I am a poet.
I am an artist.
A lover of words, a shaper of thoughts, a master of feelings;
A player of emotions, a speaker of charms, a thinker of minds.
A giver of taste-and at times, a succulent creator of madness.
Madness outside such lines of timid regularity;
The rules of the common, and the inane believers of sanity.
For to me, sanity is as easy as insanity itself-
On which my life feedeth, and boldly moveth on;
And without insanity, t'ere shan't be either joy-or ecstasy;
As how ecstasy itself, in my mind, is defined by averted uneasiness,
And t'at easiness, reader, is not by any means part of;
And forever detached from, the haunting deities of contemporaneity.
Thus easily, artistry consumeth and spilleth my blood-and my whole entity;
Words floweth in my lungs, mastereth my mind, shapeth my own breath.
And sometimes, I breathest within those words themselves;
And declareth my purity within which, feeleth rejection at whose loss;
Like a princess storming about hysterically at the failure of her roses.
Ah! Poetry! The second lover of my life; the delicacy of my veins.
And I loveth, I doth love-sacredly, intensely, and expressively, all of which;
I loveth poetry as I desire my own breath, and how I loveth the muchness of my fellow nature;
Whose crazes sometimes surroundeth us like our dear lake nearby;
With its souls roaming about with water, t'at chokes and gurgles-
As stray winds collapseth around and strikest a war with which.
And most of the year-I am a star, to my own skies;
But by whose side a moon, to my rainless nights;
On the whole, I am an umbrella to my soul;
So t'at it groweth bitter not, even when t'ere is no imminent rain;
And be its savior, when all is unsaved, and everything else writhest in pain.

Thus I loveth poetry as well as I loveth my dreams;
I am a painter of such scenic phrases, whose miracles bloometh
Next to thunderstorms, and yon subsequent spirited moonbeam.
And t'eir fate is awesome and elegant within my hands;
They oft' sleep placidly against my thumbs;
Asking me, with soft-and decorous breath;
To be stroked by my enigmatic fingers;
And to calm t'eir underestimated literariness, by such ungodly beings, out t'ere.
Ah, poor-poor creatures-what a fiend wouldst but do t'is to aggravate 'em!
As above all, I feeleth but extremely eager about miracles themselves;
and duly witness, my reader-t'at t'is very eagerness shall never be corrupted;
Just as how I am a pure enthusiast of love;
And in my enthusiasm, I shareth love of both men and nature;
And dark sorrows and tears t'at oft' shadowest t'eir decent composures.
When I thirstest for touches, I simply writest 'em down;
When I am hungry for caresses, I tendeth to think them out;
I detailest everything auspiciously, until my surprised conscience cannot help but feeling tired;
But still, the love of thee, poetry, shall outwit me, and despise me deeply-
Should I find not the root, within myself, to challenge and accomplish it, accordingly.
I shall be my own jealousy, and my own failure;
Who to whose private breath feeleth even unsure.
I shall feel scarce, and altogether empty;
I shall have no more essence to be admired;
For everything shall wither within me, and leave me to no energy;
And with my conscience betrayed, I shall face my demise with a heart so despaired.
Ah, my poetry is but my everything!
'Tis my undying wave; and the casual, though perhaps unnatural;
the brother of my own soul, on whose shoulders I placeth my longings;
And on whose mouths I lieth my long-lost kisses!
Ah, how I loveth poetry hideously, but awesomely, thereof!
I loveth poetry greatly-within and outside of my own roof;
And I carest not for others' mock idyll, and adamant reproof;
For I loveth poetry as how as I respectest, and idoliseth love itself;
And when I idoliseth affection, perhaps I shall grow, briefly, into a normal human being-
A real, real human being with curdling weights of unpoetic feelings;
I shall whisper into my ears every intractable falsehood, but the customary normalcy-of creation;
And brash, brash emptiness whom my creative brains canst no longer bear!
Ah, dearest, loveliest poetry, but shall I love him?
Ah-the one whose sighs and shortcomings oft' startlest my dreams;
The one whom I oft' pictureth, and craftest like an insolent statue-
Within my morning colours, and about my petulant midnight hue?
Or, poetry, and tellest me, tellest me-whether needst I to love him more-
The one whose vice was my past-but now wishes to be my virtue,
And t'is time an amiably sober virtue-with eyes so blue and sparkling smiles so true?
Ah, poetry, tellest me, tellest me here-without delay!
In my oneness, thou shalt be my triumph, and everlasting astonishment;
Worthy of my praise and established tightness of endorsement;
But in any doubleness of my life-thou shalt be my saviour, and prompt avidity-
When all but strugglest against their trances, or even falleth silent.
Ah, poetry, thou art the symbol of my virtue thyself;
And thy little soul is my tongue;
A midnight read I hath been composing dearly all along;
My morn play, anecdote, and yet my most captivating song.

