Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.

There's something like that.
It does exist, doesn't it?

Poverty, is earning less than ₹ 47 a day.

That's less than a dollar a day.
Who earns less than a dollar a day?
Beggars in Manhattan make more than that.

There is no poverty.
There's nothing like that.

Wait a minute: *beggars in Manhattan?

now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the

So now the changed year’s turning wheel returns
And as a girl sails balanced in the wind,
And now before and now again behind
Stoops as it swoops, with cheek that laughs and burns,—
So Spring comes merry towards me now, but earns
No answering smile from me, whose life is twin’d
With the dead boughs that winter still must bind,
And whom to-day the Spring no more concerns.

Behold, this crocus is a withering flame;
This snowdrop, snow; this apple-blossom’s part
To breed the fruit that breeds the serpent’s art.
Nay, for these Spring-flowers, turn thy face from them,
Nor gaze till on the year’s last lily-stem
The white cup shrivels round the golden heart.

More folk need to learn
About Cause and Effect
Respecting others
Is fundamentally what earns respect

My dad was raised Christian
Episcopalian
But left
No disrespect
He just wasn't convinced

So when I was a child
Our attendance at church was
sporadic
Sometimes a source of contention
And, usually, more pain than joy

The summer of 1969
Men walked on the Moon
And my parents
Split
My dad moved across town
I saw him one day each weekend
The most time we had ever spent together.

When I was twelve the earth moved
Sixty-four people died
And my father embraced Buddhism
And Buddhism embraced him
In a way nothing else ever had
and he learned moderation
Regaining his freedom

What got him was the Law of Causation
Cause and Effect
What goes around comes around
The Golden Rule
Unencumbered
With the baggage from his past
The philosophy of common sense
His pianist's artist's teacher's mind
Could comprehend
Grasp and hold for good

My twelve-year-old mouth
Would not be denied
And so I one day announced
That chanting
Was simply another form of prayer
A fact he acknowledged
reluctantly
but ultimately
with humor and grace

And was it my father's turn to Buddhism
That sparked my own
Journey into Spirit?

In 1972
With Godspell on the radio
I saw Jesus Christ Superstar
At the Universal Amphitheatre
Twice
And when my sister joked
"Let there be light"
And all the lights came on
Then she genuflected
Before taking her seat
It was only partly in jest
For there was reverence in the air
And a sense of the Eternal
The foundation of the story
Of every story
Cause and Effect

Later that year I was baptized
Before I realized
That no church held the key
For the key was within me
As it resides within us all

More folk need to learn
About Cause and Effect
We are here on earth to Love.
And respecting others
Is fundamentally what earns respect.

6/7 July 2005 Approx. 2 AM

Asking silly questions
About places I no longer live
And people that
Maybe should have stayed friends
Who really burned bridge

Both of us
No innocence here
Who really threw first stone

More questions that don't matter
Naked answers drained of endorphins
Let me be the honey sweet mulled wine
Take me to dinner with your Prada
White girl no *** pearly teeth

Telling me really
'All men are pigs anyways my darling'
Making me her plump little Sunday swine
'Shall I feed at thy trough'
Earns me a red cheek'd slap

in my family conversation is seldom thoughtful questioning filled with wonder quiet pauses instead it is sociable banter teasing goading spontaneous gratuitous remarks clever embellishment excessive flattery it is an ancient system passed down patronage pecking order nepotism sycophancy near to impossible for me to be honest in presence of their overwhelming vanity when it comes to family gatherings my voice isn’t very strong my family’s joking squelches my chirp they are each and all more loud sarcastic faster wittier more crude outrageous more funny loud gregarious sanguine Mom embarrasses herself with uncalled for flirtations (her mental state rapidly deteriorating) everyone laughs boisterously they snap kid exaggerate amplify taunt i can hardly get word in i need to repeat myself several times or more to be heard my voice is minor i struggle to tell story they listen politely then rush back into their rowdy repartee i am way too sincere way too naked in my ineptitude my stomach ties in knots biting lip shivering from cold fear what’s going to happen pitch black in front of me voice inside screams please i need help so bad please make it easier i’m lost in all this commotion drama hunger lack of clarity

Chicago 1980 Odysseus always revered cousin Chris is taller tan-skinned handsomer stronger protective of Odysseus knowing he is frivolous liability tags along with Chris and his prosperous trader friends advantaged echelon inherited wealth educated white young men they float above everyone else their tastes in clothes furnishings run Brooks Brothers Burberry Giorgio Armani Ralph Lauren John-Paul Gautier Paul Smith Emile Zegna Salvatore Ferragamo their preference in women run typically blonde large ******* tight butts make-up painted nails they think Odysseus is a freak because he usually chooses females none of them want Odysseus likes skinny girls flat chests glasses he knows he is an extraneous art pet to Chris and his group

Chris joins newly built state of art fitness facility pricey membership accesses all of Chicago’s fast track shakers movers politicians lawyers pretty people Odysseus has his limits he does not have money to join also he dislikes snooty elitism several times Chris invites Odysseus as guest Odysseus feels insecure outsider Chris always includes Odysseus pays for dinners they begin with round of doubles then 2nd round of doubles before glancing at menu Chris drinks Canadian Club on the rocks Odysseus follows they raucously order extravagant meals with appetizers 3rd 4th 5th rounds of doubles after pricey dinner at chic restaurant Chris’s group rendezvous at bar or club they order round of drinks tip lavishly sip drink glare around room leave barely touched drinks walk out with look of disdain they scavenge more bars in search of females or some intangible attraction Odysseus is never certain what they are looking for or what is the source of their contempt each wears black leather jacket carries huge wads of cash $20s $50s $100s folded stuffed in front pockets no wallets or clips

the Red Meat palace or Chang’s Szechwan grill are their favorite restaurants as many as 8 men sit at table pack mentality prevails for dessert course they pull out small brown bottles filled with ******* if it is Friday night Chris’s pad is frequently elected females other arrangements settle bill depart restaurant one night Odysseus arrives early at Chang’s wanders downstairs into women’s boutique salesgirl named Fiona greets him they hit it off he invites her to join him and his hosts upstairs after her shift is done Fiona arrives as dessert is about to be served table of men look desirously at Fiona beams Odysseus and Fiona along with Chris Phil Tom go to Odysseus’s place Fiona is perhaps 22 petite lovely with deep blue eyes set wide apart long eyelashes brown thick hair cut to shoulders high ******* pink ******* fragrance of linden flowers delighted by male attention Fiona ***** fondles each men are quite intoxicated Odysseus and Phil are only capable to sustain erections Odysseus stares mesmerized at Fiona’s extraordinarily swollen ***** she notices his fixation grins blushing men shout commands but in actuality Fiona is in charge reducing each of them to little boys vying for her attention near conclusion she requests they form circle around her ******* on her chest she fondles them touches herself men laugh mockingly as if to compensate for their lack of performance Tom picks up plastic dart gun aims it at Fiona she laughs crawls on all fours Tom fires dart hitting her on **** Phil grabs gun from Tom reloads another dart suddenly it feels like fraternity stunt Odysseus goes along offended by his own complicity to him episode feels more like men having *** with each other than being with a woman telephone rings it is Odysseus’s latest love pursuit she tells him she is on her way over everyone rushes to put on clothes change bed sheets they depart within minutes she arrives finally ready after weeks of romancing to put out for him after that night when Chris and Odysseus get buzzed in bar Chris routinely speaks the line to women have you ever been done by 2 cousins one night at Green River tavern woman squeezes milk from her ****** into shot glass dares cousins to drink Chris laughing turns down her offer Odysseus shoots back shot of milk then takes swig of Irish whiskey cousins go see Billy Idol at Odysseus’s insistence they stand near front stage young girls screaming after show driving home in Chris’s Fiat Spider Chris complains his ears are ringing i don’t know how i’ll be able to work tomorrow Odysseus nods like he hears hollers out window hey little sister shotgun!

