Science can't save you, neither can religion,
at least Popper and Niebuhr, philosophers and poets,
are entertainers, which is why actors and athletes
are paid so much. Thanks for the summaries.
I was teaching Shakespeare's 92nd ridiculous sonnet
to my student who lays blacktop in the off season
Shakespeare bellyaching about dying without her love
a feeling foreign to a modern adolescent sensibility
although many teens are pretty far gone searching
for their mothers or fathers in their dazed lovers' eyes.
Which is why we call it "the wound that never heals."
Or the lesion that's always lengthening. And bleeding.

Muslim fundamentalists and their Christian counterparts
are a mystery to me. Pews and prayer rugs, the airless
indoor environment of religious worship, reading
scriptures, hypnotized by hymns and fainting from staring
at candles through stained glass windows, almost certain
the preacher is faking his certainty about the afterlife.
It's not my problem. A more immediate concern:
receding gums and tooth extractions, swollen joints,
poor lubrication and circulation, wave after wave
of viral infection, the occasional antibiotic-resistant
bacterial attack, usually urinary, and who knows
what internal organs are dividing and conquering
without mercy or cease, i.e. the wound that never heals.

It is wise not to overvalue your continued existence,
good not to be innumerate, unable to compare
a mere 80 years with say 6.0 x 109 or all of time
(to date) times the multiverse. Conversely,
it is interesting all of space and most of history is contained
in your mind (realizing of course it's just a map
of the cosmos not the cosmos itself, or is it?). I'm
unable to wrestle free, tongue in that cavity
and locked in my memories, so separate and disparate
from the biomass in the crosswalks, even my spouse.
Alone, so alone, even your doctor can only devote
limited thought to your situational mortality through
the redress of poetry - also a wound that never heals.

Snow for eternity, that's what this February's been.
All to the good, for someone it's the final February
so enjoy it to the extent you can. By that I mean joy.
Joy at birth. Joy at death. All joy. All times. Anyway,
that was Shakespeare's message: even tragedies are comedies.
May, a Buddhist, chants each morning.
Her husband, Marc, who's Jewish, plays league tennis.
Their son, Aaron, will soon make Eagle scout.
How does that relate to your wound that never heals?
Luck runs out. For D.H. Lawrence in New Mexico
or Ulysses S. Grant in Ohio or Yasujiro Ozu in
Tokyo or Satyajit Ray in Bombay or Rabindranath
Tagore in Bangalore or at the Battle of the Atlantic in the Azores.

The night is a poultice, winter or summer solstice.
My anonymity will not affect the anomie ghettoside
seeing for myself how season by season
vacations and accomplishments accumulate, late in life
and early on, sunrise over mountains or moonrise over Bronx.
Masturbator, prisoner of war. Hospice of the Holy Roman Empire.
Numerous blue notes: the 3 flat, 7 flat, 5 flat,
the 6 flat and the 2 flat too. I don't get
what Wallace Stevens means by imagination.
When groundhog shows up as a totem, there is opportunity
to explore the mystery of death without dying.
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
Now what about that wound that never heals.

The Skeptical Observer column in Scientific American
was somewhat alarming when he accepted a paranormal
explanation for how his wife's grandfather's inoperable
transistor radio played music from its hiding spot
in his sock drawer on, and only on, their wedding day.
Now I'll have to believe my father (or mother!) is watching me
perform private ****** acts with (or without) partners
or that they could even know my thoughts. Or aliens
are attending our committee meetings and making
perfectly reasonable decisions given the available information
and the world is rotating just fine without humans.
These possibilities - angels, ghosts, aliens - are better
than holocaust and genocide. In this way,
and only in this way, does doom become endurable.
The wound that never heals in the end is all you'll feel.

gone \’gôn also ‘gan\

adjective
no longer existing: no longer at a place; departed or lost.

