before i pull this one out of my *** (again - listen, these words are not coming from either head or heart, it's best to pull them from the bowels, a gut-wrenching-feeling is more potent than that "something" that "something" delusional pulled from a clenched heart... as far as i know, the brain is incapable of emotions, it doesn't understand them, and since it doesn't understand them: it ridicules them)... which brings me to point:

(a) perhaps the idea of a soul is out-dated... why wouldn't it be, 21g worth of breath does not equal a soul... hence the autopsy of man, each detail studied seperately, the cardiologist knows the heart, the neurologist the brain etc., but some items work in a solipsistic mode... the heart is robotic, automaton pump queen (and not the kind of pump you'd get from Shveeden) - thump thump thump! come to think of it, most of our bodies are robotic, automated... lucky for me: i don't have to think about the heart doing what it does, it just per se does it... i'm not even sure i'm gifted with the a.i. brain functions... but there's an underlying principle that governs all of these items... some call it the self... i prefer: the Σ ultimatum... some would call it soul... but there has to be something akin to the Σ ultimatum that allows me to become detached from this body, while at the same time be bound to it: high blood pressure, heart attack on the horizon... take the high blood pressure pills... ****... what was (b)? oh... yes...

(b) i'm sorry, virginity doesn't cut it for me, lucky me that it was isabella of grenoble that allowed me to move aside from: god, prior to losing my virginity.... roxette: do you feel excited, you're still the one (shanaia twain), fade to black - metallica... i was such a romantic before i lost this dreaded curse... i was a romantic... 19th century style romanticism... but you really can see past this sort of romanticism unless you haven't ******... these days the right complains about cultural marxism: plenty of things to complain about... it makes as much sense as a pickle in a dollop of custard... or cooking with pale indian ale to make a stew: bad idea... wine, brandy, cider? fine... beer? terrible idea to cook with... but unless you haven't lost your virginity, you can't see what cultural marxism chose as its opponent: cultural darwinism... you know how little you hear about darwinism outside of the english speaking world? zero to none, yes, it's an accepted fact, but this fact does not permeate outside of the fact per se, the fact contains itself and the whole subsequent narrative because subconsciously stored... no other people than the people who found it ensure there are subplot proof statements of a reconfirmation of the validity... the whole social science bogus trap of rating people on looks... contradicting the meritocracy of that old Socratic saying: let me be as beautiful on the inside as on the outside... if you haven't ******: you're still the same old romantic i was at puberty... once you ****... well... cultural marxism dwarfs... yes yes it's there... so? but at the same time you can at least appreciate seeing the antithesis: cultural darwinism... the romantic needs to die the most carnal death via experience... all my ideals were shattered, this perfection of woman... i very much liked the idea / not even the ideal of a woman... but when the idea fizzled out and there was no ideal to begin with... i saw cultural darwinism for the very first time and... it was as ugly as cultural marxism so heavily criticized by the conservative right of the west... so... i decided to walk the middle ground, ignoring both sides (of the argument).

(c) i wouldn't have come up with a point see, unless my favorite square schematic didn't pop into my mind, Kantian, as ever: the best philosophy is the antithesis of English pragmatism and overt-politicisation, so it has to be German, ergo? i will not explain these terms, i figured: if i nail a decent example to fit each category, that's enough: since you can then visualize the concept via the example:

analytical a priori                           synthetic a priori
there's a need to throw                   learning
a ball at                                                to throw a ball
a target                                                 at a target once
                                                            ­  the need has been
                                                            ­  established...



synthetic a posteriori                    analytical a posteriori
there's a  need to                           perfecting to throw
      throw a ball at                               a ball at a target
a target, in order
to perfect this need...

                                            baseball..­. cricket...
at least: that's how i define knowledge of something
simple without having to use mathematics
that Kant used to explain... 2 + 2 = 4...
mathematics isn't exactly a man's best friend
at explaining philosophy...
you write philosophy that alligns itself
to mathematics... no wonder: moths in books...
yawns, unfinished works...
i found that sports work just as well
as mathematics... and you have the already
primitive objects to work with...
rather than pseudo-objects: i.e. numbers...
the abstracts of perception: i'm actually 6ft2...
not 6ft1... karolína plíšková is 6ft1...
       as noted when watching her today...

  i'll admit, i'm always a bit shaky when it comes
to this sqaure, whether it's over-simplified,
notably the top left corner: analytical a priori,
i'm always of a mindset that wants to associated
this definition with: analytical a- priori...
  i.e. borrowing from atheism:
    to analyse something without there
being a prior to example...
               analysis without a prior example...
i guess that's the mojo of science... the driving force...
back to sports... bow and arrow...
   tools: target...
       whether a bow and arrow and a deer
to begin with...
or a hand and ball and a wicket to end with...

there's a need to throw                  
a ball at a target...

            and cricket was the precursor of
baseball, but prior to cricket?
   there was archery...
              and prior to archery...
   there was forever a fundamental need,
e.g. to go from point X to point Z...
   see... as much as Kant wanted...
   numbers don't really solve the "problem"
of explaining something: algebra would be
better suited... x + y = z...
                    with numbers either hovering
above, or below (in the instance of chemistry's
subscript)...

talking of squares... sūdoku...
well, if at any time the french were to receive a hard-on
in terms of inventing something,
the english: rugby, cricket, football, tennis...
the french really did read some of the hebrew
qabbalah literature, as i am doing...
magic squares...
       the secular version of this puzzle
first appeared on july 6, 1895 (the modern version)...

it came to us from India and China...
again... why do western cultural darwinists
always tell our genesis from
the perspective of: "out of Africa"?
aren't there elephants in India?
            i will not believe i originated in Africa,
i'm not an "out of Africa" sorry state of
incompetence... i place my origins in
the sub-continent... at least that's where my
current language originates from...
the great migration across the Siberian tundra,
rather than some African savannah...
after all the Bangladeshi and the Sri Lankans
(the tear of India) resemble burnt cinnamon
in tone, some even as dark skinned as
east africans...
   if the germanic people want to stick to
the "out of Africa" narrative (notably the English):
let them have it... i place my origins in
India...

   never mind, now i'll write a name's dropping
history of how july 6th, 1895 happened...
the "magic" squares...

    from either India or China (chess from India)...
moschopulus of contantinople
  introduced them (the "magic" squares)
in the early 1400s... apparently ancient qabbalists
had knowledge of them
  (so... a trip well spent)...
                             rabbi joseph tzayah (1505 - 1573)
magnum opus: responsa...
             rabbi joseph castro: avkat rokhel...
tzayah in jerusalem wrote his major work
Evven HaShoham (the onyx stone) - 1538 -
   a year later the book: tzeror ha-chaim discussing
the Talmud: he never really bothered about
the Zohar...
               the hebrai word for "letters": otiot...
divided into two:
                         tav aleph (a line of aleph)
and tav yod (a line of yod)...
                   one is to never concentrate
upon the keter within the realm of the sefirot...
hence the matisyahu expression:
   king without a crown...
                         one example of a "magic" square
later dictated into a 9 x 9 newspaper puzzle?
      2     9     4
      7     5     3
      6     1     8     (up down across = 15...
my date of birth? 15th may 1986,
no coincidence, just stating an oblivion's
worth of a "point)... 15 x 3 = 45...
   and that's about as significant as any
                               insignificance can be...

album of choice?
    old horn tooth - from the ghost grey depths...

and without even associating the arabs
to the hebrai practice of gamatria,
i once inquired an old pakistani (who tried to convert me)
what: Alif, Lam, Meem
implied in the opening of the al-baqarah sutra
implied?
   he replied: god knew...
        so i thought, you don't know what
alif (letter) what lam (letter) and meem (also a letter)
means? you have to search for god
for the answers? good look making me into
a proselyte... mind you:
if the jews abhor proselytes,
while the muslims are so so oh so *******
welcoming... isn't that a tad bit suspicious?
how can a muslim convert me
when he can't explain to me what
alif lam and meem implies at the opening
of al-baqarah?!
            let's play some hijāʾī order game...
and the three letters...
       28 letters in total...
alif (28), lam (6), meem (5)...
    i'm not even going to go into the gamatria
mental gymnsastics related to any
"significance"...
   point was made upon the question being
asked... if a muslim tries to covert you...
and he can't explain to you
the significance of alif lam meem at the beginning
of al-baqarah... they're letters...
well... how is he going to explain to you
what's bothersome about those letters
to begin with? ALM... does that imply: zakat?!
to give alms? zakat being one of the pillars
of islam?
  **** me... i haven't even converted
and it would appear: i know more than the person
who tried to convert me!

