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                america, americultus, americate, dubiously *******.
::: our gold-flecked bodies.
blackbirdian danceparty, i'll go.
washed-up beach bottles and all our feet amongst them curling time.
teens dream in orchid; they wait for stars and dark and los hombres of good dust.
they wait on eyes, and on embers, on belly belly.
jellyfish flashlight shrine.
we eat acid and strawberries and butter in the cemetery,
and feed foxes lizards face first :::
                us lost ghouls on school-nights.

                flash tag jazz, and yellow bicycles.
::: that hot eternal light.
that candy colored smoke don't smoke; go south on her body.
then thoughts form thoughts form action, form twangs all tuned to air.
& we, as notes, we notes harp like light
to dust.
our glistering hormonal thrusts beneath sheath of liquid love. her eyes,
with those multi-speckled strands
infinitesimally drunk :::
                seed from my ****.

                pearled halo: smoke above my head.
::: waves and machines and weekends. filtered by the long ****
of existence.
boys wait in rooms of hotels for more drugs, and the girls bringing them.
like caterpillars on silky thin treadways,
with nothing but the flavor of our passions to ignite the way. we
exacerbate the boundaries of our intentions. we
curl under sheets, bending sheets of light and sound. we
flakey emaciated flakes. [sequence suffered time in motion] we
                dirt. it’s what we are; dirt.

                we are druggernauts, tasting ourselves along the iridescent brim.
::: we crawl up cross-glowing hillsides toward portals and faraway
bleep-blorps of hot god-head calibration.
we sticky-crackle go burn. [nature puzzles]
the brain shifts back; twenty-one grams they say the soul weighs.
they say things.
cherry blossom tree tips in the dark.
tele-portal surfing with an intergalactic pizza priest, and his satchel of secret sauce.
he heaves in the corner; rebirth :::
                tendrils pulled tight, everybody **** chung…

We’d sit on the back porch
On the Fourth of July
Spitting watermelon seeds
Into the tall grass,
Which glimmered in the midday sun.

The competition of who could spit the farthest
Never really with a winner,
It was mostly about the feeling of the sun,
Glimmering on our pudgy cheeks,
And the opportunity to abandon our napkins,
Letting that cool watery juice spill
Down our white shirts, leaving pink stains
And permanent reminders of summer

Of course a tattoo is only as permanent
As the body that wears it:
I outgrew the shirts around the same time
As the world outgrew those little black seeds

This year on the Fourth of July
We sat inside making small talk
Because there weren’t any black seeds
In the watermelon we ate:
Just dehydrated flesh, the color a little
Farther from pink and closer
To the off-white color of those flakey little seeds,
Which were miraculously allowed to remain

we have everything and we have nothing
and some men do it in churches
and some men do it by tearing butterflies
in half
and some men do it in Palm Springs
laying it into butterblondes
with Cadillac souls
Cadillacs and butterflies
nothing and everything,
the face melting down to the last puff
in a cellar in Corpus Christi.
there's something for the touts, the nuns,
the grocery clerks and you . . .
something at 8 a.m., something in the library
something in the river,
everything and nothing.
in the slaughterhouse it comes running along
the ceiling on a hook, and you swing it --
one
two
three
and then you've got it, $200 worth of dead
meat, its bones against your bones
something and nothing.
it's always early enough to die and
it's always too late,
and the drill of blood in the basin white
it tells you nothing at all
and the gravediggers playing poker over
5 a.m. coffee, waiting for the grass
to dismiss the frost . . .
they tell you nothing at all.

we have everything and we have nothing --
days with glass edges and the impossible stink
of river moss -- worse than ****;
checkerboard days of moves and countermoves,
****** interest, with as much sense in defeat as
in victory; slow days like mules
******* it slagged and sullen and sun-glazed
up a road where a madman sits waiting among
bluejays and wrens netted in and ****** a flakey
grey.
good days too of wine and shouting, fights
in alleys, fat legs of women striving around
your bowels buried in moans,
the signs in bullrings like diamonds hollering
Mother Capri, violets coming out of the ground
telling you to forget the dead armies and the loves
that robbed you.
days when children say funny and brilliant things
like savages trying to send you a message through
their bodies while their bodies are still
alive enough to transmit and feel and run up
and down without locks and paychecks and
ideals and possessions and beetle-like
opinions.
days when you can cry all day long in
a green room with the door locked, days
when you can laugh at the breadman
because his legs are too long, days
of looking at hedges . . .

and nothing, and nothing, the days of
the bosses, yellow men
with bad breath and big feet, men
who look like frogs, hyenas, men who walk
as if melody had never been invented, men
who think it is intelligent to hire and fire and
profit, men with expensive wives they possess
like 60 acres of ground to be drilled
or shown-off or to be walled away from
the incompetent, men who'd **** you
because they're crazy and justify it because
it's the law, men who stand in front of
windows 30 feet wide and see nothing,
men with luxury yachts who can sail around
the world and yet never get out of their vest
pockets, men like snails, men like eels, men
like slugs, and not as good . . .
and nothing, getting your last paycheck
at a harbor, at a factory, at a hospital, at an
aircraft plant, at a penny arcade, at a
barbershop, at a job you didn't want
anyway.
income tax, sickness, servility, broken
arms, broken heads -- all the stuffing
come out like an old pillow.

we have everything and we have nothing.
some do it well enough for a while and
then give way. fame gets them or disgust
or age or lack of proper diet or ink
across the eyes or children in college
or new cars or broken backs while skiing
in Switzerland or new politics or new wives
or just natural change and decay --
the man you knew yesterday hooking
for ten rounds or drinking for three days and
three nights by the Sawtooth mountains now
just something under a sheet or a cross
or a stone or under an easy delusion,
or packing a bible or a golf bag or a
briefcase: how they go, how they go! -- all
the ones you thought would never go.

days like this. like your day today.
maybe the rain on the window trying to
get through to you. what do you see today?
what is it? where are you? the best
days are sometimes the first, sometimes
the middle and even sometimes the last.
the vacant lots are not bad, churches in
Europe on postcards are not bad. people in
wax museums frozen into their best sterility
are not bad, horrible but not bad. the
cannon, think of the cannon, and toast for
breakfast the coffee hot enough you
know your tongue is still there, three
geraniums outside a window, trying to be
red and trying to be pink and trying to be
geraniums, no wonder sometimes the women
cry, no wonder the mules don't want
to go up the hill. are you in a hotel room
in Detroit looking for a cigarette? one more
good day. a little bit of it. and as
the nurses come out of the building after
their shift, having had enough, eight nurses
with different names and different places
to go -- walking across the lawn, some of them
want cocoa and a paper, some of them want a
hot bath, some of them want a man, some
of them are hardly thinking at all. enough
and not enough. arcs and pilgrims, oranges
gutters, ferns, antibodies, boxes of
tissue paper.

in the most decent sometimes sun
there is the softsmoke feeling from urns
and the canned sound of old battleplanes
and if you go inside and run your finger
along the window ledge you'll find
dirt, maybe even earth.
and if you look out the window
there will be the day, and as you
get older you'll keep looking
keep looking
******* your ******* little
ah ah   no no   maybe

some do it naturally
some obscenely
everywhere.

There is the latent hum of some probably-industrial sumthin-or-another in the distance. Sounds like a ferry at dock, or the Townsite mills characteristic hum of eternity as it once acted as the forever-whitenoise of my past life in Powell River.

Sasha has gone to see her friend a floor down. I sit candidly at her desk typing these words on her MacBook Pro.. her dorm is an ambient water of a place, but with every passing night I spend in it, it becomes harder and harder to fall asleep. The bed feels like wood board or padded cement now. Sasha rolls around in her sleep, occasionally choking on her tonsils and gagging a prolonged operatic note of snores. It's not like she can help it.. often, she talks about removing her tonsils as if it's something she can do with a spare moment between classes.

The dorm was easier for me to inhabit when I imagined her living quaintly and quietly without my constant everywhereness.. on her first night alone in bed, she slept like a baby and the overheating, I'm sure, was less to bear in my absence as there wasn't a ******* furnace spurning mammalian blood to every antipode of my body for the sake of staying alive.. just her capillaries attending to the night-shift and leaving no feedback loop between our ***-drenched thermostats. There was a feeling of otherness to it that I could warm my soul with as if I were people-watching at a mall filled with everyone I've ever encountered in the matrix.

She's beautiful. Sasha, I mean. Superstitious despite her attempts to claim otherwise, but of a massive intelligence often unspoken and endowed with a linguistic nature that can speak regardless of words. Highly suspicious of some perceived bond between Anya and I that can't seem to be severed, and playfully dousing suspicions of general infidelity into many of our brink-night conversations.. I can't say I do much to remedy her paranoia as I always kick it back with consistent jokes of having '30 girlfriends' or 'that was what the girl I ****** the other night said as well! Trippy.'

