You think you know me.
I think I know you.
We know nothing
As we move forward
Slouched in our office chairs of despair
Some moving full throttle, the others stay still
Still
All in the same place
All at the same level
The illusion of movement
Competitiveness run amok and awry
An experiment gone wrong
An experiment in our endless longing, our search
Our eventual journey
As we seek greatness and perfection
While shattering the thought of it.

We have been taught to question
Questions bring greatness
Greatness is what we long for

Greatness has been subjugated
No longer an aspiration, but a trade
Not a product of inspiration
But a product of greed

Art is dead
Love is dead
All is dead

What once was an abstract concept
Is now concrete
And invisible
Nothing
A black hole
Constructed from the shattered hopes and dreams
Of millenials and those who felt like we do throughout history

What does "millenial" mean anyway?
In every context it encapsulates
Consumerism
Greed
Selfishness
Hypocrisy

Art is dead
Love is dead
All is dead
And we killed it

We dealt the death blow.

We lack heart
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with greatness
Greatness comes from accomplishments
Accomplishments come from knowledge
Knowledge comes from aspiration
Aspiration comes from inspiration
Inspiration...
comes from the metaphysical heart

The hollow men had no soul
and neither do we

We lean together
We do not embrace
We do not take the next steps
Only leaning
We lack what we need to see it through

We are incapable of maintaining relationships.
For our stamina is gone
In its place, divorce, infidelity,
shallowness
relationships based on looks and dreams
dreams of perfection
based on the wrong definition

We are the hollow men

We are hollow
We are... despairing

Despair
why would we despair?
if we did not care?
are we then hollow?
if we worry,
is that not out of concern?
is concern
not out of love?
does love...
not stem from the heart?

Sometimes I wonder
Can you still have a heart
If you have a mind in the way?

No one wrote a book
On how to queer up the world.
I’ve been waiting for Volume One
On how to hate your body effectively,
Because all of the brats who spit in my
Cherry eyes won’t tell me what I’m doing wrong
When I say “it doesn’t fit.
It never fits. Will I ever fit?”

Because we’re one binary and the other, and we don’t
Fit quite between, and we’re doomed to be melting
Snowflakes in schoolyards. We’re doomed to tears,
And standing awkwardly between ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ sections.
They opened up their doors to us, those who fit
Comfortably or not so comfortably in either of the two
Slots (like maybe this is a gameshow, and I didn’t pick
The right door?) but they promptly
Threw us out when we tried. And tried again.
And failed and cried and threw our hands in the air like
Children, misguided, in pain, stubbing our toes on the door
That says “real suffering.”

Because our suffering isn’t real to a world that encapsulates it in
So many words as symptoms for a
Common cold.

My heart has been breaking every day
With no way to allocate the exact cause
yes I know where is sets off
but I never know where this deep pain hides
surprise

it shoots from my heart
down my veins
into every limb of my body
then it encapsulates me
help

Am I crazy?
I know this is real
No one knows
The pain that I feel
When I say that out loud I feel like a child
But when I hold it in for an inch, it feels like a mile

This is intensity
In full swing
I know I can be more hurt
But so can a person suffocating

I’m not sure if my heart is being squeezed by something so intense, so present
Or if its getting strangled by literally nothing
Nothingness
Nothingness banging on the front door of my chest
Dense, dense nothingness
Thirst: a very present pain cause by literally nothing when what you need more than anything is something
With thirst, you can have many things, but not have exactly what you need.. what you long for

What if water was never introduced?
What if instead of it being imbedded in every human beings brain,
It was abstract?
What would u do when u had a thirst attack?
Panic

Intermission
Interruption
This depression is the greatest eruption
Something is caged inside me and needs to be let out
But what if it's too real?
What if whatever encapsulates it is Pandora’s box?
And does not change how I feel?

It's like a man
Looking at me, taunting me, torturing, ****** me
Some see him as very generic looking
Others don’t seem him at all
I see ugly and scary
I feel the pain he afflicts upon me
When people hear my screams, they think it’s a silly act
No help to be found
Just me and this empty alleyway full of people

Jovial mess on bed encapsulates heartburn diarama
a fresh coat Bismuth Business man with codeine red sweet stains on his dockers
3am Dharmic ranting
"job well done Wednesdays"
and "feel good Fridays"
Moronic howling immediacy
immediately vibrating cell walls within the twenty-something aged voice box device.

