You were born five years before the Spanish Civil War that would see your father exiled.
Language came later to you than your little brother Manuel. And you stuttered for a time.
Unlike those who speak incessantly with nothing to say, you were quiet and reserved.
Your mother mistook shyness for dimness, a tragic mistake that scarred you for life.

When your brother Manuel died at the age of three from meningitis, you heard your mom
Exclaim: “God took my bright boy and left me the dull one.” You were four or five.
You never forgot those words. How could you? Yet you loved your mom with all your heart.
But you also withdrew further into a shell, solitude your companion and best friend.

You were, in fact, an exceptional child. Stuttering went away at five or so never to return,
And by the time you were in middle school, your teacher called your mom in for a rare
Conference and told her that yours was a gifted mind, and that you should be prepared
For university study in the sciences, particularly engineering.

She wrote your father exiled in Argentina to tell him the good news, that your teachers
Believed you would easily gain entrance to the (then and now) highly selective public university
Where seats were few, prized and very difficult to attain based on merit-based competitive
Exams. Your father’s response? “Buy him a couple of oxen and let him plow the fields.”

That reply from a highly respected man who was a big fish in a tiny pond in his native Oleiros
Of the time is beyond comprehension. He had apparently opted to preserve his own self-
Interest in having his son continue his family business and also work the family lands in his
Absence. That scar too was added to those that would never heal in your pure, huge heart.

Left with no support for living expenses for college (all it would have required), you moved on,
Disappointed and hurt, but not angry or bitter; you would simply find another way.
You took the competitive exams for the two local military training schools that would provide
An excellent vocational education and pay you a small salary in exchange for military service.

Of hundreds of applicants for the prized few seats in each of the two institutions, you
Scored first for the toughest of the two and thirteenth for the second. You had your pick.
You chose Fabrica de Armas, the lesser of the two, so that a classmate who had scored just
Below the cut-off at the better school could be admitted. That was you. Always and forever.

At the military school, you were finally in your element. You were to become a world-class
Machinist there—a profession that would have gotten you well paid work anywhere on earth
For as long as you wanted it. You were truly a mechanical genius who years later would add
Electronics, auto mechanics and specialized welding to his toolkit through formal training.

Given a well-stocked machine shop, you could reverse engineer every machine without
Blueprints and build a duplicate machine shop. You became a gifted master mechanic
And worked in line and supervisory positions at a handful of companies throughout your life in
Argentina and in the U.S., including Westinghouse, Warner-Lambert, and Pepsi Co.

You loved learning, especially in your fields (electronics, mechanics, welding) and expected
Perfection in everything you did. Every difficult job at work was given to you everywhere you
Worked. You would not sleep at night when a problem needed solving. You’d sketch
And calculate and re-sketch solutions and worked even in your dreams with singular passion.

You were more than a match for the academic and physical rigors of military school,
But life was difficult for you in the Franco era when some instructors would
Deprecatingly refer to you as “Roxo”—Galician for “red”-- reflecting your father’s
Support for the failed Republic. Eventually, the abuse was too much for you to bear.

Once while standing at attention in a corridor with the other cadets waiting for
Roll call, you were repeatedly poked in the back surreptitiously. Moving would cause
Demerits and demerits could cause loss of points on your final grade and arrest for
Successive weekends. You took it awhile, then lost your temper.

You turned to the cadet behind you and in a fluid motion grabbed him by his buttoned jacket
And one-handedly hung him up on a hook above a window where you were standing in line.
He thrashed about, hanging by the back of his jacket, until he was brought down by irate Military instructors.
You got weekend arrest for many weeks and a 10% final grade reduction.

A similar fate befell a co-worker a few years later in Buenos Aires who called you a
*******. You lifted him one handed by his throat and held him there until
Your co-workers intervened, forcibly persuading you to put him down.
That lesson was learned by all in no uncertain terms: Leave Felipe’s mom alone.

You were incredibly strong, especially in your youth—no doubt in part because of rigorous farm
Work, military school training and competitive sports. As a teenager, you once unwisely bent
Down to pick something up in view of a ram, presenting the animal an irresistible target.
It butted you and sent you flying into a haystack. It, too, quickly learned its lesson.

You dusted yourself off, charged the ram, grabbed it by the horns and twirled it around once,
Throwing it atop the same haystack as it had you. The animal was unhurt, but learned to
Give you a wide berth from that day forward. Overall, you were very slow to anger absent
Head-butting, repeated pokings, or disrespectful references to your mom by anyone.    

I seldom saw you angry and it was mom, not you, who was the disciplinarian, slipper in hand.
There were very few slaps from you for me. Mom would smack my behind with a slipper often
When I was little, mostly because I could be a real pain, wanting to know/try/do everything
Completely oblivious to the meaning of the word “no” or of my own limitations.

Mom would sometimes insist you give me a proper beating. On one such occasion for a
Forgotten transgression when I was nine, you  took me to your bedroom, took off your belt, sat
Me next to you and whipped your own arm and hand a few times, whispering to me “cry”,
Which I was happy to do unbidden. “Don’t tell mom.” I did not. No doubt she knew.

The prospect of serving in a military that considered you a traitor by blood became harder and
Harder to bear, and in the third year of school, one year prior to graduation, you left to join
Your exiled father in Argentina, to start a new life. You left behind a mother and two sisters you
Dearly loved to try your fortune in a new land. Your dog thereafter refused food, dying of grief.

You arrived in Buenos Aires to see a father you had not seen for ten years at the age of 17.
You were too young to work legally, but looked older than your years (a shared trait),
So you lied about your age and immediately found work as a Machinist/Mechanic first grade.
That was unheard of and brought you some jealousy and complaints in the union shop.

The union complained to the general manager about your top-salary and rank. He answered,
“I’ll give the same rank and salary to anyone in the company who can do what Felipe can do.”
No doubt the jealousy and grumblings continued by some for a time. But there were no takers.
And you soon won the group over, becoming their protected “baby-brother” mascot.

Your dad left for Spain within a year or so of your arrival when Franco issued a general pardon
To all dissidents who had not spilt blood (e.g., non combatants). He wanted you to return to
Help him reclaim the family business taken over by your mom in his absence with your help.
But you refused to give up the high salary, respect and independence denied you at home.

You were perhaps 18 and alone, living in a single room by a schoolhouse you had shared with Your dad.
But you had also found a new loving family in your uncle José, one of your father’s Brothers, and his family. José, and one of his daughters, Nieves and her
Husband, Emilio, and
Their children, Susana, Oscar (Ruben Gordé), and Osvaldo, became your new nuclear family.

You married mom in 1955 and had two failed business ventures in the quickly fading
Post-WW II Argentina of the late 1950s and early 1960s.The first, a machine shop, left
You with a small fortune in unpaid government contract work.  The second, a grocery store,
Also failed due to hyperinflation and credit extended too easily to needy customers.

Throughout this, you continued earning an exceptionally good salary. But in the mid 1960’s,
Nearly all of it went to pay back creditors of the failed grocery store. We had some really hard
Times. Someday I’ll write about that in some detail. Mom went to work as a maid, including for
Wealthy friends, and you left home at 4:00 a.m. to return long after dark to pay the bills.

 
The only luxury you and mom retained was my Catholic school tuition. There was no other
Extravagance. Not paying bills was never an option for you or mom. It never entered your
Minds. It was not a matter of law or pride, but a matter of honor. There were at least three very
Lean years where you and mom worked hard, earned well but we were truly poor.

You and mom took great pains to hide this from me—and suffered great privations to insulate
Me as best you could from the fallout of a shattered economy and your refusal to cut your loses
Had done to your life savings and to our once-comfortable middle-class life.
We came to the U.S. in the late 1960s after waiting for more than three years for visas—to a new land of hope.

Your sister and brother-in-law, Marisa and Manuel, made their own sacrifices to help bring us
Here. You had about $1,000 from the down payment on our tiny down-sized house, And
Mom’s pawned jewelry. (Hyperinflation and expenses ate up the remaining mortgage payments
Due). Other prized possessions were left in a trunk until you could reclaim them. You never did.

Even the airline tickets were paid for by Marisa and Manuel. You insisted upon arriving on
Written terms for repayment including interest. You were hired on the spot on your first
Interview as a mechanic, First Grade, despite not speaking a word of English. Two months later,
The debt was repaid, mom was working too and we moved into our first apartment.

You worked long hours, including Saturdays and daily overtime, to remake a nest egg.
Declining health forced you to retire at 63 and shortly thereafter you and mom moved out of
Queens into Orange County. You bought a townhouse two hours from my permanent residence
Upstate NY and for the next decade were happy, traveling with friends and visiting us often.

Then things started to change. Heart issues (two pacemakers), colon cancer, melanoma,
Liver and kidney disease caused by your many medications, high blood pressure, gout,
Gall bladder surgery, diabetes . . . . And still you moved forward, like the Energizer Bunny,
Patched up, battered, scarred, bruised but unstoppable and unflappable.

Then mom started to show signs of memory loss along with her other health issues. She was
Good at hiding her own ailments, and we noticed much later than we should have that there
Was a serious problem. Two years ago, her dementia worsening but still functional, she had
Gall bladder surgery with complications that required four separate surgeries in three months.

She never recovered and had to be placed in a nursing home. Several, in fact, as at first she
Refused food and you and I refused to simply let her waste away, which might have been
Kinder, but for the fact that “mientras hay vida, hay esperanza” as Spaniards say.
(While there is Life there is hope.) There is nothing beyond the power of God. Miracles do happen.
 
For two years you lived alone, refusing outside help, engendering numerous arguments about
Having someone go by a few times a week to help clean, cook, do chores. You were nothing if
Not stubborn (yet another shared trait). The last argument on the subject about two weeks ago
Ended in your crying. You’d accept no outside help until mom returned home. Period.

You were in great pain because of bulging discs in your spine and walked with one of those
Rolling seats with handlebars that mom and I picked out for you some years ago. You’d sit
As needed when the pain was too much, then continue with very little by way of complaints.
Ten days ago you finally agreed that you needed to get to the hospital to drain abdominal fluid.

Your failing liver produced it and it swelled your abdomen and lower extremities to the point
Where putting on shoes or clothing was very difficult, as was breathing. You called me from a
Local store crying that you could not find pants that would fit you. We talked, long distance,
And I calmed you down, as always, not allowing you to wallow in self pity but trying to help.

You went home and found a new pair of stretch pants Alice and I had bought you and you were
Happy. You had two changes of clothes that still fit to take to the hospital. No sweat, all was
Well. The procedure was not dangerous and you’d undergone it several times in recent years.
It would require a couple of days at the hospital and I’d see you again on the weekend.

I could not be with you on Monday, February 22 when you had to go to the hospital, as I nearly
Always had, because of work. You were supposed to be admitted the previous Friday, but
Doctors have days off too, and yours could not see you until Monday when I could not get off
Work. But you were not concerned; this was just routine. You’d be fine. I’d see you in just days.

We’d go see mom Friday, when you’d be much lighter and feel much better. Perhaps we’d go
Shopping for clothes if the procedure still left you too bloated for your usual clothes.
You drove to your doctor and then transported by ambulette. I was concerned, but not too Worried.
You called me sometime between five or six p.m. to tell me you were fine, resting.

“Don’t worry. I’m safe here and well cared for.” We talked for a little while about the usual
Things, with my assuring you I’d see you Friday or Saturday. You were tired and wanted to sleep
And I told you to call me if you woke up later that night or I’d speak to you the following day.
Around 10:00 p.m. I got a call from your cell and answered in the usual upbeat manner.

“Hey, Papi.” On the other side was a nurse telling me my dad had fallen. I assured her she was
Mistaken, as my dad was there for a routine procedure to drain abdominal fluid. “You don’t
Understand. He fell from his bed and struck his head on a nightstand or something
And his heart has stopped. We’re working on him for 20 minutes and it does not look good.”

“Can you get here?” I could not. I had had two or three glasses of wine shortly before the call
With dinner. I could not drive the three hours to Middletown. I cried. I prayed.
Fifteen minutes Later I got the call that you were gone. Lost in grief, not knowing what to do, I called my wife.
Shortly thereafter came a call from the coroner. An autopsy was required. I could not see you.

Four days later your body was finally released to the funeral director I had selected for his
Experience with the process of interment in Spain. I saw you for the last time to identify
Your body. I kissed my fingers and touched your mangled brow. I could not even have the
Comfort of an open casket viewing. You wanted cremation. You body awaits it as I write this.

You were alone, even in death alone. In the hospital as strangers worked on you. In the medical
Examiner’s office as you awaited the autopsy. In the autopsy table as they poked and prodded
And further rent your flesh looking for irrelevant clues that would change nothing and benefit
No one, least of all you. I could not be with you for days, and then only for a painful moment.

