Words Studied For This Writing:
------------------------------------
English: Zoup, please.
What it sounds like in German: Die Zoup bitte "Or" The Zoup? Bitter.
English: Uh, the night tea is great!
Pronounced in German sounds like: Eww. Is nachte. It's Gros "Or" Eww! Is nasty! It's gross!
English: Here.
Pronounced in German: Here.
English: Ha! I see an icky Sir's downin' Zoup.
German: Huh? - Ick- Taste. -Sie - An Icky herran down en Zoup
English:Yes.
German: Ja "Or" yeah
English: Skinny rides here. Skinny? Hmm.. horseback.
German: Dunne fahrten hier, Dunne. Hmm?  Holtzit back! Or.. Do not **** in here; do not! Hmm?  Holds it back!
English: Oh! I beg!
German: Oh! Ich bitte "Or" Oh! It's better!
English: Come back, Father.....
German: Comeback, Vatter "Or" Come back, Fatter
English: Nexxinline
German: Next in line.


Let's make a story with this .

First Act

-Enter Customer 2 in an American diner. She orders a
unique zebra-flavored soup called Zoup, created on American soil, but it's claimed to have had its origins in a restaurant located in Worms, Germany; as per usual proud fashion.

Customer 2 to Rude Waitress: "Zoup, please."

She sipped the complimentary drink placed before her as she awaited her order. Iced tea, ***** glass. It was reportedly their best tea, brewed by the Barista on the night-shift, whom did only speak in broken English and Spanish. Therefore, when the customer enjoyed her tea, she was glad it was nightfall and privy to the better drink and expressed her approval.

Customer 2 to Night-Shift Barista in simplified language:

"Uh, the night tea is great!"

The Barista nods politely.

Rude Waitress, apparently jealous because she makes the Day-shift tea, is curt to Customer 2:


"Here." she growled, slamming the Zoup on the table.

Things get quiet.

Just then, Customer 2 recognizes a crusty man who claims to have been knighted in a former life before joining a Native American tribe. She addresses him sardonically.

Customer 2 to Crusty Man

:
"Ha!" " I see an icky Sir's downin' Zoup!"

Crusty Man responds, unmoved:

"Yes."

Customer 2 cautioned him that he was being tracked by the infamous international assassin, Skinny.

Customer 2 to Crusty Man in mock Native American tongue:


"Skinny rides here ...

Crusty Man: "Skinny?"


Customer 2 (deepening voice)

"Mmm, horseback."

She makes gestures with her hands of a man riding a horse.
And follows it up with mimicking a successful hit on Crusty Mans life, complete with tongue hanging out of mouth.

The rude waitress then pleads to a deceased priest aloud to return to save them whilst making holy gestures frantically.

Rude Waitress to a deceased Holy Man:

"Oh!" "I beg." "Come back, Father...
Father Nexxinline?"

End First Act


This Final Act was created using the same exact words used in the English language, those in  quotations that is, as were in the First Act: but then translating them into German, the conversation then became a bit more humorous. The Background was filled in to fit the context of the meaning of the words sonic qualities, as certain German words sound similar to English words, though they generally have different meanings. The German word sounds brought a whole new meaning to the English words spoken, and with this contrast I finished the Final Act. Since most do not know how to pronounce certain words and dialects of German language, I took the sounds created within the language and converted them to English words of phonetic similarity. These words were not translated back to English, as that would put the conversation exactly where it began -I rather made them easier to perceive.

Background Final Act/. Skinny from First Act is now in a diner in Worms, Germany, (pronounced like Vorms with  a V.)

We begin with Skinny's response to being asked how is the Zoup by the German Waiter.

Skinny dryly to German Waiter: "The Zoup?" "Bitter."

He takes another spoonful into his mouth.

Skinny: "Ewww!"  "Is nasty!" "It's gross!"

Skinny to German Waiter in disgust: "Here!"

And he pushes the bowl of Zoup into the waiters face.


German Waiter to Skinny expressing consternation

: "Huh?"

Skinny commands him: "Taste!"

The waiter does so reluctantly and winces in clear disgust.

Skinny:

"See?" " Icky heron down in Zoup!"

German Waiter to Skinny knowing German Zoup  is flavored with heron, not zebra, and failing to see the point retorts

: "Yeah?"

Skinny then crude and vengeful 'expresses' a good one from his basest dwelling silently; but deadly with a grin. It was a most foul smell.

The waiter is exasperated with this crudeness and makes commands of his own.

German Waiter to Skinny

:
"Do not **** in here!" 'Do not!"" Hmm?"  "Holds it back!"

The odor horrid reached culmination with another waft of steam from Skinny and  resulted in the excommunication of Skinny.
Skinny yet found himself vindicated and agreed to leave the establishment as was demanded. As he exits in self satisfaction, our waiter tells him not to forget his Zoup and the prideful waiter Stolz mocks him in jest by spooning a mouthful into his jabbering jowls, as he does, he turns pale and ill and silenced, reassuring Skinny he had a reason to be disappointed.

The German Waiter refusing to admit defeat tells him:


"Oh, it's better!" Referring to his bias to the Zoup from Worms, which should be renamed Houp, but the words don't translate that way.

THEN Stolz realized his best customer, Skinny's hefty brother, Fatter, was running out the door in an attempt to escape the stench which lingered and but grew in force, and the waiter pleaded with him to return.

German Waiter to Skinny's brother:

"Come back, Fatter!" but Fatter kept running and giggling sophomorically.

The German Waiter to a diner full of people gasping for fresh air and no desire for Zoup at this moment said in defeatist sheepishness, gulping before asking wishfully... pouting, whispering:


"Next in line?"

She has dated boys before.
Boys who beat her
Boys who ***** her
Boys who did nothing wrong at all
But still did not feel "right."

One of them made fun of her
Told her she must be some kind of lesbian
(As if that was an insult)
If she did not want to have *** with him.
She smiled something sad on the outside
To deflect
To forget
To hide behind.