When asked about my favorite memory, I can recall nothing. All that comes into mind is a blur of what has once been, of what things were, right before everything ceased to exist. I remember the shadow of your smile, the echo of your voice, and the silhouette of your embrace. It was the simplest of things, and also the insignificant ones at that, that seems to be tattooed on my mind. Nothing can quite compare to the feel of your lips pressed against mine, to the touch of your hands igniting my body. When it comes to you, all else fades into the background: my fears of commitment, of being not enough.

However, none of it matters now, anyway. Not when all is lost; not when everything is all a little too late. So if one would ask why I do not consider these fragments of memories as my favorite, the answer is quite simple. A favorite memory should be something that could bring you rapture in reminiscing. How could nostalgias centered with you become my favorite if all they do is haunt me of a love lost and another round of “what could have been”?
Once in every dream my brain could come up with, amidst the constant troubling of my nightmares to sleep, I get visions of us holding hand in hand with everyone right there to see. I dream of you singing me to sleep, enveloping me in your warmth all through the night. But this wistful thinking burns all hopes like how a piece of the sun could burn like a coin in my hand. No more, darling, we could not go back to the way it was, no more.

Like a missing piece in a puzzle, I know it is more than a mystery, an enigma, why I vanished suddenly. Are you even still waiting for me? Are you still there pining for my return? If yes, then good for me that I have someone like you. If no, then just know that I completely understand. But whatever the answer may be, I know you deserve an answer. The lies I reasoned with for leaving are not entirely tell-tales. But I did lie, by omission, of denying you the truth of why I wanted out.

As I write this letter to you, I want you to think of me with the sun’s rays illuminating my dark locks. Envision me in a meadow by the hill, with the sun setting behind my back, the pen in my hand with you as the subject of my afternoon daydream. But in this reverie, I do not think of how it feels to be loved by you again neither how it soothes my insides to hear your voice once more. Instead, in this contemplation, I gather all the courage to make myself vulnerable to someone, to entrust a portion of my soul to the hands of another.

I remember how you once asked me, “Will you stay with me no matter what?” You took my lack of answer as an affirmation and kissed me on the forehead instead as we looked at the stars lighting up the night sky. There was a lot of everything that I would have wanted to say but nothing came out of my mouth through every attempt. I wanted to tell you that I could not, that no matter how much I would have wanted that to happen, it would be more than unfair to you if I stayed. No, if you stayed with me.

Do you remember how I told you how my grandfather switched up names of his own daughters? Do you remember the story of how my aunt mistook her past lover to be her husband? You see, love, a year or two from now, I might become them. I have been diagnosed with a terminal memory loss, the Alzheimer’s disease as they would call it, and only time then could dictate the deadline of every single memory I have.

Leaving, as they say, was always a coward’s way out. But is not it dauntless how I braved living without my lifeline, living my life without you? I did not mean to be selfish, dear, but cannot you see how I am being selfless in letting you go? To set you free of me is to protect you from anymore hurt that this condition of mine would bring you. The knowledge of me leaving you for an unknown reason is a more tolerable pain than the reality of me forgetting you in the long run.

“Where were you then?” I was at the far distance looking at you exist without me in the picture. “Who else was there?” No one but your silhouette haunting me every minute. “Saying what?” That it was a mistake to abandon you.

Mourn no more for our lost love, dear. Mourn no more for the longing of what we once had and the regrets of what we could have had. As my every memory of you slowly wanes, always remember how hard I held on to them, the hardest that my brain could ever allow. Sometimes it is bliss to pretend that memory loss happens since the brain gives way for the heart to store the collection of moments we have, that my mind flushes you out to store you inside the core of my body.
But most of all, darling, the pain of leaving is endurable than the unbearable pain of seeing you suffer all because of me, than the inevitable pain of taking one glimpse on the masked agony on your face every single time I would ask “Who are you?” It would hurt to look at your beautiful face with me unable to know even just your name. You see, love, to be gone from your life is far more tolerable than to exist day by day with you in my life slowly vanishing into dust. Always, for always it would only be you. Even after all of my memories plummet into the hollow chasm and they are all gone, gone, just gone.