We will have a memorial service next Friday with your ashes and a mass on Saturday. I will
Never again see you in this life. Alice and I will take you home to your home town, to the
Cemetery in Oleiros, La Coruña, Spain this summer. There you will await the love of your life.
Who will join you in the fullness of time. She could not understand my tears or your passing.

There is one blessing to dementia. She asks for her mom, and says she is worried because she
Has not come to visit in some time. She is coming, she assures me whenever I see her.
You visited her every day except when health absolutely prevented it. You spent this February 10
Apart, your 61st wedding anniversary, too sick to visit her. Nor was I there. First time.

I hope you did not realize you were apart on the 10th but doubt it to be the case. I
Did not mention it, hoping you’d forgotten, and neither did you. You were my link to mom.
She cannot dial or answer a phone, so you would put your cell phone to her ear whenever I
Was not in class or meetings and could speak to her. She always recognized me by phone.

I am three hours from her. I could visit at most once or twice a month. Now even that phone
Lifeline is severed. Mom is completely alone, afraid, confused, and I cannot in the short term at
Least do much about that. You were not supposed to die first. It was my greatest fear, and
Yours, but as with so many things that we cannot change I put it in the back of my mind.

It kept me up many nights, but, like you, I still believed—and believe—in miracles.
I would speak every night with my you, often for an hour, on the way home from work late at
Night during my hour-long commute, or from home on days I worked from home as I cooked
Dinner. I mostly let you talk, trying to give you what comfort and social outlet I could.

You were lonely, sad, stuck in an endless cycle of emotional and physical pain.
Lately you were especially reticent to get off the phone. When mom was home and still
Relatively well, I’d call every day too but usually spoke to you only a few minutes and you’d
Transfer the phone to mom, with whom I usually chatted much longer.

For months, you’d had difficulty hanging up. I knew you did not want to go back to the couch,
To a meaningless TV program, or to writing more bills. You’d say good-bye, or “enough for
Today” and immediately begin a new thread, then repeat the cycle, sometimes five or six times.
You even told me, at least once crying recently, “Just hang up on me or I’ll just keep talking.”

I loved you, dad, with all my heart. We argued, and I’d often scream at you in frustration,
Knowing you would never take it to heart and would usually just ignore me and do as
You pleased. I knew how desperately you needed me, and I tried to be as patient as I could.
But there were days when I was just too tired, too frustrated, too full of other problems.

There were days when I got frustrated with you just staying on the phone for an hour when I
Needed to call Alice, to eat my cold dinner, or even to watch a favorite program. I felt guilty
And very seldom cut a conversation short, but I was frustrated nonetheless even knowing
How much you needed me and also how much I needed you, and how little you asked of me.  

How I would love to hear your voice again, even if you wanted to complain about the same old
Things or tell me in minutest detail some unimportant aspect of your day. I thought I would
Have you at least a little longer. A year? Two? God only knew, and I could hope. There would be
Time. I had so much more to share with you, so much more to learn when life eased up a bit.

You taught me to fish (it did not take) and to hunt (that took even less) and much of what I
Know about mechanics, and electronics. We worked on our cars together for years—from brake
Jobs, to mufflers, to real tune-ups in the days when points, condensers, and timing lights had Meaning, to rebuilding carburetors and fixing rust and dents, and power windows and more.

We were friends, good friends, who went on Sunday drives to favorite restaurants or shopping
For tools when I was single and lived at home. You taught me everything in life that I need to
Know about all the things that matter. The rest is meaningless paper and window dressing.
I knew all your few faults and your many colossal strengths and knew you to be the better man.

Not even close. I could never do what you did. I could never excel in my fields as you did in
Yours.  You were the real deal in every way, from every angle, throughout your life. I did not
Always treat you that way. But I loved you very deeply as anyone who knew us knows.
More importantly, you knew it. I told you often, unembarrassed in the telling. I love you, Dad.

The world was enriched by your journey. You do not leave behind wealth, or a body or work to
Outlive you. You never had your fifteen minutes in the sun. But you mattered. God knows your
Virtue, your absolute integrity, and the purity of your heart. I will never know a better man.
I will love you and miss you and carry you in my heart every day of my life. God bless you, dad.

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I dance,
Because I have to.

For the love of dance?
Hell no.
For the love of the examiner.

My teacher's words,
Screaming constantly into my ears.
What I was doing was wrong,
I would never get points for that.

Smile, not for the audience,
But because the examiner doesn't like
Glum faces.

Oh whatever happened,
To the true meaning of Dance?

I don't know.
It's gone,
just like my happiness,
and hopes,
of being better.

My jumps are not filled with beauty,
but sweat.
My pointe work does not look amazing;
It looks tiresome.

Is there ever going to be a day,
When exams don't matter?
No.
Never.
It will forever count
As my life.

People think I have a choice-
I don't.

I can't dance without being judged;
Heck, dancing is nothing without judgement.
Beg for mercy?
Never.
I'm not weak.

Yes, ballet, to me, is like war
Between me and my teacher,
or maybe me and everyone who thinks otherwise.

I'm nearing my Waterloo,
but I won't surrender yet.

But, maybe I have.

I have been brainwashed.
All I want now is good grades.
A distinction.

I don't love dance,
I do it for everyone else who does.

If you look closely,
You can see my tiresome face,
but soulless eyes.

No one understands,
what I’m trying to say,
so I stop trying.

Yes, I've given up.

I don't dance for myself,
I dance for the examiner.

Motorcycles are fickle things
fleeting as fairies with whizzing wings
don't always work when you want them to
sometimes faultless sometimes poo
mended mine again today
set fire to it as well but hey,
it goes again and kinda smiles
waiting for the happy miles
we do together in the sun
this winters frost has been no fun
My men's bits froze to popcorn size
don't ride in the snow, so say the wise
so wee and slow it won't go quick
been so cold it's made me sick
but got no licence for my car
and my bike though slow gets me quite far
got the car test coming soon
easier to touch the moon
worry so if I will pass
maybe I should offer up my ***?
do the examiner ****** favours
or pray to the lord my only saviour
Hmmm my **** is not so cute,
and prayer is such a selfish route
I'll settle for a mournful wail
when the examiner tells me "Jeremy.. FAIL!"

Name of Teacher:*___________________________________________
Teacher/Course Evaluation: Fall Semester, Humanities Block (History & English) Hopi High School, Keams Canyon, Arizona, Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA).

_______________ (1) This course was: (A) always different; never boring; sometimes even enjoyable (B) like a sleeping pill, an experience similar to having narcolepsy (C) like being sentenced to a maximum-security penitentiary for a semester; what did I do in a previous incarnation that stored up so much bad karma for me to deserve being here?   (D) a semester living under a totalitarian regime; this teacher would have fit right in with ******’s “Gestapo” (E) what I imagine it would have been like at Herot, Hrothgar’s royal mead hall in Beowulf, whenever the monster Grendel came calling.

_______________ (2) This teacher:  (A) knows how to teach, knows a great deal about this subject and others, creates a classroom atmosphere that resonates with teenagers and truly cares whether I show up ready to learn (B) never remembers my name, let alone my birthday (C) actually hates me and has made several attempts on my life (D) should have his license to teach revoked; can wiring my desk for electric shocks be legal?
(E) often wanders off, leaving us alone in the classroom for as long as 30 minutes at a time while out in the parking lot screaming about aliens and/or Bolsheviks.

_______________ (3) Compared to all other teachers I’ve had since kindergarten, this teacher: (A) is one of the best, certainly in the top 10% (B) has the worst personal hygiene; aren’t teachers required to bathe at least once a month? (C) has the least credibility; he tells me nothing but “lies, ****** lies and statistics” (D) frightens me the most, particularly whenever the moon waxes full (E) is obviously the one most in need of a good 12-step recovery program.

_______________ (4) This teacher’s grading system:   (A) is objective and reflects what I earn; not subjectively based on whether he likes my face or not (B) is based on a point system that is clearly explained and fairly administered (C) is based on assignments that are challenging but not impossibly difficult (D) includes opportunities to earn at least some extra credit (E) A, B, C & D (F) none of these; sometimes I think he pulls my grade out of his ***.

_____________(5) If I could change one thing about this teacher or his class, I'd: (A) change nothing: this teacher belongs in Sir Thomas More’s Utopia (B) insist that he use English in the classroom, not that "clicks and pops" sound-effect language he learned while backpacking in sub-Saharan Africa one summer (C) tear down that rice-paper-thin, cardboard wall separating his classroom from the one next door (D) demand that an FBI Trained and Certified Document Examiner review his BIA job application, teaching credential, college transcripts and fingerprint card (E) remove sheep and goats*.

"Wagons East (1994) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0111653/ Internet Movie Database Rating: 4.7/10 - ‎3,545 votes (stylized onscreen as ‘Wagons East’) is a 1994 western comedy film directed by Peter Markleand starring John Candy and Richard Lewis. The film marked one of Candy's last film appearances although it was not his last film release. His last film, Canadian Bacon which he had completed before “Wagons East,” had a delayed release in 1995. The film was notable for its leading actor Candy dying of a heart attack during the final days of the film's production. A stand-in and special effects were used to complete his remaining scenes and it released five months after his death."

And it’s Wagons East!
John Candy’s last mega-bomb,
Released 5 months postmortem.
Alas, even the sympathy vote stayed home,
Reject the we-owe-it-to-him-for
“Planes, Trains & Automobiles”(1987, IMDB).
The role, like money in the bank,
Earning diminishing returns,
Yielding interest but losing value over time.
The myth of INTEREST:
Das Capital, 2015.
The Prime is at 0%,
Yet, Inflation soars at, well,
At inflationary rates,
Digit-pounding inflation,
Higher food & shelter prices,
Masked ever so cleverly,
So deftly obscured by benevolent gasoline prices.

“Planes, Trains & Automobiles” (1987, IMDB)
Meet Del Griffith,
An obnoxious slob,
A complete schlemiel
(Also shle·miel (shlə-mēl′),
A serene shower curtain ring
Salesman and tour de force.
A film illustrative of everything
We love about farce,
(Merci beaucoup, Molière!)
And love about any
John Hughes/Steve Martin collaboration.

Needless to say,
I watched “Wagons East”
On TV the other day.
It was ten o’clock in the morning.
Will-o'-wisping in the ashtray,
Smoke from my first joint of the day.
The ashtray, a mosh pit carbonara--
Actually, an inverted exoskeleton dome--
One of dem big muthas,
I once free-dived for,
Offshore Mendocino Coast,
Back in the day,
Back when THE FRENCH LAUNDRY . . .
(The French Laundry: Thomas Keller Restaurant Group, www.thomaskeller.com. Chef Thomas Keller visited Yountville, California in the early 1990's on a quest for a space to fulfill a longtime culinary dream: to establish a destination for fine --314 Google reviews · Write a review 6640 Washington St, Yountville, CA 94533 (707) 944-2380. Daily Menus - ‎Make a Reservation - ‎Restaurant)
Back when THE FRENCH LAUNDRY
Paid beaucoup bucks for
Well-tenderized,
Sledge hammered slabs of illegal,
Black Market abalone.
Most assuredly, I digress.

So where else would I be?
My laptop was open & willing,
Legs spread, wet and waiting for
Whatever comes what may.
What came was a film
Earning pitch perfect
Dramatic chops for Candy.
We owe you, Del.
We owe you for this Anthem:
“You wanna hurt me? Go right ahead if it makes you feel any better. I'm an easy target. Yeah, you're right, I talk too much. I also listen too much. I could be a cold-hearted cynic like you . . . but I don't like to hurt people's feelings. Well, you think what you want about me; I'm not changing. I like . . . I like me. My wife likes me. My customers like me. Cause I'm the real article. What you see is what you get.”
But that was then,
This is now.
Wagons East:
A disastrous ****** bomb.
A vapid character jambalaya:
(1) A defrocked doctor
(2) A sagebrush *****.
(3) A queer book vendor.
(4) A Donner Party Survivor
Sounds can’t miss, right?
Or was it a classic Broadway/Hollywood sting?
Redux: “Spring Time for ******.”
N'est-ce pas?
Four *******
Heading east by wagon train;
Giving up on The West,
Heading east for Saint Louie,
Where freaks & geeks go undercover.
Down go their guards.
Camouflaging the chimera,
Transits the urban Wasteland,
Vast & nasty, as it were.