She thought
And what if I am?
What does that make me?
It's a question that wanders into the unexplored ruins
Of an unkempt mind.

A boy meets boy love story is next on the list.
They both play football
And think that means they must both be "players."
Really, they're falling for each other
With one swift and concise movement.

Boy A cannot tell his parents
As he comes from a rowdy and traditional Italian line.
Boy B is getting fed up
And yet waits, patiently
For his one and only to express this flaring emotion
A love, unexpressed.

Their families, churches and culture
Thinks they can change who they are.
They use different, cruel tactics.
Beat the gay out of him
Excommunication
Force her to have ***, and she will turn straight

You tell the world that they are an
Abomination
Atrocity
Mutation

And yet, I ask this.
If the Bible was a Holy deity's, a God's message of eternal love
As any good Christian, as I am supposed to be, would proclaim
Then how can it be used to justify
Acts of such hate and genocide?

"I tell you, on the day of judgment people will give account for every careless word they speak"
(Matthew 12:36)
I hope you are prepared for your Judgment Day.

With every one of your smiles it was as if I was experiencing the big bang.

Life simply began.

With every message or phone call, the atmosphere would flip to a sensation of complete excitement. Weeks of curiosity for discovery, fear of getting hurt, but most of all a mysterious sense of profound trust that everything will be okay.

The human brain can only withstand such anticipation for so long. You turned me into a madman.

Here you are standing below me as I walk down the stairs, stopping two steps before for that perfect hug of height difference, forever making my day.

That night the devil’s water took advantage in unimaginable forms. Layer by layer torn off as new territory was discovered.

Exploration and fear transformed that night to something unimaginable, something neither of us had experienced before. Never did innocence and impurity mix so well.

The chill spring air blessed my arms with your hoodie. Your walls crashed from the moment our eyes met while mine, at first, remained strong and secure.

Endless days passed by and you of all people have done what has only happened once before, broke my barriers and exposed my deepest thoughts. Text after text only regret was felt, slowly feeling you slip through my fingers. Only chaos ruckesed through my brain as if my thoughts were at war.

I thought we both wanted the same thing… or at first we did. Few days passed by and toxicity influenced calls created blanks in my memory that had me utterly confused to what you said next.

“It’s either you don’t understand or simply don’t want to.” What happened to “I’m yours and only yours”? What happened to “I only want you.”? How does one go from complete inclusion to excommunication.

I told you I was weak for love. My security blanket disintegrated to shards of glass that slowly seeped through my bare skin as a reminder of reality, a reminder that love is a risk.

Minimal communication, one-sided embarrassment, double-sided extensive thinking. We are both terribly wrong yet impeccably perfect for eachother.

Was it so bad for people to find out?

So bad that your thoughts built up walls that I can only believe to be broken down when our mountain snow is under the fiercely intense sun.

Have I been left for trash? Am I just another cigarette-bud by the park? You must have smoked hundreds of me on those swings. To me you were the cigarette flipped upside down, the lucky last one. The one I’d smoke and make a wish. To you, I was just another thing to burn.

Constant jumps between close and distant, my brain’s a mess. I promised to be patient but you promised not to lie. Now I lay here in the dark waiting for that message, waiting for that phone call, waiting for the atmosphere to flip sensations.

I was in search of purity but you were the devil on my shoulder.

Life began with you, maybe it's only right it feels like it’s ending without you.

It was not, by any means, a loss of faith;
Indeed, her devotion was a boundless, unfettered thing
Beyond proscription, beyond rote chant and catechism,
And what she found as a novitiate
Were shuttered gates and gossipy confessionals,
Standoffish priests, pig-eyed and pinch-lipped
Sisters who thought life’s commerce
No more than mechanical prayer and spotless linens,
The whole enterprise
Smacking of the exclusion of Heaven’s bounty.
So she demurred when the time came to take her orders,
And she returned to the world of pavements and lesser pieties,
Free to seek God on park swings and barstools,
In pleasures of the pastoral and the profane,
Though her faith is no Dionysian walkabout,
As she is passionate to the cusp of maniacal
When it comes to the Book of James’ admonition upon works;
She is often found among the sisters she once tiptoed alongside
At food pantries and clothing drives
(She is scrupulous about ministering to only secular needs,
As the Bishop is not happily disposed towards those
Who choose not to take the veil,
And the specter of excommunication is a prospect
Too awful to contemplate)
Afterwards clambering onto some vaguely roadworthy MTA bus
Back to her studio apartment in Green Island,
Where she often walks down to the Erie Canal lock nearby,
Praying for those who have travelled  near and upon the water,
Convenience store clerks and ragged Irishmen fleeing famine,
Feral kittens and insufficiently mourned mules.

Birds are singing as they narrate people grinning,
The sky is blue and starred at night
We are done with the wrongs and now focus on the right
Days are spent doing nothing and life occurs without a plan
No more flames when leaving that metaphorical pan
Ice caps are freezing and ozones are healing
Oh, Utopia

Defined as a place of non existence by the Greek,
Our ancestors would marvel to see us actualising our peak.
With each new generation not being as good as the last,
We strived to be better until hate is a thing of the past.
Oh, Utopia

The world has not always been the paradise it is right now
It has suffered quite a bit! Sit back, relax and let me show you how:
Dictators, dating apps, disease and  dabbing...
Depression, **** picks, dress size and *** grabbing...
Distant difficulties discriminating daily
Diligent defenders demonstrating plainly
All demanding democracies finally decide on the eternal debate.
Watching Parliamentary playgrounds leaves me feeling rather irate.
We have overcome all these and finally arrived at our destination.
A cohesive existence founded upon the pillar of cooperation.
Oh, Utopia

The journey to our present was the present of automation.
Competition for resources died with the wealth's excommunication.
Our time became our own to pursue whatever we pleased.
Now for everyone, the day is ready to be seized.
Our evolutionary struggles all extinct, our troubles all gone.
Perhaps now is the time to be happy? Time to move on.
Oh, Utopia