Mom and Dad want their son to enjoy fruits of burgeoning affluence they feel certain what they are doing is best for him they rent quarter seat at Chicago Mercantile Exchange they originally promised full seat but they are overextended Odysseus enrolls in trading course he learns to trade Certificates of Deposit and Eurodollars which are recently established markets suddenly Odysseus has lots of cash his parents are dishing out he does not know what he is doing newly launched markets lack investment and fleece young men of their parent’s money his friends surroundings change he loses sight of himself he is a thoroughly incompetent trader bleeding cash scatters money between harebrained panicked trades or ******* girls $1000. wristwatch when Mom and Dad see jewelry they become furious in a way he represents his parent’s design for how to build successful son yet their plan is going dreadfully wrong he wants to stand up speak out against Dad and Mom he is not courageous enough to counter their weight he wants to express with more assurance his passion to pursue painting and writing isn’t fact he graduated from art school evidence enough of his aspirations commodities exchange is last place in the world he belongs Odysseus is risk taker but he is not aggressive or entrepreneurial only lesson he has learned with respect to his parents is how to run away

by all appearances cousin Chris is brilliant trader in reality Chris is hooked up with powerful crooked brokers they use him as their bagman he covers losing trades and is compensated or offsets winning side of profitable trades subsequently dealt his share Chris is not a criminal he stumbles into profit-making situation when certain conditions are flexible to advantages Chris is diligent hard worker the vast sums of money he earns do not distort his personality he is always generous shielding of Odysseus gold trading pit becomes so shady S.E.C. intervenes relinquishing exchange’s contract Chris and his bosses walk away unscathed having made their bundles

Mom and Aunt Rita run social itinerary for family including birthdays holidays all other gatherings where family will meet changes by the minute depending on Mom and Aunt Rita’s caprice checking in by telephone at least an hour before is mandatory arriving at destination Mom and Aunt Rita insist on specific table location seating arrangement it is important they be seen viewed by others at restaurant they never sit near kitchen or washrooms or where there is too much noise light away from drafts who sits next to who is crucial round tables are their favorite preferring backs to wall looking out so they can nod wave Mom rules from proud pedestal Dad upholds chain of command sometimes he irritably gripes Aunt Rita immediately comes to Mom’s defense Dad points finger back off Rita you’re way out of line where do you come up with a remark like that Mom mediates Max that’s enough in a way the sisters are spoiled little girls over-indulged by their father they believe their opinions and tastes are the best most correct everyone in family are subordinate to their no and don’t Mom and Aunt Rita routinely criticize Odysseus’s semantics oppose his observations critical of his clothes conduct they handily misconstrue his comments to mean fodder for their amusement Mom and Aunt Rita’s efforts to keep prim proper decorum cause resentment Odysseus feels constricted by his subservient role in drama of family he fails to understand their care

Odysseus busts out of markets leaving behind alarming debts for family to pay off he feels humiliation disgrace plunges into bottomless sleepless despair hides in house door locked window shutters shut phone rings unanswered hates life willfully wants to destroy himself there is no way out after week Chris comes by to see if he is all right Odysseus is reluctant to let Chris in Chris commands be a man get a grip on yourself Odysseus replies maybe i’m not a man he feels failure shame realizes he has become traitor to himself he wants to look at existence head on embrace it but all he knows are dishonor regret deception he conceives his being has been stolen he wants his life back but knows not how to recover it he feels deep in obligation to Mom and Dad thinks to escape from Chicago but his parent’s control is crushing he wakes late drinks black coffee smokes cigarettes marijuana hangs out alone sky changes from light to dark to light phone rings he reads Nietzsche Sartre frequents ***** Hole punk rock dive several blocks from residence becomes orphan of night drinking drugging

January 5 2011 30 years have passed Chris marries fathers son becomes best father to his child he can be leaves markets in late 80’s Dad dies in ’91 Odysseus leaves Chicago in 1994 he manages to paint some paintings write some words stomach ties in knots biting lip shivering from cold fear what’s going to happen ***** pink gray skies behind pitch black in front sometimes you need to take a step back in order to move forward Mom says she worried enough about money when she was younger and isn’t going to worry about it anymore her entire life she boasted i’m saving for my children but in the end she saved solely for herself Odysseus never learned to stand on his own all he ever wanted is to love and be loved he wonders what will happen next

Afraid to write- some real feelings might surface.
Even if you accept it, I might not be able to write back.
With my obscene depression and an emptiness of guilt,
Reassuring you to never putting trust in my hands,
Don’t get me wrong, I want you more than anything.
Thinkin bout you every evenin’.
You slowly forget me with memories every now and then.

I’m slowly forgetting how to write,
Just like every Buddhist nightmare
My temples are caving in.
Fingertips relying on the flow rather than the knowledge,
Once an unknown rock is placed,
All my memories are re faced.
Satans eyes are on me
He’s realizing gods guard is no longer with me,
It’s not worth the lies,
It’s not worth the guilt,
Above the clouds yet my mind is so clear.
With nonsense in my plane and no one to steer.
Cabin shaking is just my memories shivering,
Nightmares to my mother,
I never wanted to see her quivering.
Times are hard but the life is tough.
Fighting through weeds with my two inch sword,
Never wanted to smoke yet I’ve never craved it more.
Someone help me cause I’m never making it through.
A doctor can understand but I need a therapist to get me.
Even though I’d never tell her anything because who is she?
She got secrets, she never speaks.
Although mine are straight from the fires and hers from the smoke.
Realizing you’re looking down on me like white folks.
Never wanted this for my family but its a curse disguised as a blessing,
Something they’ll never understand.
Fighting my demons even though I know they’ll never leave me.
You’ll never see me talk about how I feel without a rhyme at the end,
I’d just be speaking gibberish without a message to send.
I know I’m crazy but ill never admit it,
Never pay for classes,
I don’t want your visits.
Learning to cope with my disabilities
So I’m dealing with you.
Learning to never underestimate your enemies
So I’m measuring you.
I’m slowly forgetting how to write,
Just like every Buddhist nightmare
My temples are caving in.
Fingertips relying on the flow rather than the knowledge,
My demons play well with yours so I guess that’s a bonus.
Relying on myself, no trust is given,
Fighting your myths, truth be tellin’.
I’ll never understand your intention, pray for me in heaven.
I find it hard to summon the world,
With the sickness on my mind and the lifted virtues in my soul.
Thinking my flows quicker than ocean rapids gives you a higher IQ.
And if you’re just saying that to make me smile then I thank you.
Many people in this world underestimate the righteousness of us.
Thinking you’re born evil is dissing the beauty of a child,
Rather than acknowledging and accepting his smile.
The warmth that fills the heart when she says daddy as you walk though the door,
Or the tears that overflow your eyes when he never comes back from the store.
I understand these problems because my dreams consist of your life.
So before you call me a liar,
Understand my trials,
My deep realization,
I’m the only one unlike a choir.
Listen to your heart and to this rap.
They both beat for you.
One keeps you alive and the other makes it worth it.
The beat of a drum and the snare of a set tell you you’re not worthless.
Understand your weaknesses and they will become deep,
Redefine your intelligence and it will become the thing that keeps
You out of harm and boosts your wisdom to become a great man.
Wars greater than the world occur inside your mind when they slowly unfold.
Never really  understanding anything except why you’re sad,
Facing your consequences earns back your title of being a man.
I’m slowly forgetting how to write.
Just like every Buddhist nightmare,
My temples are caving in.
Fingertips relying on the flow rather than the knowledge,
Listen to these flows, you got it