St. Louis, Missouri:
A much more tolerant
Hideout place.
THE WEST:
Just too much of
A hassle, I guess,
Too much for one’s
Flat-lined human mind,
Bored too shitless by
Buffalo turds to venture thought.
THE WEST:
Neorealismo italiano.
Complete Jolting-Joe reality,
A veritable wake-up call
Devouring any & all
Residual romantic fantasies . . .
THE WEST:
Struggle & Drudge,
Life lived west of the Mississippi.

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That’s right: another advertisement,
Smack dab in the middle of
Of the ******* poem!
My invention, by the by,
Putting herein another plug for
A preferred memorial gravesite,
The Shrine To Me!
Situated in Scituate,
(Always wanted to say that.)
Scituate MA (www.scituatema.gov)
Knowing my kryptonite crypt,
My not-marble-nor-gilded
Princely-monument,
Had no chance to outlive
This fakakta rhyme scheme . . .
The Shrine To Me!
My final resting place:
My very tony, exclusive
Sub Zip Code?
The South Transept
Westminster Abbey
The so-called Poets’ Corner,
Of course!

Which brings me to my true purpose:
My true intentions for you this morning?
To publicize the strange Case of
CHARLES ROCKET:
(Go ahead, ******* Google him!)
“Charlie Rocket, found dead in a field near
His Connecticut home on October 7, 2005,
His throat had been cut.
He was 56 years old.
The state medical examiner
Later ruled the death a suicide.”
And if you believe the Coroner,
A Medicine Man &
Master of Self-Interest;
If you give that sharp-dealing,
Proverbial Connecticut Yankee his due,
Then you will probably also think
That millionaire Robert Durst
Didn’t **** Susan Berman,
Even as we see him
Getting away with ******.
Again.

you know, i’ve been thinking a lot about comets
because all stars are destined to explode
and the more light you give off
the faster you burn out
i guess this is why they say only the good die young,
i guess i’ll live forever
but immortality sounds lonely and most living legends tie their own nooses,
and the rest of us live just by making excuses
i'd count out all the stars in between us like miles
but you're half way round the world and i'm more than a few days behind
i'd count out all the stars between us, make promises and wishes on them
but i know they’d both be empty
but stars are always dead on arrival
but you’re too far away even if you're right next to me
we were looking at the same stars, just not the same constellations
and i'm so ******* sorry for all the things i let burn out,
all the things i let go ruined instead of dealing with them
i’m afraid of failure so sometimes i don’t try at all
i’m sorry you got the worst parts of me
i’m sorry you got my collisions instead of constellations

you know, i’ve been thinking a lot about comets
because you were afraid of commitment mostly because
you thought you were supposed to be and i said
i love you like a bomb going off too soon
my whole body is on fire,
you ignite me like lighter-fluid and bad decisions
and the best things burn out fast
the shortest lights burn the brightest
it’s science, it’s physics, we can’t fight this
we were doomed from the start, it’s inevitable
that we have to take things apart
somebody told me love is having the perfect opportunity
to hurt somebody and letting it go,
so i guess that’s how i know we’re not in love
because we hurt each other just to prove that the other one
still cared enough for it to sting
because i learned that you’re not real unless you make marks,
so i hope it ******* scars
i hope you can always see the bruises in the shape of my lips
i hope you never forget

you know, i’ve been thinking a lot about comets
i’ve been thinking about whether comets or craters are more important
whether it’s about the way you blaze out or just your ashes
whether it’s about what you do or what you leave behind
i’ve been thinking about why we treat
black holes and supernovas as opposites
when they’re really not that different at all
both catastrophes in their own right, yet one of them seems more poetic
but you don’t get to decide the amount of pain you’ve inflicted,
we are all afflicted with this thinking that we’re the only exception
i think we are all guilty of thinking
we’re supernovas instead of blackholes

you know, i’ve been thinking a lot about comets
i’m a mess and not just metaphorically,
sometimes i kind of think i’d be a lot happier without
all the things that make me myself
i am in a glass jar watching myself implode because
i kind of wish i was born with more serotonin and a different kind of motivation,
like i’m an observer to myself
and i’ve always viewed my own heart breaks
almost as the out-of-body experience, like a third party
investigating the remains of what was or what wasn’t
i am the medical examiner of my heart
and poetry is a lot like dissection
and love is a lot like hate
and living is a lot like dying
but regret is just a waste of emotion and love is just a waste of devotion
and going out with a bang
is much more glamorous than going out with a whimper
and nobody talks about slow burn, only the explosion
if you were a star then you were a shooting one,
and you’re always most popular the day after you die
but i’m done with that ****,
this is not a dead poet’s society
this is a society of poets who wanted to die but didn’t
because i think this might be a sad poem,
but i am not a sad person or at least i've been trying not to be
because we were all born to die, but we were also all born to live
measured by the blaze of our burnout, the trail behind us
i’ve been thinking a lot about comets
i’ve been thinking a lot about comets
i’ve been thinking a lot about comets

performing autopsies on our old conversations
dissecting every angle and standpoint
checking every pulse-point and spark of life in the words you once said to me
and while i know them to be poison laced, nothing seems amiss

Speculation proved
contagious,
misinterpretation
crept silently on patchwork soles
(odds n' sods messily stitched,
tittle tattle did no favours)
like a flu it spread,
hushed curiosities rested
outside ol' Hutch baker's door,
where even a freshly oven'd
batch might strain an ear
or five to net nearby tongue trading,
seeds straining on their brows.

Even those Mother hens
had a cluck or two left in them,
rumours about the
'Dust mite Martyr'
as she was dubbed,
“Does she have no shame,
sitting pretty in Matrimony's dress?”
one heaving checkered breast commented
titling her beak
to gain a better look -

At that shriveller slumped,
an examiner of the cobbles
with such a religious stare
her lids traced stones
within the darkness,
a traveller -
wanderer not to be trusted,
especially not
with bloodied lilies tangled
within her gleaming mop.

"where did all it start to go wrong,
when my doctor told me i didn't have long,
cancer treatments too **** expensive-
wife's in charge and I'm **** retentive,

can't get a job,can't get a loan,
maybe I can figure how to work from home?
My future's like Heisenberg,too uncertain,
provide for my family,before its curtains...

I'm a chemistry teacher and chemistry rules me,
but so many unknown's too easy to fool me,
but how can I do it?can't even guess,
unless,unless,I start to cook ****?

Unless as a teacher I get someone to school me,
I know the principles(principals), just need the tools,see,
I can't tell my wife-can't tell my son,
that my stars burning out like a fading sun,
a trailer park cookout,will it be a mess,
first batch *****!(Jesse sample)total **** success,
but success in this business can lead to death,
p.e. number one,-Heisenberg of ****,

Gotta deal with this ******,name of Tuco,
might shake your hand,cut your throat or shoot you,
I was a 9 to 5 loser-happy teaching chemistry,
now I deal in in death,spreading pain and misery,
My partners a ******,my wife doesn't get-

That I'm like a medical examiner,surrounded by death,
Jesus Jesse you're a pane in my ***,
it's looking clear to me,you're too fond of the glass,
mirror mirror,where's the fairest price for us?,
I've heard of this one guy,name of Gus...

your arteries are wired to
sound an alarm if thieves
come to rob you of your heart
but I swiftly stole the wrinkles
on your brain so maybe you’d forget
the mole below my left eye, the
faded birthmark embedded in my left shoulder

if that makes me a criminal dress
me in tangerine, let me play
tug of war with a noose

I took a polygraph test last night, the examiner
asked if I still loved you
I whispered no but the needle painted
the cadence of your voice instead

À MADEMOISELLE LOUISE B.

I.

- Ainsi donc rien de grand, rien de saint, rien de pur,
Rien qui soit digne, ô ciel ! de ton regret d'azur !
Rien qui puisse anoblir le vil siècle où nous sommes,
Ne sortira du cœur de l'homme enfant des hommes !
Homme ! esprit enfoui sous les besoins du corps !
Ainsi, jouir ; descendre à tâtons chez les morts ;
Être à tout ce qui rampe, à tout ce qui s'envole,
A l'intérêt sordide, à la vanité folle ;
Ne rien savoir - qu'emplir, sans souci du devoir,
Une charte de mots ou d'écus un comptoir ;
Ne jamais regarder les voûtes étoilées ;
Rire du dévouement et des vertus voilées ;
Voilà ta vie, hélas ! et tu n'as, nuit et jour,
Pour espoir et pour but, pour culte et pour amour,
Qu'une immonde monnaie aux carrefours traînée
Et qui te laisse aux mains sa rouille empoissonnée !
Et tu ne comprends pas que ton destin, à toi,
C'est de penser ! c'est d'être un mage et d'être un roi ;
C'est d'être un alchimiste alimentant la flamme
Sous ce sombre alambic que tu nommes ton âme,
Et de faire passer par ce creuset de feu
La nature et le monde, et d'en extraire Dieu !

Quoi ! la brute a sa sphère et l'éléments sa règle !
L'onde est au cormoran et la neige est à l'aigle.
Tout a sa région, sa fonction, son but.
L'écume de la mer n'est pas un vain rebut ;
Le flot sait ce qu'il fait ; le vent sait qui le pousse ;
Comme un temple où toujours veille une clarté douce,
L'étoile obéissante éclaire le ciel bleu ;
Le lys s'épanouit pour la gloire de Dieu ;
Chaque matin, vibrant comme une sainte lyre,
L'oiseau chante ce nom que l'aube nous fait lire.
Quoi ! l'être est plein d'amour, le monde est plein de foi
Toute chose ici-bas suit gravement sa loi,
Et ne sait obéir, dans sa fierté divine,
L'oiseau qu'à son instinct, l'arbre qu'à sa racine !
Quoi ! l'énorme océan qui monte vers son bord,
Quoi ! l'hirondelle au sud et l'aimant vers le nord
La graine ailée allant au **** choisir sa place,
Le nuage entassé sur les îles de glace,
Qui, des cieux tout à coup traversant la hauteur,
Croule au souffle d'avril du pôle à l'équateur,
Le glacier qui descend du haut des cimes blanches,
La sève qui s'épand dans les fibres des branches,
Tous les objets créés, vers un but sérieux,
Les rayons dans les airs, les globes dans les cieux,
Les fleuves à travers les rochers et les herbes,
Vont sans se détourner de leurs chemins superbes !
L'homme a seul dévié ! - Quoi ! tout dans l'univers,
Tous les êtres, les monts, les forêts, les prés verts,
Le jour dorant le ciel, l'eau lavant les ravines,
Ont encore, comme au jour où de ses mains divines
Jéhova sur Adam imprima sa grandeur,
Toute leur innocence et toute leur candeur !
L'homme seul est tombé !- Fait dans l'auguste empire
Pour être le meilleur, il en devient le pire,
Lui qui devait fleurir comme l'arbre choisi,
Il n'est plus qu'un tronc vil au branchage noirci,
Que l'âge déracine et que le vice effeuille,
Dont les rameaux n'ont pas de fruit que Dieu recueille,
Où jamais sans péril nous ne nous appuyons,
Où la société greffe les passions !
Chute immense ! il ignore et nie, ô providence !
Tandis qu'autour de lui la création pense !

Ô honte ! en proie aux sens dont le joug l'asservit,
L'homme végète auprès de la chose qui vit !

II.

Comme je m'écriais ainsi, vous m'entendîtes ;
Et vous, dont l'âme brille en tout ce que vous dites,
Vous tournâtes alors vers moi paisiblement
Votre sourire triste, ineffable et calmant :

- L'humanité se lève, elle chancelle encore,
Et, le front baigné d'ombre, elle va vers l'aurore.
Tout l'homme sur la terre a deux faces, le bien
Et le mal. Blâmer tout, c'est ne comprendre rien.
Les âmes des humains d'or et de plomb sont faites.
L'esprit du sage est grave, et sur toutes les têtes
Ne jette pas sa foudre au hasard en éclats.
Pour le siècle où l'on vit - comme on y souffre, hélas ! -
On est toujours injuste, et tout y paraît crime.
Notre époque insultée a son côté sublime.
Vous l'avez dit vous-même, ô poète irrité ! -

Dans votre chambre, asile illustre et respecté,
C'est ainsi que, sereine et simple, vous parlâtes.
Votre front, au reflet des damas écarlates,
Rayonnait, et pour moi, dans cet instant profond,
Votre regard levé fit un ciel du plafond.

L'accent de la raison, auguste et pacifique,
L'équité, la pitié, la bonté séraphique,
L'oubli des torts d'autrui, cet oubli vertueux
Qui rend à leur insu les fronts majestueux,
Donnaient à vos discours, pleins de clartés si belles,
La tranquille grandeur des choses naturelles,
Et par moments semblaient mêler à votre voix
Ce chant doux et voilé qu'on entend dans les bois.