No more fornicating over Instagram and insecurity
No more toxic masculinity and finally some male maturity
No more measuring our success by how high a like button can count.
No more choosing our partner from the size of their banking account
No more candid masks worn by a big green beast
The vanity of man all buried and deceased
No more celebrating the ****** exposure of a love island fool
Finally we are being creative and using our brain as a tool
Oh, Utopia

However, this bliss is not what it seems and all is not well.
For Winge-ing, moaning and groaning are as ingrained as the DNA in our cell.
Having no problems is quite a bad situation
As we thrive on challenges from the dawn of creation
You see humans are hole diggers and nothing is ever enough
We are addicted to trouble and finding the diamond in the rough
Oh, Utopia

There is still so much to see and to learn
A fact that fills me with equal hope and concern
Until we learn to change ourselves and gain some sanity
The world will continue to be as it alway has been, ashamed of its own humanity.

Oh, Dystopia

of course i ******* every night,
otherwise i'd be wondering
about the next Laika in space
with some next soviet conspiracy
Sputnik hovering while i chance
abbreviate a change on hairstyling
thinking: jeez, this is a little bit too
afro frizzy for a brainstorm,
maybe i better opt for Jamaican dreads?
economics of shampoo usage,
suddenly a large bank account.
i do get the idea behind treating nouns
like albinos... bleach the *******
hang them to dry in Polaroids...
while commercial flights fly at a certain
height, and the rich buggers fly high enough
to jet-stream in the cirrus uncinus bracket...
and they lie to children,
they're talking about strange satellites...
i can't see satellites, not without Galileo's
excommunication apparatus,
satellites, as far as i am concerned
orbit the earth in a non-visible spectrum
of the vacuum... hence their orbiting outside
of the visible spectrum atmosphere of
the earth, i would not be able to see
a satellite for the love of Michaelangelo.

My dear friend received a letter from you.
A note written by a deceived elder,
Whose words were motivated by goodness,
Sent out of your pastoral duty.
But, you must be oblivious to the hate in your ink.
A warning,
An invitation,
To excommunication.

Excommunication.
The threat found on your paper,
Missing from the Bible,
And your Book of Mormon,
And your Doctrine and Covenants.
Appropriate for legalistic religion,
But the polar opposite of Christ.

Fornication.
She left her father and mother
And is united to him.     1
Before each other,
They knew no one else,
Promised to each other
Forever.
Reminiscent of Abraham and Sarah,     2
Isaac and Rebekah.     3
God doesn’t see certificates,
But committed love.
Can you?

Alcohol.
Noah made use of his vineyard,     4
And Jesus made wine from water.     5
Encouraged for ailments,     6
A blessing bringing joy,
Can become sinfully abused.
God can tell the difference.
Can you?

Tattoos.
If she cannot mark her body with ink,     7
You cannot cut hair at the sides of your head,
Or the edges of your beard.     8
Were the vegetables in your garden,
Or the fruit from the market,
Forbidden for three years,
Before you ate them?     9
All these ancient commandments,
Are found in the same chapter.
Jesus looks passed them.     10
Can you?

Gossiping.
You have heard of rules broken,
Number those proven.
Your ear leaned toward gossips,     11
As you rejected the woman slandered.
God sees the people behind their sin.     12
Can you?

Hypocrisy.
Woe unto hypocrites,     13
Charlatans,
Frauds.
You deny communion to her,
But did you do the same for your daughter?
Was she rejected when she birthed your grandbaby,
A *******?
Or was your daughter, like my friend,
Repentant,     14
Tired of being told who God is,
In the throes of figuring God out?
When you partake of communion,
Are you worthy?     15
Jesus allowed Judas to partake of His holy sacrament,     16
And invites us all.     17
Can you?

She loves Jesus,
To whom she prays,
Her boyfriend,
Who sleeps by her side,
Her friends,
Who she shares an occasional drink with.
The tattoo on her foot,
Reads “Love”
In calligraphy as beautiful
As the love in her soul.
Jesus sees this.
I hope you see it, too.

Love your God with all your heart,
Soul,
Strength,
Mind.     18
Love your neighbor as yourself.     19
We both are praying for her,
But I’m also praying for you,
To know the God of love,     20
Who is jealous for her,     21
And for you.
He wants you to love Him,
And He wants to love on you,
But your worship of religion is getting in the way.
Stop your adultery,     22
And run back,
Prodigal Son,     23
To your true love,
Christ.
There’s room at His table for a sinner like you, me, her, and all.
And our Jesus,
He,
Alone,
Writes the invitations.
You are not to review,
Stamp,
And mail them.
But only to accept and share the One He sent to you.

*

1 Genesis 2:24; Genesis 2:30 (Inspired Version)
2 Genesis 11:29; Genesis 11:18 (Inspired Version)
3 Genesis 24
4 Genesis 9:20; Genesis 9:27 (Inspired Version)
5 John 2
6 2 Samuel 16:2, Proverbs 31:6, Mark 15:23, Luke 10:34, 1 Timothy 5:23
7 Leviticus 19:28
8 Leviticus 19:27
9 Leviticus 19:23-24
10 Romans 3:23-26
11 Proverbs 11:13, 20:19, 26:20-22
12 Isaiah 43:25-26
13 Matthew 23:13
14 1 John 1:9
15 1 Corinthians 11:27
16 Matthew 26:24-26
17 1 Corinthians 11:28
18 Luke 10:27
19 Matthew 22:39
20 1 John 4:8
21 Exodus 20:5
22 James 4:4
23 Luke 15:11-32

I weigh myself on these scales as I’m keen for you to know I exist. I wanted you to answer my letters, realise that these words I write with dedicated perfection and chardonnay are for. You. I wanted to be your only to exception to the rule. I wanted to be your fool. I wanted to be. Just me. And that was to be enough, but the road was too rough. Drowning in pity, suffocating in sin. My words were too pretty and delicate. Worthless to the deaf ears they fell upon. My tears, my tears they fall wasted to the ground. Ravaged by my mis-communicated sound. The way I gave my body to you. I let you in. I let you feel my grief and you buried your way in. Deceitful you. Beautiful you. My life, my soul, what happens in heaven now?