I thirstest for thee regularly, and longeth for thee every single day;
I am dead when I hath not words, nor any glittering odes in my mouth to say.
Thou art my immensity, in which everything is gullible, but truth;
And all remarks are bright-though with multiple souls, and roots;
Ah, poetry, in every summer, thou art the adored timeless foliage;
With humorous beauty, and a most intensive sacrifice no other trees canst take!
O poetry, and thy absence-I shall be dead like those others;
I shall be robbed, I shall be like a walking ghost;
I hath no more cores, nor cheers-within me, and shall wander about aimlessly, and feel lost;
Everything shall be blackened, and seen with malicious degrees of absurdity;
I shall be like those who, as days pass, bloometh with no advanced profusion,
And entertaineth their sad souls with no abundant intention!
How precarious, and notorious-shall I look, indeed!
For I shall hath no gravity-nor any sense of, or taste-for glory;
My mind shall be its own corpse, and look but grey;
Grey as if paled seriously by the passage of time;
Grey as if turned mercilessly so-by nothing sublime;
Ah, but in truth-grey over its stolen life, over its stolen breath!
I shall become such greyness, o poetry, over the loss of thee;
And treadeth around like them, whose minds are blocked-by monetary thickness;
A desire for meaningless muchness, and pretentious satire exchanged '**** 'emselves;
I shall be like 'em-who are blind to even t'eir own brutal longings!
Ah, t'ose, whose paths are threatened by avid seriousness;
And adverse tides of ambition, and incomprehensible austerity;
Ah, for to me glory is not eternal, glory is not superb;
For eternity is what matterest most, and t'at relieth not within any absence of serenity.
Ah, but sadly they realiseth, realiseth it not!
For they are never alive themselves, nor prone-to any living realisation;
And termed only by the solemnity of desire, wealthiness, and hovering accusations;
For they breathe within their private-ye' voluptuous, malice, and unabashed prejudice,
For they hath no comprehension; as they hath not even the most barren bliss!
And I wantest not to be any of them, for being such is entirely gruesome;
And I shall die of loneliness, I shall die of feasting on no mindly outcome;
For nothing more shall be fragrant within my torpid soul;
And hath courage not shall I, to fight against any fishy and foul.
My fate is tranquil, and 'tis, indeed-to be a poet;
A poet whenst society is mute, I shall speak out loud;
And whenst humanity is asleep, I wake 't with my shouts;
Ah, poetry! Thy ****** little soul is but everything to me;
And even in my future wifery, I shall still care for, and recur to thee;
And I shall devote myself to thee, and cherish thee more;
Thou hath captured me with love; and such a love is, indeed, like never before.

But too I loveth him still, as every day rises-
When the sun reappeareth, and hazy clouds are again woken so they canst praise the skies.
I loveth him, as sunrays alight our country suburbs;
With a love so wondrous; a love but at times-too ardent and superb.
Ah, and thus tellest me-tellest me once more!
To whose heart shall I benignly succumb, and trust my maidenhood?
To whose soul shall I courteously bow, and be tied-at th' end of my womanhood?
Ah, poetry, I am but now clueless, and thoroughly speechless-about my own love!
Ah, dearest-t'is time but be friendly to me, and award to me a clue!
Lendeth to me thy very genial comprehension, and merit;
Openeth my heart with thy grace, and unmistakable wit!
Drowneth me once more into thy reveries of dreams;
And finally, just finally-burstest my eyes now open, maketh me with clarity see him!

Ah, poetry, t'ose rainbows of thine-are definitely too remarkable;
As how t'ose red lips of thine adore me, and termeth me kindly, as reliable;
And thus I shall rely all my reality on thy very shoulder;
Bless me with the holiness confidentiality, and untamed ****** intelligence;
Maketh me enliven my words with love, and the healthiest, and loveliest, of allegiance.
Bless me with the flavoured showers of thy heart;
So everything foreign canst but be comely-and familiar;
And from whose verdure, and growth-I shall ne'er be apart!
And as t'is happens, holdest my hand tightly-and clutchest at my heart dearly;
Keepest me but safe here, and reachest my breath, securely!
Ah, poetry-be with me, be with me always!
Maketh me even lovelier, and loyal-to my religion;
In my daily taste-and hastes, and all these supreme oddities and evenness of life;
Maketh me but thoughtful, cheerful, and naive;
And in silence maketh me stay civil-but for my years to come;
and similarly helpeth my devotion, taste, and creativity, remain alive.

Ah, poetry, thus I shall be awake in both thy daylight, and slumbers;
And as thou shineth, I knoweth that my dreams shall never fade away;
Once more, I might have gone mad, but still-all the way better;
And whenst I am once more conscious; thou shalt be my darling;
who firmly and genuinely beggeth me t' keep writing, and in the end, beggeth me t' stay.
Leave me not, even whenst days grew dark-and lighted were only my abyss;
Invite my joy, and devour every bit of it-as one thou should neither ignore, or miss.

If you date a poet, you will know the true meaning of 'swoon' and you will do it often. They know the power of a stunning phrase and it's way hotter than the Hallmark lines a non-poet will default to.

2.  They see the raw beauty in things that others take for granted.

3.  You will never ever need to worry that they aren't telling you something. Poets are ALWAYS trying to tell you something.

4. They're quite handy if you need a graceful way to tell someone off. They can tell em where to go and how far to stick it without using a single foul word.

5. Roses are pretty sub-standard and typical. Instead, you will get hand written love letters and sticky notes with one line *****-wetters. (Yes, I said *****-wetters. You know what it is.)

6. You will never not know the deeper meaning of something. Anything. There is nothing at all that a poet cannot analyze the hell out of. There's an underlying meaning behind EVERY single thing and if you ask a poet, they'll be elated to share it with you.

7. Poets tend to be minimalists. They don't always need a lot to set the butterflies a flutter. If you can come up with a couple of your own expressively charming lines, that will pretty much substitute a $125 dinner date.

8. Poets make curiously good alcoholic beverages. Because poets drink a lot of alcoholic beverages.

9. You'll never be without somewhere to go at any given moment. There's bound to be an open mic night, a poetry slam, a house party centered around poetry, a poetry in the park event, etc. There will always be something poetic going on. And they will know about it.

10. You will know what a true apology sounds like. Poets can apologize like NONE other when they know they have done something wrong.

11.Making love to a poet feels like syllables being whispered along the curve of your spine as you unravel into a million pieces.

12. Poets like smell good stuff. But not obnoxious fruity scents. Poets don't like to smell like fruit baskets. Poets like sandalwood, and amber, and lavender, and patchouli oils. You know...the **** stuff.

13. Poets cherish quiet time. Meanwhile, most non-poets you date will probably have the television blasting, music playing, friends climbing over one another and a cell phone conversation on speaker phone...all at the same time...every day.

14. You will always have a crowd-pleaser on your arm. Not all poets are attention ****** at parties BUT all poets know how to say at least one extra deep/witty thing that will have everyone else envious that you are the one dating the poet and not them.

15. Poets can wear the color black during all seasons, during thunderstorms or sunny spring days and make it look extra sophisticated and intentional.