(k.p.)

Although I hardly gave it a thought
I didn't really doubt
our miniature juniper, a bonsai,
would survive our desert vacation.
                                                       ­   It likes the dry
air of our home, needs water
once a week at most and seems
meditative and active, both. While away
I rediscovered my love of agaves -
                                                          sotol­ and century
plant - met Mortonia and became
reacquainted with squawbush, its citrus
drupe which makes traveling the long horizon
of the desert uplands endurable.
                                                      ­    Live oaks - emory,
wavyleaf - dominant and regally spaced
giving ground to mesquite only on the sere
sand flats. I counted and drew inflorescenses,
spikelets, florets, awns but grasses
                                                         ­  remain a mystery
their microscopic parts. This year
I'll study, give them serious thought before
our Spring starts. The cactus wren was the one
bird I could be certain about. Sunsets
                                                         ­  made me sorry
the desert is not my home. But the ocotilloes
flowered before we left and that made up
for the vicious attack of a hedgehog cactus.
Impressive, ponderosa pine and Arizona cypress
                                                         ­  the canyon canopy
watered with snowmelt and along the high cliffs
limestone formations predating our arrival by
ten million years of weather. Newspapers
kept us aware humanity had not accomplished yet
                                                           the end of history
and that was fair. The planes were full of citizens
who no longer applaud upon landing. Snow flew,
not a pinyon pine or manzanita within two moons
walking. On the dining room sideboard, waiting,
                                                        ­   our miniature juniper.

You are made of the stars, and in haste
You put my love and my heart to rest;
You are like and unlike a dream today
But I have dreamt since last night
I am a ghost to the resting world;
As much as my poems are, as my words.

You are made of life, hell and heaven;
But I am too far away to breathe your air
And in your pristine eyes, such moments
Are a piece of untouched, unreal affairs
You are but a star to me, not a reality;
I oft’ see you on those stages of beauty.

Who be with me here, ‘tis awkward;
His aura is not thine, I assume,
And his lips, which are blue, blind mine;
Who hath saluted me in the worst of storms
And still, I could not trust for long;
But you may find for me another song.

Who be with me here, ‘tis strange;
Your love is sadly, not in such range,
And my whining is deemed absurd;
I am entrapped in a loud world.
What is a charm then, when not thine?
What are the workings of one’s mind?

What be this song I sing to you, my love;
In a word so surreal and full of images,
In a cry so full of anger and rage;
In a mortal chain but of my sonata,
I cannot afford to hate my enemies,
I cannot be the least of kisses.

What be this poem but of thee, my darling;
In the graphs that carry you, in grayness;
In a pertinence of shots, and obedience,
All those frozen moments of resilience.
You, standing there in silence, to say
You will charm me through the night and day.

I looked at the sore stars last night;
And one looking like you, that high
I cannot reach such heights, to see
To love you then, my celebrity;
Her heart hath taken you from me,
Leaving my youth alone to sick poetry.

I looked at such grey film, and thought;
Their births were not those of my books,
That even being in love is not sane,
I am not among the best of their men;
Even my love is not lithe to you, and him;
That such bounties are to remain a dream.

For the rose to see me, on rainy nights
To sit by me and the Northern Lights;
To watch the rain stop and stand still,
To comprehend the fetal crush I feel.
I see my naked heart, on the rough floor
Battered and smothered outside the door.

For the sun to shine on me, on cold nights
And to bring you over, my starlight
To walk me down the earths of fame;
And to make time recognize my name,
To tame such an unloved fate, and seem
Like all these are not just a dream.

For my crush to walk me, to your heart
To feel the excitement of loved delights;
Perhaps my lover, is not a celebrity,
But a reality to be handed to me,
To replace my faded fame that was stolen;
To free me from my shielded torments.