to willingly listen to some russian punk...
they call themselves:
Sierpień - well... Sierpien -
нь is floating around somewhere -
august... август....
perhaps the ****** word "rhymes"
with sierp (i młot) - sickle and hammer...
pień? trunk - stump of wood...
etymological fascination...
august where no emperor augustus
ever stood... unless a Kaцпer...
sier(p) - sickle
(p)ień - stump of a freshly cut tree:
or trunk...
hence the birth of a name
of a month: harvest the trees...
and we are talking about a russian
post-punk goth-punk band...
almost more congested and less
atmospheric the cure...
old kaц the hangover comes in and
says something with a mirror
and fog...
but i'm sure... living under the much
despised (ras)Putin regime would
never give you such music...
look at the people of the...
look at the free peoples of the western /
hinterlands!
no... thank god the view count is only...
what? 3,880 views...
it's an oyster affair...
Sierpien - Cмeрдит дo caмых звeзд (2016)...
people can still produce art of this sort?
is a (ras)Putin required? really?
democracy per se...
power-struggles from among
the populace...
ever hear the petitions of schizophrenics
in the western lands?
a holy grail status for some...
the "nuanced" *****...
or bilingual...
but this album current saved me from
a despair... a friday night is happening
somewhere... and i'm more than happy
to not be there...
i don't even know what's popular
in terms of music in the hinterlands...
the bellybutton of the world: London...
doesn't exactly spew out pointers
to digest what's new and pop with
the crowd...
how long did it take me to hear about
psy's gangnam style?
a good half a year... but then it was already
playing on repeat...
perhaps not in a way that...
once upon a time... Microsoft wanted
to use R.EM.'s it's the end of the world
(and i'm feeling fine) for an advert...
and R.E.M. refused...
i can't exactly see any use of an advert...
but for the past decade...
perhaps... the outliers of dubstep:
distance, vex'd... burial...
10 years have passed and i don't even
know what music people listen to...
like i said... i'm listening to something...
only about 4K people also listen...
notably in Russia...
i'll translate...
śmierdzić do samych zwezd... gwiazd...
smerdit do samych zwezd...
10 or so years later i'm at this point...
there's no need to invoke Ms. Cмeрц
but it almost never figured for me...
ц somehow borrows from щ...
that's of course ч is related to ш...
to stink of **** up to the stars...
that's how the album name,
"sort-of" translates itself...
in the past 10 years...
this is probably the sort of music i should
be listening to...
i would somehow abhor myself
being the fully integrated western mongrel...
allowing my soul to die and
this language to dictate the fashionista
dictums "from above"... like a good puppy...
origins mostly focusing on...
Lebanon... the old Raj...
i honestly did think that: the de factor default
implication of the word: integration was
to speak the language...
this is not the great h'america where
you'd call it an alliance to a patriotism...
this is england... where people are not
exactly responsive to the word patriotinism...
and whenever it is used...
it's the ugly word nationalism...
so... this is not an extension of thinking
that can be "accomplished" akin to somewhere
in h'america...
this is england talking to itself in me...
or rather... me... looking at england and trying
to find the sort of footing for a tango...
born 4 hours shy of warsaw doesn't help,
either...
still... as names go...
no one was a cooler name for their capital...
come on... war-saw...
beats washington d.c. -
but... loon'don... that's mighty close...
all the democratic arguments aside...
i'm listening to these political commentators...
and i'm wondering...
what sort of music are they listening to?
i'm still looking for a playlist
i inherited that included bands like...
it's dire to even begin to name them...
the best i found are still...
demdyke stare... and that's not really
being pretentious... vomito *****...
but "once upon a time" music could make
a man stay up into the stillness of the night,
far beyond the night,
he might have sometimes glimpsed
a new unfolding as he would go to bed
from the graveyard shift with
some neglected words being seized...
i've just skimmed through u.k. top 40 chart...
i can't relate...
i can understand just having the vote...
but to have the vote...
and be left... in this barrage of...
i understand that man is a political animal
and somehow social...
but a vote is enough...
no wonder good culture hasn't "happened"
in the past 10 years...
i don't like being informed of culture
via the prism of: it's all or not political...
i don't like being
polarised i don't like being politicised...
all i have is one vote...
and i'm nearing 34 and seeing how...
since i haven't already used it...
it's pretty much a redundant affair...
as long as the status quo is there...
as long as there's a status quo...
and there's the shady bureaucracy cushioning...
but how can one expect to find
a tartar stake of sustenance...
when everything resembles an english
sunday roast: with the beef being over-cooked
over, way over well-done?
the meat is butchered twice...
once as the cow... second time as a piece of roast!
i'm not fond of criticism...
bad... i know as a foreigner but also as
a citizen... only the pakistani grooming gangs
are sacred cows in this, this whittle english...
past allegience to soviet russia?
because, what? russian post-punk takes
my fancy...
one! one benefit of a doubt...
justin bieber's jazzy interlude in:
love yourself... and that's it...
i decided for the: leave me alone button...
and for all the vitality of the western ways
i'm left either the window-licker prized oscar
nominee or some lethargic melancholy prone:
a decade on and a decade without
the better part of me...
i somehow own about 10 pairs of shoes
but every time i only walk in single pair...
until they are worn,
until i can almost imitate:
no borrow metaphor from the african
continent... my second mother siberia...
and the indo-europeans and whatever tag!
tag it necessary! caucasian and la la land...
this was political... before it even started...
even whether there was a demand for my vote...
the tide came, the tide went,
i wasn't given so much as a sniff of civil rights...
my civil rights had to be political rights:
in a redundant format best described:
as a vote... opinions first, vote later...
by then the vote is already a confirmation
of how many more ***** will sink
to this level of: humpty-dumpty...
a culture can thrive when power is clarified...
there's no culture when the only
despotism is the finding the lost
in the labyrinth of bureaucracy...
since i base my focus via Kant... yes...
these are idealistic words...
because idealism is - the already focused on
status quo... and again...
the status quo... perhaps even stasis qua!
- but i'm not listening to current music...
from a "certain" place that once could
salvage the rest of the world of bodies
with its beacon of soul...
not "current" as in: where meat is more mince
than steak...
it's all fine and dandy...
to have the provisions at your disposal...
but you can't expect an annual supply of carrots...
or meat... to feed the mouth that neither
opens, nor bites, nor chews,
nor swollows, not ******* saliva
for the premature process of digestion...
you can't expect this most perfect supply & demand...
something has to be missing for
the soul to have... the realism of the fact
i am bound to a robotic / unconscious body...
what conscious decision do i have...
over the already calibrated heart?
the delusion that the brain... is somehow...
freed from what?
psychological metaphysics?!
i have an automated digestive system...
and an automated ****...
i don't exactly know when i'm going to ****...
but i do **** - and with so much pleasure so...
that i would forgo all homosexual exfoliations
for the mere pleasure of...
easing a **** out of that ******* bang hole...
than allowing a vaselined cockrel in...
quiet a disgust pecker of high ambitions...
when it comes to enjoying
massaging the prostate muscle when sitting
on the throne of thrones...
i am trapped in an automated body!
the only aspect of me agreeing to evolutionary
biology is to invoke the soul...
as something ex "nihil" in coprus...
from "nothing" in body (intact)...
hello intellectual safari of the thesaurus
and the synonym chasers...
from under the Iron Curtain...
once more... thrown under the Silicon Curtain...
but there is something in me that
allows me to escape the already well oiled,
this well calibrated body... shy of being
merely treated as baggage...
there's something that allows me to restrict...
when i will **** out a full bladder...
from time to time...
but this is still oh so mechanical...
the fickle nature of man's own self interests:
the only mirror i could find
to compensate the complexity
of deus ex machina...
i'll last 10 minutes with a swollen bladder...
until i give way...
that's when i know that i am rebelling
against the mechanical nature of this body...
- nonetheless the conversation run down
a different route...
i want to be, as i once was...
politically starved... give me the vote and lace me
with civic duties... minding culture...
don't give me this politico journo-*******...
this spare straitjacket of "opinions"...
opinions that do not hone in on a dialectic...
but a dichotomy...
while under (ras)Putin there was a resurgence
of post-punk... brutalism debauchery...
in the vest of the west...
do i really have to give gil scott heron over?
see? what power do i have?
i have.... a chance to glimpse how a culture
can thrive... musically...
no... oh no! no Vlad... you're not getting off
that easy...
Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture...
tell me... as a cat might look you in the eyes...
and cats do... when you find it uncomfortable
to lie... a cat will look you in the eyes
when it knows the agony of you telling
the truth... too frequently...
now... tell me...
of the 1812 Overture...
how close was Tchaikovsky teasing...
plagiarising... la marseillaise?
oh i think: this close ||.
i still don't know: listening to classical music...
is supposed to make people,
"somehow" smart?!
- just like Beethoven hides / licks /
alludes to the crescendo of
ode an die freude that is to come in the 9th symphony...
lots of crashing plates and banging
templates of cooking vessels in between...
a crescendo is almost like...
but not quiet... no... it's never exactly a chorus...
but Ode an die Freude is revealed
in a subtle way somewhere in the vicinity
of the genesis of the 9th...
i'll ******* duel over this remark though...
if it takes blunt knifes and spoons...
so be it...
negate: Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture does
not allude to La Marseillaise!
*****, test me! i swear to god -
you tell me this russian кaцaп is not alluding to?
what sort of culture are to speak of,
as citizen... if we have to be...
worthwhile less the already invalid vote...
and more the sway-ghost-vote of...
ditto-heads and less and less...
i remember when i would start a conversation
with girls on the basis of: so...
what music are you into?
has... the don mclean prophesy come true?!
the only music is the democratic opera
of the inability to hush competing interests
of the less than homogenous, cerebral hive?!
wow! believe me when i state:
i would truly rather shun my state of being:
stunned!
to me... people have forlorn to "worry"
about petty, ahem... "petty" cultural worries...
this political transfusion, verbiage,
look... a broken arm of a word that used
to resemble pref-                 ending in
the loose limb that ends with 9...
scary language... informal language...
not exactly the english standard: terse /
whimsical... "way-hey-hey-ha-witty"...
hardly anecdotal: mein herr kapitan!
oh but this is certainly a cultural desert...
i'm still doing my best to shake off the 20th century...
what's it called... what's it called...
you are... ah! 20th century inheritence...
not that i'm by any measure a man
of the 20th century...
come the year 2000 i was still a mid-way
between child and man...
2020... 34... i am a 21st century man...
as i also have circa 10K of student debt to pay off...
but this is england...
a chemistry degree gets you nowhere...
i always fancied the Leibniz route...
a garbage man... perhaps "the librarian"...
the street-cleaner...
10K worth of pounds of debt...
paid? when one earns over 15K per annum...
bless ol' england... this debt will be written off
after 30 years...
i really wanted to find a job akin to being
the street-cleaner...
i wouldn't even mind... seeing as how i could
come home and write a rhythm
of a crooked guitar... perhaps doing some work
in the industrial sector...
the scottish widows' h.q. roof, near st. paul's?
i did that... well... part of the team...
industrial scale roofing...
whatever... this is not going to become
"yet another" autobiographical sketch...
a degree in chemistry led me nowhere...
some lucky fist-first-think-fewest landed
their english B.A.s and:
"the authorities" would never let them starve
having... their poo'ems better read...
oh i wish i could think without having
itchy fingertips and what words i want
to say when i however have to say the mundane
formality of the everyday...
i'm the sort of jack spicer *******...
that i cannot work with this lexicon beside
what's always greeting me with a welcome return
of surd applause...
i can't speak the everyday language
of the everyday -
even my punctuation is suspicious -
an *****-nilly I.R.A. bad device...
i can hold the hounds of bark, leash, girdle and muzzle
until they finally find the dog...
but not until i have feasted upon
the blank canvas that will never see any colour...
but this x-ray of hiding faint hues
working in the subtle grey-of-no-grey area
that comes with these words, these bones...
i have to drink...
to find these words... and an echo prior
to the cave... this being the cave after i heard
the echo... even among drunks i couldn't
speak such words, such sentences...
under them the drunks cower...
and... this is the better part of a friday night...
i best exclude myself to this page
of rummaging... because even if i drink...
i wouldn't find a conversation among the drunks
to compliment this! to compliment this
with an immediacy of a dialogue -
a shared experience...
better i write this... and wait for a delay...
better i wait for a delayed response...
in the quantum sense of:
when observed a wave... when not observed...
a particle.
science as this cohesive orthodox litany of
dogmas to undermine religion...
science is more vogue than religious dogmatism...
science is modern...
it will only and has only succumbed
to modern finicky... vogue... science is...
hardly a... blind sighted hive brain-drain focus
of the replicas and clone surds nodding...
this language... would never be spoken among
the drunks...
i hardly think it would or even does:
deserve a stage... perhaps only if i wore face paint...
if i were truly an entertainer...
but these words deserve more than a stage...
they deserve an: umbratempus...
zeitshatten... a time-shadow...
cień czasu... (время тень)..
regurgitate something to me, akin to:
T4T (oliver baez bendorf)...