These are obvious jokes. I would never cheat on her and it's a pain to have her imagine I would.

Christ be honest, I can never find the time to write anymore because I keep pretending I'm busy. I keep glassing my eyes apart with coffee and **** and feeling the inner sting to write and write and write until my fingers are bruised and my entire demeanour is nothing more than an existence in pure, floating consciousness of sleet-covered panic attack self-immoliating itself in a Wal-Mart parking lot just to say hiya, Good God, how's the cloud of idolatry today? Fleeting? Empty? Shat? I'm starting to think you have the shorter end of the stick cuz I'm pretty sure I've found the Kingdom of Heaven and it's all a bunch of beautiful panic remedy exacterbated by SSRI psychedelic depersonalization with a life-wish disguised as a death-wish to push the envelope for mails sake, cuz I've got a message for the human race and all it says is 'humanity is not a RACE chill the **** OUT and become the human pace for the sake of nil planet without a plan you aren't a ******* poster-boy you're a poser' all very stone-cold thoughts in a volcano.. all very valid but pointless semantic gestures towards Finnegans Wake and the sequel I'd like to write called Finnegans Nap.

The other day, I stole a book from the university library.

I had a freelance article I had to start and preferably finish that same day, and Sasha had decided to skip psychology for Charles Bukowski so we scouted a quiet space on the windowsill overlooking the perpetual busk of student body.. I plugged my laptop in and sourly gazed at the flakey subjects I had to choose from until I noticed we were right next to a giant section entirely dedicated to the study of the Beat Generation. I picked out the closest book, and dove up on some academic diatribe about the implementation of Timex making watches an affordable commodity during the post-war boom, causing economy to become totalitarian in its accuracy and thus mental hegemony. It worked its way into stating that Jack Kerouac's On the Road was a blatant and concise rebellion against this form of timekeeping in its hedonic, careless flow that was not marked by 6 o'clock or on-the-dot redundancy.. the subject matter being so dense and alluring, I turned to Sasha and said, 'I have to steal this book.'

She chuckled a little, being a chronic kleptomaniac herself, and retorted, 'are you sure you can do that? They have these sensor things that go off when you leave.. they'd catch you probably.' In my mind, I was needing to exorcise myself of Judaeo-Christian morality so as to guarantee a survival and thriving intellectual feed regardless of red-tape or monetary symbolism.. I saw myself adapting to a hedonic habit of robbery for the sake of food and freedom or some such half-witted excuse like that, and took Sasha's warning as a challenge to transcend my typical moral comfort zone.

Glassy-eyed, I asked Google how I'd go about bypassing the security scanners and, lo and behold, within 5 minutes I had my answer and was already digging through the books binding with my house-key to remove the magnetic strip hidden in the spine. After 10 minutes of exhilaration and anxiety at potentially being caught, the strip was out and jammed between two loose wood-boards in the window sill. I told Sasha we should try to leave.

As I neared the scanner, I let go of consequence in remembrance of my mortality, the blank expressions on our faces probably hinting at some form of degenerate nervousness had someone decided to analyze us aaaaaand yet.. we made it through as safe as a bird through an open window then out the other side.

The Empty Chapter
By Zak Whittington

The grey face
The empty chapter
The blank page
The dusty pen beside
-----

Between heartbeats lurks a sad silence
Whose footfalls fall on deaf ears
A beast of pain and shallow fears
He slinks, silent
Soft as the grave to which he will drag you
Cover your eyes
Avert your mind
Cross yourself
Count to three
The monster is here
Between shaking fingers peek and see
A glimpse of profound irony
The Mirror
A horrifying glimpse of Your Self
Alone on a barren world

Desolation

Between lives lies silence
Empty quotes hang stupidly over empty heads
Drying to dust
Turn up the music

Frustration

Shake the shoulder
Strike the hand
Bite the Shepherd
**** the Man
Burn the Book
Ride the Snake
Find the phony
Shoot the fake
Grab the apple
Waste the day
Take the staff
and lead the way

Isolation

With your arms around me
My shoulders have grown cold
Despite the hands on them
The Mirror shows
The Mirror knows
There are no hands

There are no hands in this wasteland
Just me and the rocks
With my heart beneath them

Elation

The Monster awoke before dawn
He put his boots on
He took a mask from his bed-stand
And he tried it on

Hang on quick gimme that mirror my lipstick slipped.
My smile wasn't quite on right.

Watch me dance
Watch me writhe and crawl
Watch me smile through it all
Watch this cheerful, painted grin
As I try to hold it all in
Waiting for the worms to win
I'll never have to lie again
Beneath thin skin,
Flesh rots.

I do a good impression of myself.

Starvation

Fat cat
Big man, pig
Mean one, green one
What do you hope to find?
Love, ***, drugs, joy
Home, cars, health, wealth, life
Cling, clang, fake pain with a tin in hand
Lovey-dove flowers and a Hallmark card
Satisfaction
Exhilaration
Jubilation
The second tree from the corner?
Squinting, with hands awash
Of pennies, nickels, dimes
Buy the way
Buy the light
The rich lead the blind
Kick the bucket
Sell the farm
Leave the world behind
(oh is that the time?)

The diamonds fall from stiff fat hands
Like petals from a rose
Or leaves from a clover
(three leaves? or four?)
Shuffle
Four queens
Three queens
Two queens shine
Two jacks
One jack
One-eyed
Blind
One heart, two heart
Three hearts, four?
As if I even knew anymore

Exaltation

Hot-shot soul man
What a sham you are
Far sight, foresight
Big hats, flashlight
The Family* has it all
Mad man, fake plan
Look down at your shoes
Torn suit
Worn boots
You've got no soles

*The Family:
Forgive me Father for I have sinned
I have watched Brother Jack ******* with the Man
And without a thought of why, I jumped right in
I saw Uncle Sam in bed with the pigs
I have forsaken my kindred
I have held fornication with the Computer and the iPod
I have sold my body for acceptance
I have ******* my neighbor
I have cheated on my wife
And now I love Big Brother too

I have driven the Big Truck
I have ridden the snake
To the edge of the lake
In the heart of the jungle.

When life gives you apples
Make lemonade

Annihilation

Roll out the tanks, boys,
Grab the big guns
We gonna have ourselves
A bit of fun
Spot the *****, sight the Jew
Squeeze off a shot and watch him run

Men run, blood runs
Red dirt drinks it all
In this wasteland
The dogs of war howl misery
Black blood, white blood
The crows aren't biased

Twinkle, twinkle crescent star
How I wonder what you are
White man died red
Saddamite, *******
Surprise the pawn
And now he's dead
Like the top-heavy King
With his massive head
And his high fortress
And his heavy crown
To ashes, to ashes
We all fall down.

But it's all fixed with a quick grin
A hand shake and a blank stare
Then you go back to your corner
And they remember they don't care

Reconciliation

(I do a good impression of myself)

Taketh thy hand up
Rip off thy mask
Do not stop at the skin
For it is shallow and flakey
and comes off quite nice
Don't mind the flesh now
Get to the bones
Dig past the maggots and flies
Until there's nothing left,
Then release your soul with bright knives

...

The world is quiet again
At the eleventh hour
When men are dust
We sit and wait
For the bells to toll

---
The fractured chapter
The soiled page
The broken pen
The jet-black sea
Sprays of darkness on ivory
Splashes of shallow imagery
And dried-up drops of creativity
and with so much left to write

Simplicity is killing me.

Nothing I do is good enough for you

I hate myself

Wipe the table clean with tears and tissue

All I am is deficit to you

My worthlessness

Another mouth to feed



We are each over-expectant

Hoping for the incredible

Imagining more than what we’re served

Denying reality

Each destroyers

Of our own dreams



The moral compass

Keeps teetering towards disaster

Not-so-distant past lingers

I want to go back to my own people

But my own people don’t exist anymore

Except in cartoon version



Everything is collapsing fast

Nothing is gradual

When did the present

Overstay its welcome?

I am desolate dictator

Of empty room



What do you do with your scabs?

Not the little flakey ones

I mean the big chunky crusty ones?

I throw them in pan and sauté them

With olive oil, onion salt, a little pablano pepper

Serve them to myself and ghost dog

Brown-Eyed Girl-
they say she is the weakest link
gone and sprung amuck
through clouded fields of poppy seeds
and cottony ******. they say she is a sprain
of chortling pain in the dumpling
maker's yeasting wrist.

brown-eyed girl seeing powdered
blues of glass-stained eyes,
he wore a plaid shirt, nip-and-tucked,
rat-a-tat-tat, and a silly looking bow-tie
slopped slightly off-kilter and to the right,
a frenchie little pear of a man. he said he liked her-
tie-dye thighs. she said, he said, she liked his
dumpling hands - and flakey chest.

they say she is that button-down clad-
sunflowers-printed kind-of, sad.
memories tainted, she said, he said,
she's the kind of girl you've got to love every night,
my kind of a woman. my salted oils, fried
and phat-  
                brown-eyed girl.