For such a continuation, and rain
For the rain I always long to have;
The one separated from me, like you,
I may wish for such longings to be untrue,
As there is no continuation in reality,
But dreams, they are to me an eternity.

For there is no virtue, and unlike thee,
My beauty is no good to myself;
Perhaps the highest misery lies in me,
And this loneliness is virtuous poetry.
For there is no handsomeness like yours,
But ‘tis only a dream to be in your arms.

I walk away silently, as always;
You are not acquainted with my ways.
Who am I to actuate a dreamy kiss;
I am not even a retort to lying bliss.
There is no fate in our hands, ah;
I have been consumed by all fiends.

I read away in silence, as always;
For love hath seemed too awkward to me,
There is too much sunshine every day;
That I am blind, I am not sweet to beauty.
Just like the famous days you celebrate;
I am not to know my own self, even late.

For love hath seemed to cruel to me,
One that consumes me with too much vigour,
Too insolent in its youth, merciless;
Mercies have left it, and not returned;
Love has corrupted, and stained me now,
What my edge shall bring I not know.

For love hath too much intensity, so now
I may and may not be able to love you though,
To say your love to me out of this dream,
To make all that scream sounds possible;
To make me trust, more than it seems,
To make this sore heart endurable.

For love hath broken me, and my vow
To love you might not be the one now;
Love hath had my chastity too high,
That knowledge may not be amicable;
That my prominence is but not the sky;
That my memories are not speakable.

For love hath had me, rendered me low
I am not noticed by my window;
And everything in my midair looks stale
And all of my sins may not be purified.
I am tortured and conjured in my shell,
But no love shall amend it right.

For love hath spent me, and stepped on me
Breaking my every inch of beauty;
But what is my beauty—a history to all,
I am not known beyond my artist’s wall;
I am a silence, to all circles and worlds,
I am not heard beyond my murdered words.

You're the muse behind my every song
You're what connects this body to its soul
The darkest of nights find its dawn in you
You are the eye of the most ferocious storm

Oh, love i think it's time
Oh, love, won't you be mine?
Oh, love, can't you just see
I want the world to see you be with me

You're the goosebumps i get in the middle of the night
You're what the stars have been telling me about
The shyest of flowers bloom at your touch
You are the hope that keeps the fragile thread  by which my sanity hangs from breaking apart

Oh love, I think it's time
Oh, love won't you be mine
Oh, love, can't you just see
I want the world to see you be with me

You are the brokeness that heals itself
You are the words that i have been looking for all along
The most endurable concrete cracks and sprouts where you walk
You are the love that only results from a great deal of suffering

Oh love, I think i it's time
Oh, love won't you be mine
Oh, love, can't you just see
I want the world to see you be with me

Thousand thunderous tones continuously smash walls,
Shouts, the constant shouts of deafening pitch shriek.
Echoing vibes loudly quiver mimicking tyke calls,
Make living conditions unbearable here so too speak.
As passing hours swoop by, vision of pale white cheek
Creates an environment within endurable in a mind,
Still even now understands not why I left you behind.


Those memories, that we are thankfully blessed with,
Too simply close your eyes lie back and fly away.
All the recounts of stories, song and a ye' old myth
Held on a tip and flung just as quick the tongues sway,
Gently fluttering the air in a kind of a childish play.
Towards my god, I humbly give thanks so I thank.
Within my heart, all memories of you I gladly drank.


Prime flowers spray their scented aroma over green,
Whilst the honeybees hoard yellow buds of ambrosia.
Encircled by sweet tender winds and sun shines sheen,
Bathing light duplicating your lips of the genus rosa,
My lovin' breast heaves fondly with warmth of Jehovah.
Fading squalls diminish dreaming emphatically of you
Opportunistically implorin' to sweep up your essence hue.

These are things we do not
   Speak of,
A class of violence that breeds
    A certain endurable suffering.....

