Second period,
The bell will ring,
We meet each other and talk about anything.
Third Period,
When it was just you and it was just me,
You've ruined our friendship for eternity.
You made me laugh so hard,
My head and stomach ached,
Yet there was a smile of yours that you faked.
You talked with me,
We both played the flute,
And calculating math- we sure could compute!
We were the best in flute and math,
Funny how things change when you take a different path?
Our laughs, our flirts, our interest in old bands,
Yet I am the one who only stands.
I was attracted to all that was you.
Yet you saw things in a whole different view.
You made me laugh so hard,
My head and stomach ached,
Yet there was a smile of yours that you faked.
A friendly competition,
To see who would get first place,
Yet it was you who won the race.
You made me laugh so hard I was sick,
You brought me down to tears,
And now you realized our friendship wouldn't last for years.
I didn't love you,
You were my best friend.
There was no love to you I could send.
You loved her,
And we were great,
Yet she was the one who ended our fate.
You were amazing, Adrienne,
And though I didn't love you,
It was our classmates who broke us in to two.
They told you, "You're cheating on your girlfriend!"
Just because you wanted to make me laugh,
There was no love to you I could send.
You took our friendship and snapped it in half.
The rumors grew worse,
Fear grew in my chest,
Your girlfriend is nothing but a test.
"You're cheating on your girlfriend!"
Your classmates still cried,
An explanation was never given, yet you tried.
I wish I could have fixed things.
But you had to tear them down.
You insisted to never be friends again,
You're loyalty lied with her crown.
This, is why guys and girls can't be friends,
Because you become a suspect of cheating.
You made me laugh so hard,
My head and stomach ached,
Yet there was a smile of yours that you faked.
Because you loved her.
I just wanted to say, it's okay,
Because after all, what are friends for?
We'll always be friends- maybe someday even more~

Rhyming in a scheme
You should totally try it
It is not as easy as it may seem
Like finding a shoe that fits

Rhyming cannot be implied
It cannot be faked
It must be applied
It is like a good steak

A rhyme a day
Or is it an apple?
Will keep the lame away
But do not grapple

For it is rhyme time
Time to rhyme

Have you ever been to Nairobi?
What did you see there?
Buildings, people and vehicles?
Uhmmm! Let me share with you my case
Hence I was there yesterday,
And I saw wonders of life;
Jubilant politicians clashing for tyranny,
At the Nairobi parliament,
Making anti-human laws,
Under faked canopy of de-terrorization,
With no tincture of surrender to open truth,
That; in juvenile states like Kenya,
Corruption is a minefield of terrorism,
Corrupt management of state organs;
The policemen and state spies,
Hired on full back-up of corruption,
Gives leeway to thriving of terrorism,
As a security agent hired nepotistic-ally,
Will never fight terrorism with a knack,
Leave police work to policemen with passion,
Not to your kinsmen and loyalists in politics,


I saw jubilant politicians high on nerves,
Excited like a swine on ****** heat,
Or they were possessed by the evil spirit,
Or crushed by the African cult of dictatorship,
Where humanity derives pleasure from political pains,
Scornfully viewing humane governance,
As dictatorship will fortunately give a bloom,
Of swift doors and windows of corruption,
Primitive accumulation of filthy wealth,
And apotheosification of the worthless self,
Into a lull of blind self-made god-ship

I saw a jubilant politician going pugnacious,
Forcefully restoring dark days of Toroitich arap Moi,
Making a law which a monkey cannot make,
Hitting a fellow politicians,
With all might and knack of a devil,
Shredding into laces the trouser of a colleague,
Exposing red lingerie of the fellow colleague,
Partially exposing the tools of child making,
Only to the positive chagrin of us all,
On discovery of the circumcised *****,

I saw jubilant dictator-maniac politicians,
Passing a law of shooting to death,
Him the police feels may be a terrorist,
Or detain at pleasure, without trial
Him that looks ugly like a terrorist,
A suspect is a snake to be crushed the head on sight,
But not all snakes are poisonous Mr. Politico-Jubilant,
Some are ornamental and others poisonously harmless,
Even snakes need fair trial,
Just like suspect of genocide,
Before the international criminal court,
Before a blow of hammer crushes their heads,
Let me ask you my dear reader,
A foolish question as usual;
What are snakes to the jubilant politics of Nairobi?
A political non loyalist who perhaps can chide,
The powers that be from their gusto of power,

I saw jubilant politicians in full gear of idiosyncrancies,
Passing the law to gag friends of the poor,
The NGO’s; the poor man’s uni-source of hope,
They have been relieving the poor man of Kenya,
From horrendous traditions of   epidemics,
In Turkana, Budalangi and marginalized Mandera,
Helping men and women of these areas to be free,
From tyranny of perennially missing basic needs,
This freedom is now thwarted,
Lest it gives these poor men right of speech,
Thwarted artfully in the **** of NGO’S,
Through false label of the time,
That they play *** with terrorist groups,
What a big a lie?

By
Alexander Khamala  Opicho,
Eldoret,Kenya

When DedPoet faked his death
He let go all drama,
All the non sense poets seem
To get into because we think we
Are connected.

I DONT KNOW YOU.

And I just want to write poetry
Without me in it,
Without your emotions stirring
An imaginary ***.

I AM NOT YOUR FRIEND.

I am a fellow poet who studies
This craft,
This art,
This therapy that saved my life.
And you and me we are just words
In the the beautifully unstable
Majestic poem that is all in our
Heads.

I BLOCK POETS WHO STIR POTS.

Because I just want to write
Without all the drama.
I feel your eyes pointed at me.
And I could care less.
I faked my death to ****
Any thoughts of friendship,
I am Dedpoet,
Im here to write,
What the hell are you doing?

Bribing for Uthamaki survival,
Made Kenya a fortune’s fool,
Not only Kenya but those that gave
And received bribes of all sorts,
Job favour and money favour
To make Uthamaki an eternal kingdom,
They all chewed un-toothsome slices
Of the public fortune’s fools,

They were bribed by cars, money, jobs,
Lands, upmarket houses. And all the stuffs
Of bribery regalia, and then they went dumb,
On truth and facts of the day; them; Chiloba and
Chebukat, dumb they went holus-bolus in the manacle
Of the claws of Uthamaki and its jostle for eternity,
Like the victims of slaughter in Tolstoyan epics.
They hated the truth and fell in love with falsehood,
Feeding children of Kenya on the brutality of Gebelawi,
Faked elections and police brutality in the alley of Samantha,
She died seeing the club of a full geared anti-riot police, it was
All but power of the bribe in the vacuum of conscience,
The true desire of our ages, ages, ages, ages; desire for ages,
A bribe can ****, yes it killed Musando,
A bribe can ****, yes it killed Juma,
A bribe can ****, yes it killed Samantha Pendo,
A bribe can **** yes it killed Stephanie on the balcony,
The bribe kills brutally when taken in line of duty,
A job promotion to job security fight for Uthamaki,
It kills brutally when received in line of avarice;
More land, houses in Karen, swollen bank dove-cots,
Free lunch and air-ticket windows of the bribe,
That can ******* to death when siring Uthamaki,

A bribe kills reason, mires power of truth,
A bribe fetters love for truth but bigotry extolled,
It can sent you to Paris sprinting with the keys
To the server room stuffed in your pocket,
A bribe warps the mind of the giver and the taker,
It makes democracy look the platter on which
Was John’s head, I mean the Baptist,

Uthamaki nourishes itself on the power of crime,
Looting, corruption, ***** riches, prostitution, lawless
hawking, Cartels, land-stealing, insider contracting,
faked academic testimonies, employment by tribe,
gangstering like Mungikification of the youths, insider
tendering, and now computer-generated uthamaki
all but nothing less than power of the bribe,

legerity is full in the hands of Uthamaki,
to condemn the sit that loves the truth,
fairness and justice is the harmful light to the bat’s eye
of Uthamaki, Uthamaki and the truth are oil and water,
uthamaki and the truth are as a Muslim and pork
uthamaki and the truth are an Israeli and an Arab,
they are an anti-thesis, Kenya a battle-field. Uthamaki
the thesis of imperial selfishness, democratic truth
the poor child of Kenya on the guillotine made of bribe,

Uthamaki has the name an epiphany all over,
Hospitals, schools, roads, avenues, maternity homes
Colleges, toilets, airports, prisons, barracks beyond zero,
And so forth, they all bare the name Uthamaki,
Uthamaki where are your age-mates and prison mates
Imprisoned for parting in struggle for freedom, Uthamaki,
You have stolen Kenya’s history and slaughtered the owners
At the slaughter-stone of bribe, using the tribe as your Knife,

The first time your name kissed my lips
I knew this was it
I didn't know if you were just charming
Or if something about you was magic
But you stole my heart from the beginning
And I don't think I'll ever need it back
I have faith that you'll keep it safe
Constantly keeping me on track

Sometimes I wonder if you realize who you are
I've watched you grow, up close and from afar
Seen the subtle changes and what you've gone through
I can't take the pain away but I'm always here for you
That may sound a little cliche
But I don't care
A love like ours can't be faked

The first time I heard my name on your tongue
I knew the beginning of my life had just begun
I'm not sure if you knew it then
But you were my world, always have been
From the first moment your poetry spoke to my soul
I knew that without you I could never be whole

Sometimes I truly wonder if you realize who you are
To me? You're my best friend, my lover and my shining star
I would never change that for the world
And I hope I can forever be your baby girl

"23: July 24"
"24: October 5"
"25: February 19"
"26: December 14"
  
The words went right to the pit of my stomach.
All doubt was gone.
I'd graduate/be drafted in June.
By September
I'd be in Vietnam.
  
My high school gym teacher had been an Army sergeant.
He stepped on our stomachs as we did sit-ups,
"toughening us up".
I've had a problem with authority
(unsuited, temperamentally,
to obeying unconditionally).
I'd be a poor soldier in the best of wars.
  
But if a job required some independence/ingenuity --
a pilot or a spy, say --
and if the cause was right
(World War II, for instance),
I could fight as well as another guy.
  
I don't like fighting,
but I'm not so naive as to think it's never a necessity.
There's always someone who, given the chance,
will take our possessions and make us their slaves.
So who should decide
if a particular war is justified?
This seemed to be my own responsibility.
  
Vietnam? I decided it wasn't.
Weren't we protecting a democracy?
No. Thieu lacked popular support.
Wouldn't Thailand and India fall?
No. The domino theory was questionable at best.
Weren't our national interests at stake?
No, not really.
I'd decided I shouldn't fight;
They'd decided to make me fight.