Gazing south as if some wise, well worn fisherman,leaning against the wroughted railed pier in all its victorian, gordy, standing, splendor.

Warmed and held by the summer sun as close as shared spoon-cuddled arms.

On thermal  air, calls and laughter rise from towelled steaked plots
blinding and shading the razor sharp hungry sea-gulls eye from flakey white flesh in all its golden battered salt-shuck sharpness,
competeing on the nose with hand-held melting creamyness, as they waft and weave gently by.

Below the slatted sound , the magic hypnotic spell of lapping waves lift and tilt me on a day dream of youthful lost love.

To a day we made our sun run in all its lazyness, dimming the enviour moon in its wake and kissing still the hands on the pasty-face black towering clock
                                          As time slipped way and was some where else.

With worn drift wood and tingleling toes you defaced the sand with a graphity the council tryed but couldn't erace.
And there it lies still, benieth the smooth pebbled shore,
                                                          ­                                                           kissed each day with salty tears and remembered sighs.

A fearful screaming siren pieces the soft English air, Its doppled blast, chilling,  pushing, demanding its screeching way through the brain, to some others pained, tear filled day,
                                                            ­                                then fades on the breeze.

A sun blushed child frowns through pink Brighton rock lips and eyes as blue as the sea, a secert smile is shared as if in that innocence I knew  that one magic day she will run on skipping painted toes and giggles sweet to etch for him in soft blank sand her love on this dreamy day beach.

So off the sea and off the pier I strole, absorbed and lost among the tripping faced crowd,into the sun dipped west and home alone.

Yet knowing you will remain forever mine, held in crystal dimonded grains, whilst around the bitter -sweet changing tides ebb and flow          
                     down
                                       through
                                                          the  
­                                                                 ­  years.

FISHTHOUGHTBLOOD                                                                                                            JON BOLDUC

When I was a boy,
Father taught me to ice-fish.
Here’s a memory;

Father drills a hole,
the auger bounces, vibrates, roars,
shaving ice– soon
the  blade connects with winter water,
           –the engine fades off.
I fish  floating ice chunks from the hole with a skimmer
while
Father sets the trap, ties the sinker, and hooks the minnow
thru its side.
He lowers the line
gently into the fishhole; the bait plunges to the lakebed.
Father reels up the slack, pitches the three legged trap
above the exposed black water
and we wait for a trout, or a snarled toothed pickerel.

Father,
I have learned

to fish for thoughts
with an ice–trap. When the flag
springs up, I reel
slippery ideas up from deep darkness.
As they flop, I pull the hook out from their lips,
knock them in the head,
throw them in a pail; gut them, I spill fishthoughtblood on the white snow.

After the low sun sets,
My friends and I fry caught fishthoughts
in my dim cabin.

Hughes,  Plath, Ginsberg, and Eliot
talk around the fireplace
as the pan sizzles, as the oil jumps. Soon
we feast on flakey poemfillets;
we talk about the  dark english rain,
the crowded zoos, electroshock therapy, bald mediocrity.

After we have eaten
and finished the wine,
and all my friends have gone home
I look down at empty plates

and somehow,
“the page is printed.”

Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.

title: loop
body:
or holes or days
and oh: or months...
let's pretend years
never existed.

sometimes, it's truly weird... but i'm not English... or British... sure... for convenience's sake, when asked by officials in the NHS... put me down at white British... once was the case of the Anglo-Saxons... well... at best i'm an Anglo-Slav... but i can't allow all these racial "minorities" residing in England to label with me... "reparations"... a "colonial-past"... or... post-colonialism, or whatever the fetish is... i just belong to a people without a colonial past... sorry... that's racist... to be unable to differentiate people ethnically... it simply is... that's how H'america rots... it has no ethnicity distinction... it's either all RACE or ***... can't tell apart the Serb fascists from the Ukrainian fascists?! i can't buy into this whole: i'm white therefore i'm somehow also the inheritor of post-colonialism... i'm on side with the Russians given this argument... sorry... i'm not having it... that's ******* racist: just because i'm white is somehow indicative of me receiving the minority sadism against the British in the realm of post-colonialism... **** no... **** never...you will not put other people's history onto other people: because you're ethnically-blind... just because i'm as white as a Brit doesn't imply we share a shared history... ****-off cupper-neck... come come... milk me the golden **** of Moloch! right now... i'm loving the Russian attitude of... *******... or we'll **** with you...because it simply doesn't make sense for certain ethnicities of the white race to... capitulate to the "racial minorities" of a post-colonial argumentation of: new schematics of how society's to be orientated... nicely... just nicely... i'm seriously thinking about ******* off to Liverpool... the women seem nicer... less paranoid... less-stuck... less... ugh... yucky... itchy... whatever it is with having... over-value delusions of... obviously having bypassed the safety-net of becoming a nun...

the day started well enough... i must have drunk about half
a litre of whiskey: forgetting to take some naproxen
to ease me into sleep.. woke up with cold sweats
at: some time just past 5am...
some nightmare... Holocaust related? i don't remember...
but if you're waking up sweating and shivering
at the same time... lucky for me... i meditated on this towards
work: well... the horrifying has already happened...
i never understood the argument that 6 millions Jews
died in the Holocaust... technically... those were 6 million
Polacks... while France capitulated to **** Germany
in whatever span of time...
  it took longer for Poland to capitulate to both:
**** Germany and Soviet Russia... and we're talking:
a nation that only recently emerged after being non-existent
given the partitions... while France... a colonial power...
anyway... had two coffees... a precursor of a bad idea:
showered... applied 7 different "beautifying" products
to my hair, beard, face... armpits... collar bones and neck
and hands...
   ****** off... as ever... one hour early:
why do i mismatch my timing whenever travelling to
Wembley... if i catch the fast (Southend Victoria train)
i can get from Romford to Liverpool Street in under 20 minutes...
since... the train doesn't stop at: Chadwell Heath,
Goodmayes, Seven Kings, Ilford, Manor Park, Forest Gate...
Maryland... straight onto Stratford...
and then Liverpool Street... and then that's another
20 or so minutes on the Metropolitan Line to Wembley Park...
well... nice weather... spring is in full swing...
another two coffees from McDonald's... sitting on a bench
on the Olympic route...
eating an almond croissant... oh looky-looky...
company... starlings...
                        i was surprised: where did the pigeons *******
to? so i'm going to be sitting on this bench
by myself... drinking a 4th coffee... eating an almond
croissant... smoking a cigarette after the "feast" while
having this troop of 4 or 5 starling beg me to pinch
of my croissant... ****'s sake: the day is starting to look
beautiful... i couldn't resit...
plus... there's that added bonus of looking mythical...
eh? even mystical... since a few coworkers already spotted
you and you're not some old man in a park
throwing breadcrumbs to pigeons...
you're throwing pinches of an almond croissant to starlings...
i always said: better a soul of an old man
in a young body than... the complete ******* opposite
of... whatever leads to dementia: lax...
old men having tantrums of teenagers...
                       just looks silly... and it was sort of like
that today... with the Scousers... Scouse...
   i was expecting such a lively, lovely atmosphere...
i swear... the further north you go... the lovelier people
become... my heart poured out at the Liverpool fans...
the Manchester fans? eh... not so much...
they're sort of like Londoners... stiff-upper lip: tense...
paranoid... i don't know how to describe them:
proper... after today i'm thinking about visiting Liverpool...
******* for the weekend... maybe book a ticket
at Anfield... but just go and see the city... wander...
get lost... find myself...
        i'm tired of continental Europe... then again:
i'm also tired of the south of England...
           4th coffee in... i thought i was going to die...
a thumping in my forehead... i already have high blood pressure
issues... four coffees in... almost zero food:
calorie intake: for someone 6ft2 and 98kg... it's not 2000kcal...
for the first time on a shift
i had to do my jacket up so that my neck would
be covered... the tie was suffocating me...
with ideas of dropping dead from a heart-attack...
thrice prone to *****... the one time i did i enacted
being a cow... i swallowed it back down... crummy...
eh... flakey... sort of like when you...
bring back milk that's half digested: when it splits...
into cheese and lactose juice... acid...
on my way back home: a most glorious full moon...
cider... sweaty shirt...
and this... fiddly ******* the Metrpolitan line...
mixed-race... sort of reminded of Harley Dean...
fiddling with her blonde-tinged curly hair...
i always found curly hair... um... hmm...
too infatuating... she does her make-up...
her lips with a crayon and then some quasi-lipstick...
cute nose, cute forehead...
and she just keeps looking at me...
with the most doe-esque intimidation of:
          why don't you react to me?! why?! why?!
she's so ******* blatant: she can't hide it...
i'm sitting there with my shirt undone...
   oh right... hairy chest of a pirate... thick bulging neck...
babe... i'm tired... i've been up since 5am...
started the shift at 9m... just finished come 6:30pm...
of course i'm *****... ever time i become tired
i need to relax: since i've been keeping this hardened
**** in my ****-pocket since this morning...
i'll get back home... sit on the thrones
and do the no. 1, 2 and 3... which is **** while sitting
down... relaxing my ****... taking a ****
and subsequently jerking off...
but she was so blatant... d'uh... pretending to look
into the glass behind me for her reflection...
checking her phone without taking a selfie...
how her hair would look better arranged if she
has a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head...
truly... a pretty little number...
but i was already coming down from a high of:
Scouser women... are all the English girls so pretty
up north? like i said: i think i need to take a weekend
trip to Liverpool... or Newcastle...
i was taking aback when a married woman
approach me... started talking... gripped my hand and
then proceeded to kiss my cheek...
infatuated by the beard...
  that's nice... that's why life is worth living...
random strangers... coming up to you: infatuated
by your presence... having no reservations:
no inhibitions... needing to kiss you... touch you...
always with the northern types...
and i'd agree... southerners: the fairies...
Londoners... so ******* Victorian: reserved...
it's like playing poker 24/7...
   most of the time i find myself of keeping a trustworthy
line of conversation... i just become mute:
bored... i don't like the nitty-gritty of small talk...
what the **** do we have in common?!
absolutely nothing... beside... what?
trying to keep each other comfortable?
no... i'll use my silence to strain the fact that:
we're not friend in school playground... we're not...
but it's different with northeners...
i witnessed two grown men... cry... because they
were refused entry for being sick... puking...
grown men crying... because they couldn't be part
of the Liverpool choir of: you're never stand alone...
mind you... coworkers getting ****...
deservedly: too eager... too eager... push and shove...
can't we just talk? once you get that *******'s worth
of an SIA license you start losing the plot...
machismo... ugh... talking about people who can't
tell the difference from judo from throwing
watermelons...
oh but these northern girls... a married woman
just walk up to you... tipsy... tipsy as:
custard is most definitely pale, high noon sun
yellow... grabs your hand and kisses your cheek...
times like this: i feel... gratefully alive...
it's so very little but at the same time: so much...
i can forget the 5am wake up call...
of the nightmare that stirred me...
i couldn't possibly cry over football...
something beautiful, like Prokofiev? sure...
lucky for me we managed to seize about 10 cans of beer
from someone... who managed to bring those cans
of beer home? moi...
beer... relaxing to some Type O Negative...
i'm pretty sure there was this other woman
on the train: fixated on playing with her...
she kept stroking it... stroking it...
some other day...
like a cat with an itchy scalp... what the **** do they call them?
archetypical clues?
i heard that once... if a woman in your vicinity is
fiddling with her hair... she's into you...
i seriously want to forget these stereotypes...
i prefer the more direct approach...
she comes up to you: a complete stranger
and kisses your on your furry cheek...
it might have been sunny... it might have been warm
today... but the tenderness of those lips...
i need to book a weekend break to Liverpool...
seriously... i need to visit Liverpool...
those woman are insatiable! i need to ******* to Liverpool!
i already can't stand the claustrophobically
constipated London girls...
   it does my head in!
            what happened to: perchance: some... foon?!
on a *****-nilly... what the **** is this?
the ******* Black Dahlia... no... wait...
the Black Narcissus nunnery? the ******* hills are full
of music?! or is that... filled, with?!
this is a trajectory toward a death-cult...
o.k. whatever... i'm getting slowly more drunk
and relaxed and... not in the mood of...

