Write on the bathroom wall this:  


Diligence is probably slaying rebellion

Dreaming comes out of an atomic bomb

Your girlfriends in a gang that’s lead by prostitutes  

Cavemen getting punched in the face by men  

Werewolves developing a crush on skinheads  

Soldiers experimenting with martyrs  

Your nextdoor neighbor pretending not to know a *****  

A gypsy writing love letters to a villain  

A guy you once dated driving away from a distant memory  

Your mother at a funeral with an executioner

Mind control freak making eye-contact in an elevator with a flight of birds  

Gleefully bulldozing gigantic flaming embalmers underground  

Ferociously inspiring detail-oriented museums in the dark  

Painfully sorting through stainless steel students backwards  

Electronically sorting monophonic apparitions in the shadows  

Faithfully inhaling Armenian scorpions at tea time  

Briskly hovering above loud controlled substances eaten by America and spat out  

    Dream about this next time you sleep:  

Quizzically exquisite keyholes inside a sunken ship  

Wearily alcoholic skeletons invading our love  

Sharing sternly precious lithographs with Charles Manson  

Adoringly high-pitched frescos out on the streets  

Wildly crunchy affairs with reckless abandoned hope  

Her boyish handymen is like Mona Lisa without her brows

Sensually cuddling big pistols  

The AntiChrist finds the cure for cancer in the local pet shop

Mary Magdalene can sometimes lead to your soul’s desire  

*** can (and often does) lead to motherhood  

Absolutism has never touched cooperation  

The Tao Te Ching manifested properly may ease the destructiveness of Christ  

******* is hindered by believing in motherhood  

Nature encourages rebirth and recycled courage  

Ashtanga Yoga is more important than victory  

An inspired mind isn’t always The Bible  

Energy must always conquer evolution  

*** is a decent alternative to nightmares wouldn’t you agree?  

Electricity is a manifestation of mercy and Tesla  

Pleasure feeds on Gandhi’s sweat ridden bald head  

Candidly breaking dormitories brimming with joy  

Barely used unstable translators outside the lines  

Enjoying calm lavish casino hotels with the electric eager manicurists of tomorrow  

A janitor burying a troop of apes while nature contributes to death and new yesterday’s  

The unknowable comes out of knowledge  

A ***** mind finds the cure for ignorance in patience and the aloha spirit

Education contains traces of drugs and alcohol and also combats drugs and alcohol  

Satan always enjoys Richard Dawkins.