The physical was set for March.
Unless I failed,
I'd go to Vietnam,
go to jail for seven years,
or go to Canada for the rest of my life.
  
In studying Army regulations,
I found a fascinating chart.
It showed for each particular height
the greatest and the smallest weight
the Army would accept.
I'd heard of people who'd gotten out
by injuring themselves intentionally.
Some exaggerated a minor back pain.
Others faked insanity.
Losing weight seemed nobler;
lying/mutilation, not required.
  
The low for me was 118;
lose twenty pounds and I'd be out.
(At 5'10", that's pretty thin.
Could I do it and not get sick?)
My parents thought for sure I'd die.
  
Help from doctors was out of the question;
on my own I studied nutrition.
Cut down on calories,
maintain needed nutrients
(protein, essential fats, vitamins, and minerals).
Once I found a working combination,
I stuck to it without exception.
Cottage cheese, wheat germ, and fish were staples.
Bored fat cells chose self-immolation.
My weight dropped to one hundred and twenty.

In cases where the weight was close
I'd heard the Army sometimes winked:
("Oh we'll fatten this guy up").
I decided to lose to one hundred and ten.
  
Contrary to my parents' fears --
though vigorous exercise made me dizzy --
I really wasn't sick at all.

The Army sent a special bus
to take us to the physical.
Once there, we stripped to underpants,
moved like cattle from each room to the next.
I weighed 110.
They classified me 1-Y
(examine again in a year;
if still unfit, reject).
Losing again would be inconvenient,
but free of worry since I knew that it worked.
  
I'd brought some food.
I drank and ate it ravenously.
  
So what did I feel on that bus heading home?
Triumph? Elation? No.
Relief, sadness, and guilt.
Relief because finally I was free of this mess.
Sadness and guilt because someone else
would be made to go and fight in my place.
It's true this person, on some level,
had chosen not to escape --
but maybe he just hadn't thought it through. . . .
  
Now for a bold statement from a slimy ex-draft-dodger --
I'm sure you'll think this hypocritical -- :
Each of us must be ready to serve.
Responsibility for protecting things we love
can not lie solely with the professional military.
(Future wars could overwhelm them.)
  
Service isn't always guns.
Service might be joining the Peace Corps
or electing leaders who effectively distinguish
false threats from real ones -- and pre-empt war.
  
Wars should be rare, ****** upon us.
No more propping up tottering dictators.
No more shoving "Democracy" down people's throats.
No more sacrificing 10,000 soldiers so we can pay a
      quarter less for gasoline.
  
Wars should be necessary and just;
everyone should serve.

PROLOGUE
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I should say something. No. This is the easiest way… the right way to say goodbye. Who am I kidding? This is definitely not the right way to say goodbye. I twist my key in the door; it’s always been a ****** to lock. After I manage it, I turn and set off down my street. The Parcel sitting in my crossed arms. I feel calm today. Unusually calm. I can’t figure out if it’s because it was my birthday yesterday and I am now 17, because it’s my favourite weather (sunny with a slight breeze) or because in 24 hours, I won’t be here to feel it anymore. I try to look confident as I walk into the post office. Non-suspicious. I don’t want the post-office lady thinking I look suicidal, breaking into my parcel, then calling the loony-bin and throwing me in there. “No-one cares enough to do that” I remind myself under my breath. I jump when the bell goes off as I open the door. ****. I forgot about that. Luckily, there is no-one at the counter to see my little moment that I am sure made me look more than on-edge, and I have to hit the bell twice before the short, wispy haired woman pops her head around the corner, followed by her unhealthily-large body. I place the parcel on the counter and tell her I need it delivered first class, so that it reaches where I need it to first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve only ever been in here once before; to post a letter to my brother’s primary school, pretending to be my Mum allowing him a day off school. I was full of excitement that day, making all of these plans in my head for what we would do on our ‘adventure day’. I can’t make any plans today. After the woman has taken my parcel, I turn and walk back out the door, taking note of the bell again. I realise that this may be one of the last noticeable sounds I hear.


LETTER 1
Ok, so you’ve seen the return name and address on this envelope, so you know who this is from and you are probably definitely wondering why I’ve sent you this… So before you read on, let me explain. I’m writing to you because we aren’t very close, and you can listen and understand what I have to say, without being objective to anything. You don’t know me very well, but I know you. I’ve watched you in class and seen how you are and the way you do things, and it inspires (sorry) inspired me. I don’t mean to be blunt, but everyone knows about what happened to you… well, yeah... But, I just want to ask, how did you deal with that? How did you manage to stay so strong even at the worst of times? I couldn’t, and my problems shouldn’t have even been in the same district of pain as yours. I wish I could have come to you earlier... I know you will be thinking that. ‘Why ask me this now that it’s too late?’ but I made my decision a long time ago and I just wanted you to know all of this, even now that you can’t answer me any of it. You see, things just got too much. And I know people say that all the time. But I really can’t handle being inside my head anymore. It’s hard to make sense of anything at all, everything is just so confusing. It’s like, I have the sense in my head that is telling me what is logical and right, but it is completely drowned out by all the other **** that tells me otherwise. And I can’t do it anymore. I’m so sick of being confused and miserable. I just want to die. And by the time you read this letter, I will have done.
The thought of suicide first entered my head about two years ago now. It was always more of a back-of-the-mind thought, never a solid plan; until a couple of months ago. That was when I decided it needed to be done. But timing was hard to plan. I knew that whenever I did it, it would rip my family apart, but I don’t want to talk about that too much in this letter. It’s not something I need to bore you with the details on. Basically, I’ve been procrastinating to try and make it easier on my family. Yes that’s naïve. I know. But not a lot of my thoughts are too rational at the moment. Ha. I guess since I decided, things have been a little easier in some ways… everyday things. The things I hate, I just keep thinking, another month and I’ll never have to face this again. I’ll be gone. But, it did make some things harder. My family trying to make plans with me for some point in the future, for example. I’ve just ended up with a huge reluctance to make any plans; to give anyone hope but it’s so hard and it’s breaking my heart to do that. I can’t bring myself to tell my little brother I won’t be able to make his football matches anymore, or see him start high school. It’s just that the idea of death is just so… relieving I guess. I’ll never have to experience confusion or hurt or misery again. But that comes at the price of giving up anything else. I decided it was worth that price a long time ago.
Sorry for going on about things that you probably don’t actually have any interest in. I don’t mean that in a malicious way, I just mean, genuinely, you don’t know me that well so why would you want to know the details behind my suicide? I just needed someone to tell the complete truth to, someone that it wasn’t going to hurt.
Anyway, I need you to do me a huge favour. In the package you found this letter, you’ll find 4 more, each in separate envelopes. They are named, addressed and stamped, and all I need you to do is post them for me. I’m sure you’ll be pretty confused to why I couldn’t have posted them myself, but the thing is, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And I trust you. Which leads to my next point, I trust that you won’t read the letters, but I want to ask you not to, just in case.
Thanks for listening; I hope it doesn’t take too long for my spot to be replaced in class… That has to be a little morbid. Ha.


LETTER 2
Hey buddy. I know you’re gonna be really confused right about now… And probably pretty angry with me for leaving you. But it’s gonna be ok little man, I promise it is. Before I do any explaining, I need you to promise me you’ll look after Mum and Dad, at least for a while. Things are gonna be pretty tough for a bit, but you’re gonna be the little hero of the house and you need to keep joking and laughing just like you do now. Give Mum and Dad a reason to smile, ok? For me. I don’t want to ever find out that you’ve changed. Not in the slightest. You’ve always made me smile, even when I’ve been sad, and now you need to do the same for Mum and Dad.
So, I’ll try explaining. You see, as people get older, things get very stressful. And some people, like you, are little tanks and can work your way through those stresses. But I’m not one of those people. And I’m so sorry. I’ve just been really sad for quite a long time now, and I want you to always remember that I’ll be happier up in heaven. I know how selfish that is, leaving everyone just so I’m happy, but as you get older I’m sure you’ll start to understand. But please just remember that I haven’t disappeared, I’m just up in the clouds now, and I’m gonna be watching down on you and looking after you still. No-one is ever gonna mess with my brother and get away with it, ok?
Do you remember that time I picked you up from school and I wasn’t in my uniform so you knew I’d been skiving? And you could tell by my face that I’d been crying so you just hugged me and told me not to worry because you wouldn’t tell Mum and Dad I’d skipped school. And then we went for ice cream and I chased you round the park. I was thinking about that earlier today. You’ve always been able to make me laugh, and make things feel better. You’re such a strong little man, and I’ve never seen anything hurt you. So I hope you can stay strong for me now.
You’re my little hero, and I hope you can forgive me one day. I’m so sorry buddy.
I’ll always be here, and love you.
Your big sis x


LETTER 3
Hey Dad. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. I know I’ve left you with probably the biggest job of them all. It’s gonna fall on you to look after everyone now and I know that’s going to make this even harder for you. I’ve always looked up to you y’know? Even with all the times you embarrassed, or to phrase it better, completely and totally humiliated me. Like when you first met my boyfriend and you practically interrogated him. Jesus, I was not impressed. But all in all, you’ve always been the more laid back parent; i.e. the one that let me have a little more to drink than I should have at 14. So than-you for having fun with me, and I’m sorry for throwing it back in your face like this.
You deserve an explanation. I can’t narrow it down to any specific events, but I really haven’t been happy Dad. I’ve tried so hard to ignore it, or to solve it. But the thing is, it’s been so confusing trying to figure out what was wrong with me… And so tiring. And I don’t want to do it anymore. I just want to rest and be at peace. You have no idea how hard it is to say goodbye, but I need to do it; for me. I’m so sorry for lying to you, and for acting like everything was ok. But I need you to not blame yourself in the slightest. You have made me so happy, so often. Our jokes and the times we have spent together mean so much to me… and you need to know that none of that was ever faked. I want you to remember me as the happy, lively daughter I was. Please. You have made things a lot easier for me and I just wish I could feel like that all the time. It’s when I’m alone that I can’t cope. I wish I could explain it to you better than that, but I can’t even get the thoughts straight in my head, never mind write them down. So I’m sorry for that, too.
I didn’t suffer any pain. You need to know that, too. It was about a month ago I decided to use pills. I did my research and completely knew what I was doing, and trust me, I was in no pain. I chose pills because it would leave me looking relatively normal, and I could do it at home, where I felt the safest. I don’t know who found me, but I want you to give them my greatest apologies. I can’t even imagine… I know these are not the things you want to be hearing, but they are things I need to tell you. I decided when I was gonna do it about 2 months ago. It was one night after I got home from school, before anyone was in. I thought about how easy it would be to just do it then and there, but Mums birthday was coming up, and mine was only 2 months away, so I decided to wait. I think it was in a vague attempt to make it easier on you guys, and to get my birthday out of the way first. At least I would be 17 then, and I suppose I thought a news story of a girl committing suicide at 16 sounded a little melodramatic, so I waited.
And I’m so glad I did. I’ve had the best times with you in these last couple of months. Mums birthday was fantastic; it was so nice having everyone together, but so hard to lie to you all. I’m so sorry. It was a struggle every day to keep going on, but I knew that I wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore if I could just make my ‘deadline’.
Not to put any more pressure on you, but please look after Mum. I’m freaking out about how she is going to deal with this. I can’t explain how horrible and hard this is to write. I feel so guilty. And I can’t deal with it. Just please make sure everyone is ok. I’m just going round in circles here. I know this is going to break your heart Dad, and I’m so, so sorry. I love you so much, and I hope you and Mum can carry on with your lives. Give the little one everything now, and make him the most spoilt, special little boy you can. (Joking, obviously). Ha.
Stay strong for me Daddy; I’ll see you again one day, I’ll always be your little girl x