.i. Yuri Gagarin and the yo-yo

if ever the potency of a "keyboard crusader"
existed, it's now -
   i can dangle a mouse above a bear-trap
and tell an elephant of a phobia concerning
mice any day of the week,
          when in fact i'm talking about
a mousetrap: nothing more.
     hence the exaggeration in the imagery
comparison:
        or it begins with a story told in the 20th
century:
             when women put down their mascara
brushes, men put down their swords:
never mind the voice in the wilderness:
       mind the voice in the crowd -
there's absolutely no reason to speculate
urbanity and tribal environments without
addressing, or regressing the crowd,
or as i like to call it: what Nietzsche said,
minus the Wake... but now inclusive of the wake
and the Bacchus cult of fun fun fun.
            the Wake in condor terms?
we congregate praying for something to die...
      i don't pretend to be whatever
that sachet of concrete-Cartesian labels entitles me
too:        for the most part
        people say 'i am' without a thought to
govern the rain shaman telling you what thought
is required to 'be', oh, a very old ontological
stipend: you need people to experience a collectivisation,
a herding, a "bound together" sort of mentality
before the critic arrives and says: well, that's not
what i'm really about.
                    a bit like the **** firs, mouth second
debacle...
                but what heart they had, our predecessors!
what heart!
             they'd wage war over a woman,
a Helen,
                  would you wage a war against
the feminist version of Helen these days?
would you pluck a Scottish thistle over an English rose?
      true: you might be a bishop
and of lesser rank... but would you wage a war
over the women of these days?
my **** is in a pickle jar anyway! we have become
a *** of a species unburdened by an obligation...
             finally! we can become eternal bachelors
sort of ******* that we're here, and hear less and less
of sayings about the "things that matter".
            you know what vile? really really vile?
oh i know my contemporaries when i bother to
hear them talk, oddly enough never bother when they
think, i'm quiet content with a Godot stage of
a park bench and an old man as my company,
      i know Douglas Murray,
               i know the wild-eyed Icke,
but a thing that concerns me is why: the safety room
parallel to the leftist thesis of offensive speech
was put in play when a discussion took off
concerning feminism, between milo yiannopoulus
and julie bindel - that's like saying:
ask a pederast to talk for a heterosexual man
with a woman safe-space...
                                no one wants to hear
the heterosexual side of the argument....
  you'll sooner see heterosexual intellects have their
marriages come undone then get paired with either
side of the argument...
     little richard is in the pickle jar anyway,
and he's not coming out...
                it's a bit like ****** for dummies....
       hence i have to succumb to violence without
the glory, tongue waggling blah blah
when i'd gladly take a weapon and shove it into
a shattered cranium bone: had i the ****** chance to
do so!
           no heterosexual is taken seriously:
and won't be:
    of a woman to be like a rosy cushion on which
i can lay my head after the darkly toils of
    roofing, or laying bricks, or excavating the sewers...
no! let the Chinese do that:
the basic argument of slavery, although imported
therefore ****** ******* fine.
                         cryogenic fathers,
      pickled *****:      where's the middle in all of this?
     a coconut just fell from the Boddhi tree:
money!           and those that defend it,
don't know squat about the tribalism of squatters!
but hey! they have the ****** stage!
         i have a bench when someone approaches me
and talk, doing the best thing possible:
               knitting opinions -
i don't want the truth of opinions: i want a sweater,
or a pair of socks! that's metaphor for something
different altogether.
  keyboard crusader? really? can i ask you for
directions to the high street, in every single town
across the country? i can't find one!
         no one hears a heterosexual argument
on the various topics: because there isn't one -
                     as of the end of the 20th century,
working classes in the west striving to ensure
there is something mundane to do during the day
and kick back with the family in the evening
are the "inferior" neanderthals: who
haven't jacked into discovering a 3D reality
of what's otherwise a 2D computer screen and
aren't hooked on #crack;
honestly, so much debating ought to be opera,
and so much opera ought to be debating -
    ah: that famous tingle of utopian paradoxes
never in duality, but always in dichotomy.
   keyboard crusader?
really? i thought people were always moaning
about how many emails they receive:
   and never a single postcard from, say,
someplace like Venice?
           it's still early days,
                   and already we're brewing enough
cliches to replace all known nouns in
    the surrogate mother that's the dictionary
of our completed version of a soul -
if ever to be experienced upon meeting the omni-vocabulary;
jigsaws, i know my idiosyncratic version
of events, he says photosynthesis within parameters
                            of photon deconstruction of hydrogen;
'cos' it's sub; d'uh! i say god i say this perfected
version of nearing telepathy - you say god i hope you
don't mean satan's clause - great anagram to frighten
children with: the Babushka surprise of a Pumpkin head
laughing it's way toward: how easy life would be
if we had all that time to think it through as being hard,
rather than that mortal fleetingness in both thought
and body.

ii. Macbeth

it really dawned on me, when i was watching the film
Macbeth (2015) -
            there was an eeriness to it, a near perfection
of Shakespeare on screen...
           honestly? i'd rather read Kant early on in life
while i have the vigour, and leave old age to Shakespeare...
but it truly was eerie all over the place.
      i do recall seeing Romeo + Juliet
          and reading the script, and imagining the fallacy
of word for word translation from theatre to cinema
of the script: the narrator a news channel anchor,
and everything said, word, for, word.
that film with DiCaprio as Romeo and Claire Danes
as Juliet - it just felt itchy, uncomfortable -
                            Shakespeare, word for word, on screen?!
     (surprise, then astonishment, not !? or astonishment,
   then the surprise, because: it didn't really work);
and it didn't! you can't adapt Shakespeare to the screen
and put everything in! i noticed it at that ******
generous scene in Macbeth concerning the battle
of Ellon... so i was like like... this isn't typescript...
(and thank **** it isn't) -
you can't depict Shakespeare word for word,
to be honest, Macbeth (2015) is the only worthy
translation of Macbeth (the text) into Macbeth (the movie);
all this scientific exactness in previous examples
like Romeo + Juliet, the Merchant of Venice
and a Midsummer's Night Dream don't work,
it's their precision making,
     a theatre cast can take it, but a cinema going crowd,
with all these cutting and copying and repasting
    succinct moments? it doesn't work!
maybe because there's no actual narrator in the staged
examples? narrator as a necessary character understudy:
surely Puck and the news anchor are there:
don't know about the Shylock scenario...
           but these screen adaptations didn't work for me,
too rigid, too formal... in the case of Macbeth?
finally! the long awaited piquant version of Shakespeare:
all that matters, and the rest is thrown into
poetic technique: imagery, metaphor,
                everything that's necessary can be given grammar
as image and not word!
       want an example? from the text...
the Royal Shakespeare
  from the text of Professor Delius
  and introduction by f. j. Furnivall, ll.d.
         vol. v (special edition)
Cassell & Company, Ltd.
        sure, it feels like a Roman Polanski moment
akin to the 9th Gate scenic affair of a bibliophile
fetishist, and it is:

     ... (the only enemy of enso poetry
is the bladder) ...

well the screen play first:

banquo: what are these?
macbeth: live you? or are you aught
                          that man may question?
       speak if you can - what are you?
1st witch: macbeth! hail to thee
                    thane of Glamis!
2nd witch: macbeth... hail to thee,
       thane of Cawdor!
3rd witch: all hail Macbeth! that shalt be king in-after.

but such disparity, such **** as if once
of Lucretia, then of the authority,
for i have before me the original composition:
which is not worth cinema -
nonetheless, a **** takes place:
an assortment for the abdication of a king:
or as ever suggested: the wrong footed path:
never was tossing a coin in a gamble
that of tossing a crown into the air
for a court jester to appear less amusing
and more scolding.

act i, scene iii: post the battle of ellon...
  if ever the refusal to give up Greek myth,
then Macbeth's witches
      and Perseus' Graeae -
                            or naturalise a myth:
like you might not naturalise a strengthened
economy.... canonise the nation
with Elgin Marbles - Elgin: less than
what's said to be the exfoliation of the Aegean -
a municipality somewhere in Scotland:
west of Aberdeen, on the Northern Sea's
battering of the coast...
but word for word? or how to write Shakespeare
into cinema?
                 herr zensor must come into play -
you have to bypass imagery in poetic tongue
and relay it with actual images, a direly needed
necessity:

just after the three witches arrive,
enter Macbeth and Bonquo...

   Macb. so foul and fair a day i have not seen.
Ban. how far is't call'd to Fores? - what are these,
     so wither'd and so wild in their attire,
that look not like th' inhabitants o' the earth,
   and yet are on 't?
             live you? or are you aught that man may
question?
                  (how word for word, but the words
waggle from a different tongue, namely that of
Macbeth, and not that of Banquo, hence
italicised).
                   continuing:
       you seem to understand me,
by each at once her choppy finger laying upon her
skinny lips: - you should be women, and yet your
beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.
Macb. speak, if you can - what are you?
         the witches. all hail, Macbeth!
     hail to thee, thane of Glamis!
         all hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane
of Cawdor!
         all hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter.
            
so does he really belong on the psychoanalytic
couch? is he really that necessarily wonton of talk?
  Cawdor v. Gondor - it's an ongoing narrative.
but is he in need of a couch?
                 what sort of talk is talk when
in fact the only talk that's need to be said is the talk
of man's sexualised naturalisation for strife,
and here: as if knocking on a door:
you want to simply hear the onomatopoeia of
the Kabbalah in a woman gasping for breath
while puny Jewish boys under strict rabbinical
studies study?

                mama, take this badge from  me,
i can't use it, anymore,
            it's getting dark, too dark to see,
feels like i'm knockin' on heaven's door -
      my big mouth and man as a piston
                                               Ferrari acrobat

(even the soundtrack is a shrill, a strangulation
variant of higher pitch of the bagpipes -
not that braveheart ****** of whisking out
a song like for the love of a princess addition to:
  and can i have a madonna to boot too?
it's piercing, a whale sonar above refrigerator
white noise hum for the new age Buddha -
and that's because all the poetry has been excavated
  to suit cinema: not theatre).