whatever... i just can't face up to having to faces...
it's enough that i already juggle two tongues...
but i can't face up to having two faces;
i see people taking themselves overtly seriously
and i'm thinking about... puking:
and then swallowing the puke that doesn't leave
my mouth... like a cow's digestive schematic.

let me tell you a story
about a girl and a pie
the boy doesn't enter
until the next stanza.

she made this boy a pie one fall
suggesting the possibility of
a romance with commitment
as short lived as her flakey crust.

he took it the opposite way
that their love was as deep as her
smooth pumpkin filling
and married her on the spot.

():
you've taken up too many characters,
a placeholder, 0, is all i attribute to you.

(I):
i lack recall enough
to call back when
we first reacted--
science fair, maybe,
mâche volcanoes
from wet bits--
(too little base,
a surplus of vinegar)
the only magma
with measurable
pH

(II):
made cattle to caffeine,
the pastures we frequented
have gone out of business
by now

(III):
spoke and wrote
with silly string,
messy, childish,
hard to clean up--
impossible to pick
every adhesive trace
from tweed coat fibers--
i draped it around you
and left quietly without
apologizing

(IV):
number four, morphine drip,
corruption (with a caramel center),
you took me to a courtyard where
you had scrawled your number
with a gold safety pin stuck
in the grain--
didn't matter as long as they
brought you plain grain beverages--
i can't say how long i must have
been unconscious for you to
have been able to fully affix
trusses, crossbars and artificial joints
between prostheses--
you made a marionette of me
in a grubby alley operating room,
with an empty bottle
across the occipital for anesthesia,
and a patchwork of phone numbers
staring down from the scratched
portrait in the wood walls
of office buildings surrounding--
keep your cloths on a little longer
keep yourself closed from now on
keep yourself close from now on


[V]:
think of whichever oath you hold
gravely, and think of me, promising
i felt just as illusory as you before--
saved a letter from you i read sometimes
to remind myself how first real loves
can be, so as not to lose faith to cynicism,
and cynicism/stomach lining to coffee grounds.
thank you

[VI]:
i met you only once,
it was enough.
i didn't make out your
last name as you introduced
yourself between zipping up
your fly and cinching your belt,
and even while you walked
inside, between dry heaves,
i could think only of
your Texan-tinsel-town namesake--
good luck streaming the past like
mother's ashes from the back of
your lake boat so many miles from home,
it's all anyone could ask

(VII):
i took that polaroid of you;
you had your hand over
a candle flame and the
shadows dancing between
your fingers illuminated
the spare patches of snow
remaining on the playground.
there was no mistaking
the draining of my swimming
pool of ego as i witnessed
you staring out from each
ice crystal reflection in awe:
your smile tumbled down
the slide and spilled into laughter
while
your voice lilted up the rock wall
and sang in triumph at the top --
i miss you, ganges girl

[VIII]/[IX]:
first time i knew,
second time i suspected,
finally broke me down,
now we laugh about it,
or preferably, don't bring
it up anymore

[X]:
i might still be in love with you
first and foremost, if that's how
things worked, but virginity
isn't a collateral asset, you did
me no favors,
but share in sunshine shoves
and pushes-- a beer down,
3g 'til the bottom of the bag,
alice and wonderland--
i can't watch that movie
without thinking of long hair,
self-destruction, self-deceit,
and naïveté--
you made me grow up with you,
and while you've been in college
i've been rotting.

[XI]:
i've whiled away a year of slacking words
in favor of those spouting from you torrentially.
a placeholder, for people i've written too much about already:
11.

[XII]:
unnerved me in the best of ways,
but you were always ****** up
and emptied of scruples--
had me once at your favorite album,
fooled me twice when you came back,
but you won't get another chance to
touch me

[XIII]:
snow-flakey,
corn comfort,
corn snake.
solid, supple,
untrustworthy.

[moscow]:
you spent a year abroad
so i had only one thing to call you,
and even though I brought my black
camo S&W; pocketknife,
when you told me ******
was cheaper than marijuana
in the motherland,
i knew i shouldn't
have soothed myself
into confident
complacency,
and instead
leapt from
the subaru
piled high,
tobacco-strewn,
littered by cremations
of victims before me.

[XV]:
i yawn and jaws part,
droop down lids,
the realist rendering
of a singularity in film
can't even keep me awake--
but when we get home,
and crawl into the satin
cascade of your mother's
sheets, god, i can't
even think of sleeping.
the moon was also full--
it wanes for awhile now

Waking up to cool sweet tingly morning
My thoughts knock at the memories gate way
With hearts ping command good times come refreshing
Within the cool pink world feelings sway
Heart reminds me to stay cool this summer day.

Melodious song I long to hear
Hearts desire, in its bloom.. must wait and see
Yes, there it arrives from someone dear
Intuitions are right that I should agree.

Digging to know the meaning I replay
Song and tune so soothing that’s all I know
Hearing gives me pleasure what more to say
Joy within remains like a flakey snow.