see! i knew нь was floating around...
it comes... back... full circle.

psychologism, i.e. neo-racism, neo- due to it being without any collective ethnic collectivisation, best insinuated by marijuana users, grouping alcoholics with ****** sharp shooters; they think they have the moral high ground, but they talk jack sh-: medicinal marijuana is synthetic marijuana / ore without casual-use effects, it's not the sh- you put in your ****! have a *** change and tell me about children suffering from cancer while you're at it: because those starving children of africa adverts... are really really working... knowing that the man in control of such charities earns over half a million a year - post-colonialism only really works while you have former colonial indigenous peoples nearby, then you can milk that ***** cow from the locals... make sure you think the nairobi international airport has a dirt runway and you'll feel all ******* fuzzy giving money to these companies... post-colonialism only works like that... import some former colonials to milk the former colonial whites into coughing up money & guilt... then watch the irish get leery with sarcasm at almost anything... and the scots gear up pride and become politically malignant... the good friday agreement? tony blair did as much as / avoiding-tax cigarettes smuggled from eastern europe west of the ural mountains exchanged in belfast... but geographic borders were never used in rhetoric in politics... because ireland was always further west than iceland: as oaths go... it was a neighbour of liberty iseland... with the true statue of liberty in a moulin rouge cancan attire, skirt up, flame extinguished - although ***** as hell: and in koranic reality, requiring a harem for her three holes.

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
  The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
  With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
  Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
  His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
  He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
  You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
  With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
  When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
  Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
  And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
  Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
  And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
  He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
  And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
  Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
  How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
  A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
  Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
  Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
  Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
  For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
  Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
  Each burning deed and thought.

Elegant mistress of the lake how
you dance with beauty. You spread
your wings outwards too show those
why you wear the crown, you feathers
always whiter than the clouds.

You are the queen that others do
follow, pure in colour and aggressive
in sound. If others do not show you
the respect, the queen of the
lake earns. Sentenced to the shore
never to swim in the deep, only shallow
waters as long as the queen is around.

Elegant queen of the lake always
dressed in your white gown. Those who
respect you always beaks lowered,
for you show your wings feathers
stretched out, to show all around
the majesty that is the swan. The lake,
queen in her pure white gown.

It's that usual time of the year again – where everyone’s starting to feel that depression crippling in. The year has just started yet everybody is too concerned with the goals they had in mind since last month, as if they’re running out of time when it clearly just begun.

    In a dull-colored house located in a small town that’s not too known nor too popular – is a man in his 30s, an artist, sitting in the very corner of his room. Beside him was the last bottle of sleeping pills that he have. Every night, you can see him through the small window of his dimmed-light house downing those pills before the twenty-second of the clock hits. Some of his neighbors who sometimes see him buy those pills thought that it was weird for a man in his 30s to regularly drink sleeping pills every night, yet never sleeps.

    Little did they know, the man was clinically depressed, and he was not getting any better but still tries to maintain his medication that was prescribed to him during a free and quick mental check-up from several months ago. The pills were not of help anymore after a month but still he drinks as the idea of doing something for his mind, even if ineffective, comforts his soul. Well, it’s not like an unknown artist would be able to afford medicines that are being sold by the rich capitalists, he thought. The man’s arts were not something that everyone who sees understands. From the lines and strokes down to the colors and spaces he use, their eyebrows strike up as they can’t grasp the concept he’s going for.

    The sun shone and suddenly, the man in his 30s is no longer sitting in the very corner of his small room. He was now sitting in front of an old tree, looking at a lady who seemed to be in her late 20s. The lady was in her all-white uniform smiling gently as she hands the generic medicines to the seniors of that small town. Meanwhile, the man in his 30s was uttering words that only the dead leaves can hear.

    “She looks good in yellow,” he whispered, and the wind blew. The man in his 30s felt cold but did not mind as it’s not like he had any other choice but to endure. Suddenly, the lady in an all-white uniform turned her head and saw the man in his 30s.

    Ever so slowly in his eyes, the lady walks towards the man’s direction. At her soft and gentle hands was a blanket she kept for times like this.

    “It’s cold, have this. Are you going to show me your works again?” she asks gently while she wraps him in that blanket. ‘This feels warm,’ he thought. And that was a new thing for him.

    “Would you look?” in a stammering small voice he asked. The lady in her late 20s nodded and that was when everything has hit him. This gentle yellow lady always feels new to him, and he loves the feeling of this new. The yellow lady has always been gentle and soft and he loves it – it feels new and he loves it. She smiles brightly to him and the feeling of always wanting to see it surprises him every time because ever since he was born, this is the first time that he does not feel anxious or mocked. He finally feels loved, and there was hope; and it feels new.

    The yellow lady learned everything about the artist in his 30s – from his childhood that feels blurry yet clear (to him), how he came to that small town, how he started painting, why he started painting, the meaning of his works, his frantic days, his medications, and many more that the artist in his 30s never thought he would ever share to anybody. The yellow lady even started to learn that she has feelings for the artist in his 30s, and she was very willing to entertain and develop more together with the artist.

    Years gone by and they now live in an averaged-size house – average because it just fits them perfectly and they thought that was more than enough. The couple earns money together and they always feel that their money is perfectly enough for the family they are dreaming of. The husband gets paid by painting buildings located in the city, and every after he finishes his work, he rushes home to see his yellow lady. Yes, the artist who is now in his early 40s still refers to his partner as the yellow lady. No matter what day, occasion, or whoever they are with, she was still his yellow lady and that was so much more than he could ask for.

    Sometimes when the artist watches his wife work in her all-white uniform, he would talk to the children which he enjoys. He thought that children are much better than adults as their curiosity was never with malice. “Children might say mean things, but they will eventually grow up and be apologetic for their innocent mistakes. But grown-ups are never mistaken innocently nor are they sorry about it,” he once said to his wife.

    That day in January came and while he was waiting for his wife, a child came up to him and asked him where he could ask for a cough medicine. He touched the child’s shoulder, and pointed his finger to the yellow lady.