LETTER 4
Mum. Mummy. I am so sorry I’ve done this to you. It’s heart-breaking writing this letter and this is so surreal knowing this is going to be sent to you. I’m racked with guilt for doing this to you. I love you Mummy, and I always will. You can’t let this ruin a single thing for you ok? You need to get on with your life, and enjoy it. Spoil the little one (as I’ve told Dad; that is a joke) but do make sure he’s as happy as possible.
We’ve always been close, and that’s why this has been so hard to do; to lie to you about. But I had made my decision a while ago; I didn’t want to be here anymore. And I didn’t want to have to deal with you trying to convince me otherwise. I just lost control. I couldn’t keep myself happy, and I relied on other people too much. It wasn’t fair. So I did what was best for me, and for everyone.
You gave me the best send off. My birthday. I was happy that night, for a while at least. And in that time, I almost reconsidered. Almost. But really, I had a great night. I wasn’t expecting anything special; I didn’t think I deserved anything, especially with what I was planning… What I was about to do to you all. But when I opened the door and walked in and you and Dad and the little one and my boyfriend, along with the rest of the family were there, it made me feel happy, and proud to have a family like you. (Speaking of my boyfriend, keep an eye out for him will you? You know how serious we were, and just keep him close by. I want you to all stay close now that I’m gone. You’ll all have your letter, with your little piece of me, and you’ll need each other’s support) Anyway, as I was saying… Acting like everything was gonna be ok that night was hard though. I wanted to tell you so badly that I wasn’t ok, that your baby girl was breaking on the inside. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t want help. I just wanted to be gone; at peace, finally. I’m sorry that this is the first you will hear of any of this. I can’t imagine how confused you are.
I have a couple of confessions to make before I go. Remember that time you got a call of school, double-checking a hospital appointment for the little one? And you argued with the school office lady for about half an hour, telling her he was definitely in school that day because I vouched for taking him to school that morning, and picking him up? Yeah, that’s not exactly what happened. Let’s just say, we needed a bit of brother-sister bonding, and I took him out for the day. I forced him into it and it was 100% completely my fault… and if I find out he gets in trouble for this, I will haunt you. Sorry. This isn’t the time for jokes.
I love you so much Mum. I’m trying to keep this letter a little more light-hearted, because if I don’t I’m going to break down, and I can’t risk changing my mind. Not when I’ve got this far and have everything planned out this well. This is happening. And I’ve known that it’s been inevitable for a while now. It has just been a case of timing. I hope I got that right.
Please don’t be too angry with me, or find it in your heart to forgive me one last time? I’m always going to be looking out for you, and everyone else of course, but you especially. You’ve been my guardian angel since the day I was born, and now it’s my turn to be yours. You’ve given me everything you possibly could, and you’ve been the best Mum anyone could be. Never take any blame for this. This is just an issue with me personally. And I’m sorry it has to affect you in the biggest way possible.
I will always love you and need you Mum. And I’ll always be your baby girl. X


LETTER 5
Now then you, this is going to be the hardest of all my letters to write. You’ve always made me happy you know? Not once that I’ve been with you have I wanted to do this, it’s just when I’m alone that it gets me. You have given me the most amazing relationship anyone could have asked for, and I know that I haven’t deserved it in the slightest. That’s made it harder I guess. Because as much as I love you, I know you could do so much better than me… ‘The ****** Up Girl’ as your ‘friends’ like to call me. Thank-you for not listening to them, even if what they were saying is true. You’ve always seen the true side of me, and you’ve known how much I’ve struggled getting by. But I still don’t think you would have ever expected this, and I’m truly sorry for that.
First of all, I want to tell you that, without you, this would have happened months ago. You are the main thing that has kept me going, so you should be so happy with yourself for that. I’ve been considering this for about 2 years now, and it’s just that recently, things have been tough with people at school starting to find out how depressed I am. The things people say are horrible. But I don’t want you to mention that to my family. I don

not everyday you get to pet a labrador
at half past 10... during the night...
he sees you, you see him 10metres apart,
you start you autistic body-space crucial
talk; you start gesticulating, blinking
to-n-fro like some mad rhetorical adventist...
and then you signature the discussion
like any sensible curator might:
you insinuate a tut-tut, but the sound you
make sorta makes onomatopoeia obsolete...
you tut-tut while ******* a lemon...
and **** me! the labrador is yours!
teary eyed and tail in a tango-likened to-and-fro...
if ever picking up a girl in a nightclub could
feel as good... it wouldn't...
the mere antic of petting a stranger's dog:
i'd be salivating had it been a rottweiler...
never mind the labrador...
           ***** ate the would-be hetero...
we call him metro these days, salmon-tinged shirts
and the ooh-la-las to my mistake: faked camp.
  but they loved the political coup without the d'état!
which is a bit like pizza without cheder dangly,
or god forbid: a gorgonzola!
    oo, tangy! jokes really do necessitate a need
for punctuation.
for what god forbid was the p added when it
merely said cou? optometric lesson no. 1:
French... optometric lesson no. 2:
English; optometric lesson no. 3:
a year in Yorkshire: endure that and you'll endure
Germanic Hitlerite checking advents of
chequers grandpa... or those eager to await Auschwitz
and least eager to don mascara within
that tattoos of rightly-awaited wrinkle...
     oh yeah, yeah: they forgot the tribalism; silly wankers.          

is that a pooch or a Gucci?

i don't know, whenever i ask that
question or see someone
famous or fashionable
i just get fidgety,
like as Chinese person
seeing a doppelgänger -
with a billion's worth of populace,
you don't look out for a
"most photographed" face..
  you look out for doppelgängers,
lookalikes...
    
still, you end up petting a stranger's labrador in
the night sometimes,
while walking to a shop for a bottle of whiskey...
tearful eyed, tail waggling...
   which is more than picking up a girl in an Essex
nightclub would ever be...
          you end up petting a dog
and saying to heterosexual counterparts:
                                                     arrivederci!
because it was **** primus with Liberace
and fooled housewives sprechen butch speck,
bound to the glutton archives...
              **** me that labrador was all i needed tonight.

I try to put the words together
make em eb an flow...
the waves were crashing all around
and began to rock the boat..
it crashed and left him stranded
and enveloped in the swoll..
hes fighting for the surface but he's
being pulled below...
deep down in to the recess of his
dark an dreary mind...
hes surrounded by the thoughts
and feelings of every single kind...
now unsure to where to go from
here its all become to much...
whats real or fake or in between he's
got no reality to clutch...
but now hes scratched the surface
and the disk begins to skip...
hes starting to let go a little push and
then he slips...
he finds himself together
he's perfectly in tact...
now hes got the power harnessed
no way he can look back...
His goal becomes destruction
he begins to look around...
He sees the lies that torture him,
his target he has found....
the source of all this pain and hurt
your deceptions were so good...
How you always faked the smile
he's never understood....
In his mind he begins erasing never saving
what was bad...
Now anything he didn’t want its if he's
never seen or had...
The good did come but came and
went just lost along the way...
Now he sat up and smiled
for he had come upon today....
Just up on the horizon the sun had begun to rise...
the light began to take him
he tightly closed his eyes...
He awoke to find himself alone
just lying on the shore...
He breathed in deep to his relief
he had been there before...
This beach he had imagined every night
he lay in bed....
This place was his escape from all thoughts
inside his head...
The water washed up on his feet
it began to come and go...
The waves they crashed just like the words
that so did eb and flow
-JT

The whiteness of pearl
The glossiness of gold
See the richness of girl
From me walking away

Feel the warmth of her slap
Sense the sound of her thrash
See the rudeness of the girl
who is walking away

She say “I love your honesty”
I know honesty the best policy
Why is she so lunatic,
who is walking away?

She asked me for date
She was in shopaholic state
Guess the stubbornness of the lunatic
Who calls me miser again

Her gold bracelet not faked
But her sympathy is baked
It’s the attitude of the girl
That is baking that cake
Boy becoming single
Hardly changes the weeks
But the girl who left him
Tails a queue of pervert geeks

Oh come on my freakin brain
Just split out the stupid pain
See the hot figure of the new chick
Who’s walking on my way

For my wonderful sister.*

These moments of togetherness,
That we share,
Will soon be lost,
Like time in our hands.
It’s sure to occur,
And bound to be gone.
And so, they become, memories of past.
Leaving us with a longing of remembering it,
Again and again,
Till last.

Some feelings are complex,
Can’t be understood by all,
Like our relation.
However at each other,
We might vex,
In the deep, deep bottom of heart,
We both have an ocean of love,
In camouflage of pond.

I never thanked you right in your face,
Faked an attitude of solace.
But you don’t know,
How much I cried,
After a fight,
When you said-
Our relation has died.
You would not talk to me,
I remember;
Much significantly.

It was always me,
Who broke the silence.
At times, I cursed my fate,
For me being younger,
“Why should I be the one to kneel down?”,
This is something,
I’ve asked myself,
Often.

In the moments of solitude,
When (I felt) I had been ostracized by peers,
You stood there by me.

We both have grown together,
Had fun, and laughed at one another.
Now it’s time to part our ways,
As you have to go the other.

Believe me; I too have always been by your side,
When you were scolded,
I had cried.

These years we’ve spent together,
Have sadly now,
Come to an end.
But you are, of my life,
An integral part.
I thank you from the fathom of my heart.