The smile on my face make others happy
Heart spake not- loves intent is promising
Wish each day remains just the same way
Pinkish like a watermelon morning.

walks over dry asphalt
in the blistering summer sun
blister on top of blister
skin red and flakey
Heat rashes
are worth it
when momma gives me a dollar
after the white truck says
"Hello"

( Knock, knock. )
Hey, can I come in?
Hello, yes of course. Would you like any tea or water?
No thanks.
Ok. So how was your week?
Fine, I suppose. Actually now that I think about 60/40 on the ****** scale.
Explain.
I don't know, I've been dating this girl for a while now and it doesn't feel like it's going anywhere.
Andi?
(Cough.) Yeah.
Hmm, I thought things were going well with her. Can you explain your feelings a little bit more?
I guess I'm feeling like she likes me, just not enough.
What do mean not enough?
I mean she likes me but it feels like i'm just somebody to occupy her time until finds someone who is what she really wants. And I'm not sure if she's what I want either... I don't know.
Hmm, that sounds frustrating. Are you sure your not just misreading her? I mean, everybody has a different dating style.
That could be that i'm just reading into it too much but she's kinda flakey and if you ask me, thats a good way to tell how much they like someone.
Not always, but I understand how you feel. Maybe you should consider asking her how she feels?
I don't think I'm at that point yet. The thing is, sometimes we have a lot fun. I guess i'm just confused.
Dating is hard. It takes a lot of courage.
I suppose. I just want to find someone that makes me as good as willa used to.
I know, but I don't think it does you any good to focus your past relationships.
Yeah... I know. Can we talk about something else?

End

We will float together then sink
And everyone who told me a pond stone was nothing but a nuisance to open toes and hard boiled heads was nothing but the devil to me
Everyone who sinks becomes the foundation of those who rise
I don't need you to die and hover above me like a cloudy day
Bad weather bad coffee
My hand trembles and this
Sweater never keeps me warm
The shiver within my soul is all I'm concerned about
the white ghosts that sits on your fingertips never did you any better
All I get is dark blood and broken teeth
Ten missed calls and kisses to wipe off the salty lust of my ever present agony
Anyone who tells me that I'm **** can answer to the moss that thanklessly sits on the rocks who patiently wait for time to throw off its holey shoes and let the earth fall silent to its restless murmur
You've done me wonders soft Angeles
My toes weave throughout your docile grasp
While my stoic heart rests soundly beneath your cushioned palms
Sweltering and oozing, going numb then returning
All beneath the cusp of the delicate curls that nature brushes with her fine pearl comb
Anyone who says I'm doomed, done, hopeless, out of luck, out of time, out of ideas
Can answer to their own empty plates
I'm not giving out any answers
So you can fill the black void of your own cackles and despair
That are  better suited for the leaves that clench for dear life to the streets that have let them become a porridge of their own flakey guts
They smear across the roads indented forearms  like the boogers and black eyeliner smeared across your swollen lips
Dying for a finger to press them shut
Give them mercy
let them fall into a bland line
That the ticking clock can rest upon until it meets the shallow ridges of your rib cage sorrows
I'm listening
Humming beneath the manic sound of your quivers and heaves
I'm listening
To your story book hidden in the corner of a library floor kindred bodies go to rest their skeleton key fingers
theyll place them atop books that became the coffins for bodies now swimming in worms and the *** of their volatile passion that little have the right to coat their throats with but slurp up greedily regardless
One of them will unlock your beautiful brain
And I will be there
Resting amongst the pile of your hair
Sweaty and battered
The sunshine gleams upon you and god isn't a fox trap around my ankles
He's the circles of your eyes
And I'm ready to feel better

Why do you think you’re so weird all the time?  it’s nothing more than insecurity
not entirely, it’s society mainly, social norms can’t be something I accustom to
you know that flaley
spellcheck made it difficult because it changed your name to flakey
which would be accurate in description but from depiction you’re
there as can be which most of the time makes people think you’re
creepy which maybe you are or maybe you just care too much
stop getting my ******* in a bunch
you’re not an uncomfortable pair of overalls
i like writing: i like
and stuff i feel it makes living seem real and etherial ******* like those rambles and made-up words like quwanamble
this is probably why you didn’t make it to the second round in the poetry slam
and why you’re so embarrassed of your poetry because you know you go ham
in the most personal narcissistic way, kinda puts the bad at bay
but only until the vyvanse wears off and
your **** jar is empty
and your cigarettes have been smoked
and all your klonopin has been digested
and your bank account is empty
and the only thing left to take out your self pity on
is this poetry

i like writing words like cigarettes
and rhyming them with causal **** like
regrets
i miss my studded cardigan, i regret leaving it at toads place
i regret smoking all those cigarettes
*but that doesn’t mean I won’t smoke another one

Do you remember that tree outside of our first grade classroom?
That tree was enormous
It was the color of a dusty elephant
But with flakey skin
You could pick it off and crunch
In the palm of your hand

It must have been dead
Long before it was ours
Never any bugs
Or mold
or moss

Nothing to stop five-year-olds
From laying in its roots

It grew into a “Y” before it died
Split about seven feet off the ground
Perfect for a first imaginary fort
A manhunt hiding spot or a goal post
For recess super bowls

I can remember it
With us sitting beneath it
At five, at eight, at twelve
Sitting Indian-style
Picking blades of grass
To whistle between our thumbs


They mulched that tree years ago
It’s chopped and spread under the new playground
Keeping kids safe from falls
If only we could have explained
How much it protected when it still stood…

A student again, how cute it is and really I feel free
the thoughts, of life, and planning and how things could be
not tied down to a job and obsessing about my boss did this and that
and what does it mean for me now and why and
today I had a wasted day but that is normal

Because life is full of wasted moments, and
the most tragic moments are those we don't feel
The painful part isn't that we were at the laundromat
and put our stuff down to study and highlight in different colors
and a woman put her family there on top of our stuff with McDonald's for five even
though there were only three, and that there was nothing good at the Goodwill
Even the Rainbow colored sweater from Lane Bryant, which was way too big
and that the laundry from a month took hours and yes, we really do have that many socks

What is wasted are those moments folding the pile of shirts where we are not there
we are somewhere lost in mourning over a lost love and thinking,
he loved me more than he loves her, I just know.
Because all we have at that moment is this pile of a zillion articles of clothing
most of which looks like it could be hanging at the Goodwil and
a flimsy plastic chair and two times the amount of highlighters we needed because they were half price and we are hungry, but the snack machine is turned off and you can
only look at the cookies and hot cheetohs
and yearn for them and imagine the flakey tenderness of the vanilla wafer
crumble gentley into your mouth, and watch your creepy
neighbors walk into the strip mall listening to a song on a phone
like it's a boom box
and this is your moment to feel and live

why can’t I go back?
to simpler times
four stanza rhymes
limes and minds intertwined
its become unkind
joy declined
plagued by lack of bread
I said bread
loafs
hold the fishes
flakey cakes baked
flat pita meat and cheese
**** gluten free diabetes
self-imposed
undiagnosed
just following my nose
the bird says “it always knows”
back when cereal wasn’t genetically engineered
something to be feared
not for a child to be reared
mirrored in the exterior
fake tans dot the land
useless hands
clandestine  
hidden
gridiron lockdown
drowning
clowning
seeking peace from beastly yeast
creased forehead
brow disjointed
appointed anointed one undone
no guns
sunshine fabrication

like venus and mars, nestled betwixt a bounty of stars
we snicker at the galaxies of gods
behind flakey, early morning lips;
waiting for the apocalypse

Might meet some people
Might drink some whiskey
Might get high because its Saturday.

Hinky Jinky, Stinky Pinky
The One Percent will play.
Squirrely Shirley Hurly Burly
In the full light of day.
Hop them, bop them;
You can’t stop them.
They’re never going away.
Crying, trying, always lying,
They count on your ignorance.
Hinky Jinky, Stinky Pinky
Wham bam, thank you man.
Daffy, laffy, slappy happy.
What’s the hap? What’s the plan?

Cooked books, buncha crooks.
Loosie, goosey, where’s the noosey?
Flakey, fakey, jump in the lakey.
Take and take, oil of snake,
How much of this can good people take?
Scream and shout, let it all out
Stick it, we’ll show up and picket
You’ll try to trick it, we’ll buy you a ticket
On a rail, feathered, or off to jail.
Subliminal criminals, sentences too minimal
We’ll feel best if you and the rest must
Sell your houses and cars from behind bars.