III.

Pourquoi devant mes yeux revenez-vous sans cesse,
Ô jours de mon enfance et de mon allégresse ?
Qui donc toujours vous rouvre en nos cœurs presque éteints
Ô lumineuse fleur des souvenirs lointains ?

Oh ! que j'étais heureux ! oh ! que j'étais candide !
En classe, un banc de chêne, usé, lustré, splendide,
Une table, un pupitre, un lourd encrier noir,
Une lampe, humble sœur de l'étoile du soir,
M'accueillaient gravement et doucement. Mon maître,
Comme je vous l'ai dit souvent, était un prêtre
A l'accent calme et bon, au regard réchauffant,
Naïf comme un savant, malin comme un enfant,
Qui m'embrassait, disant, car un éloge excite :
- Quoiqu'il n'ait que neuf ans, il explique Tacite. -
Puis près d'Eugène, esprit qu'hélas ! Dieu submergea,
Je travaillais dans l'ombre, - et je songeais déjà.

Tandis que j'écrivais, - sans peur, mais sans système,
Versant le barbarisme à grands flots sur le thème,
Inventant les auteurs de sens inattendus,
Le dos courbé, le front touchant presque au Gradus, -
Je croyais, car toujours l'esprit de l'enfant veille,
Ouïr confusément, tout près de mon oreille,
Les mots grecs et latins, bavards et familiers,
Barbouillés d'encre, et gais comme des écoliers,
Chuchoter, comme font les oiseaux dans une aire,
Entre les noirs feuillets du lourd dictionnaire.
Bruits plus doux que le bruit d'un essaim qui s'enfuit,
Souffles plus étouffés qu'un soupir de la nuit,
Qui faisaient par instants, sous les fermoirs de cuivre,
Frissonner vaguement les pages du vieux livre !

Le devoir fait, légers comme de jeunes daims,
Nous fuyions à travers les immenses jardins,
Éclatant à la fois en cent propos contraires.
Moi, d'un pas inégal je suivais mes grands frères ;
Et les astres sereins s'allumaient dans les cieux,
Et les mouches volaient dans l'air silencieux,
Et le doux rossignol, chantant dans l'ombre obscure,
Enseignait la musique à toute la nature,
Tandis qu'enfant jaseur aux gestes étourdis,
Jetant partout mes yeux ingénus et hardis
D'où jaillissait la joie en vives étincelles,
Je portais sous mon bras, noués par trois ficelles,
Horace et les festins, Virgile et les forêts,
Tout l'Olympe, Thésée, Hercule, et toi Cérès,
La cruelle Junon, Lerne et l'hydre enflammée,
Et le vaste lion de la roche Némée.

Mais, lorsque j'arrivais chez ma mère, souvent,
Grâce au hasard taquin qui joue avec l'enfant,
J'avais de grands chagrins et de grandes colères.
Je ne retrouvais plus, près des ifs séculaires,
Le beau petit jardin par moi-même arrangé.
Un gros chien en passant avait tout ravagé.
Ou quelqu'un dans ma chambre avait ouvert mes cages,
Et mes oiseaux étaient partis pour les bocages,
Et, joyeux, s'en étaient allés de fleur en fleur
Chercher la liberté bien ****, - ou l'oiseleur.
Ciel ! alors j'accourais, rouge, éperdu, rapide,
Maudissant le grand chien, le jardinier stupide,
Et l'infâme oiseleur et son hideux lacet,
Furieux ! - D'un regard ma mère m'apaisait.

IV.

Aujourd'hui, ce n'est pas pour une cage vide,
Pour des oiseaux jetés à l'oiseleur avide,
Pour un dogue aboyant lâché parmi les fleurs,
Que mon courroux s'émeut. Non, les petits malheurs
Exaspèrent l'enfant ; mais, comme en une église,
Dans les grandes douleurs l'homme se tranquillise.
Après l'ardent chagrin, au jour brûlant pareil,
Le repos vient au cœur comme aux yeux le sommeil.
De nos maux, chiffres noirs, la sagesse est la somme.
En l'éprouvant toujours, Dieu semble dire à l'homme :
- Fais passer ton esprit à travers le malheur ;
Comme le grain du crible, il sortira meilleur. -
J'ai vécu, j'ai souffert, je juge et je m'apaise.
Ou si parfois encor la colère mauvaise
Fait pencher dans mon âme avec son doigt vainqueur
La balance où je pèse et le monde et mon cœur ;
Si, n'ouvrant qu'un seul œil, je condamne et je blâme,
Avec quelques mots purs, vous, sainte et noble femme,
Vous ramenez ma voix qui s'irrite et s'aigrit
Au calme sur lequel j'ai posé mon esprit ;
Je sens sous vos rayons mes tempêtes se taire ;
Et vous faites pour l'homme incliné, triste, austère,
Ce que faisait jadis pour l'enfant doux et beau
Ma mère, ce grand cœur qui dort dans le tombeau !

V.

Écoutez à présent. - Dans ma raison qui tremble,
Parfois l'une après l'autre et quelquefois ensemble,
Trois voix, trois grandes voix murmurent.

L'une dit :
- « Courrouce-toi, poète. Oui, l'enfer applaudit
Tout ce que cette époque ébauche, crée ou tente.
Reste indigné. Ce siècle est une impure tente
Où l'homme appelle à lui, voyant le soir venu,
La volupté, la chair, le vice infâme et nu.
La vérité, qui fit jadis resplendir Rome,
Est toujours dans le ciel ; l'amour n'est plus dans l'homme.
« Tout rayon jaillissant trouve tout œil fermé.
Oh ! ne repousse pas la muse au bras armé
Qui visitait jadis comme une austère amie,
Ces deux sombres géants, Amos et Jérémie !
Les hommes sont ingrats, méchants, menteurs, jaloux.
Le crime est dans plusieurs, la vanité dans tous ;
Car, selon le rameau dont ils ont bu la sève,
Ils tiennent, quelques-uns de Caïn, et tous d'Ève.

« Seigneur ! ta croix chancelle et le respect s'en va.
La prière décroît. Jéhova ! Jéhova !
On va parlant tout haut de toi-même en ton temple.
Le livre était la loi, le prêtre était l'exemple ;
Livre et prêtre sont morts. Et la foi maintenant,
Cette braise allumée à ton foyer tonnant,
Qui, marquant pour ton Christ ceux qu'il préfère aux autres,
Jadis purifiait la lèvre des apôtres,
N'est qu'un charbon éteint dont les petits enfants
Souillent ton mur avec des rires triomphants ! » -

L'autre voix dit : - « Pardonne ! aime ! Dieu qu'on révère,
Dieu pour l'homme indulgent ne sera point sévère.
Respecte la fourmi non moins que le lion.
Rêveur ! rien n'est petit dans la création.
De l'être universel l'atome se compose ;
Dieu vit un peu dans tout, et rien n'est peu de chose.
Cultive en toi l'amour, la pitié, les regrets.
Si le sort te contraint d'examiner de près
L'homme souvent frivole, aveugle et téméraire,
Tempère l'œil du juge avec les pleurs du frère.
Et que tout ici-bas, l'air, la fleur, le gazon ;
Le groupe heureux qui joue au seuil de ta maison ;
Un mendiant assis à côté d'une gerbe ;
Un oiseau qui regarde une mouche dans l'herbe ;
Les vieux livres du quai, feuilletés par le vent,
D'où l'esprit des anciens, subtil, libre et vivant,
S'envole, et, souffle errant, se mêle à tes pensées ;
La contemplation de ces femmes froissées
Qui vivent dans les pleurs comme l'algue dans l'eau ;
L'homme, ce spectateur ; le monde, ce tableau ;
Que cet ensemble auguste où l'insensé se blase
Tourne de plus en plus ta vie et ton extase
Vers l'œil mystérieux qui nous regarde tous,
Invisible veilleur ! témoin intime et doux !
Principe ! but ! milieu ! clarté ! chaleur ! dictame !
Secret de toute chose entrevu par toute l'âme !
« N'allume aucun enfer au tison d'aucun feu.
N'aggrave aucun fardeau. Démontre l'âme et Dieu,
L'impérissable esprit, la tombe irrévocable ;
Et rends douce à nos fronts, que souvent elle accable,
La grande main qui grave en signes immortels
JAMAIS ! sur les tombeaux ; TOUJOURS ! sur les autels. »

La troisième voix dit : - « Aimer ? haïr ? qu'importe !
Qu'on chante ou qu'on maudisse, et qu'on entre ou qu'on sorte,
Le mal, le bien, la mort, les vices, les faux dieux,
Qu'est-ce que tout cela fait au ciel radieux ?
La végétation, vivante, aveugle et sombre,
En couvre-t-elle moins de feuillages sans nombre,
D'arbres et de lichens, d'herbe et de goëmons,
Les prés, les champs, les eaux, les rochers et les monts ?
L'onde est-elle moins bleue et le bois moins sonore ?
L'air promène-t-il moins, dans l'ombre et dans l'aurore,
Sur les clairs horizons, sur les flots décevants,
Ces nuages heureux qui vont aux quatre vents ?
Le soleil qui sourit aux fleurs dans les campagnes,
Aux rois dans les palais, aux forçats dans les bagnes,
Perd-il, dans la splendeur dont il est revêtu,
Un rayon quand la terre oublie une vertu ?
Non, Pan n'a pas besoin qu'on le prie et qu'on l'aime.
Ô sagesse ! esprit pur ! sérénité suprême !
Zeus ! Irmensul ! Wishnou ! Jupiter ! Jéhova !
Dieu que cherchait Socrate et que Jésus trouva !
Unique Dieu ! vrai Dieu ! seul mystère ! seule âme !
Toi qui, laissant tomber ce que la mort réclame,
Fis les cieux infinis pour les temps éternels !
Toi qui mis dans l'éther plein de bruits solennels,
Tente dont ton haleine émeut les sombres toiles,
Des millions d'oiseaux, des millions d'étoiles !
Que te font, ô Très-Haut ! les hommes insensés,
Vers la nuit au hasard l'un par l'autre poussés,
Fantômes dont jamais tes yeux ne se souviennent,
Devant ta face immense ombres qui vont et viennent ! »

VI.

Dans ma retraite obscure où, sous mon rideau vert,
Luit comme un œil ami maint vieux livre entrouvert,
Où ma bible sourit dans l'ombre à mon Virgile,
J'écoute ces trois voix. Si mon cerveau fragile
S'étonne, je persiste ; et, sans peur, sans effroi,
Je les laisse accomplir ce qu'elles font en moi.
Car les hommes, troublés de ces métamorphoses,
Composent leur sagesse avec trop peu de choses.
Tous ont la déraison de voir la Vérité
Chacun de sa fenêtre et rien que d'un côté,
Sans qu'aucun d'eux, tenté par ce rocher sublime,
Aille en faire le tour et monte sur sa cime.
Et de ce triple aspect des choses d'ici-bas,
De ce triple conseil que l'homme n'entend pas,
Pour mon cœur où Dieu vit, où la haine s'émousse,
Sort une bienveillance universelle et douce
Qui dore comme une aube et d'avance attendrit
Le vers qu'à moitié fait j'emporte en mon esprit
Pour l'achever aux champs avec l'odeur des plaines
Et l'ombre du nuage et le bruit des fontaines !

Avril 1840.

The medical Examiner was dumbfounded and shocked
By what he saw when he opened her up
The heart was where the brain should be
And in the area where the heart should be was a note
It read the following:

Dear examiner
            I couldn't come up with worthwhile ideas until I left these matters
to the heart. so I took out my brain you see, and replaced it with something far more useful, but unfortunately that has left me in a pickle because I forgot I needed it to breath. I guess being the person I am, matters of the heart were far more important.
                       Sincerely with love,
                                        the dead girl

Past
Is like
An answer sheet
Handed over to the examiner

Memory
Is a helplessness
That cannot be edited

I am helpless
No matter
What you think about me

I am a stone
That has hauled itself
Through muddled waters for long

You might assume that
I am
A garden pebble

Be careful

If you are hurt
I’ll suffer.


translator : Shyma P

The colour of my eyes completely burnt,

It’s nothing I’ve been smoking- no you weren’t

I know because you’re weak

And he adds another streak

One of those colourful lines across your back

The umpteenth whack,

I no longer keep track

For the pain isn’t physical

My motives aren’t biblical

I know I am despicable

My story, oh so typical



A screech, loud enough to make ears bleed

It makes fluids trickle down, 

From blood to tears and both mislead

As they quickly merge,

Combining their strength of hurting

On the verge of a surge

Of energy, shooting through my body

This heap of bones and coloured flesh

Because that’s all I am

This is just an exam

The hardest one ever, though

Wait, this one I know!