Let me unveil the truth today,
You are my best friend,
And will forever stay.
Just as we’ve been.
Come whatever may,
We were together.
Little did I know,
That someday, this will come to an end;
But I’ve these moments treasured,
Because some moments are meant to last;
Forever.
In memories,
To be cherished;
Forever.

you said love is hard when it's not reciprocated.
(i blinked)

you said it hurts looking at her from the outside in
and that you're tired of being on the sidelines
(i held my breath)

you told me your heart breaks a little,
when she can't take her eyes off him
yet here you are, begging God
for her to spare you a glance - just one.
(my throat tightened)

you said you're lucky to have me,
as your best friend
and i remember exactly how i faked a smile.
that smile was probably the biggest lie i ever told.

and then you asked,
"why do we fall in love with people we can't have?"
(i looked away)

"how do you handle this?"

i inhaled sharply, as i held back my tears;
**"i'll show you how."

they say in our existance it seems as though our entire lives flip in an instant without us even
noticing the gradual changes. year by year our friends come and go, we see new parts of the world, we witness things we never thought could happen. when I think of how life plays out like this, I try to spread out every single year of my life and analyze it. mostly I try and look for where the world seemed to go to ****. I wish I could remember when I changed, when I felt like life wasnt worth it anymore. but the truth is I dont even remember a time when I could look at myself and say that I was worth it, that life was worth it, that I was destined for something.

in the beginning my issues were simple and petty, growing up in a town with beautiful girls and brilliant boys with straight teeth and even straighter hair. my bones didnt stick out and my skin didnt look as perfect and tan as the girls who stood by my side in elementary school. They hopped out of their mothers cars with beaming smiles and kisses fresh on their foreheads. I sat outside of class thirty minutes early because my mom was stuck working in the awful hellhole of a school. they flipped over their chairs as the bell rang and scooted their tiny waists into the seats, talking about their lovely weekends at the pool, which I was too fat to go to, or at each others houses, where I was never invited.

I wasnt really a loser, and I wasnt popular. but this didnt stop me from mentally ripping myself into pieces every chance I got. the perfect frame lay traced out in my mind, and I didnt match up when I looked into the mirror.

this self critisism still continues, and has only grown worse.

ever since birth I had lived in a home with parents who bickered and spat at each other like roaches, screaming over nothing. in the beginning the fights were pointless, not a single purpose held in the shouting. and then it shifted to my brother and I. the drinking that my father did. the business my mother spread through her side of the family tree, feeding the branches. loss of money, faith, time. a million things I dont remember. a million words I wish I didnt remember.

at age eleven I laid shivering in bed, letting the hum of the fan above me lull me into sleep. I longed to hear the hum of my fathers voice singing to me as he did when I was a child. humming our songs to myself didnt work anymore. on this particular night, my father wandered into my room with a blanket wrapped around his shaking figure. His eyes stained beat red. he poured out to me that he was leaving us, my brother and I, my mother. he wanted me to speak, I didnt say a word. he wanted me to hug him, I plastered my arms by my sides.

the next day, he still sat on the couch, avoiding my frantic glances and wondering eyes.

constant blame stuck to me. guilt stuck even more than the words thrown onto me while walking down the halls in sixth and seventh grade. I would lay on the old tattered couch in the basement, trying to catch a glimpse of my father if he happened to walk from his den and onto the porch. many times, I did not see him. many days, I did not hear from him. and finally the day came where he came to talk. it was bright, and my mother and father sat before my brother and I. seeing them come together was something I couldnt even remember, so I assumed good news. maybe a new brother or sister, maybe a package in the mail for us. but no, of course not.

my father was diagnosed with colin cancer. I do not remember the stage when they came and told me, I do not remember anything besides deep gray hopsital rooms which tasted like hell and flourescent white light bulbs which looked like heaven. I remember my mother sticking to my fathers side purely for recognition from the rest of the family. I remember how when the doors closed, the monster that she really is came out in low growls and snickering. I faked smiles for my father that I taught myself in school, I counted tiles on the hospital floor which seemed to similar to those lining the halls. the summer in which he was released was the summer in which we traveled the world. I tasted fresh bread from all corners of the world and I fed off the smiles of the people who lived in the villages, craving their happiness found in simplicity. I wanted it all. yet, I hated every moment of it. I knew I would never live a life so peaceful.

eighth grade started and so began The Wondering and The Wandering, the silence that hung in my throat and the words that filled my brain like acid, and not the good kind. I questioned existance, for I could not find a home in my friends, in my family, in myself. I could not remember when the chuckling from my cousins and aunts and uncles felt warm instead of harsh and cold. cigarette smoke stained my clothes and I clung to its scent like a child craved the smell of brownies baking in the oven. I fell in love with nights alone on the roof counting the stars and realized there were more in the sky than people in the world, and I felt truly scared for the first time. More scared than I had been when my father beat me for the last time and more scared than I became as he withered into a man I could not recognize. I was alone, I was vulnerable.

my death had come in the first year of highschool. the first day pushed me from the smiling faces of my innocent friends into the rough, ashy hands and curling smirks of my new friends. they introduced me to the world and I introduced them to my mind, and I also to the drugs, which just started with ****. I was welcomed to their table in the morning with beat red eyes that caused me to shy away from the mirror, reminding me of my father. I would laugh because my body made me. I would smile because I was floating far, far away. Looking down on them. they teased me, they pulled strings and I became their puppet. I was a doll and not a human. I burned myself and they laughed. my boyfriend held my waist and not my hand. he fed my sorrows and not my smiles. I was the fire and they fed me, they watched me, they listened. they split me into pieces and I snapped like my bones did in seventh grade when I skid across the cold gym floor in front of everyone. everyone I loved was vanishing in and out of my life like the flickering light bulb at my bus stop at five thirty in the morning.

I began to steal pills from the cabinets of my neighbors, filling the bottles with tissues so I could slip out of the house silently as the bottles fit snug into my shirt. it started with swallowing eight. then twelve. fourteen. eighteen. I swallowed them and let them burst in my empty stomach and carry me off, far away. so far away. I will not get in depth on the effect they had on me, thats a different story. I lost myself, and I was nothing. but I was not yet a ghost. my father had percosets, pills from his chemotherapy, shoved into his cabinet. I took 3, 4, then 5. my friends told me I shouldve thrown them up once I hit 4. so, I took 6.

I fell asleep with various ways to **** myself running through my mind. these were not new to me at all. they did not scare me, instead they welcomed me. knowing I could disappear so easily, so quickly. on a silent january morning I woke up, rubbed my eyes, rolled out of bed. I stared into my own eyes, and they were dim. I grabbed the percosets and took a handful. they gathered and slipped down my throat. they fought to return to my tongue but I already knew how to keep them down. I wandered into my mothers room and tried to spill a lie of how I was very, very sick (I wasnt) and how I needed (I did) to stay home. she told me no, there was no way I was sick (I was) and I wasnt staying home (I didnt).

I arrived at school and stumbled to my class like a zombie. five or ten minutes I walked out in the middle of the teachers lecture. I found myself clinging to the toilet bowl down the hall, crying, fighting every urge to stifle the screams that curled in the back of my throat. my skin blended in with the bleached tile. I probably threw up my body weight in the time that I was there. I dont know how long it was. I dont even know why I let myself walk into the building. but there I was, and then came the teachers, and I still dont even know where it is that they came from. they cradled me and my vision slipped and I know that I died there, in the deep gray bathroom stall which felt like hell and under flourescent white light bulbs which looked like heaven.

I like to ask myself every once in a while who I am. I don't know the answer, but I try to ask anyways, I try to get the spider webs in my mind to clear off. I try to bring myself back to what I could be if I never slipped away like this. I still have not found home. I tried to find my reflection in the hollow bottoms of bottles I stole from liquor cabinets across the neighborhood. I couldnt find myself in the blade or the oceans across the globe. I could not find home no matter how many cigarettes I smoked, no matter how many friends I made, no matter how many houses I collapsed in and puked on the hardwood floors. my questions always remain unanswered and my cries remain ignored. when I ask myself who I am, I remind myself that I am a million people. I am the little kids who followed me on red bikes in Italy and I am the girl I threatened who tried to hurt my bestfriend and I am the ghosts in the attic and the new kid at school who disappeared just a few weeks after. but one person I am not is whoever I was in the beginning.

January is ice cold, but it never snows.
You're always so angry but you never want to talk about it.
February it starts to get warm, then there's a week of snow days.
Just when I think you're letting me in you shut me out again.
March has cold mornings and hot afternoons; the trees start to turn green.
You call me at 3am crying and you're fine in the morning; you have good days sometimes.
April is hot and cold and wet and dry.
You've never been a very stable person.
May is rain. The humidity makes my clothes damp.
You get so broken sometimes that it breaks me, too.
June is perfect lake weather. The water is cold.
I want to know all of the dark corners of your mind.
July has no rain. The dirt dries out and cracks.
I wonder how many of your smiles are faked.
August is too hot to go outside. The lake is bath water.
As soon as you get close to someone you find an excuse to leave.
September has cool evenings. The mosquitoes are awful.
Sometimes you feel at peace with your demons.
October is more rain; autumn oranges and reds and yellows.
You say you're dying and I try to convince you it will get better soon.
November is a dry cold.
I wish you would let me help you.
December freezes the plants; the leaves are gone from the trees.
*You destroy yourself and wonder why you're so broken.

try gathering up the marbles with akua naru's the journey aflame, heidegger's ponderings ii - vi, and the sight of lost virginity in trees or at least their mortality to blossom reduced to skeleton... or lungs' alveoli.