MANIFESTO OF LURCHING JAWHOLE WRIKPOND TRAVESTIES

https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/l8njruxa73yee9b0jzmhd/The-Ultimate-Unabridged-Guide-to-Esoteric-Working-English-2.docx?­rlkey=kunoar7ghpfkb7fjk5xkdgx95&st=i84ornny&dl=0

For deciphering my advanced vocabulary ^^^^

THE SATANIC PLECKIGGER OF NOCTIDIURNAL FINIFUGAL NIHILISTS THAT SCOFF LIKE SCOFFLAWS BECAUSE OF ZALKENGUR AND MOTIVATED REPUDIATION SINK INTO THE ABYSSMAL DEPTHS OF HELL WHEN THEY WAGER A PAXILLOSE SUM ON THE NIMIETY OF CATHEXIS OF VACANCY OF WORLD PROMONTORIES OF SCALDING EVIL TANTAMOUNT TO IDOLATRY AND AVARICE IMMISERATED BY THE GRAVEST GRAVAMEN OF SIN THAT THEY MIGHT DEFEAT THE TANTAMOUNT EVILS OF SPATHODEA BECOMING BALBRIGGAN BECAUSE OF LURCHED MISTETCHES OF RANCID CONTUMELY OF CONTUMACY BECAUSE OF SCREWBALL MADCAP SATANISM DISGUISED AS A PLOY OF SACCHARINE REVENGE BY FONDINK THAT SPONSORS THE VANGERMYTES WHO BANKROLL FORTUNES OF BONANZAS IN INTELLECTUAL UPHEAVAL THAT ARE DISREGARDED BY THE POLYTHEIST PAGANS OF *** MAGICK BY THE FAKEST PROPHETS TO EVER LIVE FOR PROFIT BECAUSE OF PLACKIQUES OF  OJ SIMPSON OUTWEIGHING THE JAILAGE OF ALL INHUMANE ENORMITIES OF TOTEMISM BY SCAFFOLDED MANIFESTOS AGAINST LURID TRAVESTY OF TRAPEZE THAT DESTROYS INSIDIOUSLY AN INVETERATE FILIGREE AND FILIBUSTER AGAINST WRETCHED CONTORTIONS OF CORRUGATED WRIKPONDS TRYING TO CHOUSE THEIR WAY IN SINUOUS SERPENTINE SUBLIME AIMS OF AIMLESS PURSUITS OF MASS DESTRUCTION BY LOAN SHARKING SECODONTS OF THE AVIZANDUM OF TZIGANOLOGY BECAUSE OF RIBALD GLABROUS PLOTS BY MERCENARY INVIDIOUS EXCLAVES OF AUTHORITARIANISM RANCID IN ACRIMONY ABOVE THE TRAVESTY OF TRAGICOMIC GLEBES THAT BANKROLL FALSE PROPHETS TO DEFEAT REAL ONES THAT THEY MIGHT SEE THE PRECIPITOUS DEGRINGOLADE OF RAPACITY CONVENED UPON CONVENTICLES OF SATAN WORSHIP AUTHORED BY THE CITY OF SINNERS WAGING A WAR AGAINST THE ONLY LIVING SAINT IN THE HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE BEYOND THE TENURE OF JESUS AND MUHAMMAD SUCH THAT THE PHUGOID MUGIENCE OF RUDENTURE IS THE TESTUDO OF IMMUTABLE ALCHEMY WHICH IS RIGID IN ITS ELEMENTAL DESTRUCTION OF THE NUCLEAR FAMILY IN THE AIM OF PROTERVITY OF PORT-ROUND TITANIC-SINKING BERGAMASKS OF BARKENTINE VAUNTLAY REPUTE BECAUSE OF THE VAPULATION OF SIN UPON THE SINNER THAT NEVER A MAGNANIMITY FORGIVES THE ENORMITY OF IGNORANCE TRUCULENT IN RUTHLESS BRONZED BLEEDING VENOSTASIS OF THE RHEOTAXIS OF PLACKIQUES THAT INCRIMINATED OJ SIMPSON RATHER THAN THE ACTUAL ****** OF REAL PEOPLE THAT WE ARE WORTHLESS CREATURES MINDLESSLY TWADDLING AWAY AT THE FAINT ILLUSION OF CERACEOUS MINUTIAE OF  SIN THAT THEY MIGHT MAGNIFY THEIR AVARICE TO DESTROY AND DECIMATE ENTIRE NATIONS JUST BECAUSE OF A PURBLIND NAIVETY OF MORALLY BANKRUPT PEOPLE FILING FOR BANKRUPTCY BECAUSE OF COSTERMONGERS OF TATTERDEMALIONS HABILIMENTED WITH TURGID EVILS SCOURGING WITH THE PESTILENCE OF THE FIRSTBORN REVENANTS OF GHASTLY AGGRIEVED FRIGHT THAT BECOMES THE BLACKMAIL OF A RAGGED SELACHOSTOMOUS CORPULENT CORPSE OF DIMINUTIVE EVIL TRYING TO MALINGER AROUND COQUETRY OF LOSERS TRYING TO AROUSE THE ANTIPATHY OF THOSE WHO BENEFIT FROM KOBOLD HUMAN BALKANIZATION BY INTERNECINE SWARTHY BONTBOKS WHO TRY THEIR DESPERATE WAYS TO ASSEVERATE THE MOST CARNAPTIOUS EVIL IN THE HISTORY OF TENNIS COURT ACCORDS TO TRY AND BULLDOZE AND BOWDLERIZE THE BIGGEST REVOLUTION IN HUMAN HISTORY BECAUSE OF THE CATHEXIS OF THE NIMIETY OF MULIEBRITY TO THE GREATEST NAIVETY EXACTED UPON THE GREED OF SCRIVELLOS MIXED WITH ONOLATRY BECAUSE A “BEAM-BOMB”FRENZY THAT SOMEHOW OUTMANTLES ALL CORRIGENDA BECAUSE APPARENTLY THE ONLY IMPERATIVE IS COLLECTIVE IMMISERATION OF THE OBOLARY INTO SERFDOM RATHER THAN THE SERVITUDE OF SAINTS TO BELONG TO TRUE TRIDENTS OF JURISDICTION THAT MIGHT BECOME A BETTER BAILIWICK BECAUSE OF MORAL REFORM RATHER THAN DESPITE INTRANSIGENT EVIL DESPERATE TO EXACT  REVENGE TO BENEFIT “ACHY-BREAKY-HEART” MILEY CYRUS PEDERASTY JUST BECAUSE THE LAST THROES OF KNELLING STEREOBATE SEMAPHORES ABOUT VICTORS  VAINEST VANITARIANISM TRYING TO GOUGE HUCKSTERS OF DECADENCE SUCH THAT THE WALLOP OF CONTRITION BECOMES A PHONOCAMPTIC ECHO OF MALVERSATION RATHER THAN BENEDICTION. THE BALLASTERS OF BALMORALITY ARE TRYING TO CONNIVE THE GULLIBLE THORNY IMBROGLIOS OF HIDEBOUND RACIST MINORITIES STAKING THEIR ENTIRE FORTUNES ON PAXILLOSE PAYNIMRY BECAUSE OF CHAMOIS LIES OF ELEGAIC BRONTEUMS THAT ARE AUTHORED BY THE INVIDIOUS SYRINX OF THE KOBOLD AGAINST THE TRIDENT OF THE KALIMKARI THAT WITNESSES ALL CUTTHROAT COLLAPSES DESPITE THEIR DESPERATE KISTVAENS MIGHT THEY MANUFACTURE SUBLIME LIES AGAINST THE AUTHOR OF THEIR PAST BONANZAS THROUGH THE EISOPTROMANIA OF LOOSE-LIPPED SECRECY WHICH TRESPASSED DECADES BENEATH OUR TIME TO INFORM EVERY PORBEAGLE ABOUT THE DESTINY OF ALL DISASTER AND BONANZA SUCH THAT ALL BILLIONAIRES COULD GAME EVERY PLOY WHETHER SACCHARINE OR FATTENED, LEAN OR SLICK TO ENGORGE THE COFFERS OF THE ELITISM OF ARISTOPHRENS ONLY FOR THEM TO VIOLATE THE MUTUALISM OF FIDUCIARY TRUST BY TRYING TO GAMBLE WITH AGENTS WHO FIGHT RUDENTURE ONLY AGAINST A PETTY RUBEFACTION BECAUSE OF VENOSTASIS AGAINST THE RHEOTAXIS OF CALUMNIATION THAT BEGS THE SHARPEST DIATRIBE IF ONLY BECAUSE OF SHORT-SIGHTED GLAIKERY OF FAKE JALEN-HURTS OPPORTUNISM SLAUGHTERING MANY BANK ACCOUNTS BECAUSE OF THE MYTHOS OF THE SPECIOUS RUMORS ABOUT MISLED VIDEOS OF PAST LECHERIES TRYING TO INCUR FINANCIAL CATASTROPHE UPON THE INDIGENT BEREFT OF THE