I grab my pen and start writing

The ink isn’t blue, maybe it’s the lighting

It may sting but I’m getting the answer down

As I wince in pain the examiner greets me,

with a frown

This examiner is the toughest,

He is the roughest

No empathy

He exists because of an imbalance,

We’re diving into the chemistry

Not drowning for once as this we get,

Yet I sweat as this man is still a threat

He’s been waiting for me for a long time
I bet.


The eyes behind mine

Those evil-coloured ones,

They feel like dying

But those are only his

And I don’t plan on doing what he says

For I’m the real one,

Purposely look right at the sun

That coloured fiery ball of flames,

“Oh you’ll pay for that” He claims



Now my mind lacks colour,

Now there’s nothing to discover

No place to go, no place to be

Different shades, they hold the key

Key to my heart, key to my understanding

As to why my mind is so demanding

All is shadow but there’s no shade

You’d need the light for that

I reach for the blade

At least it’ll bring back some colour

Who knows what I’ll discover


We’ll walk around in this world together

Covered in blood

I’m completely shaking and I hear you say

“We’ll be alright, bud.”

It somehow comforts me, my only friend

He really cares, yet together we descend

Down this palette of colours
The last one I get stuck in

The ****** blood-coloured red

The only real colour in my head

A feeling of dread,

Just let me lay in bed until I’m dead



The colour trickles down my temple as I utter

“It was worth it.”

Now let me rest,

Put me five feet under

I am Joe's bloodshot eyes.
I am Joe's clenched fist.
I am Joe's irregular heartbeat.
I am Joe's yearning ****** desire.
I am Joe's failing chemical receptors.
I am Joe's overdose.
I am Joe's attempted ******.
I am Joe's official autopsy.
I am Joe's medical examiner saying that he died from a cerebral hemorrhage.
I am Joe's mass grave.
I am Joe's lack of family and friends.
I am Joe's mistakes.

As the medical examiner
Examines the human
Brain
Does he/ she
Notice the deep dark cravases
And ridges  
That some one can
Fall into
Not coming back
As trekking it
Is dangerous.

a schoolgirl found me in
High Park with my hands
clutched to my chest
on a red

sheet, under a dead cherry blossom
the dress I was wearing was
the one you gave me to celebrate

our underwhelming tax rebate
and the fact that I was eating again
the examiner said I looked
apathetic,

like dying was the next item on my to-do list

I could have sworn I had only taken
                           2
                         (22)
pink

ones to match the blossoms
the *** sleeping on the bench was my new best friend
and the barista at Starbucks asked for my name

and I realized
I hadn’t been asked that in months;
                       my name
                      my blood type
                      my ETA
what colour was the mole on my stomach?
and when did I first learn to

ride a bike?

the last time I smiled was
June 17, 2013.
In the paper they put a picture of it
and wrote “Woman Found”
they should’ve put a close-up
of my hollow eyes.

do i feel a moral superiority? of course i do,
why wouldn't i?
                      i'm sort of bored,
you know the type of bored: i am  white
but i have no colonial history to boot
or shy away  from...
               there are two Europes,
let me be frank about that...
                            i don't necessarily like what
Polish immigration did to the place,
primarily there's no commonwealth surgeon
to put the pieces together...
                 but the English started a war
over the invasion of Poland,
                     oh right, blame me,
and shut the **** up about the ******* being treated
like cattle?
                            honestly, the only book
i'll ever read by Dickens will be the volume xviii
american notes, pictures from Italy, contributions
to "the examiner" - prior to entering the field
of transcendental methodology via Kant
              i'll just say: there's no point reading
phonetic encoding of a narrative once the images are
produced - once a book is turned into a movie,
there's no point reading it...
          i'm was never favourable of Dickens,
like i was never favourable of Popper...
    but the obscure works demand attention...
i''ll be moving from France to England
(via Voltaire) and from England to America
via Dickens... once i finish Kant;
once i finish Kant.
                                      and a rare day, i made a purchase,
cage the elephant's album melophobia arrived today,
two singles (after listening to the album twice,
it's safe, under 40 minutes and ten tracks),
track no. 4 - it's just forever and track no. 7 -
black window - this is why i feel morally superior,
i'm actually investing in art...
                       lucky me born in the 20th century,
i actually desire the need to buy art,
      and not be some chimp pirate of the Napster Caribbean,
i really don't know where my contemporaries are
coming from, and to be honest? i, don't, want, to, know.
       **** them and their armchairs!
              their idea of art is non-representative of
the general vocation of necessarily having a: view.
     to me they're a bit like:
mr. spandex telling people it's stretch-Armstrong elastic -
but it ******* ain't!
                                  the once defended Poles are
dubbed vermin, oh sure, it makes sense
to keep a lid on former colonials as sacred Hindu
cows - and do i sometimes wish i came to England
aged 2 and not aged 8 and never heard of
the Kashubian dialect? or the Silesian?
               or the pan-Serbian of the Sorbian language?
i probably wish that to be true...
            i cut my thumb and pinky fingers on the culinary
guillotine known as the mandolin when beheading
cabbage for a cold-Slough
                      (easier done than accurate spelling)
  even better: coal-slow
              (plus the carrot and the onion
and plenty of mayo) -
                             i wish i could fully become British,
say a golden ******* to Poland, as Poland already
served it... which is why i'm in England....
           but England isn't exactly a daffodil -
        the past haunts it, which i'm not a part of,
when i say: i'm a citizen of the world i mean:
globalisation, and i mean: when i was in Africa
i was a tourist in Kenya, i enjoyed the presence
of those little cherub monkeys on the balcony,
and i hid from from the sun and couldn't stand the heat...
saints? we? better ask the Lithuanians and the Ukrainians...
but they're a bit busy these days...
    that's why i don't feature in the global politics of
the trinity that's England, France and Spain...
                   i am not really into Polish catholic antics either...
i just don't understand why i need to have to acquire
all these ******* identifiers in order to speak the ****** tongue:
maybe i am, after all, redefining what speaking English
actually means...
                             you can never really escape a revision of
the language...
                                as a citizen of the world, i am against
those famed idioms, later pronounced as: idiosyncratic -
   i'm neither Polish nor am i ******* English -
i took to the assertion: conquering the use of a language
is more pristine in encouraged effort to assimilate
than writing a Domesday Book analysis...
                        but i simply cannot shy away from
addressing the insults while the holy cows of the former
empire walk freely and to a violin tune of necessary
revolutions taking place...
                  the argument goes along the line:
the Soviets had a bigger empire than the British...
                   landmass and what not aside...
i just can't be the two together...
                      all i have it two more purchases...
the debut album by cage the elephant with the song
that made me purchase is soil to the sun -
and the notes volume ii - vi by Heidegger -
do i feel morally superior? well, i'm actually investing
in art... in a world providing the ratio 100:1 =
100 streams = 1 equivalent purchase...
                i find it damnable that so few people invest
in art these days...
            and yes, i do feel morally superior, why the **** no?!
but i will never rid myself of my foremost tongue
to look pretty in a society that's verging on the most
utterly ugly...
                            i'll never be at home either here (England)
or there (Poland) - i feel no affiliation
   of a desired patriotic demand in either place -
                                          both countries can burn for
all i care: Poland for its catholic demands,
                  England for its political correctness:
if i already didn't mention: the most despotic quote
came from democracy in the French Enlightenment period:
all men are born equal...
                                        if ever a greater falsification
was ever uttered - in that realm of political science -
                 men are not born equal,
                               the Olympics proves this foremost -
trying to make this saying the norm
             will only, eventually, make a large number of
good men into debilitated lunatics -
          all of this without the mouth that spoke the utterance,
no Saddam Hussein will hang as being attributed with this
maxim... still the many good men will be turned into
debilitated lunatics to ensure the invisible dictator has his sway
in ensuring the conformist agenda is met with
             due nod-whether-vote-or-veto approval...
                        democracy at its most human,
mob rule overpowers a singled out agenda...
                                       third party Pilates washing their
hands clean off the implementation of the zeitgeist agendas
but nonetheless keeping the profits.

lean boys with bruised skin line the walls—
he turns; last five dollars already to the funhouse manager
(thank you, ma'am)
he reminds himself not to inhale, for fear that he will remember the emptiness of the carpet beneath his feet and in his throat and in his eyes
indulging worst nightmares seemed like a better idea on the fields of the fairground,
where he couldn't escape shifting eyes and spun pink silk and the bloating in the photos that the medical examiner took when his body washed up onshore
he is surrounded when his eyes are closed,
with the water by the beach, inhaling like he'll never breathe again and he breathes you in, you in every state of matter
melted eyes and cheap cologne; and he is drenched in the molasses voice he knew in another life,
before
before
when he was young and glittering
when he was untouchable
immortal
the mirrors reflect luxury in the form of decent highs and indecent clothes and
movement in the night as they never stop;
heaven to africa, and not back again

You would think him a villain; you would call him a thief
But he would just shrug and say “We all have to eat.”
On the Petersburg siege lines, he’d just made a score;
A rusted old bayonet used in our Civil War.

There are scores of collectors who would pay a good price.
They wouldn’t ask questions, they wouldn’t think twice.
He cared nothing for the History of the Blue and the Grey.
Only for the money the collector would pay.

The Sun was descending when he left from the Park
He bought some Tequila, to drink in the dark.
in a third rate motel that didn’t leave the lights on.
By three the next morning the Tequila was gone.

The thief had bad dreams, in his ***** induced sleep.
of a specter in gray at his bed near his feet:.
The ghost of a drummer from that long ago war.
The thief shook with fear at the visage he saw.

The blade he had stolen was now in the Ghost’s hands.
The ghost grimly eyed him with the soul of one dammed.
The blade shattered his ribs and ripped him apart.
As darkness descended it tore open his heart..

The medical examiner was called the next day.
A horrified maid found the body, they say.
His room had been locked. He’d bled out on the ground
The hall cameras showed nothing; no weapon was found

It was 2 a.m. and I was  
unable to sleep.

I heard the awful news
that you were no longer
with us.

I was told that you
took a bullet,
and that death was instant.

I cried my heart out
the whole ride back
to NYC from Rhode Island.

I spoke to the Medical Examiner
over the phone and was
sent a copy of the autopsy.  

You were my older brother
and I looked up to you
for guidance in life.

New York City raised you
but Oklahoma is where
you expired.

I long to have you
back but you instead came
home in ashes.

Maintenant que Paris, ses pavés et ses marbres,
Et sa brume et ses toits sont bien **** de mes yeux ;
Maintenant que je suis sous les branches des arbres,
Et que je puis songer à la beauté des cieux ;

Maintenant que du deuil qui m'a fait l'âme obscure
Je sors, pâle et vainqueur,
Et que je sens la paix de la grande nature
Qui m'entre dans le cœur ;

Maintenant que je puis, assis au bord des ondes,
Emu par ce superbe et tranquille horizon,
Examiner en moi les vérités profondes
Et regarder les fleurs qui sont dans le gazon ;

Maintenant, ô mon Dieu ! que j'ai ce calme sombre
De pouvoir désormais
Voir de mes yeux la pierre où je sais que dans l'ombre
Elle dort pour jamais ;

Maintenant qu'attendri par ces divins spectacles,
Plaines, forêts, rochers, vallons, fleuve argenté,
Voyant ma petitesse et voyant vos miracles,
Je reprends ma raison devant l'immensité ;

Je viens à vous, Seigneur, père auquel il faut croire ;
Je vous porte, apaisé,
Les morceaux de ce cœur tout plein de votre gloire
Que vous avez brisé ;

Je viens à vous, Seigneur ! confessant que vous êtes
Bon, clément, indulgent et doux, ô Dieu vivant !
Je conviens que vous seul savez ce que vous faites,
Et que l'homme n'est rien qu'un jonc qui tremble au vent ;

Je dis que le tombeau qui sur les morts se ferme
Ouvre le firmament ;
Et que ce qu'ici-bas nous prenons pour le terme
Est le commencement ;

Je conviens à genoux que vous seul, père auguste,
Possédez l'infini, le réel, l'absolu ;
Je conviens qu'il est bon, je conviens qu'il est juste
Que mon cœur ait saigné, puisque Dieu l'a voulu !

Je ne résiste plus à tout ce qui m'arrive
Par votre volonté.
L'âme de deuils en deuils, l'homme de rive en rive,
Roule à l'éternité.

Nous ne voyons jamais qu'un seul côté des choses ;
L'autre plonge en la nuit d'un mystère effrayant.
L'homme subit le joug sans connaître les causes.
Tout ce qu'il voit est court, inutile et fuyant.