there's an acute difference between hip-hop and rap...
hip-hop has the decency to acknowledge the sax...
sure the beat of rap is there: on-and-off,
but hip-hop has the table manners to spin
out a continuum from jazz, it has Darwinistic traits
to engage in a continuum...
rap is like rock when starting off from
scratch and not from pauper blues...
do you want words like kid, yeah,
   and other belittling babushka doll
verbiage? this is me, raw,
          god, the plight of constantly stating
authenticity... art and plagiarism
and that constant need to avoid the latter,
much claimed, much too little deviated from,
even on the altar of pains
from hernia (in my unconscious,
as a baby i had that: intestines out bulging),
acne beyond my teenage years: newspapers
say that it's dying out...
            my mother faked falling down
the stairs today...
               it's called bypassing the n.h.s. queue
off the medical bureaucrat that's the general
practitioner who chicken scratches prescription
and as all medical professionals: has
hands worthy of a butcher's, the only thing tangible
to the eyes as to the ear is the signature,
and that's everyone's Picasso moment.
         hip-hop? i can do drive-by shooting with
that ****, talk ******, talk:
      right now i'm surfing on concrete.
wait... orcs... what's female with that vinyl?
        niggerette? sure, Solomon swine talk
with Sheba from Ethiopia or wherever she was from.
  and the *german said that cultural politics is
the last remembered barbarism...
           some learn english and turn to identity pride
as if they didn't come out of an ant's exoskeleton
stating the menu: all mushy cushiony inside, boyo.
   2011 and we're still ******* that torpedo
that's the chainsaw crazy bulletin of: haircuts you
shouldn't endorse.
            so she faked it, ****, we all know that women
always began lying and men told too many truths,
at least women got a monopoly on what's to come
in d.n.a. tattoos... men ******* into science rather
than fatherhood... gamble here, gamble there...
      this paramedic didn't look the part,
esp. when he started talking, he wanted to shed off
his official attire of paramedic green...
   my mother? the lowercase blood pressure too
high from acting,
                            i don't bother about mine,
i'm drinking while she's in the hospital wanting a
c.t.i. scan... selfish or selfless? i have no antidote
for death's dynamic this afternoon,
   i just wish i was given the precursor insight into
all of this fake... wait... that's really personal...
anyway, this paramedic really hid his inner,
he bred parrots prior to... bombshell: breeding
snakes... pythons 5ft long, 400 or so in his aquariums...
i don't know where exaggerations begin or end,
but i asked him: poor eyesight, snakes.
yep, he taught his serpents to gulp up dead rats,
apparently 25K a year...
apparently snouting out of the shell doesn't
equal pecking out of it... t-rex in the sky
flying high... plop... out comes a ****** for lizard
and mr. birdie...
                    that's one way to appreciate lacks
to what's mammalian and tapeworm,
   hence that desire in woman to 'take this **** out of me!
take this **** out of me!' i understand the panic
                (Prometheus movie style),
    out comes a lizard in an egg, out comes a crow
out from an egg, and here we are, stomach-to-stomach
connect: needless to say, after 9 months parasitically born:
i can understand the panic, it's like being *****
for 9 months and eating strange combinations of foods:
doughnuts and cucumbers...
           i really don't understand this religious
implant that there's a person behind a forming-foetus
when there's still the diaper to come,
the weak bladder and the weak **** not yet formed,
the baby teeth to fall out... all of these physical
foundations and only then, the thought,
     and then after many more years and exposure
to democracy: a debate concerning a soul...
           and of course your interaction with the ****
thing to mould the insides...
             well, that's one side of the tale...
we all know that the other if filled with
conformity, pleasantries and babyshowers: what's
the great mystery there?
   ****... all i wanted to say is that birds are neo-lizards,
where the foetus and the ****** plop out
       from the female, and all that's left to do is sit
on an armchair and **** into it...
                    even i concede the point about
things being too stressful and too weird...
               but that's also about finding your cool...
               and thankfully... akua naru's album is as good
as it had to be... thankfully i can apply the rule-of-thumb
usually reserved for prog-rock albums...
that's an hour of my attention ****, gone,
   the better part of a magic trick entrapped in realism...
hardly that thing we know today: 3 minutes snap!
    3 minutes snap!      breaking points for the top 40
chart successes... i count listening to an entire album
a success primo:
   (concerning my mother? something happened prior,
it was as authentic as was required to get past
n.h.s. bureaucracy) -
            people get so panicky these days,
and not a single islamic extremist in sight...
odd: i take it that mortality is worth being considered
a boiled egg being juggled among hot coal...
   well, hip-hop isn't rap for the sole reason: jazzmatazz.

I was born into a
Hall of wooden pews and
Sundays full of crinkling satin bows,
Confronted by a stern-faced woman with iron grey curls
Tighter than her heart.
I remember very little of those
Sunday rooms, mazes of correct answers and long half-hours
I was raised through new pews,
Carpeted halls and
Long hours with brown haired ladies
A book 1200 pages thick of
Tradition and my mother's folded hands as I peek
From under my bowed head,
Earning sharp reprimands from white  robed men.

I saw them,
Of course,
Walking in Dearborn, Detroit, Ann Arbor, far away lands of unrest, but
They weren't in little, white, homogenous Chelsea, Michigan,
Of course,
Not them.
Yet I marveled at soft amber skin
And deep chocolate eyes full of
More galaxies than I ever knew existed,
Split solar systems of hushed mosques and mosaics that I was never
Allowed to see.

But I loved it.

My room became a tiny haven,
My dusty mirror showing a soft headscarf wrapped carefully,
Gently,
Over flyaway frizz,
Green cotton matching hazel eyes.
I knew not the complexities,
So I faked them,
Simply kneeling because I could not
Remember all the beautiful
Dances of prostration to praise another name of God.
Foreign syllables try to roll from my strangely
English tongue; I never realized how
Odd and stiff my born language is,
Too full of contradictions and
Double entendres, strict lines of black and white
Inky blood spilled on snowy sheets of paper,
Ancient characters telling me how to live my life.
As far as I'm concerned,
Allah (swt) and God are just two names
For the same deity,
And I simply preferred
Fajr
Dhuhr
'Asr
Maghrib
'Isha
Over the Lord's Prayer and
Hail Mary.
My rosary beads were quiet patches of rakaahs
Though I could not pronounce any of the words.

I kept secrets too heavy to lift into the
Dark recesses of my mental hiding-holes
Instead dwelling in discrepancies and dealing in bargains.
Half of me fit perfectly to each,
A blasphemous picture of the ****** Mary
Transposed to the cover of a Qur'an
I had never opened, like the
Guilt-edged pages of Bibles growing weary
Under my desk.
Two irreconcilable pieces of religion,
Broken images of stained glass crowns
That can't be formed into the intricate patterns of an
"Exotic" heart.
So for today I pack away my rakaahs and prostrations in a wooden box,
And take up my cross again.
Someday, though,
My heart will chase itself through the five pillars,
And I will shake out the green cotton,
Wrapping it carefully over a flyaway soul.

me and my drinking? no... in the next sandpit with christ saving all the retards so heath ledger can **** himself, because the best defence people have against their ****** escapades are a bunch of retards limbless, a crucifix, and the modern trend of premature depression with nothing accomplished and the torture of the immobile christ only trying to provide moloch babies ****** herders: while the rich worry about lip-gloss and gucci spectacles of torn shirts that cost a mammon's tonne but were lighter than an autumnal leaf: yeah, blame the retards on sane people's *** mistakes for saint ******. your choices obstruct my will: fated loathing is my compromise; and by god i hate to be a moraliser.*

i drink to excess when a populist
wants to speak,
and poetry becomes just
another art of the privileged
and i become simply ***,
god give me a life where i don't want
to write, a night without national socialism
and global capitalism:
where's the next competition, mars?!
i used to like playing silverchair's shade
with my guitar, my guitar became an acoustic
5 string rhythm which was hardly a bass...
so i stopped playing...
it's talk about moral darwinism when
a tsunami or a tornado has no darwinism involved:
force of nature, some theories had to fail.
i'm more accepting a retired drunk footballer in me
or an alex hurricane higgins in me that
i wish to delve into poetics:
when the next informal figure of speech
to buy an iron or a jumper? when? oh, never...
never?! ****.
***** acting killed off *** of the usual people,
i knew on the basis of numbering fake *******
that switched sides....
they call objectivity superior to subjectivity...
but in relation subjectivity comes from having
a talk about it, not automatons disposing it...
have talk about ******* and all you can think
of in your little nerd brain is the foreseeable pay-rise
of garbage men... hence?
subjectivity comes from overbearing certain objects
for rhetorical purposes...
and leaving other objects automatically based
like sewage...
objectivity says: this many objects exist
but i don't talk about most of them...
subjectivity says: this many subjects exist
but i dare not see most of them as related to
a specified object for argument that's nonetheless there:
acronym tangle of being relevant, otherwise not...
politics... in rhetorical terms there's a superiority of
one against the other...
i see a fern... can i explore it subjectively? no.
can i explore the fern objectively? yes....
there's a tree next to it...
how does that make feel? it makes me feel like:
i exist, i think, therefore i philosophise by faked doubting
like a woman faking ******... mind that:
men are more nautically optical when it comes to pleasure,
women close their eyes when *******,
they internalise what's otherwise exposed masculine
genitalia forced like a beauty hernia -
male eroticism is optic, female eroticism zeniths are
internalised for the bred fact of being both vaginal
and womb, so scary the eroticism dies when
the foetus replaces the post-virginity fancy of the phallus;
but still the ****** actresses that destroy marriages,
but none can destroy the joke:
lips got the treatment of balloon augmentation
and clitoral lips got islam: the former puffed up
and the latter got the snip-factor for less oral ***.
now will you please play me the arabic trombone?!

I'm doing just fine. 
even if it does seem a little forced and faked sometimes.
it's just the same as when we were young and alive.
you can keep on walking, and remember,
the sidewalk squares have never lied.

so when the start of the new year arrives,
with souls kept too close over telephone lines,
I will still know you just as well as the knotted scars that lay across my spine.

Why am I always bereft of the thing that I seek the most?
I always seek a willing soul
A soul who would entreat my own
And I the same
I, the slave of my nerves
A slave to the pulsations of my skin
The very thing I’ve always hated
I want hate
I want to hate myself
I want inspiration
That comes from the hate that flows
So freely from my finger tips
So beautiful a thing that passes by
So ignorant of what I could say
What I could appeal to
What drunken emotions accentuated
By the feelings of night
My pointless words
My sickened intellect
What I perceive as truth and the right way
I’m sorry to everyone
All those with the displeasure
Of hearing my obtuse
Faked heart, faked mind
I’m sorry
But I’m not authentic
I’m a replica
I’m not genuine
I’m a thing so pinioned around
The thought of ***
It clouds everything else
I want this false notion of love
I want a distraction
Something that keeps me away
From the emptiness of existence
I don’t want to face it alone
There has to be someone who thinks my skin worthy
There has to be an individual
I didn’t trick
Someone with
The very fantasy of love within them
Someone as foolish as me
With fake blood pulsating through their heart
Like me
Someone with the raw, acknowledged beat of lust
Flowing through those impermanent veins
Like the worthlessness
Extending from every extremity
Nothing is right
There is no light
Goodness has gone beyond me
Genuine Morality
Only the flame of passion
Ebbs in my matter
Not that story
Not that fantasy
Only a lie
One I can’t even abuse
Everyone is gone
I feel like life
Is but staring into a mirror:
Nothingness
Abstraction
Distance
Let this failure,
This over interpretation of a life
Die in the obscurity
Of the night Time
Good night all
Enjoy your lives
If only I could distract myself
From the awful reality
Like you
I want to be like you
Where life has meaning
Like action has sway
I am nothing
And never will be.
If only love could find me.