Burly chest galavant
push up to get the muscle fat
lean, and impress upon
the natural on-and-on
leave the face unscathed along
Have to be outside
Outside where it's most safe
ascend the incline just before the nightshade
lose your technology in the primordial Koi Fish Pond in oxymoronic fashion and let the nature of this dream leer at you from the area down below.

the rain sank the goodness into the ground,
an attempt to better the world with aesthetics replacing the dangerous cracks in the sidewalk
the mud encapsulates my deepest fear
my feet, cemented inside, like quicksand I'm sinking
Chances of surviving are a million to one
as i scan my brain for a trace of impending chances
but i will never see the sun set on the east side
and the birds won't sing when the frigid rain is biting their tongues and feeding on their despair
to live a life in despondancy, or to rise above the rut i am sinking in
the mud never lets it's victims leave, no redemption, no second chances
the clock strikes "over" and a thought about the future is not allowed to cross my mind, for the bridge has closed
and the boats sank under the water
i would run down the sidewalk forever, searching for a purpose
but im stuck
i am motionless while the rest of the city passes by me
invisibility brushes my hair and clothes my skin
ever since i fell victim to Despair and it's awful side effects
I held the future on a string, but as i dangled it above the balcony 10 stories high
what more could i expect than to lose it within the countless busy footprints of those who walk with both feet on the ground
Mine will be irrevocably stuck onto the pavement while i watch everyone else take off with their wings attached
and their smiles plastered on their faces

every girl just looks so **** good
I try not to be a lion on the prowl
bite my lips & take the drag of a cigarette
I need to help restrain myself, to
breath in the fresh air and constrain
myself; don't pounce girl, you've got this.
but he's still the name I call to while dreaming
the hands I want on me
the lips I need to be kissed by
& the air I dare to breathe.
He is the man who moves me
try to understand, he's the magic man
shifts me inside in ways
no wife I covet can.
He's the one I'm nervous to lie with
scared I'll lose myself in the thought of him
that's all it is, really: the illusion,
the daydreams of a girl who lives
more in her head than in the world
distant sometimes hazy others
& totally unreachable occasionally.
I wish I could have him
under my skin
but I'm not ready
to deal with the consequences
of being his girl.
I'd love to
live beside his shadow
the relief that washes over me
when he says my name
erodes the disorder
lifts my eyes from my feet
makes my heart
swell & body melt.
it's the kind of contentment
that I know will destroy me
in the withdrawl.
it's the kind of baby young love
that encapsulates the happy victims
imprisons you in the sugar & honeycomb sweet wonderland
that turns sour when you relax in the beauty
& forget that lambs
are often lions, too.

bugs are scary

creepy crawly legs
trek up my own
biting my skin
feeding on my blood
for nothing but sustenance

when it comes to
bugs,
and me,
and the meadow im lying in
there simply isn't enough room
for all parties involved

so i took shrooms

there is no pain
i feel no bugs
yet we see all bugs
all bugs are dancing
in a constant state of dancing
they dance and they eat
we dance and we eat
in the meadow

for the meadow is home
there has never been another home but the meadow
the meadow encapsulates all beings that matter
the bugs
only the bugs

for i am the bugs
WE are the BUGS
THE BUGS ARE US
WE ARE THE CHILDREN
WE ARE THE WORLD
WE WILL SING UNTO
YOU, THE MEADOW
ANCIENT HYMNS FROM THE UNDERGROUND
LISTEN WITH YOUR SOUL
WE ARE DANCING

and we have danced
we danced until the sun stopped setting
for the sun can never rest
will never rest
in the presence of us, the bugs
the beautiful, beautiful bugs
we love the bugs
i love the bugs

bugs used to be scary

When you tell your daughter that your life has been a series of near car crashes
Forgive her for mistaking the gloss behind your eyes - as nostalgia for a wreck that could have been
Forgive her for clawing her skin with the intent of stirring a tornado so violent she could match your presence
You taught her to see you as a fatality; too late to be saved, too proud to be held

