-posts...
            the fwench hark
the english tarantula bitten
tongue-numb do not never will trill!
never mind:
       ščypta - szczypta - a pinch of salt...
wikipedia is so ******* wrong...
   щypta... it's a siamese grapheme!
thus shown... cisza: silence...
                       ciša..
ciШa...
                       you can rewrite ščypta /
szczypta in russian...
                     avoiding the щypta...
you can write: ШЧypta...
                     but given: щ (šč / szcz)?
                                    who's to argue?
here's my "revenge" against
organic chemistry's theoretical
electron migrations of schematics...
how about diacritical migrations?
more like electron ontology:
waves one minute, clouds the next...
czyszczoh...

https://www.google.com/search?safe=active&client=firefox-b-d&channel=trow&ei=vf84XaHyIMWHhbIPhtOPqA4&q=czyszczoch&oq=czyszczoch&gsl=psy-ab.3...750080.759383..760300...1.0..0.247.1771.0j9j2....­2..0....1..gws-wiz.......0i71j0i67j0i131j0j0i131i67j0i30j0i13j0i1­3i30j0i13i10i30.wqdfvbgw6Ck&ved=0ahUKEwjhxKfi787jAhXFQ0EAHYbpA-UQ4dUDCAo&uact=5
(8 goodle results, nearing a -whack)...

Czyszczoń:
                     čyščoń:

                  interlude: Ђ? in cyrillic? isn't that a hindi letter?
via a mirror akin to Я ?            

czyścioch:
                 ШЧ / Щ -ypta - pinch...
      ЧyCЬKIOX...
          someone pedantic about staying clean...

                           :
  if you ever became riddle by pure
chemistry theory, and never walked into a lab:
that also employed you,
wasted years: performing electron bogus
schematics of "electron migrations"
in organic chemistry compounds...
in experiments...
          university as that extended waste
of time period: beside heavily politico
mickey mouse concerns of the dept. of
the humanities...
  sociology et al., well then?
you're right where you belong!
    
how about: the migration of diacritical markers,
orthography before naked english...
how's that?
     english the adam and ever...
all other languages attired
in the niqab worth a god...
__________