I don't know what more had to happen to push me over the edge
I was at the carnival and I had this vibe, this feeling
I thought I would see J
And low and behold, I did
It was really nice to see her and talk to her
I haven't seen her since May
Okay, this is the part where I get sarcastic
It was really nice to her......
With her boyfriend........
Holding hands........
And having their arms around each other
I don't know what hurt more:
Seeing her with him
Or knowing that she would never feel the same
She introduced me to him and I acted cool like I didn't care, even though it was really bothering me
I faked a really good smile
It hurt, but I got through
The best part was when she left, even though I hate to see her go
I didn't have to deal with guilt
I thought I'd be sick
I tried drinking something, but that made my stomach feel worse
Anyway, she waved and said bye to me
It was nice
She hadn't forgotten about me

poems like these are difficult to revise let alone convene over drunk once more, but in my own interpretation, the whole understanding of it begins with a joke: what do i care if a portent was given to him, did he think he could do anything he wanted after? it’s like me caring for albert fish sticking needles into his pelvis for that extra conductivity frying in the electric chair. but the main interpretation is as follows:

well you know how the *debye length equation reads

  λ subscript D = 1 / F x √(RT ε subscript R ε subscript 0 / 2000I)

given that F is faraday’s constant and R is the molar gas constant and I is ionic strength,

well that got me thinking in the humanities - where are the equations for the garbage heap of phonetics when κολοκύθι looses ‘appa ‘micron ‘ambda ‘micron ‘appa ‘psilon ‘eta ‘ota to simply say pumpkin? kolokythi? i see, ‘ above upsilon produces the kolokythi hence not kolokuthi; but still, where’s the phonetic garbage heap of ‘appa ‘micron ‘ambda ‘micron ‘appa ‘psilon ‘eta ‘ota? it’s in equations like the debye length, the sheer complication of losing the strict individuation of the letters... unlike in latin's do re mi fa so la a b c singalong, but with that come spelling mistakes and overly eloquent spelling of words and spelling mistakes.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

but i lament the fact the one of the woods i used to frequent
at night was stolen by an irish cerberus
one headed shoulder height hinger than an alsatian
chasing a rabbit one night,
and the other wood was stolen by a satanic mass
of the shrieking druid.
i miss those woods with my walk of pulverisation eyed
of faked hallucinogens of the night,
i miss them and therefore i confess like edward prior harold:
the sun will not rise from the west,
but the moon will be taken from the belly of the desert
from the realm of arabia
taken as the emblem of islam and be like the sun to japan,
the moon will be that - in the west and the north -
while the crucifix imported into the northern lands
will be sent back to those thieves of the moon
in the twinned linear parallel of the sun’s antonym
with the blood eagle stongehenge -
and i’ll not be weary to say:
a king is before a prophet’s honour in his homeland
an outcast and must remain so in order
that he might not invoke a prophet's honourable
wrath in his homeland -
but should a paul come unto a matthew
then the king's wrath is invoked!
so while a prophet’s honour is sacrificed like
isaiah’s with some king and with john the baptist
decapitated with the second king’s insurrection
so too the king’s honour is taken into consideration,
that a king hoped for keeping the egyptians cosmopolitan
with greek philosophy was what moved the nation of israel,
then too a second nation shall move
should a king's honour not profit standing still of the people.
but i too wish for a favour: i forgot what it was,
but it reminded me of something that could have been
a working household with screaming children aching for
a screening of the tate gallery in a slideshow -
but to prove god all men asked one man to renounce such
guises of the futures kept with the army of bothersome parentages.
hence i to the graveyard of the place where the 18th century
met the 20th century: as they say, they were kind to the 20th century youth,
they sent them packaged to death’s clot of chatter,
and midway, in the same century, platonism was usurped
with a care for poets! imagine it! midway they asked for the poets
to come back and arrange all the grecian lettering enigmas of the
sciences and snigger and smile at the romanic fakes of the once held by troy.
but many spoke of yod alef he waw ayin he - because so much of eve
once was that no more could be of the adam who abstracted himself
into her who once possessed him, and who unto being harmed
re-attached himself to his mother with the due humiliation she invoked in him:
but once you go back you’ll forever remain a child.
this is coming from a russian girl studying in scotland...
foreigner’s fees... cheap ***** -
my only chance of a steady income was with my father roofing!
why did you leave?
why were you rich and feared the bolsheviks by not turning into a philanthropist for a bit?!

cheap write *******:

i almost wish i was bitter - but as i'm ageing -
it's not so much bitterness - a woman in her 60s
will say about her son:
well he's sorted his life out,
he's in his early 30s, has a job,
a wife, two children...

this man... has "sorted" his "life"...
more like when darwinism meets
existentialism -
hardly a sorted life -
a sorted life by ape standards -
not keikegaard's standards: if any...

it's not about bitterness -
but i would be more inclined to say:
early 30s, wife, kids... mortgage...
the rollercoaster is just about to start...
the kids: oh sure... cute...
until they start having a mind
of their own...
and... they will betray the senile
old fool that will come,
eventually...
and off to broadmoor with 'im!
life sorted... when the children could
almost be treated as pets...
fine! fine...

it's not out of bitterness -
i'm thinking... more on the lines:
i'm getting my years tally too...
i'm getting used to my own "solipsistic" routines...
it's not out of bitterness:
it's out of having my own routines:
my own idiosyncracies -
that i will take two ciders for a walk
(perhaps a dog would be better) -
and my shadow -
and take two home and drink them
with a tease of brandy -
and want to get to that sweet k.o. point
come 12am so i can,
wake up: frisky and fresh like a sparrow
full of song come 8am...
well... that's me...

i can imagine how symbiosis happens when
you shackle up with someone
in your early 20s...
forget doing it in your 30s...
my ship / my train has sailed... a long time ago...
i still can't find anyone i could
speak to about philosophy -
and to be frank? i hope i never will -
not now - when i wanted to talk about it:
no one -
now it doesn't matter -
because i don't want to talk about it...
i might slide in a sly ref. to something -
but... the aspirations for conversation
on these matters are... i would just tell someone
to buy a self-help book and kindly *******...

if women: hit the wall...
i've reached my impasse -
i have dug the trench long enough - deep enough -
i can proudly say it's a labyrinth -
and i'm happy in my labyrinth -
it's not much: but it's not a cage -
and this is not some bitter me:
woe me - blah blah -
i have routines - i like to sit an extra 10
minutes on the toilet - becauase -
i'm automating a massage of my prostate...
apparently... bid on this poker being true:
the fear of over-doing it and...
haemorrhoids... the same fear associated with
sitting on cold stones for too long
(ref. lethal weapon II - sam and martin riggs
sitting at the beach)...

but this is not what i was intending to write...
i've been trying to cut down on watching youtube...
i figured... what i should have been doing
was watching an english soap-opera -
akin to eastenders - religiously -
instead - i would have, at least: plenty more ref.
points...
but as for jokes... i make the odd "mistake"...

it's always like watching a paul joseph watson video...
i'm not a fan but i'm a fan of entertainment -
i must have a really low i.q. because
i find lee evans to be a rare genius of comedy...
old school funny - the body can become
a language for comedy -
you really don't need to over-talk the jokes -
after a while intelligent stand-up monologues just
bore me: humor of the monolingual crowd -
anagrams and... too many ciphers -
nothing wrong with your base crude of:
a ****** expression, the body itself -
the language can take a break -
but i must be really stupid for liking...
universal comedy... for me lee evans is a universal
comedian...

but this one video is likewise...
blackpill jesus - the inequality of the dating market:
it's over for many men...

and i'm like: those pro-life arguments are
just starting to kick in...
no... seriously... those pro-life arguments are
starting to kick in: right about now...
what arguments?
sometime in the distant future
an untouchable ** will come into contact
with an untouchable XY example -
long may they prosper -

but all of this is like... watching delayed...
abortions... walking abortions -
by: when darwinism met feminism:
and the two -isms lived happily ever after...
some people... really don't want to be told
they'll be walking abortions:
well: quasi-abortions... the living-dead:
by all standards of darwinian selection -
again... not bitter... routine baron -
but not in a culture:
we could talk about stendhal -
but we won't...
we could talk about bukowski: of all people!
but we won't...
we could talk kabbalah and gnosticism
and the nag hammadi library...
but we won't...
we could talk about music!
but we won't...
first sucker through the floral gates
of the ******: **** first in... head last out...
but at lucifer dived head-first from
a star...
by comparative images:
caesars were born via the caesarean section...
the rest of us...
let's just say: there's no more ***** envy
after a human head starts to:
appear from a place it never should have...

my 20s are a fog...
i might remember 4 odd *****...
one picked up from a club who decided to
take a taxi with me towing but
forgot she was riding with me
and did her usual: jump from a moving car
and not paying the fare...
which i later paid...
cocoon *** under the bedsheets and:
coffee in the morning with three homosexuals...

that south african: again cocoon *** under
the bedsheets - second time lucky for her...
but... is it technically "****"...
when she wants to ******* but is somehow
not aroused and she hasn't spoken to
any ******* about using some cream
and you little richard in that sort of purse...
sandpaper friction?

the black girl at my birthday party...
the right sort of cocktails...
the right sort of music: cedric 'im' brooks...
and then... proper coccyx ramming
that left me with a plum hue tattoo
in the eden of my ***** the next morning...
finally! a black girl with an *** that allowed
her to ram her coccyx into me...

i'll miss some... other... details from elsewhere...

but of course that thai surprise...
picked her in the park...
random as any lottery jackpot...
beers on the bench... more beers at the house...
some jazz... cigarettes in the garden...
later ****** in the shed...
walked the thai surprise home...
why thai surprise?
i wasn't sure... sports bra -
transgender "issues" were only starting
to come to the fore... "4 out of 10"...
tom boy haircut...
until the hand reached into the underwear
and i found oyster...
but prior to: thai surprise...

those ***** were free...
the brothel ***** are more vivid and... well...
there was always some kissing involved...
for some reason i can remember kissing prostitutes
more than ******* them...
with the "free women of the west":
it's more about... the sort of *** that is comparible
to... when foxes in essex come and mate at
night... you forget whether you kissed...
but oh sure... ******* sure did...

it's not sad it's... visceral...
work with enough raw meat in the kitchen -
curing it - slicing it -
rubbing it with marinade -
after a while you're no longer objectifying
anything: you're being subjected to it...

but i do wonder with regards to:
some people would like to know they're walking
abortions - the abortions pandering to the pro-life
argument... otherwise the pro-life argument is
a bit like: shackling - a safety-net guarantee -
or whatever: because what's the argument when...
there's the coming dissonance
of pairing?