Remember that an animal licking it's wound does so out of self-preservation, not self-pity
Remember that saline is salt water and tears need to be shed and that humans are capable of healing

Remember to feel
Teach her to pummel her fists
Teach her to shout down the boys

Remember the hollow below your heart that echoes like an abandoned house
When ivy grows out from her chest cavity and encapsulates all around you
Remember that she is not unruly
She merely sees within you a potency to create beauty

And consider her ability to grow and grow and grow
Encourage her to expand
Be mindful that little girls should never need permission to occupy space
Be humble - she may even teach you a thing or two

Use of heat
engulfs your ends
Into a splintered crisp.
Every inch you sear
Irons out the curls in your mane.

Flick the lighter,
Spark up some magic
And bring that
Shy, crying ember
To your dry lips.
The harder you inhale,
The faster you burn.

Smoke sneaks around
Your body and
Encapsulates you in
A hazy plume.
The scorch marks on your arm
Emphasizes your need
For warmth.

You seem to think you’re
A phoenix by how often
You play with flames,
But how high will you rise?

Will the ashes you’ve left
behind provide you with
a rebirth
or purge you into
the hearth forever?

How long will your eyes
Stay ignited,
Because every time you
Play with snowflakes,
You become a dimly lit,
Sputtering flicker.

I lick the ice from my skin;

for it has remained there

since the moment you left,

and I know I must defrost my

indifference and ambivalence

before you return to my arms.

-

a cold, hard shell

encapsulates my heart

(which once throbbed with

love unquenchable)

and icily creeps steadily

up the walls

& down the corridors

only to stop

& melt

at the site of

my own

selfish,                       steaming,

lamenting,                  seeping,

cave of a dwelling.

-

*Yet still I wait

at the door,

to see who

will arrive with the pick.

Blue wind encapsulates
in the midst of this ephemeral
autumn madness,
and my hands shake
as I try to forget.

I am just a human,
small and faulted,
trying like hell to squelch
the siren songs
of these maniac thoughts
buzzing like bees
through the empty spaces
within my skull.

I am just a silent body
and grey matter processing
words and colors
that feel truer
than any cheap emotions.

Cold light illuminates
and sparks nostalgia
and I am just
two eyes
retreating
into the mist.

Dark sheets
Of night
Cover the sky
Preparing
The world for sleep
Pray
On the lord our souls to keep
Prey
On the lower, sold the sheep
To beasts
Lost shepherd
Of the weak
Heard the herd
Is preferred rare
We’re a rarity
In despair
The air answers all my prayers

Silently
Whispers to me

.just, don‘t fall asleep.

It always speaks
Quietly
Morse code
Cold remorse
It wont ****
But instead instills
A breeze that peaks
Over the window sill
I stand still
Feel the chills
It fills the ceil
Creates a seal…
The wind stays
To make me stay
Awake

It captured fate
Encapsulates
Then decapitates
What’s ahead
The future… evaporates
I gave away
Tomorrow’s day
Just to stay
Up

I Reached the skies
Left the life
And can’t relearn
How to return

To sleep…

What a world I live in
To experience emotions as powerfully as I do

My sadness is not an ache in my heart
With mascara tracks running down
It is deep, mournful, body-shaking sobs
Oceans of clear tears streaming from reddened green eyes

My anger is not a flickering flame of annoyance
Nor a clenched body needing a release
But an entirely enveloping wildfire
Blinding me from reason and logic

And neither is my love just comfort
Or a desire to care and be cared for
But a presence that encapsulates every thought
Every movement, every moment, defined by desire

Oh, it is a poet's dream
And a woman's curse

“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)

objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our
daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground,
we, pounding it, for the word void appears,
the frustration of incapacity incarcerating,
accompanied by the loudest silenced scream,
of no poetry available, try again later!