I thought too many times I would be forgiven. This person was too much for even you to take. I kept falling. I kept going too fast and not using the brake. I thought I had finally landed, grounded myself from this stupid obsession. That someone once made me feel I gave the wrong impression. Too needy, too weak, too vunerable, too loud. Wore stupid clothes that stood out from the crowd. I gave too much then held it all back. Click, click, click, ******* clack. Where were you when I called your name. When I took you and held you in vain. There was my shame. There was my guilt and pride. Took you along for a ride? Are you sure my dear? Are you sure? Fed up of being told what I am worth waiting for. Yet I would make a pilgrimage for you.

Faster and harder braver than before. But you never liked that. You showed me the door. My light too bright, too shiny, too new. I was overall, too much, for you. For your highly expectations I was bound to fail. Just one small girl in an overpowering world of you. This power, this lowly pleasure, of giving you your due and then to hear your whatever. I am lost, I am lost, I am lost. I am bound by your words by their very cost. I never expected to borne to this, I thought I could just get on without your redemption. Lies and lies and more from your hand. This is not my world, your ideas are too un/planned? Who are you, who were you back then? To tell me that I am not right, I need to change from within. No. What? Your preaching’s are confusing to even the most intelligent man.

My body, my life. My heart, your strife. Not done with everything, you wanted more. Hell over high water, you threw me up on the shore. Please, oh please, oh pretty little please, wait, hang on a minute whilst I fall to my knees. Let me know when you’ve made your decision. Thanks. I’ll just wait a little lon-ger. Tell me. How does your faith instill such emotion? It’s all false love and devotion. Popular back in the day, the 80’s I may say, back when kids were high and it was easier back then, easier for me to write without a red pen. So you invented love as your folly, to prey on the weak, the young and the sought after. So you could fill your life with the ***** of your laughter. Ever-y-thin-g is so long and drawn out; be wild, be shy, be quiet. Don’t shout, so LOUD. At me. I need to hear what exactly you are telling me. To be.

Thank you
for removing yourself
from my day to day Life.

I can't say I would have made that choice, but
I'm sure ******* glad I now don't have to;
I'm sure ******* glad to have my headspace back.


This isn't an attack;
it's a sigh of relief
on some levels.

This isn't surrender;
it's a work in progress
on some levels.

This isn't excommunication;
it's a period of change
on lots of levels.

I'm sure you can understand that.

It takes me Time to come to terms with the things I find within my Mind;
it doesn't help that a lot of Entropy has been introduced;
pardon me for taking my sweet-*** Time.

I know I can express myself abrasively,
but, you see,
Life is abrasive.

I find
abrasive expression itself
can be cathartic, when
existence itself
is abrasive.

This isn't an attack,
this isn't surrender,
this isn't excommunication,
this is a period of renewal and growth;

moving onward
moving forward
moving upward
moving inward

all at once.

I hope you can understand;
I, myself, tend to forget,
believe it or not.

(Frederick and Matthew entered the forest. They decided to find all Surah’s secrets.)
For Frederick and Matthew, the time of following Surah and Clayton
Without getting caught started. Wanting their arrows to straighten,
They stopped into the wood. They found some pieces of soapstone.
While making the grooves, they looked for the witch in the zone.

'She's not here,' said Matthew,' let's go to evaluate the mining claim.'
'She's hiding, because her everything, now, is a waiting game.'
On horseback and having hunting dogs as companions, they ventured
Deeply into that forest. ‘Surah is angry, because, she is censured.'

The disciplinary controllers of manners and mores had great powers
In her degradation as a noble from her proper class. In the tower's
Prison must stay those affecting the moral welfare of the kingdom.'
'Excommunication is usually used against those acting without wisdom.'

As they made their way close to the mountain's crest, they observed
A cave tucked behind a waterfall. 'So well these fossils are preserved!'
Said Matthew after entering the cave, and finding two big rooms.
‘I think these two chambers were destined to serve as tombs.

For sure, we're not the first humans who visited this part of the cave....’
'If a rock fractures, and collapses now, can we call ourselves brave?
Frederick smiled, ‘It’s great to be brave, while you're still alive.
We must find all the secrets of this cave; thus, we must contrive.'

While exploring the cave, they realized they couldn't find the way out it.
‘You cannot find the way out, because this passage is not brightly lit.'
They searched for an exit, until their lighting was almost spent,
But the dogs led them to the lake knowing to track by scent.

'Move slowly, keep your eyes open, and stop moving things,    
Before you hear what else might move....’'I need some water wings!
Here is a boat!' 'Look on the walls, huge lamps hang on them!
‘We can see now!’’ Look on the ceiling!' ‘I found a Rubin gem!'

'It’s strange that the cave is situated in-between a lake and a waterfall.
Must be a treasure, or maybe a clue hidden in this cave. Check the wall!’
'I found a steel door. It’s rusted shut, and it will not open for me.'
'You're going to need to oil the hinges. Take oil from the lamp. It's free!’

Frederick climbed up the stairs of the tower to get into a room.
He saw Jezebel laid on her bed while sleeping as waiting for her groom.
He understood, in that moment, Surah’s cruel, dangerous game.
She sold her soul to the demon, and sacrificed her family for fame.

’Frederick, come here to see something you have never seen before!’
‘We found a treasure that Surah needed to hide because of that war!’
In a space between walls were hidden thousands pieces of gold.
They found a treasure-filled tunnel. ‘Her suffering was well consoled!’