perhaps i haven't said this more often than
i should...
of the books i've read... mostly french and german
and scandinavian existentialism -
with a tease of russian...
darwinism and existentialism can't sleep together...
that's what i originally thought...
how can existentialism reconcile itself
with darwinism: when it can't...
darwinism is existentialism for women...
the quantity: not the quality argument / line of reasoning...

i can't reconcile myself with darwinism -
a weakness or just:
there's just too much borrowed from a plethora
of animals -
so many studies concerning apes
and **** similis -
and even the mantis -
but... the noble swan and the phenomenon
of the widow and the widower swan...

days when you could just listen to
bloodhound gang's hooray for ******* and...
also find falco... you almost desire
to walk away from the sandpit where
the children listen to nothing but
philip glass and penderecki and speak
in sudoku language...
otherwise there's missing the middle ground
and reaching for the ***** and *****
of punk and... the scent of burning leather
wrapped in a ****** of stiched together
foreskins...

and i can't imagine... but i can...
cutting someone's eyelids...
and watching them... endure the subsequent
insomnia while having to plunge their
head into water ever 10 minutes...
******* is no help...
ear: eh... cartilege -
but the eyelids... we could be rid of those:
couldn't we?

because i know the potential sleeping in me...
i decided to arrive face first and meet "him"...
just so i don't miss the jinx:
i grab my ******* with one forcep of index
and thumb of the hand...
with the other forcep i pinch
the eyelid of my left eye -
funny... the skin feels... synonymous!

no, i can't reconcile darwinism with continental
existentialism:
as i can't reconcile the former idealism
of mine - not even after a ******* -
where's jack?! where's the jack in me?
but gym and squash and rock climbing later:
i was dating a crab and scraps were
the vulture's ambrosia -

what became of aphex twin? he slowed down
and that cul de sac became...
something known as burial - album untrue...
darwinism was always going to be impossible
to reconcile with: the role of humanity
beyond - it's almost easy to transcend the pure
animalistic comparison -
there's neither fire, nor the second fire:
electricirty in the nocturnal, feral heart of
the bottomless pit of anima -
currently: curated by over-stretched facts
and sleepwalking statistics...

bound to england for the past 26 years...
the closest i came was an: encounters of the third
kind with an australian oddity...
why would i date an english girl?
i thought they were into their pakistanis?
that's a question that's not a joke...
seek and you will find: mongolian-esque
rummaging...
the tartar "heretic" of crimea...

on repeat on repeat...
climbing over a fence from a darkened park...
came across a 15 year old running to and fro...
in the days when i still owned a phone...
tried to teach her how to roll a cigarette...
cleavage more visible than her neck...
reunited her with disgruntled friend
lying face down at a bus stop...
a black cat befriended me...
and this lass was running away from me
and toward me...
she texted about 20 people with my phone
before contacting her mum and dad...
and her cabbie dad later picked the two
of them up from a bus-stop at the tesco metro...
but of course prior to she had to take
a selfie of the three of us...

in the back of my head... the silent whisper
and the prosecutor simply whispered...
why not ask her to climb over the park fence
with you... and do the nightmarish deeds justice?

in england for the past 26 years: genesis aged 8...
and, well... "no luck"...
mongol attitude no likey-likey-lucky-or-lackey...
reciprocating "hubris"...
i guess i must be lucky...
come and go ******* like a nomad...
and: should i take myself more seriously...
invoke a talk about diacritical marks:
and those non-existent in the english language...
an octopus audience: the tenticles
do not count as 8 x 1...

20s... a complete blur...
and those vivid conversations in the brothel...
when i faked a death and managed to
get my overdraft limit increased...
and spent 4 hours in that ****-warehouse...
and was asked in the "interlude"...
wouldn't you want two at the same time?
i once heard:
the world is divided into men who have
slept with two women...
and those who haven't...

i gladly declined...
with two i'd need a room of mirrors...
hungry leech eyes need mirrors...
one simply can't have the 1st person shooter
experience anymore...
one would require as many mirrors when
*******... as a woman would require toys
to ******* with...
it might as well be called:
the mirror deity that spawned narcissus -
although - the more contorted
nightmare of narcissus -
the faces riddled with onomatopoeias
rather than words -
and faces that truly deserve to hide behind
a niqab...
or if the eyes become too fungus esque...
would require the samuel beckett's not i...
mouth like an intrusive phallus metaphor
of exposure...

in the past decade: well thank god
*** never became boring, routine...
it didn't require dressing up,
using third party limbs... and pieces...
*** was scarce - therefore *** was feral -
*** was never allowed a relationship -
*** never became familiar,
*** could never become mundane words
that would allow themselves
advice from some journo agony aunt column...
*** was a rarity -
and when it wasn't... kissing became more
important... and itchy fingers that
would read in braille the earth and its contorts
of a woman's body...
there was never a whip or a gulag
of infantile barbie imaginings to rule, either...

sometimes i would indefinitely try to catch
the certain days of winter when
spring blossoms prematured with buds...
if i was lucky... the magnolia bushes would also
blush...
and i would become a dog-***** of these perfumes...
walking for miles and miles per night...

the body takes care of itself:
trouble is... the mind doesn't...
better to allow it this sort of cameo cinema -
memory is the most ideal cameo cinema -
nothing i have mentioned is par excellance -
more... on par: per view...
if memory can't become a cinema...
what's left? nostalgia of 20th century cinema?
that can only live for so long...

as a "transgender" moment...
perhaps i can compete...
willingly ingest a tapeworm embryo...
keep it for 9 months...
then... ingest some praziquantel and ****
the little ****** out...
that's... the closest i'll ever come
to uniting myself with: the female ordeal
of giving birth: imagine...
the ego coupled the delusion the size
of the universe...
i really should start looking for a tapeworm
embryo... keeping it for 9 months...
and then... hey presto!
extra-protein pasta!

otherwise: oh sure... the would-be abortions...
only learn much later...
that they are... not the pro-life argument
they heard as embryos of foetuses...
they are... much to their amusement...
the walking-abortions they were to begin with...
while the pro-life arguments sort of...
die off... when... the fully grown...
self-aware specimen is given charge...
the pro-life argument dies...
the mortgage on a engagement ring...
the shackles...
it's only a pro-life argument...
until the incel mushroom pops up...
then it's no longer a pro-life argument...
ha... delayed abortion: slackers' argumentation...
yeah but no but, oh ****...

frankenstein! it talks! it breathes!
it's immune to all those philosophical cul de sacs
of arguments!
the slow death - the lack of gene motivation
tactic to: pass...
ha... to pass...
in the vicinity of the courageous virus...
shockwave reminders of: genesis vivo...

give me the fully formed xenomorph...
but a genesis vivo: akin to the film LIFE?
wouldn't you believe it?
form... a xenomorph has a concrete form -
a rigid square is...
well... it's not an imploded square -
a hyper-geometric revision...

modern anglo-speaking world and...
milan kundera's existentialism:
i will only kiss when i close my eyes -
but nonetheless -
i will open my eyes when kissing...
because i'm bluffing...
and gambling on... the hope that...
even the sofa "architecture" of a woman's
body reclining to entertain the 300 spartans...
eyes always open...
daggers for eyes...

upon the zenith close -
i imagined myself to be more...
buck-tooth antics -
trivia and encyclopedic knowledge -
pub quizes -
*** on wisteria lane -
no mongol horde ever passed the clefts
of pickets and homebugs...
and this... grand sanity project...
people never seem to go, truly mad,
from... gossip.... glibs...
or soap-opera immoralities: of flacid oopses...
perhaps it is true:
most people never go mad...
what horrible lives they must lead...

perhaps that is very true:
so true it deserves the bells of nortre dame
to echo...
inside a can kicked down a street...
kissing a ******* is not a basic immorality...
having toy soldiers and wars of lies -
and soap opera demagogic dramaturges?
wasting other peoples time with:
there's no crease in a sunrise -
when there are no clouds to stage the subtle
detail of diluted hues of seeing:
a giraffe's belly when it's lying on
the ground?

some people never go mad...
and they do require language to be as strict as:
what's precursor formal -
dear sir / madam...
and every time they try an informal: oops...
it's never on paper...
but always in a mouth that's exploring
the fermentation process of a glass of wine...
me?
gods' **** and gods' blood...
cider / beer with a tease mrs. cognac:
that's the elevated status of whiskey via: née:
ms. amber.

could i be a father and an alcoholic?
no... ever time i tried to exfoliate my own language,
my... idiosyncracy, my solipsism,
barriers and people reaching for...
prime navel and crimson as the standard
colour for lipstick...
one can only stomach so much...
before treating oneself to a hermit's adventure...
on the odd chance... giving coordinates
of the day-to-day...

i would have died a decade prior...
if i didn't find voyeurs to look at a language...
that cannot be spoken by someone alive:
among the living... to the future dead!
i was alive once, too! to the future dead!

All conflicts are resolved via coercion, implied or applied,
of the dominant party over the denied (Niebuhr).
Not news at the 2nd St. jail. But the Constitution
provides for moderation, persuasion and elections
as way stations, stopgaps, safe havens before the decision's taken
to go to war. Civil war, daily low intensity warfare is unavoidable
      when
chambers of commerce and large corporations wrestle naked
and who are the 1% controlling 25% of the wealth, name names,
hold a french revolution over it. This space I write from's
safe, comfortable but what about a Taco Bell cashier with 4 kids x 3
      men
who came and went when they found how human her bleeding and
      complaining was, how voluble, not faked.

This obtains when you consider Niebuhr: "That the limitations of the human imagination, the easy subservience of reason to prejudice and passion, and the consequent persistence of irrational egoism, particularly in group behavior, make social conflict an inevitability in human history, probably to its very end." (emphasis mine)

                         respiratory tract infection, hunger pains

Popper drops by: "Their story that democracy is not to last forever is as true, and as little to the point, as the assertion that human reason is not to last forever, since only democracy provides an institutional framework that permits reform without violence, and so the use of reason in political matters. It is clear that this attitude must lead to a rejection of the applicability of science or of reason to the problems of social life - and ultimately to a doctrine of power, of ******* and submission."

                                           split lip, fever blister

Cynical nihilist Niebuhr: "Educators who emphasize the pliability of human nature, social and psychological scientists who dream of 'socializing' man and religious idealists who strive to increase the sense of moral responsibility, can serve a very useful function in society in humanizing individuals within an established social system and in purging the relations of individuals of as much egoism as possible. In dealing with the problems and necessities of radical social change they are almost invariably confusing in their counsels because they are not conscious of the limitations in human nature which finally frustrate their efforts. So persistent are the moralistic illusions about politics in the middle-class world, that any emphasis upon the second point will probably impress the average reader as unduly cynical. In America our contemporary culture is still pretty firmly enmeshed in the illusions and sentimentalities of the Age of Reason."