and this is the first adaptation of Shakespeare i actually
could stomach...
     the genius was in how Macbeth spoke the lines
of Bonqua - so the character didn't start smacking
the narrative ****** in terms of solipsism:
even Shakespeare can be attacked on this front...
        if in the movie Banqua said all that was in
the typescript: the film wouldn't have worked...
i don't know what the big deal is with Lady Macbeth:
i thought that in the olden days
Macbeth suggested to King Duncan that:
can i leave the warring if you **** my wife?
i can go on the contract that you **** my wife
and i stop serving you?
      first impressions: strange English.
well, i'm sure she's important as it might be said:
within the programme of Orthodoxy,
            but never catholic (metadoxy) tradition of
saying: way hey! ensnare the mare in a funfair!
       and play the game: pin the tale on the donkey!
heads or tails?      it looks pretty damnable
     in the first place: as all honesty hogs to pout and
***** a hoggish sneeze out of the story.

iii. shaken, not stirred

and indeed, how many a times
did not a neon blossom sprout,
thinking it might rattle an oratory
with an oak in autumn, and behold
a swarm of leaves descend -
not out of passing ease,
but out of wishful thinking
that some indentation might be made:
with whom the hands of will reside,
and yet: to no gratifying effect,
to whatever atomic-centralisation
dream, be that ego or be it hydrogen
(lending hands: so too
electric or thus negative, neutral and
thus proto) - shake foundation
and give a revising repertoire of
              the covering dust humanity
that once made famous: never
again to learn the humility of the start;
        to whatever centric dream that
does not waver in demands of orientation,
be it father (sun), son (shadow)
  or the holy spirit (night) -
  make them earn! be obscure!
            or simply say: in the community
of the stated congregation:
  i find all to be as night,
   and safer that plague the father:
  i am not akin to the shadow:
                   but the shadow in mirror.
so, a centric dream that does not
waver in demands for orientation,
has ever or will be enthroned in man's
heart as the stability of Sabbath's demands
       for less, oh so much less to agitate with!
as too, when the ancient appliances
were adorned by countless demands of
mimic, so too our modern
fibbles are to stage a usurping of
such things demanded and their mimic;
for with such disclosure does all fate
of anewed become burdened in what
history could be: shaken,
rather than simply a stirring of the void,
nothing more than the unburdening
of sweetening a cup of coffee, of that and
the layers: or bitter at the top, drank
through toward the sedimented sweetness -
and all that: hoping i could have retained
that silver spoon lodged in my ***
          when i first met her and thought about
consolidating marriage: so fresh, eager prune
of the flesh embodiment as first
    watered ash, then entombed in marble
and the eternal... ah
               but it was all just the faintest of dreams;
so lumberjack sleep ensued,
                      as did a kindred worth ethic:
we are a long way from Eden...
      there is but the idyll of the absurd fruition of
albreit macht frei... or a redefinement of
such stakes as: what occupies our days?
                    if not war, if not disease,
if not the Chinese... what does, occupy our days?

J'étais fou de toi.  J'ai été

I will never forget
the more I wanted (you)
the less I was.

If a dark night is for dancing -
will you come waltz with me?

from the top of a hill
she never heard
which way to down
and never felt
a connection underneath

a missing note
a deviate step
a vapor mist
our kisses never met

a hollow cavern
a hole forever closed
inside and out

like tar water run-off from a hopeless ash basin
an unending drizzle of forever ending dribble that fizzled ... out

help me dear earth
if you really want to be mine
blacken the soil and ink the green

in deeper ferns we reappear
as lava flows to shore.

she didn't know..
until she knew
what a curve of learning!


1.
both college-students and real good-friends
he was a science-and-botany buff
            *and the mountain would get a taste of his cells
and she, student of philosophy and languages
            would hear the latent-message from a dozen sources


2.
they shared confidences to the other
things they never told a soul
            he also discussed his theories and science-experiments and projects and stuff
            she told him how slightly-uphill her lectures in Russian proved to be
they'd meet there every Monday.. under the campus-trees
with two hellish-strong espressos
        he remembered her chewy-doughnuts without any snow-sprinkles
        'cause she was given to these silly coughing-fits
        when eating peanuts and pulses
he teased her endless and ragged all her idiosyncrasies
they seemed closer than kin

yet he seemed to remain aloof when she tried to get closer
      he brushed off her advances
      and told her to get lost
then ran off with Lilian on Tuesday
then Zita next Tuesday
then Sumaya the following Wednesday
and Tarryn on Thursday after that
and so it went on for a whole while
the whole academic-year, in fact

yet still
      they studied together
      and swore in debates
      and met every Monday
oh, that was the one day he never dated


3.
on the first day of each month
he'd give her a beautiful clutch-pencil
its casing bled entirely in translucent-fuchsin
and told her to guard well context over content
she never understood this cryptic-crap
       but smilingly accepted each one
she thought them too pretty to use
       and kept them in a special-box
       yet her heart broke each time
he took out a new flavour-of-girl
and shared his tongue with
     Sally and Margaret and Lisbeth and Anne..
     some lasted days, others short-weeks
but they all fizzled out
like the pop that they swallowed
and she wondered if he would ever
              favour her with affection
              give to her what those lucky-gals got
              look into her eyes like that
              whisper sweet-nothings to her
why didn't he want her?

but he was brusque with her and abrupt as discordant-chords
he scolded her like uneven-bricks tumbling down
and yet, it was to her that he played
               his own alternate-ballads on his banjo
               i n t r i c a t e - b e a u t y like living-pearls on those strings
      he couldn't look at her, then
      too caught-up in sweet-delivery of song
and with his eyes closed, her imagination took high-flight
as she was able to stare at him, without fear
                           in wonder
                           in enchantment
and marvel at the mesmerising co-ordination of those busy-fingers..

others passed by, but he did not care.. so giving
she felt so unique
'cause she got what they did not
           unbreakable-bond of
            music and.. talk and.. those clutch-pencil gifts
and for his birthday, she gave him a two-tone pelargonium, potted in cream
left him wordless..


4.
it was near the end of November
(just like now:)
and he casually mentioned of going away
            a week-long hike in December
            with a girl in a group that he'd met, some Sarah or other
and something in her flared and she broke down..
                                                                ­went off the rails

he looked on aghast, in total silence.. half-perplexed, half-squinting
     which disquietened her far more than any outburst could have
he stood there before her, on that Monday
       in the beautiful mid-morning sun
she remembered, to the moment.. how the light caught his eyes
       seemed to be looking right t-h-r-o-u-g-h her
       and almost, she saw the tiniest-trace of something...
       struck by a touch of liquid-vulnerability in his being
but hooded-eyes quick again, typical-hider!

he reached into his backpack
****** her a clutch-pencil
which she almost rejected
but she calmed herself down
and he looked at her once
            turned on heel
and walked to his Beetle
rode off the campus
without looking back

and she kept on wondering what it was all about
       that silent intense-look


5.
news came of a group of hikers who succumbed
from high up
some slipped and
her acrid-tears were not the only to fall
upon learning......


6.
she ran back to her dorm
reached for his gifts.. in full-remorse
and clutching a pencil in each hand
she squeezed and accidentally pressed on the flick-top
and then...............
               (it came out)
i t . . . c a m e . . . o u t . . . ! !

never in her life would she be as stunned
as they repeated their message
     over and over
     in tandem audio-confusion
in all the tongues she had studied
she learns now
of the time he took to delve into her crap to relay his truth through his amazing-invention!


7.
at the interment, she couldn't speak
displacement dipped too deep
she took up one clutch-pencil
      and pressed on the top
      message loud and clear
custom-made brilliance direct from heaven's fingertips

the pall-bearers lifted him up
                 and
out of her life

now this roundabout-present lies in the velours-box
like he does in his



students of learning..
in book.. and in heart








S T - 25 nov 2013

Estranged in summer rains'

       landscaped  dissolution

       evincing season's discontent

      neath sun's suffocating alienation;

used to rhyme with warmth

             and effulgent delectation,

   emotional realms fizzled in a

              heated  halfhearted sizzle

            of down-pour's restless manifestations

As the minutes drift into hours
I stare at the flowers
That died the day you left.

And they say keepers win in the war of finders,
But I'm not so sure.
Cos, the reminders
Of what used to be.
Have soured.
And I try and devour
Memories,
Spaces, faces, places
That we shared.
And I choke on some, and others slide down.
--

And I wander if I even cross your mind, my love
And do you remember the time
You said that you'd always be mine
And that forever was too short a time
For you and I.

Those lies you spun, like a spiders web,
Took place, built homes
Inside my head
And I didn't try to relocate
Because all I could do was appreciate
That someone finally cared.

And those memories that we shared,
Those faces, spaces and places
They're all so vivid.
I can smell the scent of your sweet perfume, and feel the water
Splash
When we went down that log floom
And we both held on so tight,
We were determined not to let eachother go. With all our might.
So what happened, my love?

What changed inside that beautiful frame of yours
What's the reason you began to close  all of those doors
And lock me out.
Cos it's strange to be a stranger
And I don't like the danger
That comes with
Not knowing who I am, or you were.
And the uncertainty of who we were together.
Cos the forever we promised
Has been and gone, and call me crazy
But I expected to hold on to it
A little longer.
I thought we were stronger.

Your honey gold hair hung
Down over your face
As you told me about these places and spaces that we shared
Could be no more

My world crashed and burned
And fizzled out
And I found new ammunition
To tear myself apart
To pull to pieces
My damaged heart.
And once I was done
I hung the picture frame
You threw onto the floor
On a sign on the doors,
Saying keep out.

And my barriers went up
But my walls crumbled down
Tell me,
Are you around, my love?