as i sit perched on my folded foot on the windowsill,
having a ms. amber cocktail with ginger ale,
smoking a cigarette, i gravitate to the empty
standing rack of shelves...
  what remains on it, as the paint dries?
a tub of wall paint: fine rosemary,
       tissues, sunglasses,
                  a game sheath: chess and backgammon
in one... a c.d. walkman,
      20 copies of my curricul vitae,
a 1:26000 ratio map of Warsaw...
                                  heidegger's ponderings VII - XI,
a thin book of poetry:
    Πoετιc Oπτoμεtρy - by some vague unknown
semi-anon. Mateusz Conrad...
          i'm hoarding about 200 copies of this work,
perhaps this lazy sod will finally get to
send this printed copy, some raw manuscript
pieces and a covering letter to
          Austin Macauley Publishers:
sounds like a good deal...
  they accept any manuscripts, with or without
an agent, published or not published,
expect a 3 week wait...
a letter dated 16 April 2019 for an appointment
at the Community Outpatient Cardilogy Clinic
  (Dagenham RM8 2EQ)
               with Anamaria Lunca...
24h ambulatory blood pressure monitoring
   (aged 33? not bad... <insert a snigger>)...
Plato's Theaetetus,
               Man-Bat: part 1 of 3, 1st. part,
DC comics, chuck dixon, flint henry,
    eduardo barreto - Feb. 96 - two $2.25...
Doctor StrangeFate, Amalgam Comics,
      #1, Ron Marz, Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez,
Kevin Nowlan, April '96,
                                         $1.95...
Littlewoods F.A. Charity Shield:
Manchester United v Newcastle United
Sunday August 11 1996 Kick-off 3:00pm
Official Machday Proramme £5.00 -
venue? the old Wembley...
inside? another matchday programme...
West Ham v Manchester United
Barclays League Division One
Wednesday 22nd April 1992 kick-off 7:45pm
£1.50 for the programme...
- the mask returns: john arcudi (story),
doug mahnke (art),
      titan books, first edition October 1994...
Czeslaw Milosz - Zniewolony Umysł
     "Culture" Paris - 1953...
- Bartman: the best of the best 1st edition
January 1997...
- a few figurines...
   a porcelain tortoise: WADE - made in england,
a Kenyan shamanic totem -
a figure with a bloated belly and only one eye,
a polish clay cockerel,
           London's China town red figurine:
standing proud on coins of wealth roaring...
1986, my year, moderate wealth -
well... given this list... i had to move all
the books i own that are supposed to be on
these shelves into the hallway, some onto
the windowsill and some into the box room...
the paint has to dry...
          a boomerang...
                     a Wawel dragon figurine...
(hell, in the west the dragon is associated
with wealth... Smaug... in China the tiger
is associated with wealth... didn't know that)...
some amitriptyline 25mg tablets...
    tom waits: glitter and doom (live) -
seriously - there are only about ten albums
in this world where the live performance
outstrips the studio version,
notably? going out west...
                   a pencil and a piece of paper...
where i scribble my braille tally
to teach me how to drink sensibly
my two ciders and the banquet of whiskey:
currently standing at 4... ****...
oi! tender hands that never worked or
played the guitar, giv' us'us the braille
count to show you have no more fingers
than that tender index of yours!
                           ⠁⠃⠇⠧ ⠷ ⠿
                 it's working... 'nuf' said...
- virgil's the aeneid,
- h. p. lovercraft: against the world,
    against life - by michel houellebecq,
- NewScientist - 50th anniversary special
   (1956 - 2006)
- Bolshoi Ballet, Royal Opera House programme,
i won't be dropping names...
****, i will:
           karim abdullin - soloist,
        maria alexandrova - principal,
artemy belyakov - leading soloist,
yulia stepanova - soloist,
                igor tsvirko - leading soloist,
- three letters from a Magdalena
Wielgołaska -
handwritten letters and all,
a pen-pall i managed to pick up a conversation
with in Edinburgh when she was
working a b & b for the summer...
         very self-conscious about her
height... well... she did play volleyball...
- old notes from university:
history essays... all a solid 2:1 grades:
    matriculation no.: s0458467
   tutor: kirsty chatwood (canadian ****
who became pregnant, great sense of humour),
e.g. why were there so many rebellions
in Europe in the mid-seventeenth century
(word count: 1,991),
   how and why did Napoleon succeed in
establishing French power over so much
Europe? (word count: 1,956)... 2% shy of a 1st...
so... no, not even i can answer this question...
since i also own copies of...
a traffic management copy of
my organic lab schedule:
   synthesis and acetylation of ferrocene,
preparation of 7-trichloromethyl-8-bromo-Δ-p-pinene
by free radical addition of
   bromotrichloromethane to β-pinene,
the photochemical interconversion of trans-
and cis- azobenzenes,
witting synthesis and photochemical
   cyclodehydrogenation of 1-styrylnaphthalene...
silyl enol ethers: a directed aldol reaction...
i used to do this sort of "stuff"...
but the pièce de résistance while i moved
my private library from these shelves?
ahem...

                 E. O. Richter & Co.
                 Präcision
                 Kopernicus IX set...
                 das prazisions-reiszeug

i.e. the most pristine instruments for technical
drawings... the sort of technical drawings used
in metallurgy, engineering, architecture...
people would conflate a hoarder with me...
me? i'm a connoisseur...
             i respect the sort of materialism that
transcends that shallow form of materialism
that equates itself with immediate gratification
not as a per se: but as a tool to attract...
unwanted attention...
  flimsy materialism, gluttonous materialism...
a materialism that occupies space
and short-attention span gnats...
    materialism of a temporal rather than
a spatial nature? now we're talking!

   and here's to toasting this day...
tomorrow i will erase that fateful day that
coincided with me painting my room
crimson - the Bataclan Massacre...
fine rosemary pale hue will replace
these blood soaked walls that have become
my gallows...
                    a shade much less the green
of my own eyes... and perhaps...
my mind will rest with a mild lapse into
a curiosity of a serenaded mind:
         i'm not even looking for serendipity.