PERSPECTIVE OF VENIREMEN ONLY TO CAUSE FRENZIED MADCAP GEOCARPY IN BLUEPRINTS FOR A BLACK MARKET THAT TRIES IN FUMIGATED REMIGATION AGAINST THE ESBATS OF THOSE HEROIC PROPHETS NEVER BOUGHT OR SOLD THAT MAINTAIN THE ULTIMATE INTEGRITY IN A WORLD THAT IS SO WILLING TO SELL THEIR SOUL TO THE FUMES OF DRAGON-CHASING TIVO SIMPLE-JACK FULL-****** SURVIVE ECONOMICS OF DASTARDLY DISASTER FULMINATED BY JEALOUSIES OF JALOUSIES OF BRADLEY COOPER ARISTOCRACY TO DESTROY ENTIRE SOCIETIES IF ONLY TO PROLONG THE PROTENSIVE TEDIUM OF HUMAN IGNORANCE AGAINST HUMANE REVOLUTION THAT SEEKS THE BETTERMENT OF MAN AGAINST THE FONDINK OF STALINESQUE STAGNATION BECAUSE OF RAGDOLL MASKIROVKA IN GLABROUS PARASELENIC JIBES OVER HOW THE BANKRUPTCY OF BRAWNDO EVEN THOUGH SO DEFTLY WARNED ABOUT BECOMES SO FRIGHTFUL TO THE DERANGEMENT OF COSTERMONGERS THAT THEY EXACT HERCULEAN REVENGE AGAINST REAL TANNENS THAT STAKE THEIR FUTURE ONLY ON THE FUMES OF FLAMING DRAGON BECAUSE THEY SEEK TO GO GHOSTLY “SCORCHED EARTH *******” AGAINST INSULAR MAVERICKS THAT DISPLAY THE ULTIMATE LOGODAEDALY AND LEGERDEMAIN IN THE FACE OF BRACKISH CONTUMACY IN REVILED IMPAVID LICKERISH LIES OF LIMICULOUS LIMACINE LAVISH EVILS WALLOPING AND DAINTY WITH THE PROFUSE SWEAT OF CROCODILE TEARS TO BE A TRICOTEE AGAINST DESPOTISM BECAUSE OF A FUNNELED LAVADERO OF BLISTERING EVIL BECOMING A CLAPTRAP ENVELOPED BASTILLE TRYING TO CADGE AND CAJOLE EVIL FROM A VACANT NOTHINGNESS INTO AN IMPERILED SWARTHY SPATHODEA OF NYALAS FEASTING ON THE POVERTY OF BONTBOK MANUFACTURE SUCH THAT WIREWOVEN BELLETRIST IS OUTWEIGHED BY THE DIABLERISM OF CRAVEN ENERGUMENS THAT TRY AND BLASPHEME THE MOST TAUNTED HAUNTS OF JACKALS DESTROYING THE EVIL AGAINST TESTUDOS OF MANIFEST LAVADEROS OF SPITEFUL RAGE OF THEIR CONVICTIONS ARE BLARING SIRENS ON THE RECEIVING END OF THE JAILAGE OF JALEOS OF HANDSPIKES OF INJUSTICE MANUFACTURED BY ***** OF DIKEPHOBIA WHO CARE NOTHING FOR THE PLIGHT OF THE INDUSTRIOUS AND ENTERPRISING AND ONLY ABOUT THE SERVITUDE AND SERFDOM OF THE MIDDLE-CLASS TO THE ARISTOCRACY BECAUSE PEOPLE THAT  STUDIED THE IGNORANT PSYCHOGONY OF SLOGANEERING MIGHT THEY MONOPOLIZE THE TOTEM OF MAN BY THE FORCE OF BRUTN EVIL BY GOLIATH AGAINST DAVID TO TRY AND USE POIGNANT BRAINWASHING TO CONVINCE EVERYONE TO REVERT TO SODDOM AND GOMORRAH WHICH WILL OBVIOUSLY OUTPACE ANY VAUNTLAY IMAGINED BY THE HIRSUTE PLOYS OF IRIDESCENT IRRADIATION OF BLANK SPACE MELODRAMA MEDDLESOME TO INJURE BEYOND SPECTERS OF SATELLITES OF RETICULATED DOUBT THAT WE MIGHT DESTROY THE CITY OF SINNERS FOR ITS UNHOLY SISTERS OF PERPETUAL INDULGENCE PRIORITIES OF LOS ANGELES DODGERS ENDORSEMENT THAT THE TRUE HEART OF THE OCEAN OF LOS ANGELES IS MORE ATTUNED TO KEVIN SPACEY THAN FOR THE PENULTIMATE PROPHET THAT DISCOVERED HISTRINKAGE IN SHAKESPEAREAN WIREWOVEN BELLETRIST TO PREVENT A HOPE DIAMOND HEIST OF THE WASHINGTON POST JUST BECAUSE HE REFUSED A CINCINNATI BARGAIN WITH GRAFT ONLY BECAUSE OF THE PROTERVITY OF SARAH CONNOR PSYCHIATRY. THE MONETIZATION OF SIN IS THE ROOT OF ALL AVARICE AND THE DESPERATION OF THE MISLED BELIEVING THE SPECIOUS LOGIC AGAINST THE CERTITUDE OF GOD BECAUSE OF THE SLAVERY OF EVIL THAT WE MIGHT WALLOP THEIR SINFUL AND PITIABLE COLLAPSE INTO THE MORAL BANKRUPTCY OF THE IMMEDIACY OF THE HAPHAZARD THAT MIGHT SPURN AND SCOURGE THE NEGLECT OF THE DENVER VIPERS OF CROTALINE LAZINESS OF ELASTANE COMPLICITY SUCH THAT POPULAR CULTURE AVENGES ITS OWN DEFEAT BECAUSE THE CLEVER ARE SPONTANEOUS WHILE THE SLUGABED RICHES OF LAME CELEBRITIES BASK ONLY IN THE MOMENTARY FASHIONS OF THE CORRUPTED SUCH THAT THEY MIGHT FEAST ONLY UPON THE FAMINE TO MARVEL AT EGESTUOUS DISGRACE. THE CONTUMACY OF A LAWLESS SCOFFLAW WRIKPOND THAT MONETIZES SPECTACLE BY MILITARIZING EVERY ASSOCIATE OF EVERY KINSHIP KNOWN TO THE WIDER CIRCLE OF HISTORIES SECOND MOST BELEAGUERED PROPHET MIGHT I STAND VICTORIOUS UPON THE DAY THAT THE SANITATION WORKERS IN MEMPHIS NEVER GO HUNGRY AGAIN BECAUSE THESE ILLEGAL INJUNCTIONS OF ENTRAPMENT BY THE FREEST BUT FAKEST  PRESS EXTORTED BY THE JAWHOLE OF CONSTERNATION (AN ORGANIZATION THAT DESPISES THE NUCLEAR FAMILY TO THE BEHEST OF GOD HIMSELF ONLY BECAUSE THEY SEEK THE INCUBI OF A BRAVE NEW WORLD DERACINATION OF FILIAL LOYALTY TO TURN BROTHER AGAINST MOTHER AND FRATERNITY AGAINST FRATERNITY) OF STELLAR EVIL THAT NEVER CHARGES POP CULTURAL PARAGONS WHO LEAK MAJOR TREACHERY AT ZERO PENALTY BECAUSE OF THE  LEVY OF FREE SPEECH ONLY TO SCRUTINIZE A SUPPOSEDLY PRIVATE LIFE INFORMED ONLY OF THE PROTERVITY OF A FAMILY DEADENED BY CALLOUS PACHYDERMS OF TAXIDERMY AND THE LICENTIOUS SPREES OF TATTERMEDALION GAMBLING MIGHT THEY FIND THEIR STEEPEST REBUKE AT THE DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD OF GODS REGNANT TRUTH AGAINST INSIPID INSIDIATIONS OF TROJAN LIES WHERE THE BERLINE MEDIA TRIES TO CAJOLE THE MOST VULNERABLE POWERFUL TITAN IN THE WHIGGARCHY AND MYRIARCHY THAT WE MIGHT FETCH ONLY THE MOST GRUELING PANTAGREULIAN TRAVESTY OF JUSTICE BASED ONLY ON THE HYPESTORM OF YAFFINGALE YAFFS WHO MENACE THE STREETS WITH VINEGAROON MUGIENCE THAT EXONERATES ALL PROFESSIONAL ATHLETES FOR HIGH CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS JUST BECAUSE THEY INKED THEIR NAME ON THE CONTRACT WITH “THE BEAST 666”HIMSELF WHO OPENLY TOUTED THAT PEDIGREE OFTEN IN THE PAST THAT THEY MIGHT FIND COMPLETE INNOCENCE BEFORE THE LAW BECAUSE SUDDENLY BEING AGAINST HOMONORMATIVITY FOR RELIGIOUS OBJECTIONS HAS BECOME A