(Meanwhile, the archbishop was talking with Clara, and Sarah.)
’Mary is ill, and she thinks that she will die soon’, Sarah told him.
‘We must pray for her life’,’ Day by day, her recovery chances slim.’
‘Surah, her sister, how is she? Does she look for a good way of life?
‘She believes in a good way to die. Her life is a ***** strife.’

’It’s hard to bring back a guilty person to another good sense
Of her spiritual condition. All she is doing is to act in self-defense.’
'Surah's punishment should allow other evil-doers to be deterred.
She was persistent in her criminal course, ‘and his words weren’t slurred.

(The archbishop continued to tell them his opinion.)

'There must be a just proportion between the penalty and the crime
Like excommunication and deprivation of spiritual goods for a long time.'
In addition to seeking the return of its properties and assets, the church
Must find its lost documents and values. It needs new rights of search.'

To be continued..tomorrow

Exposition
Exploration
Examination
Experimentation
Exhibition
Exp­erience
Exercise
Excelsior
Explosion
Exposure
Expansion
Exceeding­
Excitement
Excellence

except

Excessive
Expectations
Excuses
Ex­clamation
Excommunication
Excluded
Excreted
Exorcised
Expunged
Ex­acerbation
Exhale
Exit
Exeunt
Extinct

Ex-Star

There is violence
In this silence
In the words that you don't speak

Accusation
In excommunication
That lasts for months and weeks

Anathema: Cursed by Ecclesiastical Authority

She blamed me for her excommunication
She blamed me for her banishment
She blamed me for her ostracization
She blamed me for her condemnation
She blamed me for her fear
She blamed me for her shame
She blamed me for her loneliness disgrace humiliation suffering
She blamed me for her pain
She blamed me for her agony
She blamed me for her dishonor
She blamed me for her punishment
She blamed me for her tribulation
She blamed me for her immolation

My name is Anathema.
She is my mother

There is a condemned shack
on the bleeding edge
of this cracked mud cake prison
Rusted copper pipes snake out
into a murky puddle
holding the last cold drink
before setting out
I feel the ragged heat beating down
on the raw skin
of my hastily shaved scalp
The proud swing of flowing locks
cut off in shame
and thrown into angered fires -
Forever sentenced to wander
in tattered coated
highway robbery squalor -
Machete duel personalities
with blood crazed bandit gangs -
Hunker down on the edge of
gravel voiced pits
mutilating the rock face
in search of bitter roots
to replace the ones severed in
excommunication breakdown
I know
With you
It would be exile
Poor
Dusty
Hot
Banished
Marked for death
But nonetheless
we would sustain each other

I choose exile
with you

imagine retiring before you're 30,
with the great european disneyland
in switzerland waiting for your desires,
god... i stopped celebrating my birthdays
deliberately, so that each day is like
a birthday before the day i die:
motto: oh ****, here again, *******!

so i started brooding on the concept of
monism, dualism and trinity
in chemical terms eradicating theological
impetus to salvage from one (e.g. the buddha,
the christ, the moses without a surname like jesus)
the multitude: mostly fishermen and tax officers
and thieves... jesus... what a selective society you
knit and picked, huh?
i was thinking of carbon monoxide
(C≡O)... so when counter-structures on the
elemental level become coupled in a scenario
of being identical, bypassing non-super-imposable'ness
(disregarding chirality), they can spawn
exponential growth named cancerous economics!  
and methane (C and H x4)
ethene (H2C=CH2) and ethane (H3C-CH3)
trinity's degenerate nature... oh right, so you're playing
dumb but not farming, you're the required
audience in front of the digitalised combine of colours
in a shady room? plato would call that coloured shadows
where no messages are deciphered given the doubt
that they're even passed for the excommunication
of corrupt politicians and the clergy... you know:
french / russian revolution *******.
oh i want a thinking embryo not attached to my body,
i want it so bad that i can compare myself
to elijah's command: execute the priesthood of baal,
because they can't conjure anything,
just paedophilia and mumbles and sugar puffs at breakfast.
well there's all that, what was i talking about?
rambling on many cobwebbed talking matters later
it might appear like Alzheimer's... right the active
ingredient of cigarettes: carbon monoxide,
(C≡O), not like carbon diaoxide (O=C=O),
a trinity in one person creates a fourth dimension,
imagine the interstellar (movie) capsule of quantum-space
of humanism interpreting the crucifix wearing
a cosmonaut suit rather than adam's fur...
it's like that... so apart from carbon monoxide providing
the suffocating dizzy carousel of the cigarette dragged
quickie high, you get the nicotine i thought was
actually a placebo substance, a palette of tobacco akin...
still alice* was a bit **** to be honest,
she was trying to salvage her strongest areas of
personality, she specialised in linguistics,
in phonetics and what not (etc.),
if she suddenly changed course with her interests,
rather than retreated into the laziness of:
all consciousness and thinking is about memory and
memorisation, she was challenged by schooling's
expression of memory: the times table: 2 x 2 = 4, 2 x 3 = 6,
and personal memory, the imprints on other
people, rather than civilisation's imprint on
the person in question: civilisation = the existence of money,
tribalism = you scratch my back, i scratch yours.

Uncle Sam reclines and unwinds
In his Adirondack chair
The Statue of Liberty reminds the Mater at Arms
Of the time when he was put in a peyote trance
It was only then he caught on
He rammed his head against his headboard every night
Wracking your brain, trying to wrap it around the concept of the excommunication of those who have had their mouths washed out with soap

There will be no fanfare for the stray lambs
They are only meal tickets for the clergy
Concord grapes and word of mouth
Raise the question, "what is in a hot dog?"

Don't latch on to me after I dance with you into mad denial under a brass florescent chandelier in front of all the stock brokers and shareholders
I'll dismantle your silver lining with a spork

The  cow pies disappear due to erosion

It's good to see you, I didn't know burlap sacks were all the rage right now
Stencil your name on it for good measure
How do you feel after your ego death?