16. Poets break rules...but also enjoy the process of making them. Keeps things interesting.

17. Poets shun conformity. So you know that if your poet bought it for you, said it to you, wrote it for you, etc...it's gonna be something edgy and unique and outside of the normal (boring) box.

18. Poets are great with their hands and even better with their mouths. Enough said.

19. Poets are the gatekeepers AND the rallyers (is that a real word?) of the community. If you don't know what a gatekeeper is...you aren't dating a poet. If you don't know what a rallyer is, it's because there's a possibility that it's not a real word. But you get it.

20. Poets like to make up their own words.

21. Poets don't like to be told that they can't do something. Maybe it's the whole submit and rejection process of writing. Who knows? But tell a poet NO and they'll keep trying until they get a yes. Persistence is way more handy than what can be explained here.

22. Poets read books. Book readers tend to have better vocabularies. A broad vocabulary is usually a trait of a good conversationalist which means no lame dinner convos.

23. Poets can write ugly things beautiful and can ***** up a pristine scene like nobodies business. In other words, when you need a different perspective on something...your poet can provide that for you.

24. A well-written poem can be the most powerful and therapeutic dose of truth and self-realization. Poets write poems. Therefore, dating a poet is like getting free therapy.  

25. Poets don't need a list of 50 things to prove why dating them is the best thing you will ever do.

i tried to assimilate, oh wait, i did, and i speak better native sprechen than the actual natives, and for that? you get the boot, because some camel jockey egyptian mongrel mixed with iranian blood gets the better of you... i guess the "natives" were fans of the eastern european *******, but not the eastern european males, **** it, i'm coming for the ride; can just see the ****** shouting: ooh ooh! their male counterparts are a'coming! and next thing you know, i'll be asking you to play the ******* banjo, with a toothpick!*

and it was always going to be torrential rain,
suspended in a prelude crescendo
of soulfly's song prophecy...
oh all the hoes come from eastern europe,
just like all didlo moulds come from africa,
gotta perfect that "pleasing of the white
******* honey cougar in plastic too, yo, bro..."
black people don't speak the current
lexicon, they are hyper-evolutionary
with their slang impromptus,
gets annoying after a while,
when you stop keeping track of their
ghettosprechen...
      ******* could have said custard,
meant margarine, but i'd still think of
jungle...
                     ghetto *****, get-a-go!
next time you mention all women of
eastern europe as ******, i'll mention
you in my charcoal wish-yo-were-edible
roasts... **** me... i'd prefer eating a leg
of lamb than a ******; shank.
oh, the word offends you,
but doesn't offend you in a rap limerick?
i.e. ***** ***** bab bab *****?
black people invent too much slang,
too much degenerate use of language,
      i try to keep it straight and universal,
off the orangutans go, talking orange is
the new black...
           i still find it hard to fathom
darwinism, who would be mad to begin
in africa, and end up in the arctic circle,
and no china?! common origins *******...
  tried looking for an eskimo in china,
all i found was, a ******* icecube!
      post-existentialism does exists,
it exists in the form of anglo-existentialism,
i.e. a darwinistic blackmailing...
    21st century existentialism is blackmail,
plain dumb & simple...
   and yes, i have a girlfriend, i call her...
sophia...
       and nietzsche was right:
the ugliest of the ugliest? atheists,
intellectually speaking.
       and why would you ever consider
the pristine sophia / ****** mary if not considering
aspasia, phryne, rahab, theodora,
   to counter philosophy,
   why not craft a:
    philospasy, a philophryny,
       a philorahabu, a philothedorum?
guess what, of the most famous prostitutes,
the contestants are philorahabu,
                     and philothedorum,
and all are famous prostitutes;
then the pristine sophia, my "girlfriend";
philosophy has a deity, that although
deemed pristine, has been touched by
many hands, and many strangleholds of ego,
time to turn this princess into a *****;
and the ones that visited a *******,
will look at those that haven't with curious
eyes.
let's not forget the siamese twin prostitutes
safa & marwa, and the matriarch
and true founder of islam ha-gar -
      the concubine of abraham,
  that ******* mother of islam.... hagar...
you really think men invented the islamic
attire for women?
              who's at the chanel catwalk,
straight men, or gays and women?
       you blame anyone, you blame: hagar...
running between the mounts safa & marwa...
islam, that totalitarian reinvention of
"repentant" / "revised" mode of prostitution...
and as i once overheard an englishman speak,
the niqab? satan's postbox.
- the craft began with treating the world as
solely inanimate, to make it as inanimate as
possible, and interact in it,
   as the sole animate agent, obviously with
the obvious hurdles of animate expressions,
nonetheless, these expressions being
outside the vicinity of integrated animate
actors, working around in inanimate surroundings,
conclusively,
  the "supposed" animate expression regain
their inanimate stratum by a repeatedly
predictable observation of
a prior re similis ad infinitum
  (prior to, again, similar toward infinity).
the point was always to make the world
as inanimate as possible,
    collecting books is a starter,
  collecting cooking utensils another,
the point being, to surround yourself with as
much inanimate reality, as to prove yourself
the animate, the "actor"...
             or more expressively: the puppeteer...
it still bothers me, grinding two prefixes...
the penta-      vs.        the tetra-...
   why? well, we are embodied with five sense,
but there are only four elements...

    vision
audition
gustation                       yes, but there's only
  olfaction
     somatosensation

                    air, fire, earth, water...
      this is almost gagging a schematic,
  we can see fire, earth and water,
  we can hear fire, air, water and earth,
      we can taste...
      we can smell fire, air, water, earth,
we can touch fire, water, earth...

this, by the way is crude...
   and is limited by not adding particular
observations...
   but the ratio 5:4 is in place, akin to
the mad hatter's 10/6 = 0.666...
         and that missing one is: ad infinitum,
might as well call it the lazy eight with 4:5...
since the elements came prior to the senses.

i'm guessing the "fifth element" to compliment
the five senses is a far greater posit than
a sixth sense, in that, this "fifth element"
is a plagiarism of kierkegaard,
  i.e. the "changelessness of god",
namely the eternally immovable object,
an object of constantly perpetuated friction,
so stationary that it moves all things,
which also precipitates into an eternally
recurrent subject matter,
immovable, ergo, inexhaustible.