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or
the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked,
in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband,
a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor
of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an
inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration,
a seam undone,
a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending,
a notice of arrival,
all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared,
but none to no avail

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows,
the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates
in I-phone photos,
the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool,
the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of
an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will
fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever
in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life,
are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory,
the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order,
kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders,
in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes,
graying with follicles of past pluperfect,
recalling not just the when’s, but the more important,  now, the
wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions,
recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes

“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)

<>

Saturday
September
21st
2019

tender little plant,
you weep and sway with the bluster of a wind.
and when night falls,
you clench your shivering petals,
wishing the sun would kiss you once again,

and while dreaming, aching for that safe warmth,
you withstand
the dark, cold air,
long empty silence,
and the relentless clattering of raindrops.

remember,
frightened little plant,
that morning will rise.

your proud green leaflets will soak up the blooming sunlight,
and churn the elements into a life-force.

you are a powerhouse.

the bright warm atmosphere
seeps
deep
into your lungs,
and fills you,
pouring into your spine, your fragile stem,
collecting
into your baby-hair roots,
soft and thin, as they hug the cold, callous soil
that encapsulates you.

sometimes, you are to be painfully lonely.

remember,
brave little plant,
that it takes patience to become a tree.

A glass has come between me and reality.
This glass encapsulates my being.
The longer I remain in the glass,
the hazier my view becomes.
How I long to shatter it.

The glass has held me captive for quite some time,
and I realize I have come to know the glass like no other.
The glass has protected me from the strange outer world.

I have come to long for the glass which holds me.
But when I reach for the glass,
all I feel is bleak
and yet still my hand is left with nothing.

I cannot grasp the glass
because I cannot see the glass itself,
only what it is not.

The quill's sodden ink evaporates
while this bell jar encapsulates
leaving these dreary words to permeate
only to rain back down and stagnate

this terrarium, my lonely estate
pickling eyes that spate
people peer through the glass only to deprecate
while I slowly start to acclimate

two horizons squint until light dissipates
allowing the darkness to overtake
monsters crawl out to dilapidate
snarls and growls devastate

this is fate this is fate this is fate this is fate
is it too late is it too late is it too late is it too late
echos verberate echos verberate echos verberate echos verberate
this is fate and it is too late these echos verberate and I ruminate
I ruminate and ruminate and ruminate and ruminate

with a languid gait
a countenance set straight
while I desperately try to create
a happy blissful sunny green free state

it's not too late it's not too late it's not too late
meditate meditate meditate meditate
don't let the glass alienate
pick up the hammer and swing
                                                       till the glass B    E      K
                                                ­                                R    A      S.

Strawberries
that tumble off grocery stands
of dusty wood-colored plastic
wiped clean with rank rags dripping ***** water
and a hint of bleach
to **** germs.
Covered in dripping red
gooey sweet syrup
that resembles sour sauce
of lo mein Chinese restaurants,
but encapsulates all feelings
to nerve tinglings
and lick chops to swallow drowned.
Atop a table
tuckered in the corner
next to borrowed chairs
that mismatch from three to one
and darkened grain and pale wheat
with a broken leg
that will one day topple to the floor.
Retching from inhalation
as breath stops short
lungs rejecting air
from the path of recycle-ment
like tossing used paper bowls
into foundations for isla de debris.
Enlightenment of the general mood
from stumbled laughter
into an inception loop
of spinning tops and trading card games
into a never ending bubble stream
like a train braking
and go to rest.
Dead like a corpse
as in sleep like the departed
where nothing can be bothered
except the alarm for tomorrow.

Because I am scared,
for the shadow of despair,
that will rise as a lion's roar,
to claim the title "king,"
and rain down sorrow,
before the lamed warrior can raise a piece,
or a scholar a pipe,
to ward away evil,
and purify with ceremonious smoke.

I have given all I ever could,
I can give no more,
even mine life would not be enough,
mine possessions are worthless in this chase,
my words but hinder hers,
my thoughts cannot last but a moment without her,
my life has no meaning but her,

Her existence to mine heart is proof of the heavens,
Proof of angels,
and even proof of her,
she is a walking reminder that life is a test.

The test, infinitely cruel is to face than any is to resist her,
even when her scent is a trail of  enchantment,
even when her face is so close to mine,
even when she uses me in manner to complex for this childish mind to understand.