  It is in the curious nature
Of survival
Which caresses the poor
And listens only to the nocturnal
Whispers of savages,
   Crude and tameable
It is accepted outside of the unacceptable,
     Where the deep concerns
For low income pass through
The eye of a needle and they
Can shout from a safe distance
With charitable murmurs
Enthusiastically hoping one
Makes it out of the ghetto.

     Home is where the heart is,
A heart of the unacceptable
With victims below middle class,
     Chronic renewal of violence,
Another ethnic man with darkness
On skin is dead,
The eloquent news states,
The futile concerns from outside
Keeping the animals in place.
   The permissible violence
Is lamented in segments and tidbits,
    It is good only that the poor
Might stay out of the unacceptable.

Through the telephone wire (remember those?)

crawled in an earwig, such a talented insect. He

would take over, chew and choose the words,

words heard or not, from time after, a stranger

called to tell me you were dead. This bug in my ear,

sent by a stranger to allow a coping mechanism in.

That voracious little beetle heard everything since.

What he does not spit out, relayed through pinchers

immutably clamped upon my right eardrum. This

strange and pleasing tic of mine, my earwig

is evolutionary. Something I consider gifted from

Late Triassic period, a time I refuse to remember.

A transmitter and editing device, only letting in

what is endurable, so I need not wrestle with rest.

My happy parasite, working so hard to eliminate

pain of many deaths that came after first one,

all the lovers lost. Pestilence still vibrates

through a tuning fork on back end of bug.

Chaw and discharge, seeping out my ear can

no longer be ignored. No longer holds on.

It hurts to love someone and not be loved in return, but what is more painful is to love someone and never finds the courage to let that person knows how you feel.

Maybe God wants us to meet a few wrong people before we meet the right ones, so that when we finally meet the right person,we will know how to be grateful for that gift

Love is when you take away the feeling, the passion, the romance in a relationship and finds out you still care for that person.

A sad thing in life is when you meet someone who means a lot to you, only to find out in the end that it was never meant to be and you just have to let go .

When the door of happiness closes,another opens but often times, we look so long at the close door that we don't see the one which have been opened for us.

The best kind of friend is the kind you can just be with, never say a word and then walk away feeling like it was the best conversation you've ever had.

It is true that we don't know what we've got until we lose it
But its also true that we don't know what we've been missing until it arrives.
Giving someone all your love is never an assurance that they love you back.
Don't expect Love in return, just wait for it to grow in their heart but if it doesn't, be content it grew in yours.

There re things you would love to hear that you would never hear from the person whom you would like to hear them from, but don't be so deaf as not to hear it from the one who says it from the heart.

Love comes to those who still hope, although they've been disappointed
To those who believe, although they've been betrayed.
To those who still need to love, although they've been hurt before
And to those,
Who've the courage and faith to build trust again.
         It takes only a minute to get a crush on someone
An hour, to like someone and a day to love someone but it takes a lifetime to forget someone.

Don't go for looks, they can be deceiving
don't go for wealth, even that fades away
Go for someone who makes you smile to make a dark day endurable.

We sit together
Cuddling and talking
But we're miles away
More often than not.

However
Somehow
The little bit of time I spend
In your presence
Somehow makes this separation
Endurable.

ms. amber is still not through, lullabying me proper; as much as i have "wasted", it seems strange, that i have yet to wait for so much more.