Lots of little leaves lend their thoughts through me, invasive, intricately they thwart thousands of flicking fluttering flapjacks that narrowly nest northwards in insightful intricacies.  My own correlation to the devastation of my excommunication comes circling psychotically through territory taken by thieves.  Listen to me.  Me,  the sea winding, crashing, lashing, smashing in the sand.  Shells wash shamelessly ashore.  Incoherent attitudes to the longitudes and latitudes of my bicameral mind melt biogenetically with generous gentrification and gratitude.  Knights that know nothing note notorious faults with the mechanical bull bellowing ballads of Bart Simpson's big brained battles.  Believing in a higher power that showers us with praise and rain and pain and flames is an astonishing attitude taken timelessly through history.  Histories mysteries made matching the mourning Mormons march maddeningly on netted walkways wandering wirelessly in the digital age.  Rage, sage, six billion constellations on one page, intuitive notions of nectarines and oranges that float directly through subconscious space into the place were the human race lost its face, bending backwards hopelessly heaving to find It.  Us, the story of story of stories.  Last but not least the golden fleece made by hand of the man who lost control of the audience blinking stupidly through the dim lighting in a Victorian era theater.  Money makes men mad, women whistle tunes on the rocks as the clocks tick down to our collective doom eternity falsity.  Lighting matches of the patches that reconnect the lashes lavishly lacerating loyal little people who dance dumbly and deftly as an affirmative acceleration of the Nation brings out the worst in us.  Millions marching miraculously on nation capital investment in the predicted earnings of what we can sell to the horribly under educated balding obese men with learning disabilities due to the undisclosed demonstration of lack of nutrients needed to make more mean men smart.  Lost at darts.  Joan of Arc.  Queen Diamond brings crime to silent Simon sitting on the dock of the bay.  We waste away.  Watching rivers rolling round the ******* bend that banishes blatant blasphemies of the self.  Sea me sinking seemingly shrinking in the distance of your one good eye.  Lost green waves washing worlds wary of the New Age.  But in my head it can't be said any other way than the way it repeats and relapses and redirects my attention to it when I try to sleep and eat and drink and sweat and sigh and sing and slink.  The twisting tangled thought that terrifies my tortured terrace (aka my also known as counterpart playing in the dark with lost fingers finding time to rhyme lines in the mosaic of my mind: my heart).  But I'll just tell you later.

~

Today, a family friend marveled at how much I remind him of my father.
You must understand how much this scared me.
Nothing scares me more than addiction,
yet I perpetually submit myself to addictive behavior, substances, feelings.

These holes I've been digging cannot be dug forever.
There is a bottom and that is excommunication, prison, death.
No person will dig me out,
no person can.

The clock may move slower
after I use this,
and it may move quicker
after I use this.
It doesn't matter to me,
as long as moves in a way other than it does in sobriety.

The sun will rise and the sun will set,
all according to plan.
For hundreds of years into the future
astrologers have predicted at what time which stars
can be seen from certain locations on Earth.
Yet I do not know where I will be tomorrow.
I do not know who will be with me.
I do not know if my father will still love me,
or if we will still share a home, a family, blood.

an idiot has raised a village
burning at the stake.
cooking for the forest.
a family of plants
burning in the sun.
a chorus of screaming heads.
bodies of illness.
harboring the mind of melody.
and a creature which does not exist
slithers in from every side.
a mouth open so wide
it is emaciated by its own strength.

A fizzle.
A fury.
The rabbit and the hole.
Like puzzle pieces left out in the rain.
Overexposure,
         White hot.
Ex-communication leads to excommunication.
This is your brain on drugs.
Intravenous lover,
  **** the marrow dry.
          White hot.
  blistering
Pustules darling!
Transgress,
then offer a pause,
      as though we had ever begun to play.
Like a claustrophobic *******,
leasing out a shoebox.
I want in for good.
I want out for life.
Lets play hide,
  all the seekers are dead.

Petrichor- the scent of rain on dry earth.
eunoia (n.) beautiful thinking; a well mind.
basorexia(n.) the overwhelming desire to kiss.
elysian(adj) beautiful or creative; divinely inspired; peaceful and perfect.
clinomania(n.) the excessive desire to stay in bed.
psithurism(n.) the sound of the wind through the trees.
aegis- protection, support
affable- 1. easy and pleasant to speak to; approachable. 2. gentle and gracious.
agrestic- 1. rural; rustic. 2. unpolished; awkward.
alexithymia- inability to describe emotions in a verbal manner
ameliorate- to make or become better; improve.
anathema- 1. a formal ecclesiastical ban, curse, or excommunication. 2. a vehement denunciation; a curse. 3. one that is cursed or ******. 4. one that is greatly reviled, loathed, or shunned.
antediluvian- 1. extremely old and antiquated. 2. occurring or belonging to the era before the Flood.
apodyopsis- 1. the act of mentally ******* someone. 2. imagining women naked; ******* women mentally.
apolaustic- devoted to enjoyment
apostasy- abandonment of one's religious faith, political party, principles, or a cause.
apricity- the warmth of the sun in the winter.
assuage- 1. to make (something burdensome or painful) less intense or severe. 2. to satisfy or appease (hunger or thirst, for example). 3. to pacify or calm.
ataraxia- calmness or peace of mind; emotional tranquility.
atrabilious- 1. melancholic; gloomy. 2. irritable; ill-natured; peevish
bailiwick- one's particular area of activity, interest, or authority
banausic- merely mechanical; routine. 2. of or relating to a mechanic
clandestine- done in secret; needing to be concealed.
curple- buttocks; ****
doryphore- one who draws attention to the minor errors made by others, esp. in a pestering manner; a pedantic gadfly
dystopia- 1. an imaginary place or state in which the condition of life is extremely bad, as from deprivation, oppression, or terror. 2. a work describing such a place or state:
ecdysiast- a striptease artist
effusive- 1. unrestrained or excessive in emotional expression. 2. profuse; overflowing
euphony- agreeable sound
flapdoodle- foolish talk; nonsense
frippery- 1. pretentious, showy finery. 2. pretentious elegance; ostentation. 3. something trivial or nonessential
gelid- very cold; icy
gigglesome- prone to giggling
globule- a small spherical mass, especially a small drop of liquid
inchoate- 1. in an initial or early stage; incipient. 2. imperfectly formed or developed.
incondite- 1. poorly constructed. 2. lacking finish or refinement; crude
indemnify- 1. to protect against damage, loss, or injury; insure. 2. to make compensation to for damage, loss, or injury.
kakistocracy- government by the worst or least qualified citizens
kerfuffle- a disorderly outburst or tumult
lachrymose- 1. weeping or inclined to weep; tearful. 2. causing or tending to cause tears.
lackadaisical- lacking spirit, liveliness, or interest; languid
libertine- 1. one who acts without moral restraint; a dissolute person. 2. one who defies established religious precepts; a freethinker
logorrhea- excessive, incoherent talkativeness
maudlin- effusively or tearfully sentimental.
noctilucous- shining in the night
nullipara- a woman who has never given birth
obloquy- verbal abuse of a person or thing
perfidy- 1. deliberate breach of faith; calculated violation of trust; treachery. 2. the act or an instance of treachery.
quixotic- extravagantly chivalrous or romantic
susurrus- a soft, whispering or rustling sound; a murmur
transmogrify- to change into a different shape or form, especially one that is fantastic or bizarre
tryst- a secret meeting between two people who are having a romantic relationship.
usurp- 1. to seize and hold (the power or rights of another, for example) by force and without legal authority. 2. to take over or occupy without right
vertigo- 1. the sensation of dizziness; an instance of such a sensation. 2. a confused, disoriented state of mind.
vitiate- 1. to reduce the value or impair the quality of. 2. to corrupt morally; debase. 3. to make ineffective; invalidate.
Papilionaceous- having the form of a butterfly, having corolla with two wings resembling those of a butterfly