I am but a fool in comparison with such an angelic life,
and it matters not that she smokes and drinks,
it matters not that she is entrenched in her insecurity,
it matters not that she turns to substance as if it were a solution to all meddlesome thoughts and  reality,

she is still perfect in all her flaws,
in a manner no words or brushstrokes could ever do justice,
her perfection is in the smallest to greatest thing,
her actions always so infuriating with a sense of calm.

Even her slaps are but a gift,
her fights and anger so amusing,
her frustration creates a face more beautifully maddening than I may ever know,

Her madness she cannot accept,
no matter how her being is brimming with it,
her reasoning is not reason but madness.

It is as if she is a reflection of my lunacy,
a girl who so perfectly encapsulates what I desire,
it seems to be that god wishes me behold her,
so he could tell me I would never have her,
although I tell myself I cannot have her,
and if god is the true encapsulation of mercy I may even have her,
but I think not.

Her mind is sharp but not sharp enough,
for distractions are many and focus she does not have,
but that may be it her will or wish to succeed it is but second to the reality created within the enigma that is her mind , encrypted within its vault of freedom,
a vault which encapsulates her being,
her deepest desire and lust.

A dandy gentleman contemplates the human condition.
He sits alone in a french coffee shop,
poetry and philisophy his primary mission.

An awkward mind and deep pocketed heart,  he bites eagerly into a freshly baked maple syrup ****.

His mustache is striking, as though it has a story of its own
He wears a blue velvet coat filled with notes,
not to mention a lifes work of observations and quotes.

He checks his pocket watch from time to time
As he gathers his thoughts to write the next line.

A hint of tobacco can picked up from his vintage clothing  
He's a complicated fellow, enigmatic but soothing.

His top hat well established sits on top of his head
His shoes finley polished black with stripes of red.

A long worn out coat still encapsulates  his grace
He has a slight intensity reavaled in his face

For this mans work will never be done
For madness is in his nature, to him this is fun.

To use a quote that encapsulates my feelings right now,
“I'm tired of this back-slappin' "isn't humanity neat" *******. We're a virus with shoes.”
― Bill Hicks

The Poem

Originally I thought I suffered from irritability,
irritability of the human race.
Then I realised whilst looking at my face, it was hate.
I told the Doctor I'd thought of suicide, then realised
I wanted to commit mass homicide.
Become a hermit.
Mankind, womankind I hate you, people think me nice, fair,
and kind, I know the truth, I am a *******, so you must be too.
We as a race need a cull.
Do I like the human race? No. What's to like?
I even dislike people that purport to be friends.
I intricately step my way through this world of vermin.
We defile what is beautiful and true, hate because we
are taught to. Ruin, start wars, cause pain, then moan about the rain!
We as a race are quite crudely put, a pile of ****,
but even **** has purpose, a role.
What role do we have? To hate one another?
If so please make it equal and adhere to political correctness,
by that I mean, Hate Everyone equally.

a Darwinist's wet-dream, a youth's depression... i'm not surprised why the two share the same phenomenological plateau: after the said school morphed into existentialism and hit a brick wall with English utilitarianism, it's no wonder it started drawing on parallels - in the 19th century you had the fable of premature dementia - in the 21st century you'll find it hard too curb the fable of premature depression... less schizoids take their own life than premature depressed - the phenomenon of Darwinism's inquiry of the sea-turtles as naturally and intrinsically worthy pity meant that teenagers suffering from premature (unnatural) depression were simply told: aw... you'll get better... we'll just keep looking at the cruelty of nature for inspiration in the realm of sympathy... like ******* will... pharaohs of the food chain... you produced the architectural pointlessness of pyramids... myriads of the crucifix, and the cult of the tombstones... my grandmother visiting the grave of my grandparents almost every, single, day; her son couldn't care less... attaching personalities to inanimate products like cars or planes or Toy Story didn't help, either... but finding Nemo was a bit like finding the great white shark - Darwinism and Disney shouldn't mingle - pity doesn't last outside of what's petted - dogs and cats - you pity an animal outside the realm of what's pitied, you might as well be worth sushi.*