    “Can you see that lady in yellow? Ask her and she will answer you softly.”

    The child was confused; everyone’s either in white or ***** clothes, who is this man talking about?

    The artist in his 40s understood the child’s silent confusion and then said, “My apologies for your puzzlement. Just look for the only lady who smiles softly and lovely, she’ll help you.”

    The child ran towards the group of people who are either in white or ***** clothes, and looked for the only lady who smiles softly and lovely. He kept turning his head in order to look and when he found the lady who was smiling so gently to other children around, he ran to her direction and asked her if she was the lady in yellow.

    The yellow lady nodded her head and then kindly asked the child about what he needs. The child’s feet moved back and forth while patiently waiting for the medicine. He asked the lady why she is being referred to as the yellow lady, to which the latter kindly replied: I can tell you but you won’t be able to understand yet, love.

    That day ended and just like how every day usually happens, the couple walked home together while talking about their day and made plans about their dinner. After dinner, they proceeded to their bed and continued talking until the artist in his 40s fell into sleep while the yellow lady gently caresses his hair.

    Each day for them was always new yet familiar – and that never changed. Even when they had a child, when they had their worst fight and made up a week after, when one of them started losing hair, or even when they found out that the man who was once in his 30s is now being chased by cancer – the feeling of familiarity but different was never gone.

    When the man finally decided to take his rest, his wife started to wear yellow – everyday. And when she was asked by her son why, she answered with her utmost sincerity that she was afraid she might forget who she is and how deeply valued she is just because the one who reminds her every single day has physically left.

    Years after, and the son was now a working adult. He sighs as he sits in front of his late parents’ tombstones. He placed his military bag beside him and looked at the smiling photos of his mother and father. He was once again reminded of how much he missed them and how he wishes they were still there beside him or in their house waiting for his return after every war he fights. And in a small voice he said to his father, that he has now found his lady in blue, and how he wishes they were watching over them for he’s always going to need their guidance.

LEONOAH

I enjoy watching my baby boy’s drama
In his room, on his bed among his toys
What a superb imagination
Translated in a form of play...
A battle between the amazing legacy of heroes
Put George Lucas in the house of shame
With his famous Luke Sky walker,  
In Star Wars saga
Have Sam Raimi’s done his research well?
In creating Spiderman 3?
With this “genius in the making” young child
Left alone to build his creativity
I am convinced  with obvious prediction...
Hollywood superheoes  would be doomed..
Here is a 2 year old boy
In Spideman suit, Acting Spiderman,
hitting the Angry bird jet
The jet punches Spiderman back.
Then, Mama is forced to sleep with Spiderman
Forced Mama again, this time to love the Man of Steel
After the gruel some battle,
Jet & Spiderman decided to sleep together
in the pink hammock with Tigger.
The proud child is happy ,
His mission is accomplished!
A bottle of luke warm milk...
Well done! He earns his trophy
Tonight  he helps to save the world.

words can't describe that emotion in her eyes as her glaze casts upon the world..
with an open heart she holds it, with an open heart she loves it, and with an open heart she lets it go but yet she wonders if she'll always be alone..

what is this emotion she wonders, what is this emotion mean to me..?
as a man stares down the world..
but nothing can hide the truth behind her eyes that wonders if she'll always be alone..

just for a moment in time two dusk hearts fall into gray..
blinded by distrust and dismay..
but as they try to hold they are pushed farther from the real each day..
yet always they wonder, will i always be alone..?
is there no one to call my own..?

but one days he see's her and connects with her eyes..
he knows instantly that there is something inside..
but he has to be careful, because she has just fallen and her heart lay in ruins..

she see's him for the very first time and she's seen that look..
it's like a hunger they hide..
she thinks she knows what he wants, so she just tries to hide..
she gives him the shoulder, she turns him around,  in all she plain shut him down..

as he tries and tries, all he gets is denies..
he won't quit though, he knows she'll come through..
he wants to believe that she'll let him through..
time will not matter because he knows that this love is true..

as one heart yearns for his lost love, the other tries to mend its pieces..
she tries to make sense of this strange resentful man..
why would he want her, why always hold out his hand, why has he tried..?
why does he not subside..

he will not hide he wants her, he knows that this is not right..!
he pushes with all his might, inch by inch he earns her maybe she has seen the light..

at last he has woo'ed her as she has seen..
he is not like the others, she just had to believe..
the solemn man who has taken the day because he's taken the best she is and his to stay..

she has opened her eyes, another day in this beautiful life..
as she rolls over to the side of the bed she feels his arm grasp her and cups her sweet head..

she lets him pull her close as they heat up the bed..
at last she says that i'm no longer alone because i've found my own..
i've found my everything.. i've found all my own..
he's just like me and he understands it all..
he reads my thoughts and through his whispers i hear the answers..

"true love is real and it's all because i've found you.. "

two dusk lovers lay in twined..
two dusk lovers with love undying stay together forever more..
for in the night the sky was alight as the world around drew new..
destructive weapons destroyed great intentions and ended the lives of so many to soon..

time has passed but still that moment lasts of the two dusk hearts in twined stays true..
for they are solidified by the light that ended their lives to soon..
perfect definition of each depiction of their love is true..

now if only the world could learn from this man and woman that true love will always last through..

into the night you can still hear her delight as they dance through the stars and into the moon..
and always they say that i love you in the form of attention..*


┈┈┈┈»̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶  ƦУ  »̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Only lonely love is holy.
Holes for souls to go out
And about as they sway.
Fewer newer ones that
Never stay. Gone they are
Shooting stars. Flying by
Quick tears of cosmic crying.
Or maybe angels at angles
Not thought possible.

I want lovely love.
Holy unlonely love.
Seen enough seraphic stars
To mimic my own. Fill my
Hole-y heart so I may start anew.
Receive the love due. I must believe
The wait is worth it. The earth keeps
turning and I weep as learning
Earns me the truth.

On a clear waking night I
Will take my aching heart
And hold it out hoping
A stray teardrop
Will fall from the sky
And stay in my heart.
Cosmic crying at such
Comic timing. It is enough
To make me wonder. Ponder
Why I do this-

It is all I can do.

When a tweet, no longer comes from a bird.
A message, no longer written in words.
A picture, determines your current worth.
A swipe, is not for payments against earns.

Your world, no longer restricted to earth.
Your voice, can control your universe.
Games, without company, a box.
Books, used to be written, forgot.

Love was in letters, not characters.
Eyes looked straight, not down.
Communication, in touch were sound.
Reactions, were not button frowns.

Food shared, not delivered.
Noise surrounded, not muted.
Hands shaken, not email awaken.
The world was claimed, but not hidden.

An automated world,
not an automated me.

Women work the all time with out no break,
On call all the time.
Running after earns, and family too.
Keeping up with all things men and kids lose.
Is always there no matter what.
Not asking for nothing in return.
Giving all that she can till she has nothing left.

Making you smile when you are down and out.
Open to all things you have to say,
Mom's are going to love you no matter what.
'
Staying up late to make sure the job is done.

So tell your working mom that you love them
  for all that they have done,
And just give them a hug just for fun,
It will make their day,
And it will be better then any thing you can pay,
because it is something no one can take away!

Taint, a tender trap?
Blue of the sky, remembered by a cloud:
Faintly, the poetry of life, and its hap
Has the voice to step forward, and remind the season of the proud:

A hatful of poor decision's, has its merit...
But the cool eye of embarrassment
Has come and gone, with meet to understand, limited...
To ours, the count of couth, is one more irony's lament?

Hate me when you see the dragon...
Ought fix and fit enough futures
The life of a needier first, is always a sorrow last, a harrowed tongue?
Has said the obvious, a role in the heinous is a fools curiosity...

Throwing tenderness at you, like one of thumbs even is...
Reasons may give you onus, a variety to concede a gift
Coming for beauty, and its rosy inclination, a truer wisdom
That has survived the heed, the beating wings of condition to lift:

Hate me one more time, a reality of pain has become a champion:
To the fate, the hardened courage of youth, with a challenged whisper?
May a knowing hurt, be the fascinated letter of providence
Seeing the obvious, a bird of purer colors, will finish the kiss?

Guns with an imagination...?
Salt in a brutish court, of angers more, to swear in romantic language
Still the burden of squalor, with a slighter lip of intimation?
Your fruit is sweeter by the secrecy, as if, a cold shoulder ever is a place for rage...

I let him in
Through the back door

He alone
Holds the password.

Seldom knocks
But often enough;

Through the tiny peephole
Of the unresolved,

I take the chain
Off the door.

I keep my skirt
While he unbuttons my heart

That door policy is rough
But he earns my trust;

That love hurts
'Til a gentle push.