I met Neal Cassady last night in a waking dream sitting across from me with his back turned to the noise; the bar was loud. He repeatedly leaned forward and asking if I wanted a smoke.
        He looked just like Neal, talked like him. I hated and admired him just like I would the real Neal Cassady. His mind was incredible; beyond the worries of mortality, no thoughts or pains of hubris. He had the candor that I lacked only because I hadn't the nerve to jump first. When I asked him if he truly was the great Cassady, he stared at me from across the table with a wry smile; patted his breast pocket down, leaned back and said as he turned with precision out of his chair,
        "Let's go for a smoke".
        Such practiced determination, he was already outside before I had put on my coat. Of course I had no cigarettes of my own, he had expected me to bring one for the both of us. But I for one expected him to procure an entire carton by the time I was outside; one bent cigarette from every Saintly being at the bar.
        And what a bar! Great young gone gals; dressed in short skirts and long autumn coats; wool scarves around their necks and under chins beneath cold steel eyes. Ahh, forever young the white dresses and mistresses of the college bar.
        By the time I had opened the door and exhaled my first breath of the crisp night air, Neal was playing the part of locomotive engine with a German couple who were smoking and pretending to be Parisian. The three of them were standing in formation of a triangle on the edge of a stone staircase with a railing leading down into a steep lawn with Neal’s back facing the moon. It was all arranged in a perfect geometric mandala of overlapping Platonic solids.
        As I approached the cloud, Neal was recounting the tale of a nurse he had lain in the backseat of her father's station wagon in Nebraska in the heat of the afternoon sun. The German man was stocky and ill-dressed for the weather. He told me later that his name was Heinrich, but I did not believe him even though I knew he had nothing to hide. The woman whom I believed to be only his girlfriend told me, with a thick German accent, that her name was Deline. I believed her. She was well-dressed for the weather and smoking heavily; style is everything.
        "They've graciously offered to roll us a dozen", Neal expelled between great gusts of smoke, a boyish grin smeared on his face by the thousand red lips and wet ***** of passed consequence. Even in the light of a single lamppost coming through the haze that billowed forth from the three talking chimneys, I could still see a sheen in Neal's eye. The sort of sheen that implied hooliganisms. The sort of sheen you see before a person flies off the handle. The exact sheen you see before you wake up tomorrow in the late light of the afternoon, wondering who the Hell took your hand last night and jumped into total darkness with you. That is, if there was somebody around to take your hand.
        I liked Neal.
                He had a style about him that reminded me of a dark velvet curtain. Once you had passed through that curtain in your business casual attire, you witnessed the burgundy coloured stain of truth. There was no backpedaling after that; your chains would knot up and you would fall off the ride if you tried.
        The German couple looked around at their surroundings and the both of us with a degree of boredom. I had seen them earlier in the bar, they looked bored then too. Neither had spoken to the other once and I was beginning to feel like we were exasperating them.
        “Who cares? They offered to roll us a dozen” I thought. What did it matter how Neal got them to do it, they've offered twelve cigarettes and now they belong to us.
        Deline handed Neal and I six cigarettes each; they were magnificently rolled.
        “Goodbye, then! Thank you for your business”, Neal said and slid down the railing to the lawn below, lighting his cigarette mid-slide. I had just lit mine and started after him down the staircase. I turned around and spoke clumsily with a cigarette bobbing at the corner of my mouth,                      
        “Yes… thanks”, and left without another word.

        Neal walked with sporadic intensity; arms often stabbing out into the blanket of night; legs that would walk straight and stiff but then bent and fast with sudden changes as if he was preparing to spring off into the evening of speckled lampposts and smoke. His head bobbed West to East, North to South, and all Axis’ between X, Y and Z. The more I stared at this character whom I called Neal the more I thought of him as an illusion of my own delusions. When I had finished that thought, Neal had spun around and laughed a good hearty and honest laugh; he seemed to have read my mind and proceeded to flick the space between by eyebrows with his thumb and *******. The pain was real enough. This Neal must be real, unless I had gone full mad with lunacy. We blasted off down the avenue which connected the college bar to the dormitories and the library after that.
        Beyond the avenue laid the cozy valley of goodnight downtown with all it’s lights of sodium pearls below and us upon the hill top looking down with eager intensity. Neal gave another rounded laugh and stared with mad eyes above my head and pointed straight up into the sky at Sirius.
        “Tonight, yes yes, we go out. Not just out, my dear friend, but up. Yes yes, to the great up-and-over. Beyond the next stop we absolutely must climb.”

         I don’t know what mad beast had possessed me that evening but I followed this ghost; this great memory of romantic America into the heart of the infinite night.
        “Good gal Deline”, said Neal

        “Who?” I replied
        “Nimble fingers, strong hands for the German working class” he said, “Great gone gal. Good gal. Fine gal by all standards of beauty and sleek german ingenuity”
        “Hmm”, I responded inhaling my cigarette deeply. The Germans were just fine at rolling, but the tobacco was all American. It was harder and harder for me to physically keep up with Neal. He kept speeding off sporadically twenty feet in front of me, sometimes stopping and spouting at young folks asking for cigarettes. 

        “But you’ve already got one” They would say

        “Yes yes, but it’s for when I’m not smoking one is why I want one”, Neal would answer as he trailed off further and further down the road. They thought he was mad, but they all smiled nonetheless.

        My curiosity was brimming. Who was this mad man? Who was this loon impersonator of the American night? I could not stand by my idle silence and unquestioning.
        “What’s the plan tonight?”, I asked

        “What plan? No good plan. Only great plan and great plain rising higher and higher and we will be up all night but on top of the world for we must climb up and up forever until we can climb no more, and then after we can climb no more then we must climb a little further for life itself is nothing more than an infinite climb ever higher and why not get there faster than all the rest?”