- and i will die believing that anglo-existentialism
is an argument from the perspective
of blackmail, esp. since it's overtly-repetitive
and unoriginal,
  and if the english found continental
existentialism boring, a continental european
like myself, will find some hidden interest
in this "boring" artefact of time,
   but nothing can redeem repetition,
not even a boring artefact of writing,
   since when reading a boring "effort" of
writing, you can actually wake up,
and yawn...
  but when the same "effort" is repetitive,
you never get a chance to yawn,
you're still asleep, "apparently" enthralled.

- and to give a conclusion...
if an irishman thinks you write akin to
the psychiatric slang of "word salad",
ask him if he has read any james joyce,
if the answer is no, and he replies that he prefers
video game narratives, and has ambitions of
writing a book citing the cliche moonlight sonata
of beethoven... it's one of those times
you can't even laugh, internally, or externally.

- eventuality vs. actuality -
whereby actuality is a reactionary stance
that drags past events into present and future
events...
   whereby eventuality is a liberal stance
that drags past events into a wall,
   the present into a status quo,
  and the future into a snooze button phase
of a clockwork orange.

- no, i don't like this darwinistic blackmail of
continental existentialism,
  this monochromatic monolith...

- better start calling philosophy by its proper name,
philorahabu / philothedorum
(were not underlined on the pixel canvas,
thereby bypassing the oxford dictionary panel
for nuo-verbum acceptance) -
      keep that ****** of yours sophia
in a cage, because your thinking,
like your body, will become contaminated;
but one thing is for sure,
that concubine hagar running between
safa & marwa looking for water...
    can't imagine any other grander matriarch...
a reformed *** slave, who gave birth
to the niqab...
            i really can't imagine jannah
that way... i think it looks like:
1 man + 72 prostitutes,
              and 1 woman + 3 holes stuffed.

I feel pretty and soft,
Like a jasmine flower
Blooming with fragrant power,
Feminine and unique,
No two alike in pale white and pink,
Harnessing, absorbing
Sweet summer light,
The rich scent of jasmine
Carried aright,
Weightless and pungent,
Expressively existing.
I feel pretty and soft,
My presence caressing and kissing.

Two Maronite schoolchildren practice their English…

“Cedars! Cedars! Cedars!”
“See theirs, seethers, Caesars,
See her cedars Caesar?”
“See here, a sea-fare and see there?
And oh, I see Sir?”
“Do you see her? Yes I see Sir, -Caesar!”
“Cedars! Cedars! Cedars!”

And they are descendants of Solomon’s thirty-thousand, the great-grandchildren of Hiram’s workers.

“Sol Indiges!”
“Sol Invictus!”
“Sol-Ammon!”

“Now children, how do the three monkeys act?”

“Sol, the root of solar and it means the Sun, it means also to see or sight as it infers the light of seeing.”

“Am means fire but it is also the meditative word, Aum, therefore it cannot render evil through sound!”

“On is Egyptian and it connotes speech so it represents hearing.”

The instruction in language is not terse. Requiring broad-based understandings of how the West characterizes ideas. These two are particularly adept being taught from birth in both Maronitic and Latin and now English, in preparation for their exodus, as home has become a battleground where they must leave soon. Only in the West can they find peace and practice their faith so expressively. Only in the West can these two girls attend school if their lands are befallen…

“Now children, what does this mean?”

“See no evil!”
“Speak no Evil!”
“Hear no Evil!”

“And that children, is the Wisdom of Solomon!”

Breaking news! CNN reports that a car bomb has exploded in the ancient Lebanese town of Mejdeloon. Shocking footage now of a series of homes that have been reduced to rubble near a Maronite Church where rescuers are just now pulling out the bodies of two young school girls. Christopher Talias reports live from the Lebanon.

“Sol Indiges is the voice of god,"

Sol Invictus, in light, his mind;"

*Sol-Ammon is the understanding and wisdom for all time!”

i always favoured Händel (see the hidden γραφεμη variation of the a diaeresis - some simply sprech Hendel, also not the aesthetic mimic symbiosis with sigma - aesthetically it is written Σσς, so too it should be written Εεη - with the variations of epsilon - η - written conclusively, as with the variation of sigma - ς - the remnant, a last resort - the greeks don't believe the tetragrammaton twins of the symbol H anyway, they already laid new pavements for the road ahead, ridiculing the old testament with fanciful quotation, so that man could imbue a godliness rather than the filth of prophetic warmongering in the desert, sacrificing children to a bear like Elisha, the new testimony and the clean prophet, beware the wolf in sheep clothing, sheep equating itself to Nazarene cleanliness, but the wolf inside that will be worthy a tri-summation of interests - before universal education in the Victorian era, when finally enough horses were used up and machines took over, and people were allowed to be escorted into the cinema of uncovered phonetic encoding - taught literacy - but to no avail, having squandered that on acronym shortenings... multifaceted digressions ensue, as i am true to the purpose of suddenly injecting venomous imagery into this whole crescendo of the new regime, nightwatchman every over day, to save myself the pointless stimulus of drinking - let's leave the realm of italics and regroup with the points already made...