Unlock
The secrets to my core;

The fissure
Of pleasure

For a full-frontal
Of my soul.

He sneaks
In the back door

Only he knows
The password;

No one is welcome
But one.

//

The definition of thot [that ** over there], via Urban Dictionary

A woman who pretends to be the type of valuable female commodity who rightfully earns male commitment—until the man discovers that she’s just a cheap imitation of a “good girl” who is good for nothing, and definitely not for relationships or respect.

If women are products, then thots are cheap goods. More than that, they’re knockoffs: low-quality merchandise that attempts to masquerade as luxury items.

They generally dress in cheap clothing, try to act like they're better than they really are, or think they're not ****** but high class when they're nothing close to classy. They demand respect, money, gifts, dates but do nothing to deserve any of it because they have no self-respect, no manners, low self esteem, little education and on top of all that they are thots because they have no self worth.

//

he called me a thot.
the same blood-boy nightmare who bragged about his ******* and double cup. too cheap to buy actavis generics, so he drank himself into a stupor on walgreens brand dye-free cough syrup. he acted black, said words white boys shouldn't have near their mouths. his friends were ableist at the best, and misogynist at worst.

he called other girls thots too.
but i was different. stick-and-poke told trans king who told american spirit who told blood-boy what i confided in a friend. a story that ends and begins with my tears, tears from gagging, tears from telling my mother about the worst three minutes of my life and how my knees and heart hurt afterwards.

i embodied thot.
left my family for friends, joked about the pain until it hurt even more. i found myself crying in bathroom stalls, looking down at my body in the bathtub as i learned to breathe water. the girls said i was thick, i didn't know if they meant it in a good way. the boys said worse. i wore camouflage pants, comme de garçons tops, air force ones. i jumped on trends like a wild cat stalking prey. but i could never catch anything worthwhile with my soft, clawed paws.

he smiled like he was better than me.
after blood-boy stunned summers and winters alike, burned spring and fall, and for what? to call me a thot? i knew what i was to him. but he didn’t define me anymore.

he called me a thot.
and this time i fought back with my eyes, didn’t just sit there and feel words welling up inside.
because even thots are queens.
because i used to be deciduous, but now i’m evergreen.


//

Trump and Brexit,
Two beautiful scrolls in a sync
Singing a song of white nationalism
On the crest in the Ivy League station,
Busy Muffling the **** drop sounds
On the bowls of foot-loose beggars,
A lesson for you dark son of Africa
That tomfoolery is no defense before
The rational altar of Trump and Brexit
Riding on followership’s bitter hangover
For the Nostalgia of the waning  glory,
Sired by Machiavelli, groomed by ******,
Festooned by Mussolini into a Jim Crow tor,
But fault not them, that is politics or religion,
Always sweet only in full gear of power-piety,
Then Nurture your tiny ***** for no pawn earns it,
To pile your wood for pharaonic winter is obvious
In paranoia of Brexit and Trumpish megalomania
Coming in a stampede with Tigre’s thorax, only
To worry us for nothing as it is the fear of change
Truly, they are not the first clouds in the sky
Of global terror and politics of self-idolatry,
Soon to vamoose in service to their nature
Of aureate appearing to whimpering fade,

O Lord of the hosts!

Shine in radiance, his eyes -
in whose heart is your name;
Who fathoms your ends?
The earth, sky and stars
pay homage to him
and fear fears him,
whom your shadow protects:

O Lord of the hosts!

Wealth finds him in whatever he does
who earns the blessing of your love,
and a shoreless boat is he who
has not found you whose
benevolent eyes keep watch over all
shattering the storms of sins,
whose glory never ebbs;
Becomes a master of destiny,
even forgetting the world, who has
found your grace,
come riding the mouse -

O Lord of the hosts!

Anointed of the dust of your foot
on his forehead, who lives mortal here,
immortal nectars cannot tempt him -
he can drink venom smiling;
Just by the shadow of your grace
the wheel of the chariot of time moves
and by a spark of your ire
abodes of demons burn;

The minions of enemies stand defeated,
miraculous, boon become into this world,
comes your name:

O Lord of the hosts!

Glory, glory to the dear one adorned of peacock-feathers!

SO you decided to read my rant.
So why am I writing a rant?
Because I'm an angsty teenager, but my life is good so I'll write a semi-anonymous poem and maybe if someone reads it I'll think I matter or that I'm not that alone.
The funny thing is, I rarely read the poetry of others, but I expect others to read mine.
I have an entire book that few will read and yet I expect to get somewhere in life.
But I have food and good grades and loving friends and a girlfriend, so my life is good.
My life is good, but good leaves no room for the future.
I am afraid that I can't go on like this and one day it will all crash down on me.  
I don't want to be a drama queen, but I don't want to hole myself up.
I feel these extremes and try to even them out.
I don't want to be like my mother.
My mother is in my ear complaining about all that I do and though I'm afraid that those I love will leave me, I'm afraid she never will.
She's moving with me to the state in which the college that she so optimistically says will accept me is situated.
I'm afraid I'll never have a healthy relationship or know how to function.
I'm afraid of having no family, but I don't know how a good family works.
She is so much of me I don't know which of our feelings I feel.
I don't know what of me is real.
I try to stay down to earth but she sends me reeling and yet brings me down to where I belong.
I'm an all or nothing girl, but that's a bad habit I learned from my mother who screams for milk at mild spice and cries hysterically over people she claims to hate.
I try to be my own person, but as an only child, my companion has always been my own mind which means I became too much of the world around me, and thus not enough of an original person.
I feel that even the one thing I've always been praised for (my writing, and thus my mind,) has only been praised to fill the awkward silences after an unimportant person tries too hard.
I debated about not writing this because I was afraid that I write too often and that it amounts to too little.  
I always use that adjective about myself: "too."  I've said before though that in my case it should be said as "tew" as in "too much of that which is ew" and then I think of all that I am not, but rather, "nawt" (not enough of that which makes people say "aw")
I'm an all or nothing girl but I try to live in the middle grounds.  
I like something or I don't but I don't obsess.
I know where I want to be in life and will fight tooth and nail to get there, but I fear I may end my life if I am unable.
The funny thing is I don't seek fame, or riches, I just want something that wouldn't be so **** out of reach if I wasn't who I am.
I just want to get my phd in veterinary medicine and marry a wonderful girl and live without too many bills piling up.
But I still have trouble spelling veterinary even though I'm almost a straight A student but almost straight A isn't good enough to pay for my education.
Because I'm too white, not quite poor enough, not quite skilled enough, not noticeable enough.  
I'm just close enough to the norm that people expect I fit in somewhere so they leave me all behind, leaving me with nowhere to fit in.
They all think someone else will help me until no one does.
So I search for the people whom I can make feel special and I throw myself at them praying to feel like I belong, but it never quite feels real.
I want to crack into people and find whats real about them, show them all of my all too real flaws, but inside their shells are likable things, and I am like tamarind: too sweet, in need of salt and spice, and strange to harvest for flesh.  I could be useful, but there's always something not quite right.
I know everything I do is not quite right and sooner or later someone will pull the plug.  
And leave me.
And I'll be left alone, writing or reading or crying or sleeping.
I wanted to record my voice saying this, but I knew that people would be even less likely to notice my words then.  
I'm not the person whose writing wins awards, I'm not the plucky student whose hard work earns scholarships.
I fall between the cracks because I'm too good to deserve pity and not good enough to deserve praise.
I tried to draw to spare you all from this stupid rant but though I liked the shape of a few lines, they meant nothing.
Maybe that's my problem, that I seek meaning in everything.
That I can't make anything of meaning.
I don't know why anyone bothers with me.
I feel like they're lying to me.
I'm nobody.
I'm an all or nothing girl, but I'm either too much or not enough and that means I'm in between.
I am the or in either or, in yes or no, in succeed or fail.  
I would be happy with that if it meant that I could just get the few things I want in life, but even that is too much to ask for someone who's not eloquent enough, not charismatic enough, not good enough to get there.
I know this feeling won't stay, because I'll bounce back to the opposite extreme of loving life.
I'm an all or nothing girl and even though I know in a lot of ways I have it all, right now, I'm feeling nothing.
And I'm afraid these feelings won't leave me.