        I had stopped walking and Neal’s voice echoed and vibrated the walls of the stairs between the library and the meal hall. His voice was like that of mountain that had slid beneath the ground reborn into an endless peak above.
“Jailbird Cassidy. Great bellowing Cassidy all energy and no direction, but getting there in no time just the same Cassidy”, I thought to myself.
“I trust you Neal”, I had said out loud.
“Not yet! First great big night time breakfast for you and me, for one can not climb without a good energy and good rounded stomach digested of food and stories.”

From the depths of my sister's eyes
I found castles built upon hills that would never be touched by the sun.
Here her fortress of human,
Cascading light outward,
Wrote symphonies of melancholy
Until every paradox played pity poetry.
She would not speak a word,
Yet arms enclosed around her,
"I’m sorry" I said.

Tears would hang onto the precipice of her eyelashes
Begging, “Please don’t let them know
That my ice, cold heart melts.”
Dormitories of lost carriages and open wounds
Like silver plattered i love you’s that would
Just get sent back to the kitchen.
It wasn’t what they ordered.
No, they wanted your confidence on a skillet,
A tall glass of Abuse Me,
With your insecurities on the side.
Now see that’s what indulges them.
Little sister, do not break as they turn your immobiles.
You diamond of strength,
With pure crystal lungs
And steal volt of a rib cage.
Do not let his laser hands touch you.
If he says he wants the light on,
Tell him about your moonlight smile.
If he says he wants to see you naked,
Tell him about your December in the psychiatric hospital.

You are not like the other mountains,
Your Everest avalanches into the ocean.
High tide with erratic currents washing up all the debris lost at sea.
Do not struggle its pull,
Or attempt to hinder its rise.
For all you’ll find is
Yourself,
Crushed under the formidable waves.
There is no rest for the wicked,
The rage does not wither with sunset
Nor wince come dawn.
Though you wish your waters would reach
The mouth of your volcano,
The high will not last the journey.

Somewhere in the foliage you will find yourself
Subsided,
In a battle field,
Unarmed.
Desolate.
Dead rose bushes will look like home
And you will fall asleep
Tangled in the thorns
But the cuts won’t hurt as much as that
Two headed dragon
That’s been trying to blow out the birthday candles inside you,
Not realising that he’s left
Every last piece of you in ashes.
But the candle continues to burn.
The sun won’t shine here.
Neither will you.
You will stare into rivers wishing the reflection would change.
You will try finding vines on trees strong enough to hang from, but pretty enough to still look like a necklace around your neck.

At these times, little sister
Remember:
You are more than skin on bones
You are midnight cast shadows
To the nocturnal.
You are laughter like orchestra,
Like finger’s on cello,
You are strings,
That will shiver and shake,
But never, not ever
Break.
You are eyes like Van Gogh’s finished canvas.
You are not the store bought version of beautiful,
You are the definition.
You are not an extra 5 cents.
You are the change that will make a difference.
You are the earth’s 8th wonder.
You are bombarded significance
You are.
You are.
You are.
So don’t ever give up.

You are ***.
   I remember you in hotel rooms,

You are ***,
   I remember you in redone garages,
A mother talking in her sleep
  While lips and other things touch under covers

You are ***.
   I remember you after going out to get a drink from the garage
His back pressed against the old car
My knees on the ***** concrete.

You are ***,
  I remember you in dormitories
Being quiet because of paper thin walls
and awkward moments with unexpected roommates.

You are ***,
   I remember you in cars
Mine at 4 in the morning,
Every seat violated.
His car in the backseat
In the parking lot,
Public, but while snow fell down
First ****** in a car,
first ****** while looking at something so picturesque,
First from kisses down under,

You are ***,
You are *** in the shower
You are *** in the morning
You are *** loud and hard
You are *** sensual and slow and quiet
You are *** yet to be had
You are *** in parts of me that should never be touched,
You are hot and sticky
Anywhere I want you
On my ******* or in my mouth
You are ***,
And I want you.