Vous faites revenir toujours la solitude
Autour de tous ses pas.
Vous n'avez pas voulu qu'il eût la certitude
Ni la joie ici-bas !

Dès qu'il possède un bien, le sort le lui retire.
Rien ne lui fut donné, dans ses rapides jours,
Pour qu'il s'en puisse faire une demeure, et dire :
C'est ici ma maison, mon champ et mes amours !

Il doit voir peu de temps tout ce que ses yeux voient ;
Il vieillit sans soutiens.
Puisque ces choses sont, c'est qu'il faut qu'elles soient ;
J'en conviens, j'en conviens !

Le monde est sombre, ô Dieu ! l'immuable harmonie
Se compose des pleurs aussi bien que des chants ;
L'homme n'est qu'un atome en cette ombre infinie,
Nuit où montent les bons, où tombent les méchants.

Je sais que vous avez bien autre chose à faire
Que de nous plaindre tous,
Et qu'un enfant qui meurt, désespoir de sa mère,
Ne vous fait rien, à vous !

Je sais que le fruit tombe au vent qui le secoue,
Que l'oiseau perd sa plume et la fleur son parfum ;
Que la création est une grande roue
Qui ne peut se mouvoir sans écraser quelqu'un ;

Les mois, les jours, les flots des mers, les yeux qui pleurent,
Passent sous le ciel bleu ;
Il faut que l'herbe pousse et que les enfants meurent ;
Je le sais, ô mon Dieu !

Dans vos cieux, au-delà de la sphère des nues,
Au fond de cet azur immobile et dormant,
Peut-être faites-vous des choses inconnues
Où la douleur de l'homme entre comme élément.

Peut-être est-il utile à vos desseins sans nombre
Que des êtres charmants
S'en aillent, emportés par le tourbillon sombre
Des noirs événements.

Nos destins ténébreux vont sous des lois immenses
Que rien ne déconcerte et que rien n'attendrit.
Vous ne pouvez avoir de subites clémences
Qui dérangent le monde, ô Dieu, tranquille esprit !

Je vous supplie, ô Dieu ! de regarder mon âme,
Et de considérer
Qu'humble comme un enfant et doux comme une femme,
Je viens vous adorer !

Considérez encor que j'avais, dès l'aurore,
Travaillé, combattu, pensé, marché, lutté,
Expliquant la nature à l'homme qui l'ignore,
Eclairant toute chose avec votre clarté ;

Que j'avais, affrontant la haine et la colère,
Fait ma tâche ici-bas,
Que je ne pouvais pas m'attendre à ce salaire,
Que je ne pouvais pas

Prévoir que, vous aussi, sur ma tête qui ploie
Vous appesantiriez votre bras triomphant,
Et que, vous qui voyiez comme j'ai peu de joie,
Vous me reprendriez si vite mon enfant !

Qu'une âme ainsi frappée à se plaindre est sujette,
Que j'ai pu blasphémer,
Et vous jeter mes cris comme un enfant qui jette
Une pierre à la mer !

Considérez qu'on doute, ô mon Dieu ! quand on souffre,
Que l'œil qui pleure trop finit par s'aveugler,
Qu'un être que son deuil plonge au plus noir du gouffre,
Quand il ne vous voit plus, ne peut vous contempler,

Et qu'il ne se peut pas que l'homme, lorsqu'il sombre
Dans les afflictions,
Ait présente à l'esprit la sérénité sombre
Des constellations !

Aujourd'hui, moi qui fus faible comme une mère,
Je me courbe à vos pieds devant vos cieux ouverts.
Je me sens éclairé dans ma douleur amère
Par un meilleur regard jeté sur l'univers.

Seigneur, je reconnais que l'homme est en délire
S'il ose murmurer ;
Je cesse d'accuser, je cesse de maudire,
Mais laissez-moi pleurer !

Hélas ! laissez les pleurs couler de ma paupière,
Puisque vous avez fait les hommes pour cela !
Laissez-moi me pencher sur cette froide pierre
Et dire à mon enfant : Sens-tu que je suis là ?

Laissez-moi lui parler, incliné sur ses restes,
Le soir, quand tout se tait,
Comme si, dans sa nuit rouvrant ses yeux célestes,
Cet ange m'écoutait !

Hélas ! vers le passé tournant un œil d'envie,
Sans que rien ici-bas puisse m'en consoler,
Je regarde toujours ce moment de ma vie
Où je l'ai vue ouvrir son aile et s'envoler !

Je verrai cet instant jusqu'à ce que je meure,
L'instant, pleurs superflus !
Où je criai : L'enfant que j'avais tout à l'heure,
Quoi donc ! je ne l'ai plus !

Ne vous irritez pas que je sois de la sorte,
Ô mon Dieu ! cette plaie a si longtemps saigné !
L'angoisse dans mon âme est toujours la plus forte,
Et mon cœur est soumis, mais n'est pas résigné.

Ne vous irritez pas ! fronts que le deuil réclame,
Mortels sujets aux pleurs,
Il nous est malaisé de retirer notre âme
De ces grandes douleurs.

Voyez-vous, nos enfants nous sont bien nécessaires,
Seigneur ; quand on a vu dans sa vie, un matin,
Au milieu des ennuis, des peines, des misères,
Et de l'ombre que fait sur nous notre destin,

Apparaître un enfant, tête chère et sacrée,
Petit être joyeux,
Si beau, qu'on a cru voir s'ouvrir à son entrée
Une porte des cieux ;

Quand on a vu, seize ans, de cet autre soi-même
Croître la grâce aimable et la douce raison,
Lorsqu'on a reconnu que cet enfant qu'on aime
Fait le jour dans notre âme et dans notre maison,

Que c'est la seule joie ici-bas qui persiste
De tout ce qu'on rêva,
Considérez que c'est une chose bien triste
De le voir qui s'en va !

Dear Karen Benvie
I right this to say that
I am very upset about
How you changed my life
Not for the better but
For the worst
You ****

Karen
If weren't for your bullying
And bad behavior
I wouldn't have been
In more trouble that I nearly was
Sent to guantanamo
Instead I would have been
A medical examiner
And you.....
In gitmo

Karen
If it weren't for you
I would not have
A dangerously low self-esteem
And inferiority complex
You ******* racist thot
Yes thot because you
Nearly stole my boyfriend
Because of what
I am Arab.


***** yourself
In hell.

Fable IV, Livre V.


Mes bons amis, je dois en convenir,
Je n'imaginais pas qu'un mort pût revenir ;
Que bien empaqueté, soit dans cette humble bière
Des humains du commun la retraite dernière,
Soit dans ce lourd cercueil dont le plomb protecteur
Plus longtemps au néant dispute un sénateur,
Au grand air un défunt pût jamais reparaître ;
Et par aucun motif, si pressant qu'il puisse être,
Se reproduire aux yeux des badauds effrayés,
À ses vieux ennemis venir tirer les pieds,
Sommer ses héritiers de tenir leurs promesses,
Et forcer ces ingrats à lui payer des messes.
Un curé de notre canton,
Qui, s'il n'est esprit fort, est du moins esprit sage,
Deux fois par semaine, au sermon,
L'affirme cependant aux gens de son village.
« Or ça, lui dis-je un jour, plaisant hors de saison,
Tantôt vous commenciez un somme,
Ou bien vous perdez la raison. »
« - La raison, répond le bonhomme,
Laquelle à mon avis doit régner en tout lieu,
« Même en chaire, enseigne qu'à Dieu
« Au monde il n'est rien d'impossible.
« - Aucune vérité n'est pour moi plus sensible.
« - Vous reconnaissez, frère, en accordant ce point,
« Qu'à mon petit troupeau je n'en impose point,
« En lui disant que Dieu, mécontent qu'on se livre
« À de pernicieux penchants,
« Peut laisser les défunts lutiner les méchants,
« Afin de leur apprendre à vivre.
« - Bien ! et vous le prouvez ? - Appuyant quelquefois
« Ce dogme édifiant d'un pieux stratagème,
« Vers le soir, dans la grange ou sur les bords du bois,
« Je le prouve en faisant le revenant moi-même.
« Tantôt vêtu de blanc, tantôt vêtu de noir,
« J'ai vingt fois relancé jusque dans son manoir
« Tel maraud qui, déjà coupable au fond de l'âme,
« Et pendable un moment plus ****,
« Convoitait du voisin le fromage ou le lard,
« Ou bien la vache, ou bien la femme.
« Changeant, suivant le cas, et de forme et de ton,
« Assisté du vicaire et surtout du bâton,
« Ainsi dans ma paroisse exorcisant le crime,
« Régénérant les mœurs, je fais payer la dîme,
« Donne un père à l'enfant qui n'en aurait pas eu ;
« Et quand au cabaret dimanche on s'est battu,
« Mettant l'apothicaire aux frais du bras qui blesse,
« Je fais faire ici par faiblesse
« Ce qu'on n'eût pas fait par vertu.
« Osez-vous m'en blâmer ? - Moi, curé, je le jure,
« De tout mon cœur je vous absous ;
« Et qui plus est je me résous
« À tolérer parfois quelque utile imposture.
« Par un vil intérêt vers le mal entraîné,
« Au bien si rarement quand l'homme est ramené
« Par le noble amour du bien même,
« En employant l'erreur qu'il aime
« Dominons le penchant dont il est dominé.
« Sans trop examiner si la chose est croyable,
« De la chose qu'on croit tirons utilité.
« Un préjugé sublime, une erreur pitoyable
« Peut tourner au profit de la société ;
« Il est bon que Rollet tremble en rêvant au diable,
« Et César en pensant à la postérité. »

I know this is an excuse
But  also the truth
If it weren’t for each and every one
Of those toxic people
In my life
I would be in the United States being an FBI agent

I know this is an excuse
But also the truth
If it weren’t for each and every one
Of those toxic people
In my life
I would be a medical examiner helping people find and solve crimes and find a cure for cancer


I know this is an excuse
But it’s also the truth
But if it weren’t for each and every one
Of those toxic people
In my life
Who knows I may have been a famous artist by now

I was in space n I was startin to gaze
Feelin afraid seein shadows at point blank range
Behind me was a crowd full of robots
So I blinded them to where they were seein polka dots
I turned into a juggernaut with the force of a mega watt
Throwin em against a power lot n I crashed em into a plane full of astronauts
The ship landed on planet earth on a field as big as a flower crop
Takin a second thought there was also an aftershock
I'm not from a planet full of acrobats
n I made a mass destruction like a heavy *** avalanche
I caused a mad attack givin cataracts
Even ruined the habitats n then I watched the aftermath
It was a massacre began by ambassadors
Then I became an examiner starting wars with capacitors
Flattened the atmosphere no longer an amateur I was a well known handler impressin the canvassers
I blew a hole in the core now I'm more poor than the country of El Salvador
Startin a cold war I got somethin for these haters to speak for
Grabbin a 2 by 4 board hittin em in the umbilical chord
They fall to the floor startin to absorb
Trust me I ain't been beat before
Follow the mentor

You see, during my exams the only words I wrote
Is your name, etching onto paper
Like it did on my mind

I would have probably failed
Only after telling the examiner
Of you

ACADEMIC TESTS
Oh these tests,
Superflous academic tests.
No time to prepare
For entrance tests.

Difficult to store
Vast concepts in mind,
Oh how to retain so much
Till marks given and paper signed.

Bewaring that,
The examiner is not blind,
And not our bydweller
That gives marks so kind.

All worried,
Smile crease no face.
Will we get through,
Or falter in this pace.

Parents worried about their carreer
They believe books are nifty,
Smartphones are carrier's barrier
With no sympathy.

Parent's and teacher's
Support and hope is essential,
In order to raise their potential.