does it come upon such times, then even
an mongrel irish man,
bestowed upon the shores of goa,
deem himself the classical masochistic
christian in demanding:
our fate belongs from the inheritance
of **** & pillage -
     says one anglophobe to another
native "anglophile" -
the natives speak worse english than
the horde.
              does it really come upon such times?!
let me tell you: for all the "need"
to speak english - english has been
****** into a digital whirlpool -
it's a lost tongue: it has been useful:
up to now, but all their b.d.s.m. anti-inflammatory
rhetoric is bugging me...
their entire ****-load-of-****
in attempt to "erase" dyslexia by,
nonetheless allowing the imagery:
  you want to spell good, mr. gump?
watch some ****.
     get right down to the lingo!
          it's called the universal phellatio...
******..
    you send one more mongrel irish
down my way: i'll ask for you to recite me
the entirety of macbeth: the only
play of shakespeare than borrows from
ancient greece (the graeae,
the missing eye of odin) - and gives
the medieval time a reboot one last chance!
****** eli of anglia my ***...
     whoever honey-suckled that brazilian
briefing: by now, added his spinal bones
to his dentistry's affair...
     the guillotine signalled one affair
an assurance: dead for sure,
i too cut meat on a meat cutter...
last time i remembered it was a clean
cut, clean enough to hear dante speak
for the dead: with the dead asking for
an audience: ex hades in hades -
    from the realm of the dead:
the readiest of a ginette mathiot -
  one shoe fits all: or ask cinderella...
my fingers are starting to glue...
     i speak better native than the natives,
and what rewards do i get?
stay, in, line!
                stay, in, line!
sure, let the idiot come first,
and the intelligent foreigners come last -
because: that's just how the world is...
           **** poo = 1000+ sims of
clappers...
           esp. in manchester...
   my mother said: head north -
i say: **** you to hell and your joke
of me:
       i'll sooner fear living too long,
than your woman-kind,
and being unfretted by living too long...
         i have as much fear of death
as i have of: a life...
buttered by what the stereotype doesn't
give away with me being a single child...
again: being qua mechanisation -
the in-endurable "waking"
of what was to certainly come
free, nonetheless in shackles.
if only history knew a genuine of itself
in itself: the perfected
compartmentalism:
an - *arca in arca in arca in arca per se
(a box in a box in a box in a box in itself) -
cf. a babushka doll...
              western society is overladen
with visualisations that lead to no
potent set of words...
                     these people, currently
going down: do, not, know, themselves;
what they know is that they "think"...
the more a people esteem their cleverness
the more stupider their actions
become... the more replicable...
    the more unsatisfactory - the more
congested in repetitive "plagiarism"...
the more clued-up on cluelessness...
    siberia is not exactly the north western,
the south western, or texas,
         i used to love the idea of america,
****, i loved the cinema,
i loved the music,
  but these days?
       the u.s.a. is about as uniform in
politics as any football team aspiring
  for a chance at the world cup...
  the leverages are even...
      the moral compass is:
omnia in aether est -
            america has suddenly started to
not ask a north korean for a shoeshine -
i don't get the *******
  moral "debate" given that there has only
been one country to have dropped the nuke:
twice!
       what's the defence? the cultural
exchange program? only if they kept
it up! they seem slightly limp **** about
how: creativity is not a competitive
market economy: there's not magnetism
to parallel a market and an artist's blank slate:  
in wall street there's no costello moment
of leprechaun-**** appreciation:
     i'am an artist. you give me a fing tuba,
i'll get you something out of it.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
****, shove a woodpecker up my ***,
and i'll get you a canary to play me a,
******* trombone in cough-up beat-box!  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
do these people really think that writing
******* instead of fing will revive
their sadistic dream of abolition?
that's cheap, that's real cheap...
         america, beacon of the west?
beacon of the west?
more like bacon of the west -
never send puritans of huguenots stock:
to do a catholic's job;
just saying...
                who needs these boneless
deflated ******* of "ambition" to
orchestrate the boys they ****** but
never minded to castrate?!
             never send a protestant to
do a catholic's job... otherwise?