I am Heavy-lidded tonight,
Heavy-lidded
and inscrutable in my childhood.

My childhood that was spent hysterical in airing cupboards,
Where I wept unashamedly to the fixed God
And the stained glass, rose-hewn Angels of churches
That reeked of oak and holy water.
Where I sat in the trees, high on life and vanila-blue ice cream
And with knees skinned by the ****** pathways of woods
Or the safe gravels of playgrounds.

Where sunbursted mangoes dripped with musky-sanded chlorine
And the sun-hot metal gates clanged shut in the holiday winds.
Where rocks were thrown by fated children
And paper-cheap candy wrappers filled up plastic trash cans.
Where strange, money-minded housewives gaggled and giggled
With their ******-white teeth
And reflected my mother' s bipolar poverty
In the lenses of their plastic sunglasses.
Where my self-hemmed summer dresses were stained
With green and brown and red finger paint
As the days outside grew warmer
And the inside self grew older,
Colder.

Where I was punished for expression of the self
And confined to the sanatorium
Or the offices of Moloch's servants
On a sun-stippled day in May
Where my scrap-bruised hands
Were bandaged by the words of the Real World
And threatenings of expulsion.
Where I hid behind felted display boards
On a landing somewhere near Neverland,
And lay and listened to the friend-fuelled ramblings of lost boys
Who sat and smoked in dormitories
And hallucinated Peter Pan.
Where I wrote self-indulgent fuckery in toilets
And drew crude artistries on mirrors with lipstick
And contemplated
Amo
Amas
Amat
As I sat and stared at my own disassociated hands.

Where paper aeroplanes flew and were thrown
By hungover kids in threadbare jumpers
With chewed cuffs and prefect badges,
Where holy Evian was poured over my head
After a long last day under a white marquee,
Where I disassembled pencil sharpeners with iron-smelling razor blades
and violated erasers at an exam hall desk in a stormy June.

Where I contemplated death;
Sang hymns in the darkness of my bedroom,
Took a blade to my flesh
Like the soulless piece of meat
That I believed myself to be.
Where I fell in love;
Hurt myself
More than anyone else ever did.
Where I read,
Where I wrote tear stained elegies
To my idols under the earth
And prayed that I
Would last
Just one more day.

Those aged between 10-16, trade in your toy soldiers
for real guns at Barrack No 33 along
mocambo rd. Come alone. Parents not invited.

Be well fed, watered, trained and tempered
in steel resolve to waste the enemy.

Uniforms supplied, washed once a year.
Make your playmates olive green with envy.
Sleep in air conditioned dormitories
roofless, and watch the stars glide in and out
of a universe you do not know.

Learn to ****, ******, loot and march
in pincer formations up and down mountains
and rest near bubbling brooks and silver coloured leaves
in the jungles of dissent. Eat from tin can plates
and smoke delicious kat leaves to rev up your libido.

What are you doing playing with plastic toys?
we can give you real ones, real bombs, guns
serrated daggers,poison pellets, misty eyed maidens,
order your disorder.
(and bald heads for target practice)

Come my children,
learn the art of war
for the good of your country.

Sign up today
the commander will even shake your hand.
Become a real soldier.
Come in today. Come.

Author Notes
The rag tag mercenaries are resourcing real soldiers from the ranks. Sign u today. Learn the art of war. All recruits must be between 10-16 years only.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

We don't have time to live,to die or even give living a try,so what's it all about and why or what are we here for anyway?
In the year dot when God had a soft spot for Adam and Eve who didn't believe in anything at all and before Eve's fall from grace,there was a place to be in harmony and not some grotty dump like today where we pump our misery,carried away by tanker truck and no one seems to give a,
hard luck story's ten a penny.

Where are you Maud?
we came into the garden at three and now it's time for afternoon tea,has it come to pass that you'll be found in the long grass with some son of a gun?
'come into the parlour' said the fly,I don't know why because fly's don't talk and neither do I.