Are you laughing and smiling
And have you moved on...

2013 ©

When you boil it down,
really get down to the flesh,
bone;
marrow;
mitochondria;
I am nothing but a fizzled
thing
pushing
third-rate
pulses
out of a fourth-rate heart;
that's why when I ***** you to me
in an impermanent cowgirl;
chest
to
chest;
a good, running thump
is answered
by a
descending blip.

We start in Greek Street.
Not any night,
But the end,
A grand finale;
Last orders,
At the Coach & Horses,
Before the corporate boyz move in to whitewash,
Where inky Boho Jeffrey Bernard drank,
And Gary Dunnington, the actor, and his mates are on the ****.

Meanwhile, a mom runs her hands,
Though my strands.
'Tell me everything,' she enthuses,'about your hair.'
But there’s nothing to say:
I barely wash it,
Never brush it,
And only finger combe it.
But she carries on in my locks,
Then off to dinner with her bloke.

We head off to Trisha's at 57,
A lively basement heaven:
In energy, in noise, in smoke.
I chat with Mark.
Got his heart broke:
It’s hard
To sever those traumatic bonds,
Thick as pillar posts,
When love ***** up,
Goodbye, the cocktail of toxicity,
That had you on a high,
The ***, the texts, the tenderness,
And, oh, the bliss.

Kass, a boxer musician, comes
And shakes our hands.
He’s in Armani,
And says,
His eyes dark little raisins,
'I prefers a poet over a bruiser.'
And, 'I don’t fight no more,
If I did - so I don't bother -
I’d **** ‘em.

In the corner,
Two girls with dreamy eyes:
So I read ‘em love poems.

Then Jessica Appleby's head pops round the door.
We hug and then swap tales:
'I’m all messed up,' I tell her.
'What not her, the one you wrote that poem for.'
'My man,' she confides changing the subject,
'All crazy passion and wild *** for two months -
Then nothing.
Just fizzled out like it was never meant to be.'

She exits.

'You alright Gary?'
'Yeah, you?'
'Fine.'
But I don’t buy him a beer,
A bottle of Peroni is £5.
'No, it’s £3,' he says, 'if you pay cash.'
I head for the bar.
Three times I explain to the barman, it’s £3 cash.
'Who told you that?' he says slamming the bottle down.
'Gary,' I say defensively.
'Well, tell Gary, if he doesn’t shut the **** up,
He’ll be paying a fiver, too.'

A young American artist, Kirsty, starts talking to me.
She’s trying to get ahead in art,
And says, that when she was a kid,
On a blazing Tuscany night filled with stars,
She walked out onto a stone balustrade balcony,
And knew in that moment,
She was no longer her mom and dad,
But herself, Kirsty.

The boxer musician shoves a tall fellow hard against the wall,
The altercation,
Is over before it starts.

Kass gives me a wolfish smile.
Mark buys me a drink.
Kirsty goes to the toilet.
The corner girls have left.
Mark slips his stool.

Everyone is cleared from the yard,
Just Gary and I linger
With a feisty young bar lady,
Serving the Bohos of Soho.

Drinking in their pathos,
Exhaling in the shadows,
Mingling in their juices.
My ****** up heart beats
With the Bohos of Soho.
Ahhh, the Bohos of Soho keep many an hour.
The Bohos of Soho,
The Bohos of Soho,
The Bohos of Soho,
Have many lives,
The Bohos of Soho are a good seed.
You and I,
In Soho,
For last orders.

it could be said that the constructs of grammar are a akin to
the constructions of the unconscious with sleep the dam,
   and the trickling of both the waking
hours and the concerns for dreams -
i'd say: it's not exactly the interpretation
of dreams, but a concern for them:
last night i was exposed to the most
fascinating comic, if i wrote about it
in the morning i'd reveal all of it -
but i do remember in a subplot
a Beretta and fiddling with a bullet...
dreams? unwanted distractions...
            they only possess depth's worth of
analysis for entombed people -
      for whom life has no meaning
they have to seek alternatives: i.e.,
in dreams...
                         because their lives are
so uninhibited they seek monastic
meanings, they are on a knife's edge
of slicing through cryptography -
                        they want to seek deeper meaning,
rich or poor, if life isn't a centimetre's
worth of depth of drowning, your escapism
is bound to dreams...
                             which is a secondary
excuse concerning apathy
  and the shaking homeless man...
               i'm asking for a mass exodus
of the homeless from urban areas...
                       only a fool would sit in an
urban environment these days...
               those glum godforsaken looks of
seemingly ****** superiority...
   meritocracy hides a variation of ******
it doesn't seem to recognise -
          it's a gigantic mushroom fog-cloud
and bypassing talk of the guillotine chop
to mind the Antoinette cakes for fear of
reprisals...
                        thinking never equates
to being conscious...
                                       i don't know how
this happens...
                              the divergent parallelism
states that
                   we shouldn't base our
censoring on obstructing nouns,
but the majority of politics bullies this
categorisation of words with the most
sensed purpose of it being necessary...
nouns don't do jack **** in ontological
parameters, but verbs do...
                  trying to change human
behaviour by stretching it back far enough
for cavemen to appear,
      or censoring the use of nouns
does not affect our actions -
                                     it simply doesn't...
censoring our use of words
         means we cognitively stutter... to
appease misguided pieces of information
lodged within each word...
                       we are deliberately
not engaging in the full vocabulary grasp
of things...
                          on a humanistic level
the involuntary desire
                                  to write a book rather than
learn to make toothpaste...
   outside of theorems in rubrics of
repetition:
                   what is the active ingredient
in being conscious?
                  thought or the senses?
   for me thought is the active ingredient
   and the senses are a passive ingredient.
               on the ready...
but how to make the world make sense?
  well, given the five already not making
sense, thought alone suggests a counter
question: how does the world make sense?
    i understand that these words
belong in the torture chambers of libraries...
people prefer practical problems
sourced by practical questions,
rather than preferring no problems
  sourced by impractical questions...
did i mention taxation? no.
         did i mention immigration? no.
hence i've asked impractical questions
         because i don't want people to
experience them as practical concerns
when they do not invoke practicality:
precisely because they invoke an impracticality
i'm asking them...
                              because they do
not interfere with what's impractical in life:
other people's sedimentation
into power... my questions interfere with what's
practical in life: not getting in other people's
daily affairs...
                         the more the question
is impractical, the more practical life becomes...
and then life encounters what others deem
to be the practical question, which makes
life all the more impractical...
       time orientated: on the altar of television
where everyone has enough time to
zombie-it-further.
                               with thought the
active ingredient of being conscious (double
value, two functions, one open, the other closed)
                the inactive ingredient of being conscious
is ego (hence the many theories and sub-divisions
of possessing such a thing) -
                     that doesn't necessarily translate
into                               the origin of things...
                 i'd state that grammar is
in equal measure a conscious quantity (vocabulary),
as a subconscious medium  and an unconscious
            suggestion...
                          grammar speaks of the universal man,
we speak alone or among ourselves as
men: particular...
                                      to me grammar is a medium
akin to the psychological three tier cake...
                              it's a fourth dilemma...
                 if thought is the active ingredient
of consciousness,
                                it's no wonder
   the constant sought-after identification procedures
with passports, national insurance numbers,
                   reincarnation...
    THE WEST KNOWS NO MYSTICISM...
        a common mantra...
   THE WEST IS IN A STATE OF A CRISIS
IN THAT IT HAS EXHAUSTED ALL
                           SOURCES OF PLAGIARISM...
          IT IS IN A STATE OF BABYLONIAN
  PLAGIARISM: A PERSISTENT SELF-RENOVATION
            BY PLAGIARISING ITSELF
DUE TO THE FACT THAT IT HAS EXHAUSTED
      PLAGIARISING NICHE ENVIRONMENTS...
              the white man knows no mysticism...
whatever comes from his mouth is wobble-blah...
               still even fewer made that statement
than venture into the Masai territories in Kenya
to hear a mystical burp...
                       yes... so many provocative sentences...
psychology expands into what will always be
airy-fairy Mary Poppins to me...
                        i can write about it,
but the rubric of fixating on words
                                 that are stimulants more than
additives in terms of cohesive argumentation
will always remain a mile away from my
serious interests in prolonging an argument
  for establishing a theory into it being schooled...
that'll never happen with me...
                        when i write about psychology
i am foremost to remind myself:
     you just inhaled a balloon filled with helium...
   oh god, the relief of not making more from this...
                  me, never the dodgy soul-salesman
of the naive few...
                             a penny is worth a pebble...
but is a page from Tolstoy worth a £5, a £10,
a £20 or a £50 banknote?
                                             i really wanted to
expand on the verbiage... but even i encounter
moments of true spaghetti demanding me to end
the supposed: on to it...
                                        to me psychology is
verbiage... in the back of my mind i'm looking
at grammar as a punching-bag...
                 upper-hook -logy
                        lower-hook -graphy -
          or pristine physics and chemistry...
      as one granny said: some kind of -logy
   or: a term deemed appropriate to denote
    a vocabulary fixation of some sort.
                      because that's what's called the attache...
fixated vocabulary -
                        i'd really love to expand
on this... but i don't see the point...
                 the original idea fizzled out
after i heard enough entertainment tongues
blah through a bubbling bottle of champagne
into Lake ****-on-the-Geneva-Convention flat...
                   as i am adamant on
creating Narcissus looking into the sea...
                           but that's the beauty of
poetry, it's not bound by paragraphs...
           it's open, like the ******* of literature
that it is...
                                 your payment?
just your attention...
                                           hence no paragraphs...
                your payment?
   just your attention...
                               because if they didn't cough
up for the skeleton... i'm not
           giving them my strained larynx...
                         sometimes...
   it's best to leave
                                something unfinished:
there's no melancholy surrounding
     a perfected and complete construction...
                     

