what stefan zweig mentioned -
of the 19th century’s inability of being
fond of its youth including robespierre responsively
in the revision invoking the polar dialectics of reconsideration -
i too can claim of similar recount
from the 21st century a fated twinning -
even though i lived in the last years of the twentieth
i allow myself very crude comparisons
to ease ageing.
sure stefan knew a thing or two about hölderlin
in the descriptive localisation, given that hölderlin:
being of those disfavoured remnants of engagement with eugenics
revived very little hope of a bored aristocracy, so that
nietzsche came along and militarised the priesthood
leaving the pope on a pulpit of celebrity power
in a pyramid scheme of posing queues kissing the foreheads of babies
with duran duran in the background shooting the video: toddlers on film.
but that’s how it all appears,
that the 21st century lost the care for the cares of the young
and gave them unto the gnashing teeth of the psychiatric
machine, diagnosing them too early with too much so that
when the poetic version of don mc’lean’s american pie
came with the opening: a long long time ago,
how that music used to make me smile,
and i knew that if i had my chance... but something
touched me deep inside the day the poetry died - it
was simply vowels in refrigerators and consonants in d.j. uplifts
for the aura of a monetary capitalistic saturday
of neons contorting mascara into afterglow of the oomph oomph
sick ‘em slick ‘em drumkit snare galoshes in puddles in electronic repeat on the dancefloor, added with
boom boom baby celluloid - flowers in hula hoops of disco sound  
and aversions with b & w western depictions of lassoed bulls convened
to remember corrida de toros (no one lassos an animal one milks) -
by then it really just turned into very apathetic mandarin on the count of two billion and the six billion english accents with the martians included in the 3 : 1 fraction, as if it was supposed to be
the final stance of the crucified & crucifying iconoclasts resolved
like with the neanderthals.
what we need... what we need... is a little bit of horror!
imagine me, doing the cricket dance in cobwebs as: bone daddy -
although fatter and therefore funnier, like it was worth picking the boogies
as if counting bones before kissing a hopeless idealism entombed in your heart.

/                                   donald trump is here?!
   on these splendid, splendid isles?!
                                      really?
  where was the past week?

good thing that i bought
that johnnie walker red label
especially for the occassion -

    without actually knowing it was
to take place...

    i guess you might call
watching protests on t.v.
       a bit like:
                going to an illegal rave
party in an abandoned
                               industrial building
somewhere in
       dagenham, or shoreditch,
                            or 'ackney...

britain is not getting what it already
wants -
                       i can understand blatant
flattery, and airs, monsieur,
             monsieur bleu, rouge et blanc...

the one time that britain looks...
bedazzled?!
                               frizzy haired...
the sort of comic sketch
of a **** scene where the man wakes
up having sobbed himself
to sleep, in a disney cartoonish
way expressing frightened awe
and the words:

     [what] the **** just happened?

   'ave a tongue for a ****, mate.

- honest to god though:
   where have i been for the past week?!
i've paid attention to the football -

croissants, or, chequers?!
  hmm...
                   oi! two face, what's
your gamblers' pundit?
                    
                         - let the slavic sub-plot
'ave it,
              if goran (ivanišević)
     could do it, this ******* litter can do it,
given they reached the semi-finals
in 1998...
          
                      and believe me:
   some people...
                    are really jealous of the chessboard
representation on fabric, shh...

or at least that's what i whispered
into the ear of lucifer,
        hermitage's secondary
    (only to achilles)
                       schwarz, mouse-catcher;

and if i'm wrong -
     then i'm wrong:
     but since i don't actually gamble using
money...
      i tap into the emotional
excitment of gambling -
   within the confines of expectation
of being right...

               somehow, gambling,
       but where what i bet with is... zeit...
and grooving to boris brejcha,
tantra of a DJ set...
                   **** me via my ears
and call me Sally...
                              
                         ­     nod nod nod...
(ten minutes later):
   nod nod nod...
          (15 minutes later):
   nod nod nod (with an added
drumkit imitation of the whole
body starting to form a scary shadow
of a man sitting down

before a blank pixel screen
   seeing letters and words appear
like a god might
see stars, and constellations appear
in the dark, dark: voooooooooo
                      'oid)

  which is no proof that i made
a hiccup.                                                          /

As I walk back home from a stressful day at school, I can't help but recognize the heavy steps I've taken through the same old, claustrophobia inducing,
routine making street for the past three years.

It's so peaceful and quiet,
unlike my mind,
which erupts in strenduous racket at the sight of sanity,
even if it's a mere glimpse at it.

I want to break the silence and scream,
but as soon as I do, this dead street will come back to life;
cars won't stop passing by,
old ladies will rush to the front door, and try to take a look at what's going on,
dogs will start to bark,
which will scare the cats,
who will make the neighbours yell at them to leave their houses...

I wish to feel this alive.

I want my heart to beat like a drumkit being smashed on by John Bonham
I want my lungs to fill with air, and float away into the cloudy night sky
I want my voice to sing like Freddie Mercury in the morning,
like Whitney Houston at noon,
and like James Hetfiled at night,
all on my own.

I want my hands to hold on to my mother and father in the wake of my departure.
I'm not ready to leave them yet.

I want my head to stay quiet,
my mind to stop working,
my memories to fade out,
and my anxiety to consume all.

People think psychologists know all the answers,
that we can't
or won't
or shouldn't get angry,
sad,
anxious,
joyous,
euphoric,
suicidal,
depressed,
lonely...

We are still humans,
and we have it worse than anyone else.

Every single person has their own demons,
but we can call them by name.

I feel like a hundred Suns have withered up
and glazed a death
inside of me.
I am stagnant,
I am pale,
I am non-responsive.
I will disappoint you.
I don't pay attention to clocks
because time brings me down.
      I will just ferment in my
        frosty garage
          on my all-too-old
       drumkit.
   Banging away.
Exerting
My fears,
anger,
Displeasement
w/everything
through my wild arms.
A stampede is off in the distance
And it's only a matter of time before I catch up with it.

Soothing inhalation of love's pink air
stokes red the furnace of my drumkit heart
beating. Beating concordant thoughts that snare
rhythmic hums that crescendo to kick start
the exalted exhalation of love.
Passing melody escapes parted lips,
a caged-bird free, singing of hope above
insecurity's storm: writhing tempest
that returns solemn to mindful eddies,
where tired souls find compassionate solace
in that rest between breaths, for once at ease
with realities of life's great promise.
Love's warm caress thaws shadowed doubts of mine;
with broken earthly bonds, praise my Divine!