I was born on a leap year
Right before the Millenium
A family of five in Mexico were stabbed
Six days before I arrived
And in the same month
(But half the days)
That Rusty won the first NASCAR race
In Japan

Call me a Scorpio, I don't mind
I was born in the year of the rat
And the zodiac says that fire's my element
But I always liked my time spent in water

Pearl is to the ancients
What Topaz is today
Though neither value much
To the people on the Boeing 747
Or the Ilyushin Il-76 cargo plane
That killed 349 people
With the force of their collision

When you look up the day
That I came to be known
As another member of the living
They'll tell you all about the fatal, terrible crash
That I was too young to remember or even witness

Being born in the '90's earns me
No extra respect
No reverent awe
No special treatment
I was born too late for the long-haired peace
Disco and drugs
A John Hughes-like high school
And only my parents got away with
Sweat pants and leg warmers
Or turtleneck sweaters

I am just another 96 baby
But they don't make them like us
Anymore

An apple a day

doesn't keep the doctor away

but a doctor a day keeps the apples closer

and a penny saved isn't a penny earned

but a penny earned is a penny saved

I'm not trying to burst your bubble

I'm just trying to break the ice

I'm just trying to cut to the chase

an apple a day

doesn't keep the doctor away

and a penny saved isn't a penny earned

but a doctor a day keeps the apples closer

and a penny earned is a penny saved

early to bed early to rise

all depends on daylight savings

don't look a gift horse in the mouth

because

An apple a day

doesn't keep the doctor away

but a doctor a day keeps the apples closer

and a penny saved isn't a penny earned

but a penny earned is a penny saved

It's the elephant in the room

why, it's easy as pie

even though an apple a day doesn't keep the doctor away

those with money can afford a doctor and can eat apples

and if one earns money for a living

well that's cash right there that can be saved

for the future

an apple a day

doesn't keep the doctor away

and a penny saved isn't a penny earned

but a doctor a day keeps the apples closer

and a penny earned is a penny saved

Every cloud has a silver lining

It's not brain surgery

It ain't all that it's cracked up to be

Just keep on truckin

yes, please keep your shirt on

because money doesn't grow on trees

Go out on a limb

go earn that penny

go save that penny

because

An apple a day

doesn't keep the doctor away

but a doctor a day keeps the apples closer

and a penny saved isn't a penny earned

but a penny earned is a penny saved

and nobody wants Elvis to leave the building

Black widow, waiting for a strike,
Crouching small, behind your mike.
You love to see contestants cringing,
This is a quiz; it’s not a lynching.

Face ******* up behind her glasses.
I’ve seen better bums on lasses.
Centre spot on stage she poses,
A jagged thorn on jet-black roses.

She’d like us to believe, I think.
She’d never be the weakest link.
Superior look upon her face,
Shame about the old boat race.

What’s this I see? You have a degree?
Still, you’ll never be as good as me.
Who chose that dress? Don’t like the shirt!
She loves to dig and throw the dirt.

Oh! And you belong to Mensa.
I’ve never met anyone who’s denser.
This is a quiz, I hope you know?
You’re the weakest link; you’ll have to go.

She earns more money than the Queen.
She’ll never be an old has been.
Was she born or just invented?
Let’s hope the moulds been lost or dented.

Where do you come from? No don’t know it.
Still you’re common and you show it.
I’m from Liverpool; I’m a Scouse,
You ought to see my big fine house.

It’s easy when you have the answers; see!
Too believe you are much cleverer than we.
But you’re not that clever, Ann we think.
Oh and one more thing, I Hate That Wink!

She’s sometimes a fairy
Or a nymph from the sea
A troll and a Viking
Wise woman for free

A housewife a mother
A cook and a nurse
She earns just some pennies
To put in her purse

She yearns for romance
To be some ones muse
Not wielding a duster
And cleaning a hoose

One day she will find it
She’ll wish on a star
And the folk will all say
She’s “a ******* to far”

Why is it so hard to be satisfied with standard American life?
I really mean that without any malice.
I genuinely cannot understand how so many people can live being totally satisfied with a career in sales, a nice house, and a modest amount of loans that will follow them to the grave.

Why do I constantly have to have a nagging feeling of dissatisfaction?
Or does everyone feel that, and they just cope or suppress it?  

Bukowski says it well:
“How close we all are to being nothing most of the time
And
Some of us nothing all of the time”

i never understood why poetry books were and are so expensive, there's Darwin lounging smoking a cigarette listening to some Victorian erich segal, e. l. james, diana gabaldon or a loretta chase - while imaging, well, you know, why the the Bayeux tapestry represents the Normans invasion with humanoids, hence the pressure on artists to follow-up with self-portraits, otherwise it ended up with two monkeys ******* in his head... but such writers are equivalent to manual labourers, they don't care if their books aren't finished, they are equivalent of bricklayers, ploughing the fields of blanks unearthing potatoes and more potatoes (words)... some Chinese poet-drunkard trying to escape Tibetan meditation writes a haiku... and that's about it, he says laughing at the moon: 'this is bothersome! for one thing our ancestors chose a ****** difficult phonetic encoding, maybe this was xenophobia in disguise, but the Ming dynasty project is nothing compared to how we write she and shin, no amount of labour will be as effective as our pictographs, some say this is a defence against invaders, and i believe them, they got as far as ***** trading with us, now we have cheap steel and Russian allies... forget the great wall, the real defence against invaders and accusations of xenophobia is in the encoding, which also means we can **** the mathematical encoding like an elephant ******* a chicken, with its trunk, blowing air into it so the chicken ends up flying, along with the ostrich'.

when i write crude i know i'm exhausting a poem,
or at least the introduction, to a poem,
but such are crude comparisons, they tell you when
to stop the flux of the unintended direction -
but i agree with him, western powers abuse
the haiku mechanism, back in the east the haiku
appears from blank, partly due to that Tibetan
baldy blubber in later age in India -
in the west we have the crown of myrrh, and due
to the overload of sensual stimulation with that,
and the lashing prior to the crucifixion,
an over-exited state of sensuality, meaning more
cognitive outpourings, hence not one haiku
in a year about some freckled salmon jumping
over the moon with a momentary diamond of snow
on its tail... but a whole list of them...
without any verbal tradition to remember either...
take the Tibetan lounging and the Hebrai hanging,
why did we ever take the latter up?
well, question answered, the west is quietly shunning
the church's influence, all you need is a Buddha
head in your living room and it's primo aprilis -
well, not it's Prima Aprilis, *Prima dies Aprilis,
it's a jokers day in Poland, i experienced one myself,
you run around the town drenching each other in water,
or as i call it, baptising each other, for jokes,
buckets of water... in the west it's just a toys 'r' us
advert owning a water-gun, but you hardly see
children in western society, esp. in England,
they're exposed to overt-sexuality prematurely,
they're stiff on the monkey bars, stiff on bicycles,
stiff playing football, stiff climbing trees (if ever),
stiff or coffin like only ready to play the one game they
know best: bullying and make-up, and short-skirts,
and karaoke dreaming all the leaves are brown,
and the sky is grey, i've been for a walk, on a winter's day,
i'd be safe from walking, if i wasn't in L.A., california
dreaming, on such a winter's day, it's only
outdoors if there's a prize involved, not the smell of grass
or cow ****... strap me up Scott'e, i'm about to venture
into the grand world wearing a ******... anyway,
you never write more than one haiku a year...
but before i do a Robert Frost as cited by Jack Spicer
"any ****** fool can get into a poem but it takes
a poet to get out of one", citation? helen: a revision
part of the San Francisco Renaissance mini movement.
but today's panorama show, about the exit vote,
Hilarious **** being investigated by the F.B.I., Trump
turned into a T-Rex in a children's book - tiny hands,
big quiff - and in a global community where slavery
is frowned at, piracy is not really, the vain hopes
of former glories, listening to old farts reminiscent of
the empire esp. in the north is like listening to a fake ******,
my grandparents could say the same ******* in Poland,
the loss of the steel industry, much due to the extinction
of communism in Europe, feminism and the soft-industry
jobs of primarily advertisements, the manly jobs?
they're all Chinese... why blame eastern europeans?
you like your ******* chicken chow mein you little *****?
well i'm certainly liking my korma chicken curry, eat it!
an economy that prizes only profit and not continuity
exporting everything to King Kong Mao will look for
scapegoats anywhere, i'm surprised it's not the Jews this
time, and it's so funny, i mean, born & prop'ah bred
Anglo, imported from Pakistan, oh yeah, "prop'ah",
now they're the best mates, once master and the slave,
now two masters, hand in hand, should be a joke
poster like the socialist fraternal kiss (the capitalist
fraternal kiss is - you guessed it! mouth kissing an ****!),
so you have to really trim the curtains of the ethnic
dress of King Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud to get
a selfie with Tony Blair and Bush Jr. getting stuck in -
at a time when no Londoner feels safe outside
of England, esp. in the north, perhaps in Scoot-land
(three years up there, i built up an affinity with
them against Jacky Uno and the flag,
right now i'm burning it in my head, ah, for scrap jokes);
and then they box in the idea that whoever earns money
can't do what the hell he wants with it... listen...
after not being given the Marshall Plan option, and instead
given an ideal like communism i think it's best some
of the money heads east to fund the post-Gorbachev plan
(why was Sweden included in the plan? Sweden
was neutral! they were the myth-machine generators
of ******'s late discovery of the ability to bleach your hair!),
and why would i spend my money in Southend anyway?
or Blackpool on candyfloss? community?
you want a community? how the hell is community going
to work... this ain't a village, this a globalised world...
plus, why associate yourself with vermin?
and all this is going around while the rats from
respective parties jump the boat and leave the public
to blame themselves... but that's how it is, in this
schizoid metaphor, bilingualism is extreme as much as
mono-lingual psychology, but less rooted and historic
and continuity biased... happy those who know only
one tongue or three and more... with bilingualism
you become a psychological mongrel, while others are mongrels
of the flesh, soul-mongrel breeding is harsh,
you're neither here, nor there, and your idea of heaven
becomes something like: wake me up again speaking
Norwegian, because at least i can identify in that region
something that isn't here or there - but being first
generation and remembering to speak the mother,
i wasn't going to do the solo ethnic cleansing and speak
only one tongue... if i did... you think i'd be speaking with
my father and his broken English? ha! *nie!