Chatting cold conspiracies from across the coffee table.

Pangaea on the rocks - sweet, sober, civil silence.

When did the degradation become so severe?

Time ticks down and friendships fade to acquaintances.

Spine tingling tempo of the pitter-patter rain drop percussion.

Galloping triplets trickling down from the temples of thunder.

Hands of the clock clap in celebration of another hour killed.

Two o’ clock Coca-Cola to crown the king of carbonation *****.

Naming off artists to impress the drunken temptress.

Taunting the room filled with glimmer-eyed, lovestruck libidos.

All the kids are struggling to remember the horoscope they skimmed.

Brains drained to the point of puking in mouths, poisoning the passion.

With whiskey laced erections, this night chants a swansong.

Illegal lane changes and tiptoe key turning roustabouts.

The Hubble eye can’t detect the silent thoughts left hidden.

Dreams within dreams, lost in a cloud of exhaled acceptance.

Tonight, you fizzled, and tonight, you sleep alone.

These are the danger days. Timber!

"Do you like wasabi peas?"

She hands me a small sage-green orb.

"It's hot, spicy," she says, nodding encouragingly. "Have you ever had wasabi?"

It tastes like horseradish and is not at all spicy in comparison to the chile-spiced mango I've been snacking on. I nod and smile to her approvingly.

Before I know it, she's handing me a chocolate sandwich cookie and without saying a word, going back to the duty of putting away the groceries. It's delicious.

Jivy, upbeat soul music blasts from an iPhone speaker dock. The kitchen faucet is running. Cabinets, the dish washer, opening and closing like a delicate rhythm.

He was building a fire pit outside, thick white smoke billowing up into the sky. But it started to pour a soft summer rain, as it had two or three times already that day. The world beyond the kitchen is grey, wet, happy. The shabby porch is used to being drenched in rain, the mason jars filled with dead cigarettes and the disarrayed furniture.

With more than one person in the narrow stretch of kitchen, it's a crowed party. I watch on from my chair in the breakfast nook. She chops vegetables on the counter for cold gazpacho soup.

She, in a delicate red rose skirt. The men except for me in cargo shorts.

I'm drinking flat Dr. Pepper from a painted mug, instead of something hard like I might want. The sip of black beer he gave me tasted like soy sauce. It fizzled on the porch a bit.

"Oh, ****!" he said, putting his hand with the overflowing beer out the door while standing partly inside.

/

Asking the cook for permission, he sits down across from me and begins to sing a song on a guitar. A sad song, one that he's played before. Maybe the only one he knows.

I sit in my chair and watch it all go by. I take out a book from my bag to look like I want to read it. I'm really just sitting here, like a fly stuck tragically on the fly paper he hung in the kitchen two nights ago. Lying there all sprawled awkwardly, eyes open to what's around me.

He finishes the song. "Beautiful," she says, gathering papery remains of an onion and tossing them into a plastic bin. He strums another tune. His voice is untrained and not hard to listen to if not a tad syrupy and self-aware. A bit like the way he carries his wide personality.

He answers questions from across the room, interrupting the melody for a few seconds now and then. The two men are on separate wavelengths. But the singer didn't seem to mind being interrupted. They must have grown up with this dynamic, the men. It's a story they tell easily.

/

"Buongiorno!" she says, slicing a lemon.

"Hey, you have a nice accent. Arrivederci!" says the guitar-player.

"Arrivederci!" she responds, playing up the dialect with sweetness.

"Good deal." He says, striking up another tune. He puts on a different voice. Deeper, with more swing, like a caricature country-western singer. His voice fills the space.

Our mugs are gathered all together, mixed up in a menagerie of colors and shapes at the end of the kitchen counter. I brought several of mine from home and they mingle with the others unnoticeably. Multi-colored ones from Poland. Mine, purchased at various thrift stores. All of them stacked awkwardly and happy.

He asks me if I want to share a smoke on the wet porch. I say "Not right now. Maybe later, though."

Hadn’t changed numbers.
A voice bristled in my ear,
said why not then, it’s been years.
Months passed.
An amalgam of frail strained hearts,
smells on pillows we tried to lose.
Chose the boulevard in the end,
gaudy nostalgia blazing
like a forest fire in my eyes.
I waited.
Ran a finger over rails
those skaters we knew marked,
back when something called lust
fizzled between you them and me,
through the airwaves;
the lyrics can still trickle
on my tongue if you ask nicely.
Peroxide-blondes, men with muscles
the size of marrows,
a summer pick ‘n’ mix
lacking in looks, in fine taste.
Went to read a book in the sea
for a while,
slurped up half a pint in chapters
then lost the plot again.
That’s when you came
in polka dots,
a pack of colourful taffy
swinging idly from a wrist,
peanut-butter cups
like lily-pads on your palm.
As if you’d never left,
same number, name, face.
Forgot what goodbye was,
tripped over a lost hello.

.the fireworks are still going off, Guy Fawkes 2.0, and sitting there thinking... big bang... so there was a sound in vacuum? i see a firework go off, the bright explosive light, and then the thunderous balloon burst! boom! i tap my finger... i'm guessing a 1.2 second delay from seeing the light from the firework, and hearing the BOOM! so... in light of all this... are we 1.2 seconds ahead of the big bang, or 1.2 seconds behind it, actually having happened, as in: still happening... i mean... it's not like sound precursors light... and we are not exactly illuminating creatures for most part, but sure as ****, we're loud.

well...
   i might have been looking for
a needle in a haystack,
or whatever it was i was looking
for,
  but i have spoken to a few homeless
people...
i remember about four congregated
around me in Trafalgar Sq.
one sunny afternoon,
    and that was the point where i knew
i was losing it, detaching myself
from the conventionality of "reality":
having meaningless conversations
with people wearing NPC-masks...
the voice inside my head started
thin out... until it fizzled out and i turned
into a writing machine...
if i had the same internal-monologue
with myself, i wouldn't be writing this,
a gaping abyss agitated by whatever
interacts with it,
and subsequently prompts such writing...
i put my hand around one of
the homeless men,
he didn't like it, i comforted him,
we'll just talk...
   then he started explaining to me about
his spot in the Sq.,
  he stood up, and indexed the spot,
the spot where i sat next to him,
another came and sat akimbo
like a child, listening to me intently,
two teenage girls passed
and he asked them:
      what do you see in his (my) eyes?
they replied nothing...
still somehow mesmerized like a child
in a primary school, listening intently...
red as a beetroot from all the *****...
i ended up giving him a book
i just bought in an indie bookshop...
christopher marlowes Dr. Faustus...
i stood up and abstracted a square,
drew both my index fingers
   around a slab of pavement
asking the stupid question:
                     do you think it's there?
or inside your mind?
                  then the homeless man
sitting in akimbo introduced me
to a northern irish veteran with PTSD...
drunk like a skunk...
         and then we walked into
the homeless shelter together,
   they didn't let me in,
because i didn't remember my national
insurance number, or had the card
for that matter...
          weeks pass...
   imagine the chances of this happening,
in central London...
i bump into the same man who sat in
akimbo in Trafalgar Sq. on the streets
of Soho... the chances... or meeting someone,
randomly, a second time, in London?
******* slim... slimmer than size 0
catwalk models... more like size -1...
and he told me that a spider crawled
      into his ear...
    he said that he was going deaf...
                   so i walked into a shop
bought a few beers and we sat in
a church courtyard talking with his friend
who showed off his buddha tattoo
and said: i'm going to walk to India...
subsequently we were ushered out...
because we were breaking the law...
and i thought: but you serve wine in
the church, don't you?
    there was no argument...
then there was the instance in Leytonstone
with the homeless talking about
pneumonia of some woman they
were friends with...
               many pleasantries hugging
what not...
   but...
          the most profound instance i had
was just outside Romford train station...
the same man i would later sit down with
and offer a cigarette to in Seven Kings,
just outside the O'Grady's Irish pub...
       i've seen how people interact with
homeless people... that snarky attitude...
they stand and bend over while talking
to someone sitting on the pavement on cardboard...
a toned down version of paddy bateman...
this ridiculing with intimidation...
ugliest crap imaginable...
   so i sat with this man...
     gave him my spare fiver...
       rolled up a joint...
   we went around the corner to smoke it...
some kid with a football ran up to us,
we passed... and then we asked each other questions...
the kid said he wanted to become a footballer,
me and the homeless man encouraged
him to take his dream seriously...
quickly the marijuana high smirk
left his face...
    apparently i had a diamond on my forehead,
claimed the homeless man...
but then i asked the very touchy question...
so... what made you homeless...
  i'll never forget what he retorted with...
my mother told me to never tell a lie.
what?!
  so the only reason he was homeless was
because he was an honest man, prior?
   oh... so this is what makes men homeless...
honesty, for one,
   and along with honesty,
   other traits that elevate valor,
    alongside the many other virtues...
well... "who would have thought"?
               like that wasn't painfully obvious
to begin with... namely...
how the rats, the skivvy, the immoral,
the sadomasochistic overlords of
institutions become rewarded exponentially...
while the man who replies
to the homeless question with:
    my mother told me to never tell a lie.