                                       - Sahaj Sabharwal©
                                        -Pacca Danga ,
                                           Jammu
sahajsabharwal12345@gmail.com
+917780977469
#sahajsabharwal­12345 #poem #ACADEMIC #TESTS #jammu #India #poemindia #published #copyright
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sahajsabharwal©

.i never sought to see a vision of god, only his shadow, as i never seeked to hear his voice, but only the whisper, of his thought: and it thus expressed, morally convened: for i am by pentagram bound to say: it, all is, right before me - the world and all that deservers a master, and the one who is willing to reciprocate, whether doubt-ridden or doubtless, whether infuriated by prayer, or a militant denier.

better to exfoliate in one's vices,
than cherish one's virtues,
better to acknowledge one's ills
that champion one's graces -
to acknowledge one's burdens
is also to carry less gold
of the accomplished talents.

besides, i am thinking of the bigger picture,
am i part of something greater?
greater as in: the universal plan...
hell no!
               i'm part of a horde,
a horde that's been waiting for the next
tool album - 13 years and it's still
another 2 months till its release...
i'll make sure to buy it on vinyl,
         after all... all vinyl purchases
come with a code that lets you download
a digital copy...
            but i've been thristy for some
modern prog rock (metal, etc.) -
and it's not like i ever got into
muse - no twilight saga inspiration
to see here, sorry stephanie -
i just don't dig their ****,
   the screeching vocals...
     no, my uncle, a gen Xer,
and, as m.g.t.o.w. as you can be...
he once once said that simon gallup was
one of the best bass guitarists in music,
i'm not even going to mention
the red hot chilli man... pointless...
    but... for my generation,
the "dreaded millenials"... no other akin
to justin chancellor...
              bass is so important,
so so important: you need that space
in between the drums and the rhythm guitar...
******* solo all you want:
you don't have decent engineering
on the bass, so that it's prominent -
you have jackshit...

        on another point of interest...
i once heard a h'american voodoo satanist blah blah
treat the concept (not a theory) of solipsism
as a mental illness...
         well... tell that to a schizophrenic...
if the drugs don't work to hush out
the claustro-**** affair of not being
the only person (voice) inside his own head?
a bit... cluttered, wouldn't you say?
   but imagine, beside the drugs...
engaging a schizophrenic into meditating
solipsism...
           one tier above atheism from my
perspective, it's a binary schematic...

an atheist represents: 0,
  a schizophrenic represents: 1...
     why is that?
       the atheist is trying to plug a hole...
a schizophrenic is trying to salvage
his: self...
                 ideal representation...
i think: much more productive in ensuring
**** sticks together, finding your self (the reflective
form), to later express yourself (the reflexive
form) of it-self...
                 i always found atheism
to be so arrogant, boring,
     barely sniffing at the feet of a bow...
it almost makes me admire the way muslims
pray... i once cried at the beauty
of an adhan...
                  so... the right kind of islam is...
in a way: titillating me...

   ah... ****... it will never work...
          i like this quote:

some people live to eat,
     while others: eat, to live...
           i guess i'm of the latter persuasion...
a decent stew, nothing fancy,
even today i had the saliva for a parisian
pancake... so i made myself a parisian
pancake... with melted cheese and ham
and a tomato and chilli radish...

kiwi cider... i just love how some spirits
and the weaker stuff all have a story...
    **** me, they even enjoy dabbling
in phonetics (ohld-moot-sy-der) -
old mout (mawt) cider... get it right kiwis...
pineapple & **** rasberry...
   and it even has a name...
would you believe it?!
                         a trending topic...
nice... alongside when ms. amber jumps
into that ginger ale jacuzzi?
      a fine, fine evening is waiting for me
at the end of a day and into the night...

but, the kiwis did get one thing right...
unlike all the nanny propaganda
placed on most bottles in england...

    please drink responsibly
     2.0 units...
      but... there is no message from
the "chief": medical examiner...
   responsible adults should not exceed
a daily consumption of alcohol
  men 3 - 4 units daily
   women 2 -3 units daily...
          me? for the past few years?
roughly 40 units daily...
   but wow... look at all this poo'etry...
the kiwi cider company considers
only two acts as discrediting you from
drinking responsibly...
   there's a whittle picture of a pregnant
woman enclosed by red circle
    and a / in it... a big no no...
and?
              a whittle picture of a car:
    and as already stated...
       i get bothered when people ask:
how much? how much?
                      it's even my brain,
or my liver...
                 if i can get a decent amount
of sleep each and every night,
my liver can **** itself;
    there's nothing worse than bouts
of chronic insomnia that lead you toward
staying awake for nearly 48 hours
   and still unable to feel tired,
     that's when the hallucinations start
creeping in,
  but at least in a more stable environment...
more in vitro than in vivo...
   no safer environment to hallucinate when
sleeping: hence calling it dreaming...
  it's like these hallucination are like gut
bacteria of the brain...
         they need to express themselves
     to the brain after a certain threshold
of staying awake is breached...
                                            not fun...
p.s. **** rhyming poetry,
              sure, it's cute, it was great when
Dante did it... but i don't see all the great
masters from Ovid through to Hesiod and past
Horace doing it...
   cute poetry doesn't satisfy the thirst
for something, on the lines of: epic.

i know that just by drinking i will not feel good
with myself, i need to write something:
drinking alone never made much sense...
drinking when partying and socialising...
drinking when going to night-clubs almost:
almost always failing to pick up girls...
**** me... at my lowest i still managed to flirt
with a girl, kiss her dance with her...
   i even walked her to the bus-stop...
before she asked me what i did:
i said i was unemployed... i sort of forgot to say
that i was a poet in the making...
perhaps that's why i don't think i'm an alcoholic:
although... in a week's worth?
    i probably drink... how many units is a bottle
of whiskey?! 40... 4 x 7 =... ****... 3 x 7 = 21...
add a 7... that's 28... then add a zero...
i drink close to about 300 units of alcohol per week...
ha ha... and on the bottles?
   it reads: chief medical examiner for England
suggests that adults do not exceed drinking no more
than 14 units per week...
ha ha ha...                             ah ha...
i have a worried mind... i already said to myself:
like Prometheus... i'll sacrifice my liver to salvage
my mind...

and i'm willing to sacrifice years of my life into
my mortality's "winter" for the current ride...
i know the risks... i'm just really worried about being
constipated... and... eternity... eternity is a dawn
with a night before a day...
it's scaring me... should all of it be true...
well... the thought started scary... eternity?!
while all these insects live only days...
with infanticide and the neunormen

new-norms and old-taboos...
and then back to new-taboos and old-norms...
some people think time is linear... given history...
some people think time is cyclic...
we read history with a grain of salt and hindsight
and repeat our mistakes...
i? i think time is a sea-saw...
we're like a tide... a tide comes in...
a tide goes out... sometimes we appear
spectacular... like at the height of the Roman Empire
of the zenith of Greek intellectual curiosity...
then we fall back... allow for barbarian invasions...
what was spectacular about Ancient Greece
became Byzantine: i.e. bureaucratic...
muddled... the only great aspect of Byzantine
culture was the chants...
oh sure... the Greco-Judeo pact did undermine
the Latin influence...
the New Testament is a testament of the Greco-Judeo
pact: to undermine the Roman Empire...
no?

     it isn't? oh... come on... the myths because over time
myths: given time...
go along the pyramid "scheme" of:
mythology "<" history "<" journalism "<"...
          aha! now poetry comes to the fore...
which way are we going to go? "<" or ">"?
  what a wonky looking L... or Γ (gamma)...
then again... maybe it's one of those weird
"Copernican" Vs....
   right... how now: write the plural of vvvvvv...
without the apostrophe that's also
suggestive of v's... i.e. V owns a lawnmower?
right... move the apostrophe along... Vs'...
because... it's not versus: hence no vs. <---
  the full stop...

to reiterate: i learned to constrain my frustrations
on Samuel Beckett's Watt...
i remember one sunny afternoon
lying in a park and laughing from frustration
at the complications of the language...
laughing out loud: getting a wave hello from a small
boy walking back from school with his mother...
i wasn't laughing at anything particular
or for that matter universal, just the per se...

how else? vs' or vees or vvvvvvv etc.?
plenty of v v v v v v v
                 < < < < < < < <
                > > > > > > > > > ?

we haven't moved that much from the ancient
world... where letters had a duality of being used
as phonetic encoding symbols and mathematical
constants after all...
VI + IX = XV
    6 (b) + 9 (P) = 15 (IS)

now i would to being an alcoholic is i simply
drank to drink...
but i'm writing... i need creative juices...
if i'm not jerking off to pictures of mature
women... Ava Lauren... come on...
it's a Porsche of a body...
i don't need to watch anything... just the photograph
and i leave the rest to the imagination:
although compared to the cinema of memory:
the cinema of my imagination lasts at outbursts...
sure... if i were simply drinking...
to "cope": drinking before a mirror
and falling asleep with a hand placed in a bucket
of water to wet my bed...
yeah... then i'd join some A.A.... ahem...
midday "group therapy session"...

but i'm busy... well into the morning hours...
scribbling like "mad" like... the monk who wrote
the Codex Gigas...
       me? devil or my own ego? i like my garden...
only today before my expedition i offered
two plums to my neighbour and my mother...
i brought these kind fallings in my hand outstretched
in my palm... washed... obviously...
but i didn't usher in any confusion:
no conflation of knowledge
regarding: what's good (universal)
   with what's evil (particular)... hello!
                       Greco-Judeo conspiracy...

wow! Δ delta... that's not the "letter"
Pythagoras worked with... is it?
   he was working out why either L or Γ
have either \ or / missing respectively, no?
          but delta? Δ? that's an isoscoles...
now... i dare to wonder: akin to Heidegger:
  question-worthiness arises from a spontaneity...
questions asks themselves...
people just need to find them...
this is but one example...

you know when you're sitting in a garden...
and you hear a shoom echo in the sky...
but can't see anything...
right... there's a jumbo-jet flying over your
garden... you hear it first...
seconds later you see you...
**** the chicken and the egg dynamic for normal
people saluting the mantra of passive
curiosity...

what came first?
Δ or the triangle?! that's a big question:
a question that Wittgenstein could only appreciate...
since he wrote so sparingly:
but i have to admit... his stance on tautology:
the thesaurus... mine: on thesaurus rex...
and the dictionary omnibus...
                          i want to repay Samuel Beckett
with the same frustrations he poured onto me...
this is my revenge... i want to fry brains and then:
freeze them...
            
what came first? Δ (the letter) the sound...
Da da da or the triangle?
my guess is: ****... i've already answered it...
with what?! the use of ******* pyramids...
but how Δ morphed into D and how did the pyramids
become abstract "all of a sudden"?
ah... the glory days of Greek intellectual curiosity...
its genesis... oh too suddenly ***** by:

the myth of the origins of Rome...
the Aeneid: a Trojan holiday in Tuscany after the fall
of Troy...
    
but no... i couldn't simply drink and pretend
to look into a mirror...
i wish i could have been a painter:
then again: no...
i can't leave "****" to abstracts: to some "suppose so...."
"suppose" he "thought" this blah blah blah-*******...
ever get "*****" by a South African
with ****-friction that was so bad
you thought you were getting circumcised
of putting your phallus inside an enlarged earthworm's
mouth-gut?
    i have... it's not a pleasant experience...
knock-knock on wood... ****... not wood:
knock-knock on bone: i.e. my forehead...
               what a terrible **** that was...
and she was raised in society... a teacher at some
boarding school... all boys...
******* cocoon ***... in the dark...
under the bed-sheets... never... ever! again!
but at least i now know what a slightly timid
beached whale of a ****-blonde stereotype looks
like...
           dry ***** are the worst...
seriously: it felt like ****...
on to occasions i had problems with getting a hard
on with prostitutes...
this one time: fair enough...
it was my first time having a *******...
obviously i was nervous...
but when i was... ahem #metoo "*****"...
i was as hard as a fiddle...
   what the **** did she spike the food with?!

well.. what's done is done... Johnny Depp was believed:
a fully documented affair...
ah... this conflation on the basis of the word AND...
it's not like "he" said: and you will know
the difference between either good or evil...
that "we" will know the difference between
good AND evil... knowing our ontology:
we'd be prone to entertain good as evil...
and evil as good... in the latter instance:
the more lasting, entertaining prospect...
               aligned with our hoarding sentimentalities...