I walk through dormitories thinking long bed rows of stories and sleep in paper boats which float me on high seas,high teas,no Maud.

Which all amounts to diddly squat,slightly more than what I've got and what I've seen,
but I have been to London and I have seen the Queen who stole the tarts,while Jack was busy stealing young girls hearts,
and all my life is one cartoon,one dimension,oh but soon, there are inventive men who'll wrap me round a reel again and off I'll go.
A push and pull me,random figure on a top,spinning circles into carpets 'til I stop and pop goes one more weasel,
written on the board in chalk which in turn is stood upon the,Lord have mercy,save me from this nourishment,
Maud lent me her key,where is Maud? it's time for tea.
The men in coats come down for me,they're as nice as nice as nice men can be and work in the infirmary attached to the asylum.
I'll be back.

Spoiled. Quite unlike your usual
Presence in a room, tonight you
Carry with you an immense weight.
Dragging along your creme draping,
You stroll up to the window and look
Out. God bless your beauty.
In divinity, it is thought that there will
Be a reckoning. I hope that they use
Your judgement. What do you see?
The waves roll in, crushing the grains
Of sand beneath its own immense weight.
You’ve been spoiled. Your whole life
Has been closeted to the comeliness of
The coast. Dreaming of simmering
Love affairs and social meetings in
Coffee shops on the tumultuous avenues of
New York City. You turn and begin to walk
Towards the roaring fireplace.
I’ve heard that you covet bedlam.
Some find the eroticism of chaos to be
Unnerving. Irritable, even.
Your guilt draws you downward,
And by the time you reach the
Mantel, you are crawling.
Your sobs echo through waxed halls,
And quiet dormitories.
You toss your weight into the flames
That lick up all of the love letters and
Empty plea bargains that have paraded
Around your thoughts for so long.
In divinity, they may refer to you as
An infidel. Someone whose faith has been
Spoiled. But I think “martyr” is more suiting.
You sacrificed yourself for more sins than your own,
Your weight was not yours to carry.

But only God and I know that, so here’s to you: The Infidel.

Wearing regret like my Sunday's best
My eyes are smiling a sad song
Weighing heavily on my chest
Crying crystal memories, so long
My dear, your sweet kiss, neglected
You're gone now, laying in a casket
Looking within, there is nothing reflected
I'm drowning myself, trying to mask it.

Missing you and our reading minds
The dormitories rainbow swirls and laughing
Walking and walking weightless and it reminds
Me of our wispy white choreographing
Our souls entwined

And now there's a part of me
Swift and free on the other side
Speaking, whispering through cups of coffee
I'm trying not to contemplate suicide
So you and I can reconvene
Remembering, though, I'm a part of you
On this side, living, white clouds and grass green
Breeching all realms, I'm there, and you're here, too.

Bones in a box, empty of yourself
I don't want to think about it anymore
Shutting pages, back onto the bookshelf
A tale for posterity, it's folklore
Wearing regret like my Sunday's best
Sad songs ringing, deafening, I'm praying
Paralyzed in bed, ghost treading on my chest
Trying to escape this place, but staying

I am a passenger on a train that leads nowhere and everywhere
When I get to the station, step onto the platform
Welcome me into your open arms, lift my baggage from my shoulders, hold my hand and lead me into the heart of my new city
Introduce me to your history acquaint me with every street sign and alley
Tell me your deepest darkest secrets and I will show you mine
Lead me up the hill let me marvel at the artistry the architecture
Skate me down the canal in frosty weather
Educate me on the politics of my nation
The capitol of my country rests in the capitol of my fantasy
Breathe into me your spirit, great city
You Ottawa, house me in the dormitories of uOttawa
Instruisez-moi dans mes études français
Insegna mi in italiano
Wrap me in a cocoon of knowledge
Acknowledge when I need a break
Feed me a life of colour as vibrant as the red of our flag
Fill me with vivacity, make me a proud resident great city
Take me into your loving arms kiss me under the light of 1000 programs
That you have to offer
I will accept your offer
Thank you for the scholarship
Your generosity with scholarships
Welcome me aboard your ship and I will be a tenacious crew men
Surround me with men and women to guide and inspire
Inspire me to become the person that I am destined to be
and let me make a home in you Ottawa