. from personal experience? voluntary celibacy is becoming the new taboo, of the old taboo that was homosexuality... what with the homosexual **** coming full swing... evidently i'm not wearing a dog-collar or a monk's attire... voluntary celibacy is the new taboo that was the old taboo of homosexuality... from personal experience... so... blah; what? *******? on the toilet (it was never about scented candles) it's as easy as one (taking a ****), two (taking a ****), three (*******), four (massaging the prostate by sitting for a prolonged time on the throne of thrones)... i thought ******* wasn't a problem, as best exemplified in the film the shape of water by a woman, in a bath?

the sort of homosexuality
you'd associate with
Frank O'Hara,
and the current homosexuality
of, today?

the revision
of the banality of carnal
festivity...

well... for one:
   a complete lack of decorum...
and how prior to
homosexuals prized
decorum above all else...

me in my farce of
heterosexuality -
   a voluntary celibacy...
with the odd occassion
of a *******'s
         hour...
no... i can't say i was
born with an inherent
drive: derived from
                     an opposite...

with the original "act"
being given full permission...
evidently the labor of
gravitating toward
the mundane:
instituionalized
legality of... coupling...

on the reverse?
a need to push the **** further,
into transgender movements...
because the reins have
been slacked,
the **** needs to continue...

but upon reading
some of Frank O'Hara...
Spicer...
whoever...
                      what decorum...
the **** needs to pulverize
forward: march...

since now comes the fear
of the mundane,
the aura of what was once
prohibited,
but also: by prohibition
carved out from
the taboo populace
the sieve of
  the most adequate rhetoricians...

the continued homosexual
**** carnival needs
to continue:
because it fears having
to settled for
the mundane and thumb
of acceptance...

i base this on:
so the thrill of being "found out"
is gone, as is the thrill
and the hard-on?
so now a hard-on from
shock-awe?!

it's not like current homosexuality
is going to
fork-out something
that might transcend
the ongoing ****...

but when homosexuality could
identify itself with
the sort of esteem
no other sexuality could
fathom...
it could be guided and
be the perfected example of:
the composed aesthetic
of the urban specimen...

the thrill of the taboo
fizzled out...
oh my my...
what are the homosexuals
to do?
   push on with
the ****...
  because... settling on
the mundane grievances
of opposites
of a man & a woman...
that encompass
the entire study life
within the confines
of the canvas of time are...

"there", but not there...
or rather:
      the lost decorum of
the ones now
so blatantly generic...

   the old homosexual guard
is there, still in full splendor,
as is the new heterosexual
"guard" -
     of the voluntarily celibate...
because:
i forgot to have the sort
of competitive ambition
of a *****...
   i still get to ****
the ****: death...
does it matter if i am to
compete, or not compete?

Opposites attract.
An object with a negative charge will attract an object with a positive charge–
Until they touch.
This collision transfers electrons from one object to the other–
Distributing appropriately.
The objects are now equally charged–
And repel each other.

Was that our problem?
We became too close? Collided too hard?
Does this explain why our spark fizzled out?
Why this attraction became repulsion?
Did my desire for intimacy lead to our demise?
Did I miscalculate the consequences of our contact?
Was our embrace the end?

i guess the "algorithms" simply stated:
TOO MANY INSTANCES
OF FREE SPEECH
HAVE NOT BEEN ADDRESSED
BY A DIALECTICAL
INVESTIGATION...
NO SUITABLE PARAMETERS
NO SUITABLE PARAMETERS
TO ENGAGE WITH A NON-A.I.
DATA PROVIDER.
2004 / 2005 / 2006...
can't remember,
the glorious years of...
enjoying a 50+km bike ride...
gone... fizzled out...
derelict...
                  ******* cultural
warfare...
                digging metaphysical
trenches...
do people even know
that we're engaging in metaphysical
warfare?
dead? sure... dead as dead...
and death to boot...
    i wish this ******* was
transcendent...
but this crap will haunt us
when we're dead...
it's like being trapped in a mirror,
when you can actually see
your (albeit) faint
reflection in glass...
this **** becomes physical
in the afterlife...
and... you know what
the Polacks say of Napoleon?
why didn't Napoleon **** anyone?
well... no one bothered
to give him a gun.
   next time you see me...
i'll be spitting ***,
  and singing Rammstein's
hallelujah...
      while dreaming of Zeppelins...
water-canons, and other methods
of crowd-control...
   arm in arm with drinking
in public, and the passing police car...
m'eh... **** happens...
    let's test the grounds,
let's see if an isolated term can cause
offense...
                      ...
   *****! *****! *****! *****!
*****! *****! *****! *****!
    *****! *****! *****! *****!
*****! *****! *****! *****!

drunk, "trolls"?
                      no...
                       we're not sunny...
****... funny...
             i don't even know whether
we're trolls...
                    we're we are...
      which is... well...
that Old Testament confusing pronoun
of that...
there's a liter of *** waiting for me...
so... so...
                we're we are...
why didn't the transgender peeps
signal:
          the most obvious and perfected
pronoun usage:
            the third person,
the "non-existent" yet somehow present
entity, like a god of
   that?
                                   or it?
   do i really have to confuse the arithmetic
of pronoun sensibility?
can't i just call the supposed
transitioning periodical as, that...
rather than they?!

   it's not exactly a Siamese instance...
so...
you calling me ******?
i can't count or something?

            glorious time to be alive...
seeing English dog-tail waggle themselves
out of this sort of *******...
because this is *******...
         they closed the asylums,
let in a jimmy savile...
and the let all the crazies out...
who, apparently, were given advice
to forget the pipe bomb,
and bomb the **** out of
the grammar of the English language...

it's like...
watching a rugby match,
mingling with the prime minister's Q.T.
on a Wednesday...
politics and sports combined...
that's genius!

                 another dozen asylum cases passed
by the home office for ex-Jihadi
"refugees" fleeing Syria,
re-settling in England?!

    gentlemen... quasi-ladies, ladies,
pseudo-men... applause!
quiet simply...        applause!

Loss of Motivation. Check.
2. Procrastinating. Check.
3. Lowering Grades. Check.
4. Health Problems. Check.
5. Exhaustion/Lack of Energy. Check.


I can't help but stare at the F.
Like a crime scene photo of the ****** of my grades.
I missed classes. Deadlines.
Struggled with anxiety and depression.
And yet even though I am haunted by these feelings.
I can't bring myself to care.
I thought it was so many things.
but perhaps I have just fizzled out.
It just me.
My problem.
There's no foul play,
My brain just decided to commit academic suicide.
We threw the toaster into the bathwater,
and jumped right in.

He has never been like other little boys
That play so happily with their toys
He is different is young Raymond Bliss
He wants to grow up to be....a mad scientist

While others play with toy soldiers and cars
Or pretend to be astronauts in the stars
Little Raymond is chasing his pet cat instead
Determined he will catch him and cut off his head

He tried getting the dog who put up a fight
Poor Raymond gave up when he got a nasty bite
So he dug up his hamster, who passed away when overfed
He tied the body to a car battery to try and raise the dead

Unfortunately the dead hamster fizzled and went pop
It made Raymond jump in fright, it made him hop
So he decided to dig up the goldfish as well
Then he decided against it, because of the smell

Now there are plans drawn up, to be unfurled
His evil scheme now hatched to take over the world
Raymond wants to set vampire robot bunnies on man kind
It is just a shame because his pocket money he can not find

His mother says "time for bed" so he sulks up to his room
This his prison from whence he plots doom and gloom
He is a very strange boy is little Raymond Bliss
Determined to be the most evil mad scientist

The sky, a plate
in kindly blue,
smooth
as the ceramic face
of this, my swimming pool;

the bobbing palm
glazing the back
of my starfish shape
like white liquid icing;

sweet, the water's after-taste;
gently
pungent smell lodged
in the nape of my neck

I will wash the blue
off my skin, in a tiled doll-box
cubicle
I will smell the smell fade
out of my fizzled wet-strung hair
just as sugar dissipates
into the hot
nothingness of drinks.

I will pretend to forget,
then forget
I was offered a plate
in a summery shade, bordered by
tree branches
I was in that half
amniotic vessel -
weightless

as a seed pearl in
an ocean or a lover
exhaling in the depths
of a kiss;

a posy of
air on liquid.

i remember when I first hear her voice…
just that one simple word
“Hello”
And my mind became whole…
Filled with images of
Us walking hand in hand through the
Chaos wielding nothing to protect us
But the other’s smile…
As our voices reverb on the walls surrounding us
Returning the beauty back into the eyes
Of those entranced by the serenity
Caused just by her presence

I remember gazing into her eyes
And sharing the first kiss
While riding across the bridge
On that big cheese bus…
As my lips touched hers…
And our thoughts unified…
A rainbow of emotion
Shone into our lives…
And the passion forged then
Shall grow forevermore

I still dream
Of the vows
We spoke of making…
I to her
Her to i
Of eternal love
& pure devotion…
But the bond fell short
And the feelings fizzled out…
But I’m waiting for they day
They re-ensue

The time is now
Our bond’s re-forged…
I’ll have her back here in my heart…
As this plethora of
Prismatic…
Emotions eminates outwards
All that’s left here is
A flower blooming
within

The gnomes sang and danced while the faeries all pranced
and the elfins got drunk by the fire
The pixies hummed tunes and got ****** on mushrooms
I can't remember what happened to the choir.