you get america...
     pish-poor job you did there:
     america truly is a modern nation:
with inclinations to hollywood medieval -
****, i love my odd exorcism and levitation -
never send a ******* hugh to do a
calvanelli's job -
women complain: 1 period once a month...
sure: and there's me jerking off 30 times a month!
that's what i find wrong with the greeks'
interpretation of the hebrews:
  i was born into a life, and i will live
out a life, in order than, somehow,
archeology can be subverted from
the already given unearthed facts...
                        so they were all pretty ****
mad and irrational...
   or, what?
            for the greek so good with ideas:
as the modern time suggests:
a tad ****** with money.
   or for the jews so good with money:
as the modern times suggest:
a tady ******, and late with their own goal
when it comes to ideas.
born into it: will die in it -
can't shake off the sadomasochism of
christianity, the irrationality of:
back then - even the lunatic was allowed
to talk, and his talk was allowed the freedom
of the talk, given the talk of the lunatic didn't
pick up the sword...
           celebrating christmas
& easter is becoming more and more
uncomfortable for me, year upon year:
since i don't know what i'm exactly "celebrating"...
i'm probably much closer celebrating
keeping my mouth shut,
   than anything coming from
the celebratory gob of cousins who are lesser
read... it's not pedantic,
         it's just what it is...
          i'm already sick with christmas
having a genesis at the beginning of november...
almost coinciding with
the end of halloween...
                         i hate protestant nations
for one concern alone: the joy from lying -
why was lying never a crowning achievement
of sin, that cardinals ought to know best?!
lying was "fun" as a child:
as an adult?
                  lying breeds no thrills -
as apathy being unable to breed a pathology
worthy of being categorised
in that juicing the giraffe nibbling on
a skittels rainbow...
    a lie was never, and never will be:
an elaboration of deception...
a lie always was, and always will be:
a ****** game of chess...
              a lie will always be
the most devastating, yet at the same time:
the most unsatisfactory "revelation"
of a lost sense of trust...
           lies belong to children -
and lies make adult men into boys -
stating the blunt truth is always too
shocking to be said in the "never-to-exist":
unsaid, that is nonetheless said -
without ever encouraging the minotaur's
plague of chasing, and the erosion
of memory -
       it's hard to keep track of lies -
as hard as it must be to forgive oneself
to memorise forgetting,
   as is the opposite scenario of forgetting
to memorise: in the case of alzheimer's...
blunt: sure... the disease of telling lies,
and mismanaging chronology of "this said
unto that actor / that said unto this actor"
and the multiple version of etc.
hey... didn't lord greville janner suffer
from dementia? the most obvious aversion
toward reality is not from the satanic
ritual of "eating the fruit" of
the dichotomy (differentiation) /
dualism (integration) of good & evil...
that's but one act alone -
problem is: to pursue the continuum of
the original sin: lie -
could a crow ever lie that it's not a crow
with a croak?!
  could a dog ever lie that it's not a dog
with a bark?!
dementia is a disease of compulsive liars...
      who lost the plot,
or, to be honest: never had a plot
to begin with: merely: a juggling act.

He readily agrees,
Yes, is
such a deadly disease
and he's got it real bad,

being lonely is sad
but it's curable
endurable and
Yes, is the
placebo
not
the answer.

raised walls painted so that distanced towers stand
recognisably, cast desires public displaced
with prevented wills, spinning crosses effaced
with artificial elements exchanged, artisans' land
ideally used for first reaping, agreements planned
for disagreements, disdain and new deviances, embraced
parrots' ardent admiration is endurable, disgraced
so that facts of recognition are eternally evident, grand
appearances and objects, disinterested
vigilance and changes ever introduced to affairs
honourable, things abstracted neutrally exploring
unreal occasions of opulence, listed
and inherited, favoured for ritual houses and wares
priced, a result of lost words pouring

You are all very plastic
endurable and elastic
fit all
senseless
cheap
and meaningless
artificial
spurious
fake
and insincere
with crocodile tears
easy to find
all blind
and not refined

Waking in the morning
White room, a little light

Dreams I can't remember
Basketball last night

I keep on, keep on writing
Can't say really why

Loneliness is endurable
But I wish that I could lie

In her lap and arms
And cry, cry, cry, cry, cry