Charity found in clarified thought.
Harlequins in dormitories quickly sought.
Indiscretions come with ease.
Liberated by a youthful ******.
Dilation found in most pupils.
Birthed in the hell of forgotten scruples.
Irate over nature's gift.
Renounced parentage moves in swift.
Theologians they're not to be.
Heathens, they are, as it's clear to see.

Insurrection from a parents hope.
Secured through the first ****.

Nodding off to dreams of bliss.
Organized by pots of ****.
Tempting fate with a play on chance.

A child's born through horizontal dance.

Vindication came during a failure at grace.
A look of contempt etched across a father's face.
Composure slipped through the cracks.
Adolescents and their empty sacks.
Tying nots in a diluted fashion.
Insulating them from drifting passion.
On and off they float along.
Nullified in the end by unwanted spawn.

He takes his last breath
for the night. The music
from exhaust engines
tire themselves out. Inside,
petty advisors punch their
timesheets, setting aside
solicitations for flowcharts
and returning to their ever
shrinking dormitories.

Good. Now we can begin,
the sugarplums declare.
(or are they centrefolds?)

It begins and ends like
every other cycle, not
that consistency matters
at all. Swivel, sway and
trot, or so is often thought.
Troops of the troupe
clean up nicely without
noise, nor is assembly
required. Soon enough,
the stage is ready.

A very handsome entity
(perhaps) pirouettes. No
matter if the platform
dissolves, for the performer
had rehearsed it between
routines. Now how about
the audience? Has the lone
ticket been sold? And the
theatre, well-unlit?

Yes. The prelude—or truth
be told—distraction bows
itself out. Stagehands,
raise them curtains up!

Eyes have no interest
in foreplay. What is in
play—skydiving?
Wakeboarding? Nudes
to the beholder?
—can only be
temporary. No actor
overstays their place.
Always, an unannounced
but not unexplainable
cameo, a kindred
spirit seeking presence
in the now, only serves
a sense of urgency,
of misplaced longing.

And then,
you wake up.

He continues the journey without you,
just being he finds no use in being.

I'm sure Nietzsche could teach me to progress,
but Freud has a line on me, a lien for me to see
him.

They tell me business is booming
in a backroom in Bermondsey
I go South and then I am sure
that
the rich do get richer and the poor
just so.

Mean streets make erstwhile friends
and
where ends become commonplace
chalked outlines
a tear filled face
friends are all that we need.

And of course mad Rasputin
was the one who put the
boot in,
but then
we always knew that he would.

bring back biology
*** in the dormitories
frogs to dissect
and learn all about babies.

( those four lines come courtesy
of a secondary modern
in a Victorian building
with delusions of grandeur)

I find myself missing the feeling of going to war, constant conflict, broken bottles and 18 hours missing time, counting down from 10 towards blackout, the feeling that any moment we will receive the call to arms we've been expecting and take to the streets with righteous anger, we are the only nightlife we've ever known, barely recognizable through the residue on our lips and the collection of small plastic bags on the kitchen table, whose edges have been burned closed so many times they have become numb to their own purpose, I pick what I want to hear from the consuming noise, I am talking to those guys from down the block about anarchy for the hundredth time, they still aren't convinced and neither am I, I am the holy burnout, I weave mythology into my skin and hope it sticks, I am naked and coming down in the living room, I am burning down the alleyways, I am screaming EVERYBODY WAKE UP at apartment complexes and dormitories, I am something on the radio, singing harmonies to my arrogance, I am cocky and I am young and I am pretty and I am angry, I am double nickels on the dime with two middle fingers raised when the cops drive by, I am failing to realize what is happening here, I am unconscious, I beg and I steal and I **** and fight and pass out around the time the sun rises, my neuroses tell me don't look back you can never look back, and then it hits, all at once, full collapse, illusion shattered, I am watching my brothers watch my tail lights disappear from the porch in my rear view mirror, I never considered that I could be a coward, I'd just never been tested, back to the crumbling house, shoulder to the wheel, straight on through the night, following stars I used to know the names of, I pull in the driveway, I tell myself under my breath, don't look back you can never look back