The retail and fashion industries offer a lot opportunities but there are challenges and stiff competition. To stay ahead, retail and fashion stores need to offer the latest and best quality products at competitive prices. The job can be get done through professionals called merchandizing managers or merchandizers who play a vital link between the vendors and the customers.

Merchandizing managers are professionals who select the products to be sold keeping in mind the requirements of targeted customers. These managers are usually employed by boutiques, departmental stores, malls and retail outlets.

Merchandizers work closely with buyers to identify any upcoming trends. The main focus of a merchandizer is to ensure that the departments or stores for which they work meets its sales targets and earns a healthy profit. If margins are below expectations, they need to analyse the reasons and alert management about the problems.

Though the field of merchandizing does not require any specific degree but a bachelor's degree in business, merchandizing or similar field is preferred. A student can further pursue master's or a doctoral degree for better prospects. Also, merchandizing manager must possess good knowledge of the company and customer needs, industry awareness, presentation and negotiation skills, a confident personality and innovative ideas. Merchandizing is a challenging field, hence the merchandizing manager should be able to provide effective solutions for various problems.

"The scope of merchandizing is huge. Unfortunately, there are hardly any merchandizing companies in Nagpur. You don't need a specific background to enter this field. Any person with good communication skills and the ability to learn can excel in the field," said Prashant Siriah, director of city-based Global Merchandize and Logistics.

"The biggest challenge of this field is to meet customer's demands. The market is huge. I feel there is dire need to boost merchandizing industry in the city. Being a garment merchandizer, I would suggest students to be stay updated with the latest trends and traits of retail markets," said Pooja Bembi, garment merchandizer, owner B Different boutique.

"Merchandizing has a huge market outside Nagpur. We began from Nagpur but are business is now set in Bengaluru. We have seen the industry grow. As an experienced professional, I can only say that merchandizing has a lot to offer. Students should be open to explore. Out of the box thinking and excellent management skills are qualities a merchandizing managers need to have," said Nikhil Pandey, co- founder of Thinkstrokes, Bengaluru.

"People who want to join this industry need to have complete interest in it. I am passionate about my work. It's important because once you come into this industry you have to create your own path. I feel as merchandizers we need to come up with innovative ideas to cater to the interest of today's generation who are so much aware of fashion and apparels," said Anmol Huda, garment merchandizer, SWAG Store, Nagpur.

Merchandizing offers a decent pay scale. It offers steady growth to people having the right skills and attitude but one needs to be patient.

(Reporting by Shrushti Wanare)

STUDENT QUOTES

I think fashion is something you create. You work on it. It's more than theory. It challenges your creativity. It's not when I read books but it's when I sit with the outfits I understand its details. Merchandizing interests me. It has multiple layers to experiment with. I am particularly more inclined towards garment merchandizing.

Gundeep Kalra | fashion and merchandizing, Indian national institute of fashion designing,

I am pursuing fashion designing. I wish to study fashion further and I think merchandizing as an industry offers good opportunities as well as bright financial prospects as a career. It tests your imagination skills. It is a very indulgent course. A student needs a mix of creative potential and aptitude to excel in this field.

Ayshna Verma | UG student fashion designing, pearl academy, delhi

Colleges offering merchandizing courses

Parsons School of Design, Talent Edge, Nagpur

Courses offered: Online

Program: Diploma in Executive Programme Of fashion and Merchandizing

Duration: 5 months

Fees: Rs65,000

School of Fashion and Technology, Pune

Courses offered: On Campus

Program: Post Graduation in Fashion and Merchandizing

Duration: 2 years

Pearl Academy, Delhi/ NCR

Courses offered: On Campus

Program: Post Graduation in Fashion and Merchandizing

Duration: 2 years.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

this is a poem about happiness.
this is also a poem about how great life is, see? here's a metaphor
comparing nature to the faultless
form of a pedastalized lover,
here's a description of the
effect of changes in air pressure
and localized temperature
fluctuations
on physical matter in a given area.
here's a bland truism that
anybody can relate to.
here's a couple rhyming stanzas
about the ethereal shifting of
connecting threads which
cause all life to dance upon
the cosmic stage like food poisoned marionettes.
here's an ode to the wrinkles of
my ******* and
the bits of fuzz that occasionally
find their home in my *****.
here's a sonette to the drop outs
doing better than me
here's a dirge for the businessman
that hangs himself
and a jubilee for his widow
who earns nothing off his death
because he left his entire estate
to his catamite.
I'm writing a symphony in color,
notes of fermenting wood
dogshit and coffin dust.
the violas swoop and drone
the piccolos trill fast enough
to excise your gastrointestinal system
the barotone sax wheezes
and the timpani drum rumbles
(the flutes sit motionless because
**** flutes)
the pianists fingers are bleeding
hes banging with stumps now
his face contorted in ecstatic glee
as if the face of god has parted
the clouds just to scrape his gums
clean with his dietous ****.
and lo faint is the whisper
which climbs and slithers
between the
false,
bash upon life with both hands.
here is life here is death
let me show your life
let me breathe your wretching
like squandered
like roots in the soil,
paint your everlasting cave drawing
in the face of your kitchen
and dance around a fire
let the embers lick your heels
til pagan viciousness overtakes
your quivering form.
gasp it in

(note - This is a haibun; a Japanese writing form that combines haiku with prose.)*

Two days on the road, two thousand miles on my motorcycle. Hard miles; my *** so sore that every bump in the road brings biting pains up my back and down my legs.

I’m riding alone. No highways. No hotels. Camping in fields and eating in greasy diners. Seeing the America not available to the Interstate. The real America. I’m rough riding across the continent and this isn’t a mid-life crisis. I’m on a mission.

There’s been a ghost haunting me for five years. And yesterday, somewhere on the back roads of Nebraska, I left that ghost, the ghost of my cancer, behind. The specter of death that lingered on me, over me, and around me after excision of the tumors is finally gone.

Contrary to opinion, ghosts are heavy. With mine gone, I ride through the night – the stars and my newfound peace my sole companions. I stop only when the false dawn begins to turn into the real thing.

serpentine road
​curves into the sun;
  my throttle opens

The country diner I find myself in front of welcomes both me and the morning sun. I’m tired, sweaty in my leathers, and covered in road dust as I enter. And I’m deaf, the roar of the road is still loud in my ears.

I tell the waitress I take my coffee black – as black as my soul. My joke falls flat; what comes from my mouth is a rough growl, thanks to a dry throat. It earns me dark looks from the other diners. The ***** biker with no manners.

I have a moment of tired reflection and then I get a visitor to my table. An old lady, dressed in her Sunday best, moves with slow deliberation and takes an unexpected seat across from me. Her frail hands wrap my grimy ones in a cool and gentle grip.

Her eyes, framed by a wrinkled face that smooths as she smiles at me, capture mine before she bows her head and prays loud enough for all to hear. “Lord, please help this young man find his way. He’s lost, alone, and needs your guidance to help cleanse his heart and his soul.”

She kisses my hand and, without another word, stands again. There’s a reverent silence as we all watch her sit back down at her table and take a bite of her breakfast as if nothing exceptional had just occurred.

I look out the window as the rising sun reflects off of my bike, thinking that, here, maybe it wasn’t really that exceptional at all.   And thinking; lady – I’m not lost; I’m finally finding myself again.

red cardinal
alights upon my bike –
  notices me