How quickly you forgot all the things you said, and I misstepped as well but I had you causing a wreck inside my head. Anytime I'd try to write all my ink would come out red, on a thousand pages my feelings for you were bled, and it hit me so hard because I hung on your every word, then hung myself from the rafters and watched my life swing over the disaster. Now you've come back blaming me for things that you misheard, you always had me so misunderstood. Forget you, I know that I should, but when the only person that you even care about says they're leaving for good, what did you think I would do, feel sorry for you? Because I'm such an ******* to have driven you to disperse, you knew it was me but you didn't know my verse, and now since you've been gone things have only gotten worse. Every night I've been stuck awake, trying to put a pin on my mistake, hiding away in my lonely place, feeling like I'm gonna explode, because no matter how high I'd get I still could not forget your face. I felt like I was in space, like I removed myself from planet earth without a trace, but deep down I know I can't escape this place

Why do I insist on looking for solace at the bottom of all of these bottles?
I know full well that nothing in this world, nor in Heaven nor Hell, can fill the small, Gavyn-sized void in my heart and in my soul, yet still, in vain, I try to drown my misery in the suds and decanters of inebriation…
I have dreampt of you twice in the last week. That is more than my dreams have been graced by your countenance in the last year. Each time, upon waking, I have been found with a smile, painful in its hope, for waking brings the end of the dream. I spend my time chasing dreams, for dreams are so much more hopeful than the reality that my sleeping brain awakens unto.
In these dreams, I have seen your face, heard you laugh and cry and call for me. Seen you run and play and question, seen you witness the sun and the World. I have held you in my arms and felt you wrap yours around me.
This alcohol numbs the sting of this unreality, for when I awake, it is in the sobering arms of loneliness and longing and emptiness. My heart beats for you, and in your absence, continues to beat, labored and heavily.
Every fiber of my being cries out for you, every second of every day. I see my failure in the smiles of children, in the hands of Fathers and Mothers and Children entwined, for mine clasp only the pen or the pillow, the bottle or themselves.
I want to heal the pain of this world, yet I cannot find inside myself the focus to care for anyone other than you or myself, nor the capacity to heal your world, or my own.
My hope continues, beaten down and suffocating, yet alive; the hope of the ******.
Whilst ****** I may not be, the excommunication from you is damning…
Am I dying, my Angel?
…Maybe.
Or am I just not living?
Try as I might, I cannot find the answer to this question. Perhaps, it is both. Dying while refusing to live.
For there is much to live for and much to die from.
Yet, my heart beats and my hope, my hope screams in whispers. Because of you.
I love you, Sweet Angel. With more than I ever knew that I possessed. These unshed tears are nothing more than unsung songs and unpenned verses in your name.
Sleep sweet, my love. Don’t forget to say your prayers. Daddy will be here when you wake up.

Righteousness of action
   Assimilation despite protest
      Gesticulating invalid points
         Excommunication for beliefs
                              &
Hypercorrection to fit in
   Accountableness and your actions
      Thermodynamic reaction
         Excuse me for a moment

Please forgive my descent in anger

Sessile and connected,
I'm sat here to ponder—
To draw the parallels
Of my own roots of understanding
And touch, once more, the slumber
Which heartbreak does not send.

We should only gauge our maturity
By the scope of the circumstances.

All things glowing,
Yet all by ourselves.

Landscape void,
Yet setting all but bleak.

You squeeze the hand of love
Sometimes in thinking
You can teach a tighter grip—
Deciding that carpal tunnel syndrome
Is sure to fade...
That writer's claw grips just as tight.

It does not.

The sonnets, I could not recite,
But sighed at the single fact
That it signaled my memory fading,
And so too might all the flowers.

II.

The buds that haven't grown
And won't.

The dark I've both loved inside and cursed,
The central city which accepted the trade for my soul.

All drifting now.
I hope you cannot relate.

You'll recognize it all in waves of belonging.
I'd bet they'll pass us by.

III.

Where has the plot gone?

Slung the ink from well to wall,
Because this Earth is completely canvas,
And all the Earth will feel it with great objectivity.