His will, with all obedient mansions, unluckiest delights,
And heaven-illumined cares, its trembling woodbine-wreaths,
A concourse gloriously to swan, but knowingly to obey,
Is as a mused pasture, whose forbid
Brimstone dormitories, through clarions that dare awfully overwhelm,
Forcing victory! The's saddest distinctions

pregnant with meaning again
we are feeling
coming from the void
i am clearly one sun-dried bumpkin
for nothing is all I’ve ever really loved
pumpkins stuttering
making music through galaxies of vines and tomatoes
orchards entwine stables
the wild is alive and capable of reviving itself
within each human heart chaos echoes
beckons us to trust the tunnels that are dark
sunglasses can no longer
protect the eyes from the sparks
mustaches embark on sandwiches that leave marks
on upper lips and beards
steer clear of fear unless you want to be devoured like ham on rye
sun tanned alibis deny reminders of our impermanence
long legs and a nice ***, still I am cashed out
return to drowning in hungry mounds of butter
gluttony everywhere
i surrender to the air and space
to face these mistakes I’ve made
and forgive the entire human race
i cannot escape my self
or my mind
i cannot erase these pages
no matter how blind i am
stammering cramming words into space
like place holders
folders from high school
it's futile to misuse our power
like principals without principles
our honor roll students are drooling
cooling off in their dormitories
then storming the capitol of capitals
prom dates sleep late and awake naked

This is permanent...

Her name carved into my flesh
Nights full of razor blades
And ******* out my lucky stars

Endless hours spent
In spectral dormitories of the soul
Sharing my bed with an unresponsive shadow

Fatal portraits and indecipherable mosaics
Of rusty blood and stale *****
And random hebephrenic blotches adorn the walls

...I don't remember doing that(?)

Failure to connect
Server not found
Session has expired

Take these moribund dreams from me
Bury them in the catacombs of my heart
With the rest of the headless children

Then bring me XL18 portable flamethrower
And my Swiss Army knife
So I can express myself with full poetic license

Have you ever witnessed catharsis
In budding roses of holocaust?

Have you ever witnessed self-realization
Measured in casualties?

...This **** is permanent.

This is permanent...

Her name carved into my flesh
Nights full of razor blades
And ******* out my lucky stars

Endless hours spent
In spectral dormitories of the soul
Sharing my bed with an unresponsive shadow

Fatal portraits and indecipherable mosaics
Of rusty blood and stale *****
And random hebephrenic blotches adorn the walls

I don't remember doing that(?)

Failure to connect
Server not found
Session has expired

Take these moribund dreams from me
Bury them in the catacombs of my heart
With the rest of the headless children

Then bring me my XL18 portable flamethrower
And my Swiss Army knife
So I can express myself with full poetic license

Have you ever witnessed catharsis
In budding roses of holocaust?

Have you ever seen self-realization
Measured in casualties?

...this **** is permanent.

This is a socio-cultural war. Homosexuals aren't satisfied being let alone to pork one another in locker rooms, Sunoco ****-houses, Y.M.C.A. dormitories & army barracks. They want it all! They want to conquer society via a Lincolnian scorched-Earth/total-war methodology. They want the babies that masturbatory ******* (fellation, ******, ******* & *******) can't beget. Anyone who opposes queers will be ostracized (unemployed & unemployable). Homosexuality is a corruption of the human psyche & of human anatomy. It's a disease-promulgating abomination, an epidemiological nightmare. Historically: degraded societies, in the throes of death, fully embrace criminality. God-speed death be to the agonized practitioners of homosexy, excreta-digesting, *****-imbibing, bowel-stretching, *****-bending trauma!