Kierkegaard was onto something...
but he just didn't have the bilingual or the "autistic" /
"schizophrenic" focus to drill the baron of 90
into a corner and establish grandiose architecture...

it's one bad "thing" after another...
the fact that i might be drinking and not scribbling:
an opportunity wasted...
but the fact that i can't find the right sort of music
to listen to while i scribble...
hell... if i could write in silence...
but it usually takes one song...
a song passed down...
BRYGADA KRYZYS - to co czujesz, to wiesz:
Crisis Brigade - what you feel, is what you know...
sampled from an album from 1992...
Poland... i never imagined them being
so bilingual... how did i arrive at the song choice?
i was revisiting Edinburgh trying to get back together
with my ex-Russian lass...
  failure... she was already on a "different " path...

three nights in a hostel... left to a ****** couple...
i was only "scouted" when talking to some Slovak...
i got drunk and my English veneer drooped...
**** me... i had a wild night in Cracow
a day after...
i was fending myself from this waggling tongue
taxi driver who caught me
squeezing at my "major-phlegm" residue tool
trying to find an alley-way...
scary story... teenage girls not invited...

but i was in a hostel with this couple from Warsaw...
best name for a capital anywhere...
compare War-Saw with Bang-****...
ha ha... so she was this tall girl...
pristine like a ballerina...
played netball or whatever the hell tall girls play...
we were roaming Edinburgh and we
came across a charity shin-dig
and i exclaimed: oh.. what a nice acoustic (guitar)...
immediately... she retorted:
i hope you return to Warsaw and find
a nice girl for yourself...
i.e.                      not her?!

what a hyper-democratic reality we're all living in
right now...
   i'm not going to see her again...
i can see her like i can see my great-grandad...
a shadow... a figment of my imgation: almost...
"almost" being the fact that she recommended
this song for me: feeding me this idiotic self-worth-sence
delusion of comparative "literarture":
i'm John Peel...
  but my speciality is outside the realm of
the English speaking world...

wasn't today spectacular?
   it sort of began... "it sort of": began with me cringing
at an accident waiting to happen...
some white-van man was exiting a Tesco carpark...
too high... too high... jeeze!
sraped his ladder clean: proof off of this roof...
helped him out... became a 5 minute part-time
traffic warden... he ease back...
i picked up the pieces... you alright mate?
we had it sorted...

then on a whim... roughly... from Havering Road
to Edgware Road?
****... if i was going to cycle down Oxford St...
i would be cycling with a copy of Ovid to read in Hyde
Park.... instead? i cycled via Central London...
Chancery Lane: just before Holborn... and *******
Holborn Circus...
**** me... London looks weird without a tube-map...
it's 4-D geography...

if Donald Trump was playing 4D chess...
then i'm orientating myself around 4D geography...
on a bicycle... having formerly used
the buses and trains and the tube of London...
to hell with that load of trans-Atlantic *******...
sure sure...
you say one more ******* thing
along the lines of SLAV(e)... say it...
say it's "etymologically" sound...
say it... now that you have? ****** ****** ****** ******...
not the same?!
you have a problem? i don't have a problem...
i can tell the difference between a Somalian
a Nigerian and a Kenyan?
we're? having? spelling? issues?

English "public intellectuals"; them!
you add that ******* epsilon to the word Slav-
and? i'll just cut off the suffix -an
from the word GERMAN...
           ******* filth! GERMS!
    **** or ****** is not an isolated
instance... but then again: i trust the Russian
to use their bayonets more than i trust them
to use their tongues...
and that's wrong... since... they could readily
people the shadow-people of the shadows
of people...

    i've been ******* for quiet some time....
i'm ready to pounce... bite at something pulsating...
i ask the song i'm listening to on repeat:
what's my problem?
i can't say ******...
but some English ******* can add
an E to my ethnicity and equate me
to SLAVE... what etymological guarantee
does he: GERM...have?
                            i'm currently in the process
of eradicating a rat from my house...
GERMANIC PEOPLES ARE VERMIN...
THEIR WOMEN ARE EASY TARGET ****...
what?!

the "situation" is a lot different from what
it was under the deconstruction of the Soviet Empire...
now all i see... the deconstruction of
the Capitalistic hegemony...
hell... i bet that even Vietnam is on board!

Slav(e)?! NIGGERNIGGERNIGGERNIGGER...
what he **** are you going to, do?!
sure... you're not a racist..
you're just an etnicist! ETHNICIST!
inter-racial biases: Russophobia:
all Russians are "bad": when they say they are...
you...

   sie fickin rattekeimemesch.....

'__'
''     ''      Li - i.e. fire... as a trigram
'__'       ******* toaf-face "smile":
to suggest "fire"...

i completely abhor leaving poems began one evening
and not finished:
squatting thoughts enter this abandoned housed...
and i can't strain my desire to keep
with the concept of Ensо̄:
                                                  エンソー

a poem completed in one sitting: i'm not a novelist:
i'm a "poet"... i don't have the luxury to retain
days and days on a composition:
what i start i must finish... i can't allow myself
this luxury of a novelist...
hit the iron while its hot comes to mind...

mind you: what's the difference between a proverb
and a maxim?
    i think that... maxims are conjured up whims...
half-truths... statements without justifications
or if they are grounded in any justifications:
they are for French ballrooms
for Confucian strict MING obligations...

                        maxims are untested truths...
maxims are: to say the least: not proverbs in that
they are hardly mystifying...
like this Slavic proverb:
   better a sparrow in your hand than a dove
upon your roof...
      oh: i know what that means...
better your own happiness than the happiness
of your household: and not out of selfish reasons?
if you are content... the contenteness can seep out
of you... and into the household...
why? you have a ******* sparrow in your hand...
who cares about a dove on your roof?

problem... i forgot what i was writing about yesterday...
i made notes:

- Mashiter's Hill
- King Rat
- щ "vs.": -ść                       me?!
invent a letter?! ha?!

well... i was so close so close to finishing...
Godsmack is touring... i think i'm going to try to get a ticket
for one of their gigs...
they're currently my favourite rock band...

Mashiter's Hill... oh... this little hill with a park...
i can walk up it and i usually drink a beer on
one of the benches... from it...
i have a pristine panorama of London...
   me? i'm at the utmost north-eastern tip of Greater
London...
                  it's London and it's "London"...
anything outside of the A406 is hardly anything beside
the Home Counties...
i wish other English people would cut the Essex
folk some slack... esp. the women...
     to me they're nuns...
or... as i recently found out... i'm unapproachable by
women... unless they're really drunk...
i'm just recounting what i hear:
a ******* will tell me i'm beautiful
a drunken woman in her 40s will tell me i'm ****...
do i make any moves on that?
    hardly... i like su doku puzzles: not headaches
caused by women...

but only yesterday i did a 50+ mile journey there
and back to Edgware Road to... hmm...
drink a Thai beer...
                    there's no point having a cycling session
less than the length of a marathon...
i stopped off at Chadwell Heath and bought myself
some fish sticks (45% Surimi - Alaskan *******,
   Hake and some crab) - of the 16 in the packet
i gulped down 14... it's such a bad idea
to cycle that sort of distance without having eating
anything... toward Edgware Road i was cycling
in a trance... literally i was honing in on an abstract
black hole as an ink blotch just ahead of me...
   but coming back? the low sugar levels kicked in...
i lost concentration... ah... i'm burning fat resources...

well... i tried cycling drunk once... Francis Bacon
painting-esque sort of bruising... never again...
but that didn't stop me from cycling...
in heavy traffic...
    on top of Mashiter's Hill i admired the distance
i covered... oh look... cycled past the Docklands
and Canary Wharf... went past the Shard...
all the way up to Hyde Park...
tomorrow i'm going to repeat the journey...
maybe i'll get a chance to meet up with Dan
and he might sneak me in to watch some Pearl Jam...
i was sent a text today about a possible shift...

**** me... hierarchies... SIA licensing...
no stewards welcome...
              fair enough, no problem read my reply...
i'd love to see that band... but i'll cycle there anyway
and maybe get a whiff of the music...

king rat? yeah... that one...
    i'm currently working on getting rid of a rat in my kitchen...
had to removed all the foods from the cupcoards
near to the ground...
  smart *** *******... or fatherfucker...
either Oedipus or Electra... either way...
i have smart cats...
but i never thought i'd have a smart rat...
falling asleep feels sort of weird...
    it's not like having a parasite in your body...
i have a rodent in my house...
   the party starts circa 12am... it starts moving...
i tried cheddar in mouse traps...
i.e. why do i think this rat is smart?
         well... em...
                (s)he doesn't simply eat the cheese
and doesn't get caught...
   (s)he ***** off with the mousetraps!
             i had to buy / replace the mousetraps
with rat traps... basically guillotine equivalent machinery...
if that "thing" snapped at my fingers
i think i'd be left with a broken finger, or two...
but what sort of rat takes the cheese
and the mousetrap with it into the darkness
of his hiding Eden?!

            i'm reluctant to use rat poison...
i'm sort of hoping for a Robespierre's clean cut...
snap... i don't want to **** the poor ******
by snapping its snout... i want to **** it
by crushing its neck... i don't want it bleeding from
its snout: to dead...
            sure... i'd love the Disney adventure
of Mickey... but if it only ate the food... but chewing
on cables... i have a ******* washing machine
and a dishwasher... it starts chewing on that:
i'm ******... smartest rat i've ever encountered:
courtesy of my Nigerian neighbour performing some
voodoo rituals at night leaving food
in the garden thinking he was feeding pigeons...
even one of my cats brought me two dead younglings
after catching them...
i know a rat is a rat and a mouse is a mouse...
mice are timid... rats? the i.q. shoots up...
****'s sake... it's not enough to take the cheese
and not get caught... it also has to take the trap
with him... what? knowing rats...

even if its tail was caught... it'd chew it off...
   it would mane itself in order to scuttle into shadow
and dust into a future...
two songs come to mind:
Pearl Jam vs. Ghost: RATS...
                  of course i prefer the former...
but a rat's a rat... and a washing machine is a washing
machine... i feel bad about killing it...
please don't let me use poison pebbles...
but?

   **** me... last point... right... the English point
about "too many vowels" in the ****** lingo?
sure... well... if the Serbs could incorporate the Latin J...
i think i can make a bypass...

what's rat in ******? szczur...
exactly... what instances allows me to...
first of replace the Z with H and use it in Ing-leash?
CHeap... ****... but not together...
the idiosyncrancy of the tongue that belongs
to itself...

but there's an alternative... borrowed from Cyrillic...
personally? i don't mind using it...
spares me "details"...
i know that Hebrew hides letters:
notably vowels... like diacritical marks...
i know certain languages hide letters...
this is perfect...

   щur = szczur...
                  less consonants for you?! happy?!
there are plenty of words that couple
the SH+CH / SZ+CZ dynamic...
щotka: brush...
          ah... i can do away with SZCZ via (щ)...
but there's a doubled conundrum...
with a word like:

sincerity: szczerość....
          see... i can do away with the "excesses" of Z)
щero

but even Russian Cyrillic doesn't have
a compounding... diphthong...
****... we're not talking about diphthongs... are we?
diphthongs require two vowels...
we're not talking about vowel "transgenderism"...
we're talking about 3 consonants merging...
so...
   it's not a diphthong... not that i care to look
for the SHCH curiosity... but i haven't found
a name for it...
   but we're talking about letters without diacritical
markers... well... "technically":
you could...

                         šč-        
                                     but that doesn't appear in Czech...
only in ****** and Russian...

                     šč- = щ
          
           yes... the prefix hyphen is necessary...

because that's exactly my point:

   dość!                   enough!

where: šč- = щ does exist?
                 -ść = ?          yeah... there's not Cyrillic equivalent...
i would have to invent a letter!
and i don't have the capacity to just conjure such
a letter up...

i've mentioned this before: it's annoying me...
the etymological crux of falsehood...
among the Anglo-Saxons...
that the etymological root of Slav is written
with a missing "e" via "slave"...
sacred words? niggerniggernigger...
hard to giggle?! the extra G too much?!
i'm offended, too...
           let me relay this message to the Russians...
they might rough up some UPA Ukranians...
no matter... better warring among "ourselves"
than having foreign influencces...
Communism was only born out of Pan-Slavism...
we tried... we failed: good to know we failed...
now the western world is playing the fools' bargaining
chips... i'm just looking on and thinking:
it's just a matter of time... before there will come
a canyon, a crater from what would otherwise
dispel the dinosaur's and leave us with
nothing but crocodiles and serpents...

i'm looking for ingenuity in creating a letter...
akin to

šč- = щ
                                                                ­ -ść = ?          
                     i want
more wounds to lick... or rather:
i want a single mum's dog to lick m knuckles...
i want to listen to more Godsmack: pretend angry...
i want anger: i want furore:
i want energy... i want sweets...
i don't really think i need that much fibre...
that much fat... that many high-tier carbohydrates
to take more time to break down:
i think i need to look for a different brothel...

all the Chinese ideas... but written without ideograms...
without ******* traffic colours...
why is it green and not blue to imply: GO!
blue? water?!
           then again... makes sense...
"sense"... i feel autistic by now...
mix blue with yellow... what do you get? green?
two-birds with one stone motto...
              
i can't just create a letter... on the spot...
it will take years to counter the Cyrillic prefix
with a Pollack suffix...
   like my inability to paint the fence...
i just can't do it...
              i'm painting a fence... i'm not painting
a worth of canvas...
i can't: i'll blame it one the roses...
but the roses are not the problem...
the painting itself is the problem...
                    
       all the Chinese ideas...
but... without the ideograms...
written in Katakana... or best.. in Hanguel...
without the ideograms...
"emoticons"...
            death is not a respiting fellow;
death is a harrower of an inevitable harvest.

i just wrote a corruption of what i should
have believe in with
a contending contentment.