From cries of heartache
To cries of triumph,
And extremism in both,
And with joy lying off the spectrum,
All to behold.

Nothing moving forward
As we choose to read in lefts and rights
And restrict the privilege
Moving only backward.

Time travel is simple,
Don't you do it with thought?

Restoration to my smile,
Reduced me to dust.

IV.

Not my call and not in fact,
With strong mind to senses
The world was very teal.

Looked, felt,
The aura,
All distinctively teal,
Just as gentle and forgiving.

No mind to the fact that you've done wrong
And been terribly wrong
Toward the center of judgment.

I'd posit the scales
Are already in balance,
And I'd advantage you greatly
On the weight of your hope.

All in harmony,
Yet the water receded.

I must confess, I'm awful at predictions...
But you broke my calendar stone,
Tolled the bell with no rhythm
And never did you discourage it...

Of course I'm guilty,
I've found it in my nature
And I've been worshipping in your temple...

Excommunication carries the feeling of death.

From this dugout
No use pouring my heart out.
This confessional doesn’t have a shade drawn
A puppet, a pawn, a perp
A tack on
Littered with detritus
Of somebody done somebody wrong song
I don’t steal anybody’s song,
Wrong
It’s not my commandment
It’s not written in granite
Ambiguities a bad bedfellow
But not a dead fellow
This confessional, this confessional
Doesn’t absolve you with a few hail marys
a thicket of wicked thorn berries.
sick, *******, costumed pretenders-
holy, roly-poly, sanctimonious vendors.
Doesn’t cleanse you at the hip altar.
But of-
the unpure, uneaten, unsure
excommunicated alter,
of the endure
Defaulter, sweet & sour, flower power altar.
Where you shall genuflect to the vanquished
To the-
Soiled, stained, sick, smelly, unkempt and managed
Gross, bone bent, back aching, decried and decrypted.
Imperfect professors of perfection
Who are perfectly right
But don’t know it
And quit

You, sanctimonious vendor of the unpure.
How can you be so sure?

Mary scared mother of-
Stripped of her merriment
Fairy dust
wanderlust
Mary, Venerated Jewish Mother  
Annunciation proclamation
Consummation Abnegation
Hastened your ascension
Toward prop ligation
Fleshly excommunication castration
You shall labor without love
Impregnated with carnal canned pixie dust
On the backs of *****-tonk donkeys
Star-stalking, strange, bearded traveling imposters
Posted on paper indelible,
Forever
They reign.
Please


Mary’s, you have given birth many times,
Not with the ***** of men, but nonetheless.
Birthing their winged  & ribbed women
Angels
Amen.
With the same pixie dust.
Some have called them crazy,
lazy
hazy,
spacey,
****
zany,
brainy
And worse
Some better

You have not called them at all,
Mother of the child-
Child of the mother.
Mother, why did you drop me on my head,
And then leave me for dead?
An abandoned cavern that couldn’t fill the holy womb.
They wouldn’t let me go near you.
Elastic roped and doped and spun
Someone finally won.
It wasn’t you,
Mother.
Child
You were the prize child
Denial child
Anything but wild child
Do no wrong child
Slightly soiled spoiled child
A benediction of denial child.
Precious child
Equalized on such a lofty Persian perch?
Where we have put you
And left you.

You will pay dearly for this, child.
What do you have to say for yourself?
You must plead guilty.
Because if you are not-
The consequences will be severe.
So, how do you plead?
Once in awhile child.
How do you plead?
Once in a denial child.
How do you plead?
I have written on paper pure indeed
How do you plead?
Now I need to burn the paper
How do you plead?
Ashes to ashes
How do you plead?
Mad dashes
Past to present
Has past.
How do you plead?
Now
Backlashes, dashes, and eyelashes
How do you plead?
I’m down on my knees
Trying to please
How do you plead?

Freeze and frozen
A snow-white fairy in a
Snow white fairytale
In a snow-white snow storm.
How do you plead?
Dashes to dashes to dashes
Is this the end-
Ashes to ashes to ashes
Or just another altar
My friend.
How do you plead?

A Saint's fall from grace
Was written in subtle remission
Misgiving the unknown lengths
Within his impending perdition

He sits alone with Familiar near
Drawing permissive ethereal energy
Through a single ring finger
Seemingly from nowhere

Incoming ancient rites
Through unprecedented sight
Which is merely a foreplay
Unto the forays of his personal plight

For he lays with the knowledge
Of angels, deities, and Divine kings
Paralyzed within these confines
And unable to speak
The peril of an incorrigible feral beast Presently feeding on his precious sleep

A sanctified clandestine ritual
Opaque within the haze
For the utter ignorance of his current form Can not be fazed

All the while perched above him looming
The orders of the past
Which cast his imminent ruin
Strangulated by a single urgent thought
To which is owed his undoing

An existence to remain subservient
Fluid, and entirely alone
As was the expedient nature
Of his excommunication from the throne

And though he's been devoted
Thoughtful and reminiscent
There still lies a lingering shadow
Dissipating in the distance
The latter to which can not be replaced
With any amount of insistence

For ice burns the veins
That label him a Saint
There's no way to defame
Or ever replace an ordained vocation

Innate spun the tine of the fate's Creation
Needless abandon to pursue explanation When the weight of his burden
Entirely subdues resignation

It's simply the ripples of the current Resounding within his present station

Whispering into the deep heart of his fear
With it's morbid, amorphous face
Ever reminding him the story
Of his final fall from grace

The town I’m from
has a history
an excommunication
of diversity
at the helm
of self-serving
Caucasian propriety.
My sister is 50 percent
black -
her ancestors once
ran towards the freedom
promised
in the small towns
like this one.
This small town -
97.4 percent white -
instead hung her ancestors
in the town square,
jeered at their attempts
to live among the same people
who were proud
to live in a land of freedom.
Only certain freedoms
are allowed, however,
in towns like this one -
only a freedom
of a certain color.