                                            terror, runny nose

An apoplectic Popper: "And being a typical historicist, he accepts the judgment of history as a moral one; for [Heraclitus] holds that the outcome of war is always just: 'War is the father and king of all things. It proves some to be gods and others to be mere men, turning these into slaves and the former into masters . . . One must know that war is universal, and that justice -- the lawsuit -- is strife, and that all things develop through strife and by necessity.'"

                                 lonely physics, national purpose

Poppa Popper proceeds: "Sweeping historical prophecies are entirely beyond the scope of scientific method. The future depends on ourselves, and we do not depend on any historical necessity. This prophetic wisdom is harmful, the metaphysics of history impede the application of the piecemeal methods of science to the problems of social reform. We may become the makers of our fate when we have ceased to pose as its prophets."

                                    fatal heart attack, fatty acids

Reinhold, while drinking orange juice: "Conflict is inevitable, and in this conflict power must be challenged by power. Since political conflict, at least in times when controversies have not reached the point of crisis, is carried on by the threat, rather than the actual use, of force, it is always easy for the casual or superficial observer to overestimate the moral and rational factors, and to remain oblivious to the covert types of coercion and force which are used in the conflict."

                                          alphabugs, antibiotics

Doc Wheeler runs the 2nd St. jail keeping the High School Dropout
      Prevention Program
breathing. The Sheriff's Dept. provides guards, a metal detector, one
      man with a gun (encased),
door buzzer (in out), sign in sheet, breakfast and lunch. None too
      clean, not too tidy.

Niebuhr goes nuts: "All social cooperation on a larger scale than the most intimate social group requires a measure of coercion. While no state can maintain its unity purely by coercion neither can it preserve itself without coercion. The inability of human beings to transcend their own interests sufficiently to envisage the interests of their fellow men as clearly as they do their own makes force an inevitable part of the process of social cohesion."

                                 3 hots and a cot, circle with a dot

Popper replies: "Instead of aiming and finding what a thing 'really' is, and defining its 'true nature,' science aims at describing how a thing behaves in various circumstances and especially whether there are any regularities in its behavior. It sees in our language, and especially in those of its rules which distinguish properly constructed sentences and inferences from a mere heap of words, the great instrument of scientific description, not as names of essences. To those philosophers who tell him that before having answered the 'what is' question he cannot hope to give an exact answer to any of the 'how' questions, the scientist will reply, if at all, by pointing out that he prefers that modest degree of exactness which he can achieve by his methods to the pretentious muddle which they have achieved by theirs."

            "when making an axe handle, the pattern is not far off"

Niebuhr nods: "The problem which society faces is clearly one of reducing force by increasing the factors which make for a moral and rational adjustment of life to life; of bringing such force as is still necessary under responsibility of the whole of society; of destroying the kind of power which cannot be made socially responsible; and of bringing forces of moral self-restraint to bear upon types of power which can never be brought completely under social control."

       Popper and Niebuhr were married yesterday at the 2nd St. jail
                      under the federal Freedom of Marriage Act

Naked in socks isn’t naked
“I guess I faked it “
And if you say that to my face
I am going to ask you to state it
Belated in front of a judge I will say
Your honor let me prove that my moves
Would never allow me to
Have a fake ****** on my hands
I know what I do
And you know that this is true
Me and you,
Naked in front of a judge and jury
You start to worry
That if I go any deeper
That a rush of emotion
Comes in a hurry, and surely
If you bite your bottom lip
I am going to bite it next
***, drugs and I don’t know
But if you make me try any harder
I am going to blow
My cover
You used to be my lover
And in front of this crowd you scream out loud
“I was lying I never faked it – I’m just too busy and confused!”
To be naively used
Over and over again
Is the final sentencing

.hell... what perfect antithesis of how woman perceive *** as an ancestral "past-time" of chasing & hunting... what... with female genitals? how about i farm oysters?! one song comes to mind, to give this piece overtones... chris rea... stainsby girls...

****... and there i was thinking that
i coined the phrase...
voluntary celibacy...
    well... there was that one time
i picked up a Thai bisexual
in the park, took her home,
played her some Miles Davis,
and later ****** her in the garden...
or my diet of... two *****
with prostitutes per year...
and i'm fine with that...
but i was worried with the Thai
bisexual... i actually did think
i was going to get a Thai surprise...
what with her sports-bra...
i can't remember ever being on a date...
i never used a dating-app...
*** as much animal as random...
hard time getting an STD
with prostitutes these days...
you'd be surprised...
one told she gets her STD checks
every month...
funny, eh? that a *******
can wield so much moral
authority...
you can't spank them like
in the pornographic flicks...
i'm old school...
pictures are just fine by me...
why?
the imagination runs wild...
the urban dictionary beat me
to it, but... they would have...
i was working on the concept
since 2007...
their entry reads 2014...
how did it began?
oh... you know...
i once watched a few monks
come to your Catholic
school
and play basketball with
the kids in the playground...
and... Taizé...
that was a big game changer...
i mean:
when a **** comes knocking
on your door...
and you don't require
to peacock...
you're not exactly going
to turn it down, are you?
******* beat me to it...
in word alone...
like i said,
i've been practicing this
7 years prior
urban dictionary picked
it up...
but with prostitutes it's like:
it's an hour...
it's not a "relationship"
with all its quirks...
i'm past 30...
   you wanna marry,
marry young...
and thank **** i didn't marry
a teenage girl...
she either was pregnant,
or she faked pregnancy...
she's also ~30 now...
one engagement (moi),
a second marriage...
and i could have had a happy
marriage...
that one Farsi girl...
and that one Aussie half Indian
half Irish...
it would have been just fine...
but...
           i wouldn't have these
thoughts,
or this writing... gamble?
well... it's always a gamble...
the sort of gambling that encompasses
the stratum of mortality...
not the sort of gambling
with coinage,
the cheapest thrill...
the minor rewards...
   i gambled with life,
for the point of wondering...
will i die a death worthy,
or a death of assault by
self-inflicted kamikaze wounds?
now... if you want to gamble...
that the best gamble there is...
i wrote this...
because...
i'm still...
     not drunk enough to complete
what came prior to this...
the "poem" entitled
the cultural exchange program...
*******...
i can't believe they beat me
for the coin of phrase...
and what if i only feel like
having only two erections
a year?
   i can bypass the madonna-*****
complex...
   i'm less nostalgic about
the ***,
  and less inclined to "experiment"...
less into latex suits,
less into lost ambitions,
    less into position conundrums...
pretty much less of everything
associated with routine...
but... ******* isn't my favorite part...
homework...
steal a kiss from a *******...
go on...
no... wait...
1, 2... 3... try stealing kisses from
4...
            one with giggles,
   one with closed eyes
having kissed her eyelids prior...
one with tears...
   and one... god... that last one...
not having trimmed my ***** hair...
just enjoying a classic Hollywood
kiss of prolonging the touching
of lips, no tongue, no slobbering...
with her leg rapping around
my torso...
                     apparently i was being
"nice"? i was momentarily
suffering from a gender dysphoria...
remembering i was once cleaned
shaved, and donning long hair...
believe me... short hair, and a Moses beard?
- and i was thinking i was a woman,
well... i wasn't thinking,
i was "thinking"...
**** shame i didn't trim my burning
bush of *****.

there's a lot to say here
i don't want to write about you anymore
i have been trying to force myself to forget about you
but there are too many seconds in a day and a quarter of that is accidentally dedicated to wondering what it would've been like if we never dated
the other quarter is spent wondering how I got through my days before letting you past the wall I never let anyone through
the rest, surprisingly isn't spent on you. it's spent on things I've worked hard reaching for.
im not going to sit here and blame myself the whole time, and not you either. it was a mutual effort, you know? two very busy, emotionally unavailable, hot headed misery-ridden people trying to get in a relationship was a very silly idea of ours.
I know you and I were meant to be in some stupid way. I wish I didn't believe that. As we always said, timing was everything. We just never got it right.
Yes. I am crazy. I am crazy due to my past. I am crazy out of fear. There is physically nothing I can do to snap out of it. You knew this. I also know that you are afraid of any change, and any commitment scares you. I would apologize for how I am, but that's why you fell in love with me in the first place amongst a few other key factors.
I fell in love with the way your eyes glistened green in the sun and when it was dark out, it was brown. There was never a real in between. I fell in love with your doofy *** smile. I fell in love with the person you faked to be for one and a half months and you turned into a selfish human being shortly there after. I fell in love with your touch and how you would pull me closer to you when we'd be sleeping.
I've known you since the beginning of spring. I still remember the day we locked eyes and the butterflies there after we're crazy. Just hearing your name at the time made me smile. I couldn't tell you why. "Why are you always smiling at me?!" Youd ask. F, I couldn't ever tell you. There was something about you that I wanted. Your heart was mine for a short amount of time.
I remember the day I got mad at you because you were mean to me again and you refused to let me leave at all and kept apologizing and reassuring me that everything was okay. You pulled me as close to you as possible and told me you loved me. I don't remember the last time you did that, babe.
It's all gone now. I want to say, "until next time," but I think that ship sailed. I wish I could say that it was great until the end, but I have never felt worse being in a relationship or partnership that felt like it was consistently hanging on an emotional thread every single day. Like I said, I wasn't forever. I wanted to be. That would've been nice. But I had to go. I had to run. I couldn't continue waking up every day wondering what today will bring me. It's time for me to love myself. I deserve the happiness. And so do you. I know you'll find it. And I know you will read this.
This is my final letter and post about you. Like in that movie I love, eternal sunshine. I am erasing you from my memory. I hope everything works out for you and I hope you find that someone that will satisfy every need I couldn't meet for you.

Goodnight, angel.
-B

Do not talk of the honey I pickled in your light bulbs

They do not have the map to help us reach The Alps

Just talk of the hungry flower growing on my lungs

At least they have the address to the hut on my palms

That’s drawn by the little girl who feasted on the chalks

The butterflies long ago planted along in their pulse.


Quick,  


Incinerate the 1800s post-mortem portraits

In black light's faked midnight perfumes

For you are my forlorn apostrophe high on gas

That might ask questions while telling us your tales

Or reluctantly whisper ****** things about Laqus

Who is wasting us to the wistful hell flowers.

Faked but believable,
her resolve to cut away
to throw away
to never resuscitate
all the bad parts
all the parts that chose her.
Replace the broken pieces
the useless pieces
with ones you pick out.