what a glorious night yesterday's was, by me saying,
well, there is still over an hour left to include yesterday's
night as today - the heavy Baroque organs of thunder,
interchanging with brilliance of lightning -
7,000 accounts of lightning flashing in a square mile,
perhaps more - there was me, reminiscing what i missed
about Freddy Kruger in the original version of
a nightmare on Elm's street, the 2010 revamp made it
plain (i thought Freddy was a bit of a loser compared
to the other horror icons, like Jason, Michael, Pinhead),
but then it dawned on me... he, was, a *******!
the former two were mutes, hefty mutes, bodybuilding
mutes, bulls, charging, dragging around them a gravity
of pure animal, a bit like a lion hunting although without
the growling - if only lions had cat eyes,
but lions don't have serpent eyes, their pupils are more
mammalian than cat eyes, bonsai, Asian squint, inverse,
serpents in fur - their pupils dilate proportionately
to small pupil, large pupil, not vertical Asian squint in
leather... anyway... what a night to watch a horror movie...
the big brainstorm before the referendum,
morning's newspaper and the newspaper *the times
in revamp mode of the tabloid the sun with
a Shakespeare quote: i to the world am like a drop of
water (or, whatever, water is precious, Shakespeare
is about as much a schooled sneeze / quotation in
comparison), that in the ocean seeks another drop -
told you, the times is just a revamped tabloid version,
it's under the same umbrella group - the only two
opposition newspapers with credentials in England
are the guardian (the left) and the daily telegraph
(the right) - i can see now why Freddy seems pathetic
but is more frightening - it's the ****** talking,
the nursery rhyme jingle - that's the freaky part -
but in the same night i expressively enjoyed
t.v. caviar of Versailles, no critical essay mind you,
just noticing this strange pair of aristocratic ladies,
fakes, a mother and a daughter, what's revealing
is that the girl has no interest in the king, this
builder is eyeing her up, whistles, and loving it,
she has not desire for aristocratic **** *******
of her cousin who's courting Louis XIV brother
Philippe, the gardener ex-soldier (a Socratic type)
warns him, he's asked by the builder, what the hell you
doing here? oh, i'm trying to see the garden more clearer.
he ain't though, he's questioning the entire hierarchy,
later on the same builder puts a pink rose in a bucket
and lowers it down to the garden promenade
where the same pair mother and daughter are walking,
the girl engages... she isn't aristocratic in the least!
she's more interested in frolicking in the hay with
a builder than some king or prince... the mother is poor,
she knows all the salon politics, she basically wants
her daughter to get herself a pension by ******* the king
and bearing him a *******, but there's a scene where
the daughter asks late at night... what are you doing?
the mother replies... writing letters... now you'd expect
that to mean letters in the style of Voltaire or de Montainge,
but by letters she means A B C, D E F... she's illiterate!
an aristocrat and illiterate? how else to control the
masses so long ago if not keeping them illiterate
content with fables from Plato's shadow puppet metaphors?
later the mother becomes frightened that the motto
Louis XIV emphasises (appearances are power -
deception = poker-hand perception, bluffs the higher up
you go), she's walking alone through the corridors of
Versailles and starts chatting up the court inquisitor etc.,
Fabien Marchal - he ain't exactly the aristocratic type,
she's already seeing the failures of her daughter
and the failures of too much information being passed down
to her about how to catch the eye of the king - god i love
this show, Philippe taking an ancient form of a selfie
looking into a little mirror before charging on his horse,
the power struggle, Louis flicks some porridge
onto Philippe, Philippe flicks some back,
Louis shoves a whole bowl of it on Philippe's head,
Philippe ****** on Louis, a wrestling match after:
you might have ****** on a brother's head...
but i ****** on a king's head. so why **** this entire
notion from Detective Comics and Edward (e)Nigma
******* all the brains out from a television set?
the idea of a bulls-eye is still out there - just have to know
what to glue yourself to;
but never mind that, to give closure to this whole
random escapade -
vote leave, reason? three houses of parliament in Brussels,
not a single member is elected by the public,
they're all self-appointed or appointed by connections.
vote remain, reason? cheap cigarettes from Romania,
Bulgaria and Poland - under new regulations they might
not be so cheap, i might have to resort to e-cigarettes.
probable outcome? Europe is already failing, it seems
that the idea of the free-movement of people doesn't
really apply to member states, but to non-member states,
esp. those outside Europe - the stigma born from
the grand European expansion of ~2005 fuelled the problem,
free movement of post-British Empire peoples, yes,
movement of member states in the political union? no,
no one from California and go to New Mexico,
but Mexicans can go to Washington, what a ****** up
logic - the prophesy of a revived Roman Empire is a bit
daft - and if i really did have an illegitimate child,
at what age does paying child support end? 16 or 18?
i wasn't married, i asked about the contraceptive pills,
but still the hot-bun shoved under my pillow to think about...
i'm positive that's when the buzzing in the left
hemisphere of my brain will end, and a grand L.S.D. trip
will appear in the sky, like a big Christmas mince pie -
ask me then, it's been 9 years in, i might have a break,
but until then i'm contemplating juggling Joyce with
Burroughs, and telling you... you know what i'd really like?
hearing Händel messiah in German... singing opera
is English is so so horrid, i love the opera never mind,
i was inspired by the section:
opernchor - weil von mann kommen tod -
to want to hear it in German - and trying to write German
using English grammar, and translate it, is like
a little-Oedipus fable, not as bad as mother and son,
no gauging of the eyes, more like the standard practice
in Arabia with marriage between 2nd or 3rd cousins -
and D.N.A. quick-tests in Iceland, who i'm praying will
win if the vote is to leave, fairy-tale Leicester City,
a country with the same population, 330,000;
not to mention Gudmundur Benediktsson's ******
that beat any South American gooooooooooo(h)'l /
enlarged spelling of ~gall, and so on and so forth bladder
or blah blah blah blah blah.

i know she wants me
wants is used expressively
the gradual movements closer
the batterings of over 'made-up' eyelashes
the pursed lips
asking politely to be introduced to my frowning ones
i know she likes me
the unanswered calls
and ignored texts
i flip my phone over
and turn away
from something that could be
something that has been
i dont want to hurt her
sounds so falsely noble
but its the truth
am i aiming higher
is it arrogance
or insecurity
either way i cant apologize enough

Her dream surrounds a great movement amidst the winds and sands.
             The engulfing trees tower over the travelers upon entering the dense forests filled with                                                                      strange beings not of her land.