if fame isn't clenched within mortality -
if fame exists in the realm
of posthumous affairs - it exists
for the immortals to judge whether
it out be resurrected -
to be minded in the daily affairs of
inhaled oxygen -
only because the Coliseum was never minded,
but the Caesar's thumb was...
when i see fame i see only c.c.t.v.
"metaphors" - what is fame anyway?
we have a culture of fame surrounding us!
but we can hardly fathom why so many
scientists are left anonymous with their
anaesthetics and antibiotics -
in this world, what's useful is left anonymous,
what's useless is best cited - and constantly
refreshed - what is fame?
what if not cloning? it's such a shame to
be productive in aiming for such goals
rather than attempting carpentry's prodigy son -
if fame is becoming near butcher's worth of
**** and the buttocks exposed -
then fame has became absolutely devalued -
just after the 20th century the game changed -
we have devalued fame... as we have devalued currency -
fame just becomes a Friday newspaper
on the underground train foot-printed with ink-smears
and that other running-mascara -
as with so many billionaires, so with to many
famous people - the last anarchic act before the
insignificance of insects at a picnic bundle of folded
napkins became apparent - we reached the insect
paradox - not lizard cold blooded essence,
but the phobia blooded essence of insects -
the easily replaced - Auschwitz replenished within
a free society... numbers... satellite navigation -
never had i seen Narcissus so petrified with a mirror -
given that someone stole his mirror and the mirror
was shared among so many... Narcissus, synonym of
solipsism, was never so petrified as he was now -
the insect number overcame the feline king's presence -
not much thought concerning the poachers -
the insect-like numbering less the feline king's
presence - the mane completely cinematographic, suited
only for an intro roar - nothing imitable -
it was all slightly less panicky than expected -
so easily squashed the insects were, as we played gods -
but in number we became the most resembling them -
as if by prerogative to prior life on this earth...
we thumb-pressed a fly to death... as we knew in our
waking-dream that something too awaited us to be minded
as the prime venture we gave our thumb to act upon...
that, cold, lizard-like insignificance -
long before our science fiction dreams became realistic -
we realised something counter our current projection
of interests - from the tier of the cold blooded,
to the tier of the hot blooded, into the tier of
the exoskeleton where blood is confused with mush and
bone, where porridge is both brain tissue and liver tissue -
where beings are more emotionally resilient toward
phonetic stresses, as in units of encoded sounds,
and there this sense of coherency -
we look at dinosaurs with superiority of that famous
example of a brain in a pickle jar that's an anaconda -
the snake - but we're also spied against with insects -
they're looking at us - let us speak in terms of Darwinism
as is loved by those citing adaptability and 1 millions years -
well... we have all the time in the world -
the serpent the most abstract remnant of the dinosaurs
is looking at us... and he's saying: look toward the termite
mounds, and the ants as if you were Solomon...
they are the last evolutionary caricatures readied to usurp
your laughter with seriousness... they are neither
cold nor hot blooded... but simply hard-skinned
and uniform in aquatic assemblage contained within -
as once was Mars inhabitable, when Earth wasn't -
given those millions of years - capturing the speed of light
reduced our note-keeping of history as an act of
derelict intelligence - thus from capturing the speed of
light, into a history of day-to-day-day-by-day -
the plagiarism of 20th century art in the 21st -
the speed of light and the expanse of Darwinism -
strobe light historical-science - flash blink flash blink;
what is fame if we're entertained by the paupers in this realm
these days? we're not watching fame worked for,
as something resurrected out of light of interest, selflessly
attired to be cruelly exploited for selfish reasons -
watching the television (my "metaphor" for Plato's Cave)
is like watching homeless people on the street -
i see paupers of fame being paid to be paupers of fame -
the exploits of c.c.t.v. paranoia - the beggars eating lice
or maggots to support their claim to fame...
just like homeless people... the t.v. is the technological
replication of the cave, shadows... shadows...
when Mars was inhabitable Earth was the prior Venus -
the inhabitants of Mars left... and isn't Darwinism dangerous
when it comes to history? imagine two minutes tomorrow
after two p.m. - is that possible with the given kaleidoscope
of interests? Earth was once inhabitable, purest volcanic -
sending probes to Mars has already unearthed our lack
of common sense unity - communism failed,
the sea lion had his harem - we're not built to communicate
with insects' inherent dictatorial precision - hence we're less
bound to succeed in the theory of evolution -
we evolve to be selfish - we don't evolve to be collectively
minded - esp. given money - insects do that...
we're not insects... unless only in our delusional or orbit of hope...
i just wonder what resemblance we will take
to have given the abstract dinosaur - the serpent -
watching the insects evolve from the Tales of Gulliver
into the green-skinned fables of our science-fiction fancy;
what i've written down just now, will not give me fame...
it has already outlived me... it is outside of human history -
just like what modern Darwinism encapsulates,
national history when trying to govern assimilation of
immigrants with the significance of the year 1066...
and then the canvas of: millions of years ago...
the second big bang... although this one being more
complicated than based upon atoms and sub-atomic particles...
too much colour... too much ready geometry of spheres...
NO ******* WONDER THE CHEMISTS WERE LIKE:
**** IT... LET'S BECOME ALCOHOLIC BACHELORS...
THESE PEOPLE LEFT TO RIGHT ARE TOO AWE-STRICKEN
THAT IT'S POINTLESS TO TELL A STORY OF A
SATURDAY NIGHT ****-UP IN GLASGOW.