Sethark the lord of the dark was roused from his sleep by the din
the djinn in the lamp though he at first appeared camp
wished up the drawbridge and pulled in the ramp.

This gathering, like babies were safe in the glades
while Sethark from Hades was sharpening the blades.
But it all fizzled out when Sethark gave a shout
to a beautifully jewelled little lady
and they tarried away somewhere deep in the hay
and the result was a devilish imp of a baby.

The party goes on though the pixies have gone
because too many mushrooms had doomed them
and now they're doomed to the glens
banished from the fens
No longer to hum or strum on guitars
nor sing sweet melodies to the brightest of stars
sad tales are told by old faeries and gnomes
of pixies evicted from family homes
but they know in their bones that it should have been them in the glen
but say nothing of this thing
or bad luck they will bring on you.
The story that's told is quite true
Believe if you wish
and if you wish it
it's true.

There is no snow, a left turn is a careening roll
7, 8, 9 times, all along the road
Until the carriage turns over and makes us again feel whole
We count the moments that it stays, before it encrypts code
Juxtapose, lizards and rats, seagulls and bats
The underlying message is psychological attack
And when she opened up her mouth she let out a hack
So devastating and depressing that she turned and spat

These old bones and these old dreams are a glimpse of what's passed
And though the skies are turning gray, the blues, in mind, will last
A silver lining is a metaphor, it's never really been
A line designed to separate the sadness from the sin
My friends tell me I am a crosswalk between truth and hate
But in the end the truth is those who despise can relate
Detesting the human race is something worth the time
That's taken to reflect on my stubborn, fizzled mind

A shotgun is all we need to see the light of day
And one bullet is all it takes for them to steal it away
So grab your jewelry and your cash and clip them to your vest
Because your family wants to know the score when you lay to rest
Faultless isn't really a word, thoughtless is a theology
You say spell cat, I say spell Keynesian economy
Aristotle spent years trying to prove epistemology
Existentialism wiped him out with one written dichotomy.

Waiting for my ride to get to the drop of dreams
And when I take just enough I will be caught up in screams
The world around is shaking violently and everything gleams
And the golden from the sunshine on the buildings are my streams
I want to lie in branches made of paper and long legs
Keeping our eyes open, we're all stepping over eggs
Is it any wonder why my strife and struggles bleed?
A warm body and an acid bath are all I truly need.

the greatest lesson i learned concerning life was what Ezra Pound refuted... it came from Tao - and on that 86 bus heading to school i have learned it like an arithmetic rubric - my only lesson came from Tao, all my lessons came from Tao - from a Buddhist revision... the lesson? the only way to aid the world is to let the world forget you, and you in turn forgetting the world be. for that what speaks to the entombed heart, the heart of hearts when the mountain crumbles into rubble, and you're left picking your fancy until the diamond is found among seashells, before you the sea of time gnarling with gnashing of shattered teeth - shoo shoo shoo as if tiresome of the green-bottom flies who's spawn is readied overly... the *******... i can't call them anything respectable in African sensibility... the ******* at the back of the bus and the white harlots too... me in the middle sitting reading a book... Stendhal romanticised me, but Tao taught me reality... i know it wasn't the original Tibetan slit eye, it was Japanese... the only way to help the world is for the world to forget you and you forget the world... which i relearned reading Heidegger, who suggested i should be transparent in engaging with the world through concern (being there, or dasein), even a Heidegger apologetic in me turned into Ronin - Asiatic apathy is courtesy, European apathy is simply impoliteness - the latter has too many ****** expressions - i summarise my life with the anonymous Taoist monk who said these words... anti-celebrity culture, they burn like fire in my mind - they burn like fire in my mind - they are my mind - but i had to show him the European verbiage and the ferns of European thought to prove him right, and i did. Heidegger's concern became the ***** Berufung, soon the concern fizzled and was masked by wife and children - but better a Heidegger apology than a Christian one - what meditation can a crown of myrrh provide while being crucified? none! the Rastafarians keep singing about Babylon... the tree wise men came from that region... so the fourth magician... the four horsemen of the apocalypse? Melchior, Caspar, Balthazar, Jesus  it's still a profanity of the tetragrammaton - four horsemen, four canonical gospels... and that ***** that's Gematria - the undermining of all serious study - you can keep those Rabbis in the museum with Grecian  marbles to collect dust, as i mention Tolstoy and that passage from war & peace: pierre bezukhov - the freemason friend (chapter 13) - l'empereur Napoléon  (666) - l'empereur Alexandre - la nation russe - comte Pierre Bésouhoff - sub z for s (Chiral Gemini) - + de und le - le russe bésuhof = 671 - omitting e (incorrectly) - l'Russe Bésuhof - BINGO! - the orthographic gag - most Anglo never heard of such graphic, having never made auxiliary use of it - but i stick to the lesson in Tao - the world does not recognise me as acting in its fate, and will not remember me as even the hushed - i rather not remember it in whatever guise it might provide for me - the first lesson in Tao, is the last lesson in Tao - Stendhal might have taught me romanticism of the ideal heart of woman - but that one maxim of Tao taught me how to not hunger for women, as if i were the Paraclete - perhaps what Christianity wished for was a placebo of the Paraclete - given that so many already believed the other figure being extinguished in the wake of the 20th century - but in talk of religion, such is the limited vocabulary, and such the impossible task ahead, in that grand masquerade of identifying all with one, and one with all:
as an atom:
                                       omni
                          
                  omni           mono         omni

                                       omni                                  or

(around me everything, i must concentrate on myself)

                                                        ­      nihil

                                         nihil             omni          nihil

                                            ­                  nihil  

(around me nothing, therefore i must encompass it all)

whatever the answer, i sought, and found mine,
it was in Tao, and nowhere else.*

there's never a talk of transparency
in politics - politics isn't
about transparency - it's about
the vaguest and the foggiest -
you all should know this by now -
but ado with George Orwell's double-think,
or simply doppelgläuben -
you believe to disbelieve - that's what the
doppelgläuben does - if religion be the ******
of the masses, then engaging the masses with
politics is engaging them with
hell-raisers - diluted alcohol from 40 to 15%.
no wonder they're ******-off being prescribed
status quo placebos;
politics was never about transparency, all those
near the pigsty troughs know the motto:
you scratch my back, i scratch yours.
the electorate think this applies to them
also true between their daily squabbles, but it doesn't.
doppelgläuben: you believe to disbelieve;
and of course we want objectivity, we want
cages after all... Darwinism is perfect for
an objective expression, which is why poetry
is sidelined as Loser St. -
we all want perfect abs and the opportunity to
sell yogurt rather than Mongolian Yurts
in swimwear shorts... but how long will this
Siberian talk of rationality serve the mammalian heart?
how long will objectivity given Darwinism seem
sensible to keep? are we at the butchers' or
reflecting on life? raw meat, maggoty meat, well done?
we all know that the majority of us are losers,
but drilling this in will never allow us to
speak objectively... well, it will... like in Munich,
an 18 year old lashing out from what he heard
his father being called: Scheiße Auslander -
this is the rational benefit of objectivity so keenly expressed
in argument - which is why so many people have
turned to poetry, but they don't yet see that
the ****** was worn for much too long -
and given democracy, they get lost in the whirlwind
of so many people feeling the same.
hence? Tao lesson no. 1 - aid the world by the world
forgetting you... and you in turn forgetting the world
so the world can be best aided, and you kept free
without minding the c.c.t.v.

And those pretty little firefly's
that used to illuminate
the sockets of your eyes
must have been soaked up by your crys
must have fizzled out and died,
inside of you.
Because there's no longer
that burning light
that used to ignite a room
And put the stars to shame.
And since they died out,
you haven't been the same.

And honey, i can try to ignite them again,
With all i have,
But I've done all i can do
darling the match lies in you.

the sparks got wet and fizzled out like that cheap
hair dryer you bought at the goodwill to **** yourself
in the tub with but once you dropped the lit fuse in the
water all you got was a dark room and a cold bath
that made you chuckle at how ******* dumb you sounded
when you said “exactly like my life!”

Don't think I'll go on, but I can
my mother is kicking me out
and I've never had a plan.
Fizzled out with your opening
crushed like a soda pop can
so insecure, pushed you away
because you know just who I am.

On such a breathless downward spiral
and I think I'll stay here a while.
baggy shirts and sunken eyes
has become my style.
I'm a muddled, mangy mess, no surprise
I think I'll just stay a child
be soft in my stride
for just a little while
until I learn to get by.

Oct 25th, 2014 12:00 P.M. in La Quinta Hotel in Brooklyn Park, my second day visiting Minnesota. Today I'm suppose to see my father who lives in Plymouth Minnesota, and finally see my sister and her husband who lives in New York.  I haven't seen family for a year now, but today was the day to have mother's memorial service with the family and relatives. I got into my rental car, and drove through memorable highway 169.

It was a month ago when my father told me we would have a memorial service for mother one last time, and in that phone call before he hung up, he asked me if my sister ever told me about his girl friend.  Then my old man asked me to take my mother's rings and other jewels, and carry mother's memories. I was shocked at first, and super dumbfounded. Since it was only 3 years ago mother passed away from cancer, and in my mind all I thought was "35 years of their marriage only equated to three year of mourning for my father?"  Clearing my throat to respond, and finally getting my composure together, while putting things in perspective through my head I answered honestly no! My thoughts fizzled, while it became cold and numb.  A speechless betrayal in mind, but I knew my old man was weak alone.  I remember when I used to live in Anoka Apartment in Minnesota, I visited his home in Blaine, my old man crying alone to sleep.   Maybe he has suffered enough, and thought to myself how can I judge this man, my father who lost his wife through cancer. To feel desolate for three years must of been a lonely life, and finally he has someone to fill the void he has lost.