   Danni awoke after another one of what could only describe as her sleeping story, but it never seemed to go anywhere. The people she was with were always moving. Instinctively she knew that they had left behind their original home, and they never spoke.
   She took in a deep breath and exhaled as she walked downstairs to the harsh frequencies of the morning newspeople. That meant Ronald was awake, he always had the TV on if he was awake. But he was never really awake. He was always stuck in a blank expression, going through mundane motions of everyday. She nonchalantly passed him as he ate the food.  They never talked, in truth, Danni didn’t talk to anyone in the rest of the complex, none of them had the sleeping stories, nobody had the sleeping stories.  
   She met Jamie at the park, one of the only people she talked to because Jamie didn’t watch TV or eat the so called food, either.  They were able to speak on a higher sense of knowing what most people did not understand. But there was a premonition of change to come. There was a constant vibration reverberating throughout that promoted a positive oneness.  The others like her and Jamie, that seem to be the rare thinkers, were growing as well.
   The thinkers are a danger to the watchers, because they don’t want the change to spread. They put people away like Jamie and Danni but the masses are unaware.  Thus leaving the thinkers never to discuss this voice they constantly heard expressively.
   That day after Danni finished telling Jamie her rendition of remembering last night’s sleeping story, Jamie suggested something she never has before. She told Danni to try to wake up in the story being told and see if she can move on her own and interact with the others, maybe then she can find out the reasons behind these images.
   That night, as she lay and look up, she kept focusing on trying to wake up.  Finally asleep, the restless pictures started to show. This time Danni thought intently about each step and focused how they felt, to the movement of branches, to the wind on her face. She consciously blinked in her dream then tried to speak.
   Where are we going? She asked to no one in particular.
   Everyone kept moving but she heard a small voice behind her reply with another question: Hello? Are you dreaming too? Danni almost froze except something about the story kept her legs moving. In shock she turned her head toward the source of the sound. A boy, not much younger than her who had before been keeping a steady pace, was also able to move on his own, and speed slowly closer to Danni. What’s a dream? She almost couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth, but something about it was familiar.
   It’s those strange pictures you see every night that no one else does. Danni was silent, not knowing how to react to this new information. What is your name? she finally managed to say.            Andre, he replied, there are more people like us, that can dream, and more of us are waking up in the dreams.
   Anyone can do this?
   Yes, if you are willing to.
There was a comfortable pause as everything settled in.
Where are we going? Danni broke the silence right before awakening in her bed.

The weather was unusually bright and intoxicating for a late March day in Seattle.  A beautifully lit sun was shining majestically upon the city, revealing shadowed sidewalks and snow capped mountains - a reminder of what season we had most recently endured. The Space Needle stood as brilliant and bold as a postcard photo, while tourists shuffled with dogged determination in hopes of capturing that most perfect moment of their soon-to-be memory.  Despite the sun's brilliance, there was still a windy chill in the Emerald City which required more than a mere sweater.

As I waited patiently for my bus, I noticed a woman occupying the covered bus stop across the street.  At first glance she seemed like every other "normal" woman in wait - she was bundled up in an early spring overcoat, her thickly braided hair was piled atop her head and embellished with an exotic scarf, and she had the most gorgeous red colored lipstick covering her full lips.  She wore black slacks and a long ankle length black sweater. At closer glance,  I saw she was accompanied by a child's stroller full of bulky items.  The entire thing was wrapped tightly with black plastic garbage bags to keep it covered and dry.  I then noticed the bottom hem of her slacks were filthy and terribly frayed, and her sock filled sandals were near mutilated and worn thin.  She began speaking loudly and aggressively, flailing her arms about.  She seemed to be having an emphatic conversation on what appeared to be a broken cell phone - the back of which was completely exposed - showing a missing battery.

I wondered how she got to where she was in life?  What had happened to make her lose her mind, herself?  I was engulfed with both empathy and fear, knowing that I could be just a few bad life choices or circumstances away from where she stood.  My thoughts then pictured her as a tiny, newborn baby - innocent, pure, and full of new life and possibilities.  She was once someone's pride and joy, or perhaps someone's honest mistake.  As my mind flirted with such images she suddenly became more restless, walking back and forth while expressively talking to "someone" on that non-working cellphone.  I then wondered what her dreams were as a child, her strengths and her creative gifts?  I grew angry pondering who or what made her go from an angelic child of the universe to a blabbering idiot whose only belongings were a broken cell phone, a baby carriage, and a pretty ******-off alternate reality.

At that very moment a heard a noise that sounded a lot like a skateboard.  As I turned to my left, I saw an incredibly handsome and well-dressed young man pushing himself in a wheelchair.  As we both caught each other's eyes, there was an innocent moment of mutual attraction. 

He was gorgeous, like John F. Kennedy Jr. gorgeous.  

We smiled at one another, but his smile had an air of apology and shame coloring its edges - as if he was newly destined to his life in that chair, but was trying his best to boldly accept it.  I wondered if my smile was also colored, unconsciously, with ignorant sympathy and sorrow for his lot in life.  

However, it saddened me to think of how harsh life can be for someone in his predicament.  How his good looks, skills, and charms could possibly be overshadowed by his disability  - and society's quick judgements to those who are surviving them. 

As he wheeled past me with the strength and determination of an Ivy League rowing champ, my heart opened wider while my eyes welled up with tears.  Here were two true survivors thriving as best they could in their current circumstances. Such interactions seem like enormous lessons in universal acceptance. Each of these individuals has the option, as we all do, to put a gun in their mouths or lay upon the train tracks and end the ****** card life has dealt them.  Instead, they are choosing to shamelessly BE at this moment in time, regardless of the unfair advantage life has given them in it's little game. 

Who knew you could learn so much about gratitude, humility, and acceptance from a chance encounter at a bus stop with a handsome, well-dressed man in a wheelchair, and a proud homeless woman with the loveliest shade of crimson upon her lips....

/You/. n: The radiation that makes me Superhuman.

/You/ n: The very kiss that will turn me into a Prince.