its not like i traded up
or for that matter down
every cog still turned to the left
each lever, still up and down

it started like an episode
of ricky lake
and ended abruptly
on springer

im in the sound proof booth
judging those who stand encased
aside me
i should leave before this gets ugly

indiscretion led me here
fortitude kept me
embarrassment fed me words
and loss encapsulates all

every stitch
the joy and glee
lost to ants in a wildflower patch
it stings now

verbosity rivaled only by impetus
but quickness
if only counted in months
falls short with words

im sure there's a happy ending
a call in the black of midnight
in a letter carefully opened
through a kiss tentatively given

The movie speaks
In silence screams
That encapsulates the feeling of the moment.
A black and white
Scene plays out
And I see the sorrow pour.

The reflection of the many lives that costed during
The era
Reflects on the black and white dots
That move around on my screen.

Wilhelm.
******.
Mussolini.
Gallipoli.
The Somme.

It's funny how they don't speak
But the black and white dots that
Dance
And flickers on my screen,
Tells the unfortunate story
Of the contextual history

That lies behind,
The black and white dots that
Strafes on my screen.

Putrid sadism doth pulse through yer veins, wretched wickedness doth flow through yer heart.
I crouch and I watch, I stand and I squirm;
I run and I clutch, I jump and strike firm.
Crushing through the head of foul tainted charisma, bold yet unseen;
Crusading through the mouth of many a false word, existence contradicts the fiend.
I fixate on the eyes, evil gems fade till death consumes;
With one foul force down, the conniving ****'s gone, vengeance looms.
You now burn and you scream, the pain encapsulates my feel;
I feel profound and fulfilled, lit is the cigarette after my meal.
See you in hell I ironically thought;
For today I am the devil, and justice is bought.

rest easy, sauntering children that inhabit these streets, marching endlessly with youthful rouge upon your cheeks. the ambient orange glow encapsulates your city's sky, enrapturing your scattered minds each night.

you search with strained and bloodshot eyes for the silver lined heavens
that hibernate behind blankets piled high and heavy with pollution.

you stalk these streaky sidewalks,
hands in your pockets, cigarettes dangling between crooked teeth,
billowing from your gaping mouths,
forever treading onward, gazing upward
at the luminous orb who emerges each evening,
floating thoughtlessly in its spiraling yellow haze,
glancing down with an occasional giggle at your mindless meanderings.

you venture through man-made parks, but make not a single mark of any personalized passing.
invisible, soundless.
walking not in the sand or the honest salt of the earth,
but on glittering concrete,
disregarding your worth.

you wandering specters, dragging your aching cancer ridden bodies through tireless voids,
fending off your tattered emotions that clasp their bony hands around your fleeting ankles,
begging you to stop, to engage. your shoes remain bare and battered,
lacking more and more sympathy for your simplified selves with each step.

you push onward, noiselessly.
your brittle fingers wrap themselves
around the spines of wine glasses-
clinking, clashing.
you smile and kiss surrounding strangers,
your loneliness ever consuming those enlightened, empty minds.