So here I was in Minnesota, to my old man's new apartment.   After looking at the Email he sent with the address to his home on my Ipad, all I wanted was to get this over with.  Lot of memories I wanted to forget, and this gut wrenching moment that made me feel weak.  As I walk through the hallway to my father's apartment, I see an open door with the scent of Korean food!  As I enter into the Apartment, I did not see my father, but a lady who I have never met cooking in the kitchen.   Completely surprised by this unknown person, I simply said hello!  It was unexpected that this is how I would have met this person, the lady who was my father's girl friend. I knew the moment I came in, but I didn't know how I was suppose to act or respond, this lady who may take over my mother's spot.  Million things went through my head, but I knew it wasn't her fault, and she is living life like anyone in the world.  Humans live for the moment, and without taking life for granted, who am I to judge her?

In a moment of awe of the situation, I started conversation with her by asking how she met my father to how long they knew each other, and where was my father at this time.  I felt so out of place in my old man's apartment, like something was completely amiss.  Then she tells me the unspeakable that would have never crossed my mind, and tells me both will be getting married tomorrow!  Luckily for me my sister gave me a call to tell me she was lost , and no timing was greater than then.  It gave me an escape, to take a breather!  So I told my future "step mother" I needed to excuse myself, and help my sister get back on the right road.   I think I smoked about a five cigarettes in a minute outside apartment entry way, as I gave my sister the directions.

It was good to stay outside that day, it was Minnesota's finest air and sun light breeze.  It sincerely helped me cleared my mind, and when I saw my sister in the vehicle coming into the parking lot, it was extra pleasant sight to see a familiar faces. When I approached my sister's vehicle, I final saw her daughter for the first time.   As my sister and her husband walked with me to our father's apartment, I had to ask if she knew our father was getting married very next day of the memorial service.  Sure enough my sister knew, but she then tells me not to get mad, that she only knew a week in advanced. Still numb by this whole experience, all I could ask was why couldn't my own father tell me he was getting married, and as usual siding with my father my sister defends him by telling me "he probably didn't wanted us to judge him!"  Of course I would have judged him, but I would have been less angry at my old man if he came up front. As we all gathered in the apartment, we had a meal that my father's girl friend has prepared, and it was sincerely surprising to hear my sister ask questions to our future step mother of various questions I would have asked out of curiosity.   Then it dawn on me my sister knew nothing about this lady who my father was going to marry, and it became evident my sister who was closest to my father didn't know nothing, then I understood my old man was afraid that we would judge him!  

As we finished our meal, time came for us to pay our respect to my mother who laid six feet under.  How can I explain the irony of this predicament, my father's girl friend will be joining us in our mother's final yearly memorial service, and tomorrow she will marry my father!  In my mind this is the stuff you read about in fictional Hollywood scripts, or some kinda ****** reality television show, but here it was in full glory.  

I will say one thing about this lady I knew very little about, she seemed very nice, and her cooking were amazing. After clearing all the dishes, step mother grabbed my mother's memorial picture, and told us this is what our father recommend for us to bring for the service.

There was a boy
And a pretty girl
The boy thought,
I'll give her a whirl
She passed, "You're hot--hot as the sun"
He felt a very clever one
She stopped when she heard it,
And then she turned
"Don't get too close to the sun,
You might get burned"
Not heeding her,
"How close can I get?"
I'm not going to let her walk off just yet
She glared at him, hiding mischievous smiles
"No less than 93 million miles "
At the end of his wits,
As she strolled out of range,
He yelled, "But how can I get closer?"
"Maybe with season change!"

And as she disappeared from sight,
The horizon fizzled out
And the new moon glittered
And all the stars came out

appetizing and delicious
wholesome and nutritious
enchanting and appealing
rich, tasty and unforgettable
is the simplest of shared fare
when taken with comrades
in the lull before the storm
when surreptitious glances
could be the last for some
and memories the testimony
to life's ambivalent transience
farewell comrades in love
to you belongs the glory
of mistaken ideas and inertia
and we who fizzled out long ago
salute you the lucky beneficiaries
of our pain and sorrow that are
your surfeit and your happiness

From puppyhood's hour I have not peed,
As others sniffed, I have not gleaned,
As others pawed, I could not seem,
To bark along with the canine teams.
From the hydrants red and wet with drizzle,
I have ne'er to leave  my yellow stream,
For my bladder had all fizzled,
Clogged with endless hordes of fleas.
Then- at the vet's, one gloomy dawn,
A very strange device was drawn,
And poked and prodded where I ill,
Then I was forced to take a pill.
Then from  the torrent of this river,
My shaggy fur began to quiver,
Upon my haunches did indeed I rose,
Feeling wetly coldness on my nose,
Then the raging yellow stream,
At last dislodged itself of fleas,
And to my great and sweet relief,
They lay a bone befor my feet.
_______
The original poem:
  
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Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
--edgar allan poe

He was a Breathtaker. A royal, high-class, naturally-born, take-it-or-leave-it Breathtaker. I had never seen one before in real life, only heard about them in the tales of a girl's childhood.

The first day he took my Breath was in a parking lot. He stood there alone in the parking lot, with his sparklers in hand, and wrote words in the air for no one but himself to see. He hummed while he wrote, haphazardly opening his mouth slightly, in a never-ending melody.

Later, I found out that the words he wrote in the air would later be turned into music, beautiful songs that could lift your feet off the ground and give your soul the wings to fly. But this first night, I knew nothing of the breathtaker's ability to create such beauty.

The lit end of the sparkler seemed to be a metaphor for the Breathtaker's aura. Shining, energetic, with a tendency to mezmerize. One didn't want to stop watching his mind at work.

So I sat there in the grass and watched him. Looking at the swift motion of his arms, I became entranced by the passion with which he worked. So quickly, I couldn't even pick up much of what he was writing. One could easily tell, however, that he wasn't going to forget a word of it.

I, however, had brought my typewriter for such an occasion. I sat there and typed words that he made me feel. The first line was "intrigue. night sky. man. electricity fingers. fizzled feelings. stranger. lips. curls. air. no breath."

And so my Breath was hardpressed to move. It entered my mouth and stopped, right below my soft palette, not wanting to enter further. My Breathing was very shallow, almost a soft hyperventilation, caught between time moving and time paused.

I'm so broken by this gory sight.
Children smashed on the wall by adults,
who I'm sure are also fathers of children,
all because of religious sentiments.
Is it related to religious and ethnic cleansing,
I cannot say and do not know exactly,
but whichever one it is,
it is actually not allowed and,
you have no moral justification to **** a child
or anyone at all for the sake of religion.
Whatever reason any religion
have in order to **** so I can be
converted into believing in your God is totally
and completely out of place.
So wrong in all its ramifications.
There's no law or reason for you to be
forceful  in winning my love for your God.
You messed with my faith which is my strength.
You took away my dignity and my pride,
my culture,my tradition and my language.
My whole life fizzled out because of you,
I can't remember my past
because you changed my name.
Your religion becomes my pain,
and not my passion.
Forced to be a follower not of my will.
That is not who I was but who you
want me to become not of my choice.
You want to take my history,my identity
and my humanity with violence.
Let me hasten to tell you something
you probably don't know,
as long as God is on the throne,
that will never happen.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

6 o clock dandelion
fluffy wish wand fairy dusters
filled the fields where
wild flowers fizzled
over a rough green sky.

(PARODY, SATIRE & TRIBUTE)

From puppyhood's hour I have not peed,
As others sniffed, I have not gleaned,
As others pawed, I could not seem,
To bark along with the canine teams.
From the hydrants red and wet with drizzle,
I have ne'er to leave  my yellow stream,
For my bladder had all fizzled,
Clogged with endless hordes of fleas.
Then- at the vet's, one gloomy dawn,
A very strange device was drawn,
And poked and prodded where I ill,
Then I was forced to take a pill.
Then from  the torrent of this river,
My shaggy fur began to quiver,
Upon my haunches did indeed I rose,
Feeling wetly coldness on my nose,
Then the raging yellow stream,
At last dislodged itself of fleas,
And to my great and sweet relief,
They lay a bone befor my feet.
_
The original poem:
  
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Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
--edgar allan poe

She's fizzled out,
that bright young swallow,
her dark irises that once held a shred of talent have lost their luster,
when will you give up on this paper version of a thrill?
get back down and feast your eyes
on this locked chest,
open it and find nothing.
That road will always be waiting for you,
never go looking for it
you will return hardened and empty,
you might cut the last string tied to you,
get back down and feast your eyes
on this old man waiting for you to make him smile,
his lamenting fingers balled up
pushing away that road you are looking for.
No use in remembering each stalemate,
tip-toe your way back to the emptiness
it will hold you in its arms and keep you safe
as waves of sand wash over the possibilities of that smile,
she watched as each string snapped,
she watched as they bled away years,
that road wrapping around her eyes,
effectively rendering her sightless.
The aperture will nuzzle its way closed
with each caress of the emptiness.
She shall hold the trifling prize,
she shall get back down and feast her eyes
on that old man swelling with pride,
she shall be empty and hollow,
but she shall finally witness that smile
the one he longed for,
the smile her kaleidoscope had drowned.