Without /you/... I'm nothing more than Superman eating krypotine corn flakes in his Spiderman boxers; Powerless and lazy. Contradicting.

Without /you/... I am an ugly toad hopping across the laps of queens and witches alike. Inconfident, hopping around aimlessly. Searching for /you/. only /you/.

I can't do this without you; The writing more specifically. Not unless I'm inspired by you. I've never even thought about writing before /you./ Now, It never ceases to amaze me how the thought of /you/ can fill a page so quickly.

What do I do? How do I even begin to write. Just out of the blue...

Well, I could write something not related to you for once. Yeah, I could write a poem about the edge of the world; about standing on the highest cliff, over hanging the most vast of oceans. Watching the sun dip beneath the waves. I'll describe in painstaking detail how the orange-pink hue of the sunset bleeds into a purple night sky. How the stars begin to reveal themselves as the softest breeze carries a flurry of softer, light-pink cherry blossoms petals across the open air. Yes, fireworks boom off in the distance! Flashing, strobing colors. Vibrant greens, reds and neon blues light up the sky falling perfectly in different formations. Id finnish the 18th paragraph, then elegantly rip the page to shreds. /You./ You're still more beautiful than that.

Alright... what do I /want/ to write about then? Hm. I... I want to write about how I will wait for you to be over him. I want to write about how I know we'll fall in love again. Im not just hopeful... I just somehow know it. My heart tells me so. I know I haven't done much listening to it, however, that's all the more reason to make up for my stubborness. More reason for my confidence. My persistance. What else...? Well.

I want to tell you again and again how much I love you --how much even thinking the those three words shortens the air in my lungs. I love you. Imagining, me telling you in person, it makes me weak. I love /you./ I want to write about getting carried away and saying it over and over and over and over again. /I love you./ making up for the wasted time I spent pretending to love someone else.

How can I look myself in the mirror, and judge myself for feeling this way. Am I mot mentally well? A pair of dark, contemplating eyes stare back into themselves. I talk, and they answer:

"Excessive much?"  Of course. "A bit Obsessive don't you think?"  No doubt.  No, no, no, ot doesnt go that way. I talk to myself all the time --we have an understanding. It's been concluded that I am excessively, obsessively, over expressively in love with /you./ and we're okay with that.

I want to write about all of the women who will never be /you./ about how I am helpless to love you, even if you still love him. I want to write the most descriptive literary illustration of my love for you. I want to write your name on my shoe in permanent marker over and over and over again so it never fades. I want to write Daft Punk lyrics all over my notebook. "It might not be the right time, I may not be right one."

I want to keep going and going and fill up the pages with my various, complicated expressions. I want to put this song on repeat. "but there's something about us I've got to say, because there's something between us anyway."

I want to stop writing and start whispering in your ear, the lyrics that so simply say everything "I love /you/ more than anything in my life, I love /you/ more than anyone in my life."

I want to press stop and bitterly toss the CD into the closet, frisbee style.

Nothing could ever express this.
Not even two Grammy award winning robots programmed to feel the strongest of emotions. It has to come from me.

I love /you./
I want /you./
No one else but /you./
I won't settle for less.
I won't settle for less.
Nothing less than /you./

No. It doesn't come close. I have to stop here with the realization that this does me and my feelings no justice at all.

his eyes wide and blue
bulging expressively
his sweater soft
it’s cashmere and it caresses tender surfaces
bundles of it gather over time at scattered oases
they are now mine
they are now my bundles
they smell of old clothing and mildew but he still is dressed by them
he is living in them
pointe shoes pound the surface of the stage
but look increasingly elegant
like my mother
their costumes glistening and frosted by a powdery film
of glitter and artificial snow
now Bob Dylan’s punctual strings resonate in my memory
he’s telling me to keep my head forward like Steve used to do
if I don’t look back
i don’t have to say goodbye

At one time the Bill of Rights excluded many.
And one was women.
In our Bill of Love it makes men mistakes up to them.
Least, mine do concerning the love of you.

Sure they wasn't explicit in their wording.
But in the Bill of Rights you were dealing with men.
Who  wanted to be seen?
And of course not heard.
I think in modern time.
We still have a few of them seeking women to bow down to him.

Our Bill of Love equally states our strength to be one.

All our love is invested in one another.
Our life will be the enjoyment of freedom to enjoy it.
With the power to pursue it.

Remember, this our Bill of Love.
We can't speak for another.

What human mistakes we make?
We must clarify that error.
What pain we cause?
We must heal that situation.

What path we travel?
We must enjoy that direction.
What love we accepts?
We must hold on to forever.

It's all written in our Bill of Love.
Written expressively for us.

We have no power over one another.
Except , in truth.
When it's love.
Many women do.
So I purposely give that to you.

Happiness comes from things you create.
And we have accomplish that creation against hate.
Which will never dictate our life.
For, we love one another too much.

On their faces are three hands
altogether telling the hours,
minutes and seconds that pass by
amidst this all
are your smiling eyes
expressively inviting..

from where you are and
where i am.....,
it's just a stone's throw away
i look but not look
yet i see and i desire...

you belong to someone else
but no one can stop me
from dreaming....
and in the dark solitude
of my room
i say your name with a
thousand fluttering sighs

i imagine how tightly
your gentle but sturdy arms
would hold me

i visualize your wondrous kiss
that will linger on my lips
for days and days to come....

this fascination leaves me breathless....
but i take control,
and keep it contained...

- for i know i am alone
in my feelings-

and i have no way to tell you
unless you read my
passionate words...

that your being is already
tattooed technicolorly
in my mind

and all i want is to thank you
for making this tired, old heart
beat again.......