it really didn't occur to me with regards
to the state of h'america...
  once upon a time any european would
look toward h'america as this unified
continent of sorts...
  prime cultural export juggernaut...
now? with the cracks showing,
  with individual americans making youtube
videos?
   clearly "we" europeans were lied to,
well: "lied" to...
          i would never have thought that the states
were so divided...
that even moving from one state to another
can be deemed as supicious...
maybe that's heavily reliant on the fact
that we're talking about a federation...
          in Europe they call it nationalism
what in H'america they call patriotism...
and populism is just the glue in between...
like that whole: ex-pat is not an immigrant...
but i love the h'american approach
to us old continent boyos...
styxhexen-... about the europeans:
'like we're enlightened and ****'...
         that really sums it up....
             notably, compiling the above list?
i almost forgot what i was going to write...
-hammer666 did enlighten me...
  i would have never have thought that
h'american "soccer mums" and goody-two-shoe
ruby-slippers christian folk would ban
children from reading 'arry Potter...
     well of course i knew of the satanic panic
music, and the gaming: thing...
but i never heard of 'arry Potter books being
banned...
     enlightened and ****...
      if Nietzsche was going to brag about reading
Stendhal... did him in my teens...
nothing to brag about... after all...
i did see a movie adapation starring
ewan mcgregor as julien sorel... and rachel weisz
was in it too... the first book adaptation on
film that spurred me to read the book...
if only the lord of the rings did likewise...
alas... not to be!
      no thanks to my scottish english teacher...
sure: of the g.c.s.e. curriculum?
i'm the king of the castle was the only
book of depth...
       yes, i'll give him this:
he did introduce me to jazz music...
   ben webster's how deep is the ocean...
   no other sax player as ben webster...
but: 'we're enlightened and ****' as an american
might put it...
   same teacher... on a trip to Glasbury-on-Wye
(Powys, Wales) -
oh god, i was dying to go on that trip for ages...
we were first supposed to go aged 15...
year 11...
  but the outbreak of the madcow disease
prevented us... so a year later it was...
    great place... caving, canoeing, horse riding...
and just in general the great outdoors...
any teen's dream living in the outer
east end of London...
              anyways... so the teacher inquired...
'what are you reading',
  he walked into our dorm while
guys my age were... snorting sugar dust
through their noses...
      fizz wiz space dust... yep... down the noses
it went...
   i was reading a book looking at them
like a gorilla might look at a human...
                       'mr. bunce? what am i reading?'
so i handed him the slim copy
of Marquis de Sade's groundbreaking short-story:
******...
          now, if you ask me...
the Marquis would have been the emblem
of short-story writing, he was the best as short-stories...
all those long repetitive regurgitations are...
well... 120 days of *****...
but Insect is where he shines,
the story is succinct in a citrus fruit sense:
i.e. piquant.
   succinct and piquant: such lovely
words could only have originated from
French and have to be treated as: loan-words.
besides: i find h'american criticism of europe
a wee bit funny...
     sure: an honest critique of the states
and the union, grandiose politics cogs and
all the labyrinths' worth of bureucracy:
like anywhere - same ****, different cover...
but when it comes to social norms and their
taboos... h'america is very truly backwards
when it comes to what culture its citizens
are allowed to ingest...
       me, in europe, reading marquis de sade
aged 16...
the equivalent of me, in h'america,
being prohibited to read: 'arry potter for
****'s sake!
sorry... on the level where my opinion
might or might not matter...
             americans are backwards...
those puritanical roots do not do them much
favors... esp. with their extravagant
punk-esque tropes signifying a rebellion
that never seems to occur;
christianity truly undermines the idea
of america...
                     if not bound by shackles,
then shivering under the burden of the shadow
of the cross: which none of them wish
to carry... the mere looming shadow frightens
them... and... mind you? american neo-atheism?
boring as sunday's midday sun.

I doth love thou with most every an ounce of mine own being
So much so yond mine own heart, nor mine own soul hath not the capacity to deny
O, I doth so hold dearly to mine own consciousness
The knowledge yond I truly beest enamored by thee, mine own dearly beloved
Is the reason I shalt subsist; ‘tis for the envy I hold for the world
And for the love of thee; I doth so deeply cherish
Our time together
And as such is true for dram to nay extant being
For thou art mine own muse, wonder of human creation to behold
With a mind full of thoughts and with a heart full of envy, love, and sorrow
We shalt over wroght
And beest ever so true to thee, I shalt beest
Nay want of yare
Nor an abundance of need
Shalt dispell the love I doth hath for thee
For it hath been writ in stone

Long past
That
Time to dispell
Chronocolonization
Of a complication
That
Rose up in
My generation

I'm not toten
This
Frickin weight
No more
Gonna knock it..,
DOWN
STOMP IT
Into the ground
And then...
When
I am finished
Sweep it out
The door

It was a ......
MADgical time
As ...we...re re..
Realized
That life
Could be ...
....a ....
Box of ******* jacks
If WE WERE
Willing
To forget the prize