Portrait- It Is She Who Triumphed
Arabic Poem By: Saad Al-Hajji


At first, she was hiding
And holding her breath,
In the calm of a night just bathed
In the rain showers;
Suddenly, she started to breathe,
And slowly rise, red as a blaze,
In the heart of a dense jungle
swarming with black phantoms,
Phantoms that didn’t care, even for a moment,
To hide away from the eyes of beholders;
They, deliberately, invaded the vast horizon
Looming in the distance to the beholder
With their wickedly muffled laughter,
And their cunning and mocking gaze,
Together saying;
“How dare you look at us, and who could you be?
It’s us who bring black nightmares
to carefree slumbers,
And us who puff out the chills into shoulders
Kept warm by hearth embers,
We send monitors amid the stars;
Old witches riding brooms'
With fears and misgivings, roam the space;
Hey you! Don’t you listen?
Ah ... Aren’t you the one
Alleging to be Demozi the victimized?
And awaiting Astarte in a Babylonian moonlit night
To come to his underworld,
And take him up to the fertile spring?!
O You! O deluded dreamer..
We are princesses of the seven heavens
And the night chased on one hemisphere
by the other hemisphere...
There is no Astarte; she exists only in your
imagination."
Beauty was pronounced expressively through her
splendid silence
And slowly, she climbed the darkness walls
Up to the heart of the sky
Proclaiming the power of her light
With a glistening silvery face;
I feared the attack of a fierce predator upon her,
But the crowd of black phantoms went into deep
silence.
!With closed eyes pretending to sleep or hide
Gloating over their misfortune, I gazed at them,
And exclaimed:
“As if you don’t see her!
This wonderful, untouchable,
Dazzling beauty manifests herself over the horizon
She is rising above your dark and gloomy trees,
Disdaining the charred twigs of your houses,
Looking at me through the holy book of her heavens
Wth a smiling countenance,
Rising steadily and rapidly,
Extending her neck from darkness to life
And from lifelessness to birth;
She is silent with poise,
Uttering music,
Aflame in longing,
Passionate like lovers,
Overtly captivating,
Extravagantly generous
And inundating.
How amazing are your tragic pleasures, Oh life!
Woe to those who fancy you,
And woe to those who don’t!
Oh! How often you invited me to come to you,
From behind the walls
of water haze of early morns
When morning birds begin their songs
But here I am now
Receiving a cascade of light
From a moon, as well surprised;
That’s all in spite of the horizon,
With black, heavily-armed
Phantoms!

fingers splay as if for breath
poke the other palm to
knock forth meaning
clench on fine voltage of a line
or spread wide on vexing question
then close expressively on the answer
as if locking in some cryptic metaphor
to weigh the FEEL of things

behind our mask
are priceless celebrations
and faces we carry
from the past
they mean the world to us
besides who or what
has occurred they mold us
into who we are
shimmering images
with mouths and hair and eyes
that gaze back - pondering
we grasp and resuscitate
them over and over
in open tracks
where they float by
in slow moving trains
expressively staring  
with their hands and the side
of their face pressed against
the glass
uttering something
we pause to lift our head
to catch that special
glimpse again
of their beautiful
subdued expression
that fades away
into the distance
only to return cold still
at another time
and all we can do then
is look down at our hands
and notice the lines
that have become
more intense
each time
the train
goes by.

I think that today,
we should all scream
until our lungs ache
from the distance we’ve tread
and the things that we’ve said –
anecdotes that fill our hearts with joy,
tearful stories of all of that wrongness which we’ve faced,
the lyrics caught between our ears
and have been for days and months and years,
all of those words that we’ve written
in bright fuchsia gel pen in the margins of diaries
from our awkward third grade years
that we hoped no one would ever lay eyes upon.
Scream until the last syllables
crawl up your throat in an effort to be heard.
Scream until your tongue ties itself into knots
from the exhaustion of spilling all of your secrets.
Scream until you grow weary,
but that kind of weary where
you fall asleep with a smile on your face
and a soreness in your every muscle
that means you have accomplished something.
Act like a little kid again
and chase after ice cream trucks,
shouting along to
the sticky-sweet cadence
that drips into your ears.
Or crumple into a heap,
***** laundry piled as high as
Mount Everest
on your puke-colored carpet
and
scream.
Just scream
and scream
and scream.
And when you lose your voice,
come to me
and I will make sign language jokes
into your sweaty palms,
fingers curling expressively
as your shoulders lay just a bit higher,
the scaffolding that had been holding you up
torn down joint by joint,
rod by rod;
but it didn’t hurt did it?
It felt exquisite,
like waking up on Christmas morning
to the smell of just-burnt Pillsbury cinnamon rolls
and dented, wrapping-papered packages.
Let these memories whisper through you,
not scream,
and let them carry you to sleep.
You screamed today.
Now,
you can whisper
or send back witty one-liners into my palm
without the fear of explosion.
Now you can chase ice cream trucks with jingling pockets
faster than ever
because you are so
*******
light.

“Play it like music”,  James said.
Slamming himself into an armchair
The boy took another ride with despair,
“He criticises everything”.
I cuddled him with my words
“It was very expressively played
I like it that way”.

All the years he had tried to please
Fitting in with people’s demands
Braving himself.
He admired his stepdad
Accepted and understood
Affection was not easily shown
By those damaged themselves.

His mother found a lover to hold her
The boy laughed thinking life a joke
Respect faded.
At least James he thought clever
A strategists, of sorts.
Peter was so loving to be flimsy
Like the soft cloth on the door.


Love Grandma xxxxx

Intimacy found in mystery,
released despite the forbidden.
Eyes, joined in distance,
replies acknowledged in hidden embraces.

Pining turned to fixation,
blinded by the passionate
drive to completely consume;
Burned by expressive awareness.

The journey of a thousand memories,
whispered in late night phone calls.
Stolen kisses, frenzied then tender -
confidences only two can tell.

Behind closed private doors,
desirable physical caresses
are uncovered; Expressively debauched,
in the eyes of pledges broken.

Ties bound to one, divided
by an intensive linking,
that can never freely breathe deep.

Dancing expressively
Breaks from rules
Occasionally
Blending what could be
With reality
Penning odes of praise
For what should be
As written by me
Myself right there
For all to see
Maybe someday soon
These poems
Will make me think
Of someone other than you
Or it could be
These poems remind you
Of someone other than me