Seeking out lives
WITHOUT
all those comp
Complications
WE WERE ...
the ....
drop out
and TUNE in
generation
Me and that dial
Spun with ....
FREQUENCY
I just
never
found the station

But I more than
Earned
What I learned
So ...as far as
I am -
and ever will be
CONCERNED
It would be
A far far
Different
WORLD....now
Were the tables
Not turned

I can
I can look back
Past
time-worn decades
shuffle those
torn ,tatteered and ...
dog-eared cards
play that hand
before it fades

Smiling
as it goes by
In ...
Psychedelic parade

MAYBE ....
maybe that dream
that seemed ...to be
WAS...just
passion of youth
and pure fantasy
As just the hope ..
and honesty of
Totally effected me

So no
I will not...
smash and sweep
There is
good and bad
In all memories
We KEEP
SO....
someday...I may
Take a faithful
That faithful leap

As I try
To find
A means
Amends to convey
That ...
WE WERE NOT
rebelling against you
Our parents ...in any way!

The fact is
WE heard you
speaking
to each other
or friends
In hushed tones
When
WE WERE
Toddlers to TEENS
About how YOU
THE GREATEST GENERATION
came home to be
Pushed and torn
between
Your dignity and
The new AMERICAN
reality
As the rise
Up
Of the...Military
Industrial machine

You did not
Know
What you were
Part of....
THEN

COGS in the disease
That new cognitive insolence
Of RICH and greed
driven men

We've gone a long way
To be still mired
In that same ...
...nightmare

WE may have had
Some
Instinctual vision
Of the pressure
Induced
That must ...have
Left you confused
as you were forced
to make us leave
And in silence you
Had to grieve

And though time
Did mellow all pain
As we sought out
a reprieve

And now though
it must be said
WE
must have felt
the words
As well as
Heard your pain

To go
from the greatest

The greatest generation
To become
The next wars slaves
Confused
Not sure what to do
So WE WERE
Your voice ,your rebellion
We were inspired
To stand up
the way you wanted to

YOU gave us life ....
WE gave you voice !!

Cast your demons to me
That I may dispell them
Wisps of smoke
Fading into the night
Confide in me
That you may know
I will not abandon
The promise I made to you

Can this one moment just be alive and reeling in the toil of tiny cities and intellectual centers of this thought where its no more mine then it is inside the hearts ever beat banging to the vibe forcing air all around to dispell go back to your momma go back to the womb going back to the place where my life took hold and the days in the summer made me lonely where i saw the center i saw its center i always go back to the center

They said, I said this.
And nobody's ever spoken to me.
That's how rumors gets started.
By others, who think they speaking for me.

Now, here I go.
Trying to dispell every word spoken.
That was contributed to me.
And nobody's spoken to me.
To clarify the truth.
Makes you wonder exactly, who's the fool?

Some say, it's better not to say a word.
Just let the dust settle.
And while that sounds good to speak.
In your mind you still remember one truth.
That's nobody's spoken to me.
They just went with the one professing everything.

They said it.
They heard it.
And then wrote it.
As if they didn't know that nobody's spoken to me.

Waiting rooms with gray walls and spotted brown carpet,
Scattered with crying babies and outdated magazine stands
Tideous clickings of pens on clipboards writing in medical histories

Everyone is waiting on something here
and for the first time, I don't feel sick in the lobby

Smooth words with hungry conversation stay my new elixir
While the impulses in my brain dispell
and the world dwindles into states of impertinence

Who knew good company could soothe the cure for a neuromaniac

Hushed tone voices drone on
as my foot shakes to dispell the nerves
Beginnings are always the hardest part.
Fear tries to slide into my mind
As I fight it off with lyrics of my favorite song.
If I don't belong here
I don't belong anywhere.
The present is not what past me expected.
I'll keep fighting to survive
And hope the fog begins to fade
As the days continue to turn into years.
Maybe future me will look back
And remember present me's endurance
And feel encouraged.

You will get through this.

i dont feel anything anymore.
when the tears come,
out they just pour.
this is hell if there is one.

let the tears spill,
onto the cold floor they fall.
nothing more do they fill,
than the nothingness they call.

a soft whimper's lilt
does nothing more than meant,
damaged world's tilt,
reveals our lament.

let the tears pour,
more they can do.
liquid discharge of life,
fallen onto ashen dust,
the dirt filled with dna you held,
dispell this world of its rust.

watch the colors as they meld
to create a beautiful path
bundles of happiness
bloom in the aftermath.