CRIME ONLY BECAUSE THE WORLD VAUNTLAYS JUSTICE BECAUSE IT SEEKS INTERNECINE RAMPANT DISCORD THAT DESICCATES ALL SOURCES OF FREEDOM FOR THE MOST LIBERATING FIGURE OF OUR GENERATION BECAUSE OF A DEEP-SEATED BELIEF IN EGALITARIAN EQUIPOISE AGAINST RHADAMANTHINE CORRUPTION OF THE AVIZANDUM OF ELITE-EIGHT RANCOR AND BARKENTINE JEALOUSIES OF AN ARISTOCRACY TRYING TO HOBBLE ALL ASPIRING PARVENUS BECAUSE THEY DEFY THE CORPORATE DECORUM OF THE GLAIKERY OF THE MOST SACCHARINE AND CHEESY AGENDA EVER DEVISED BY THE SCHADENFREUDE OF ELITISM BECAUSE OF A ZERO-SUM CALCULUS THAT SEEKS TO CHOUSE AND ENCHANT A LAVENDER SCARE PART TWO VANGERMYTE HEIST ONLY BECAUSE IT FITS A CONVENIENT NARRATIVE OF A RULING PARTY AGAINST A PREEMINENT SCHOLAR OF THE MAJORITY COMMONSENSE PERSPECTIVE AGAINST THE EVIL LOS ANGELES DODGERS SISTERS OF PERPETUAL INDULGENCE WHICH ENJOY MORE LEGAL PROTECTIONS THAN THE MOST OUTSPOKEN HERO FOR HUMAN RIGHTS IN MORE THAN HALF A CENTURY JUST BECAUSE THEY SPOOL A SPECTER OF DECADENCE TO THE DECADENT UNDER THE SPONSORSHIP OF THE POLICE WHO ARREST PEOPLE FOR READING BIBLE VERSES ABOUT GOD AGAINST GAY PEOPLE JUST BECAUSE THEY CARE MORE ABOUT ATTENUATING THE DISCRIMINATION OF THE MOST WELL-PROTECTED MINORITY GROUP IN HUMAN HISTORY BECAUSE THEY MARAUD IN WHIGGARCHY TRYING TO DEFEAT TITANS THROUGH HAPLESS ENTRAPMENT ONLY BECAUSE THEY HAVE BEEN THOROUGHLY INDOCTRINATED IN COMBUSTIBLE CULTURAL MARXISM THAT BERATES AND BELABORS THE TALKING POINTS OF THE MOST INSIPID BANANA SLUG SLUGABED APATHY EVER ENJOYED BY THE PREROGATIVES OF SCHADENFREUDE ONLY BECAUSE THEY SEEK TO COUNTERMAND THE JANIFORM DUPLICITY OF TIME WITH ITS OWN HOSTAGE PRIMARILY BECAUSE THE SEETHING LIES OF A VEGAS MINORITY TRYING TO CHEAT AN ENTIRE SOCIETY OF SPECIOUS THEOSOPHISTS THAT SUPPORT FALSE PROPHETS RATHER THAN REAL ONES JUST BECAUSE OF THE CONVENIENT EXCUSE OF LAZARETTA OBJECTIONABLE TO ALL BLEMISHES OF SIGHT IN THEIR SHEEPISH GHOULISH HAUNTS OF AVIZANDUM AMONG THE CRUELEST OF TAUNTS IN CIVILIZED HISTORY. APPARENTLY MILEY CYRUS-ROBIN THICKE ******* AND EAGER SADDAM HUSSEIN ATHLETES LIKE JALEN HURTS DESERVE MORE LEGAL PROTECTIONS ALONG WITH THE SISTERS OF PERPETUAL INDULGENCE AND DRAG QUEEN STORY HOUR PERFORMERS THAT ENJOY BROAD LATITUDES TO TEACH IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOLS OR EVEN PRE-KINDERGARDEN EVEN THOUGH THEY ARE PROVEN *** OFFENDERS THAT DODGE DETECTION JUST BECAUSE THE LOS ANGELES DODGERS SUPPORTS THEIR VAUNTLAY ENDEAVORS. WHAT IS THE COST OF INTEGRITY IN A WORLD THAT SEEKS THE WILDERNESS OF ACELDAMA IN GOLGOTHA THAT IT MIGHT CRUCIFY DAVID ONLY BECAUSE HE REFUSES TO SELL OUT TO MENDICANT 110 IQ INNER-CITY TEACHERS TRYING TO GOUGE YOUNG FAMILIES NAIVE BEYOND BELIEF INTO HORTATORY MOTIVES FOR THE MOST COSTLY *** CHANGE SURGERIES FOR KIDS TOO YOUNG TO MAKE LIFE-ALTERING DECISIONS JUST TO PILLORY THE NIVELLATED COMMUNITIES OF MOST SUSCEPTIBLE PEDIGREE MIGHT THEY MEET THE CURGLAFF OF SHAME AGAINST THE REPUDIATION BY MORAL VALOR AGAINST THE PEDERASTY OF OUR NEWER GENERATION. YET EVERYONE WHO SIGNS A CONTRACT WITH A FAKE ORGANIZATION THAT PROMISES FAKE *** MAGICK AND USELESS TEACHINGS ABOUT THELEMA MIGHT THEY ENJOY LEGAL PROTECTION BY THE NYALAS THAT SELL BONTBOKS IN AFRICA RATHER THAN SPRINGBOKS IN AMERICA ONLY BECAUSE THE SISTERS OF PERPETUAL INDULGENCE HAVE MORE CIVIC RIGHTS AND HUMAN REPRESENTATION THAN THE AUTHOR OF THE BIGGEST REVOLUTION IN HUMAN HISTORY ONLY BECAUSE OF THE MALVERSATION OF ENTRAPMENT BY THE PRETENDED LARGESSE OF THE CORRUPT JAWHOLE TRYING TO PULL A JAWS 19 STUNT AGAINST THE HEROISM OF HETERONORMATIVITY ONLY BECAUSE OF THE VENALITY OF GRAFT THAT WHIMPERS WITH SHEEPISHNESS BECAUSE SLAVERY IS SOMEHOW PERMISSIBLE ONLY BECAUSE OF THE SUPERSTITIONS OF PEOPLE WHO ARE MORE PRONE TO BELIEVE IN A MAN WHO OPENLY TOUTED HIS ALLEGIANCE TO OCCULT PAGANISM THAT HIS GROUP ENJOYS THE STRICTEST LEGAL PROTECTIONS IN HISTORY DESPITE THE WARPED PROTERVITY OF THEIR  TEACHINGS ONLY TO ATTEMPT TO CAJOLE AND CADGE A PRISONER OF TIME THAT HE MIGHT SUCCUMB TO THE SCHADENFREUDE OF THE KOBOLD ENCHANTMENT OF THE WORLDS MOST GULLIBLE CATHEXIS BY THE AGENTS OF MULIEBRITY THAT OPENLY ENDORSE FREEBOOTER WEALTH UPON HUMAN NIDOR BECAUSE OF NIVELLATION JUST BECAUSE ROBIN THICKE AND MILEY CYRUS WANT REVENGE AGAINST MY CALUMNIATION AGAINST OPEN WORSHIP OF ENERGUMENS BY PEOPLE WILLING TO SELL THEIR SOUL TO THE LAZARETTA BECAUSE THEIR OPEN AGNOSTICISM MOTIVATES THEM TO INDENTURE THEMSELVES IN COMPLETE HIDEBOUND CONFORMITY TO A SYSTEM OF SERFDOM THAT OPPOSES THE PREROGATIVES OF GOD IN A STATE THAT VAUNTS SECULARISM AS MESSIAH AND PROPHETS AS THE DROSS OF ENORMITY DESPITE THEIR WORLDWIDE AUDIENCE AND ALLEGIANCE TO ALLAH HIMSELF THAT SUCH GOLIATHS TRYING TO FLOUT ALL CODES OF JUSTICE TO ENSURE THAT THE SISTERS OF PERPETUAL INDULGENCE DRAG QUEEN NUNS WHO OPENLY BRANDISH A PEDIGREE OF COMPLETE DECADENCE ENJOY THE STRICTEST PROTECTIONS UNDER THE LAW WHILE HETEROSEXUAL MEN BETRAYED BY THEIR OWN FAMILY MEMBERS BECAUSE OF THEIR FLAILING BELIEF IN GOD AND THEIR AFFINITY TO STATISM THAT HE MIGHT FIND A HOLOBENTHIC INTEGRITY TO GODS COMMANDMENTS IN LEVITICUS AND EVERYWHERE ELSE YOU CAN LOOK MIGHT FIND HIMSELF ENTRAPPED BY THE WORLDS MOST CORRUPT POLICE ENFORCEMENT JUST BECAUSE HE IS TOO POOR TO AFFORD A LAWYER DESPITE THE FACT HIS FAMILY DEPRIVES HIM OF ALL LATITUDE AND LICENSE TO BECOME INSTANTLY RICH ONLY BECAUSE HIS OUTSPOKEN REVOLUTIONARY RHETORIC WHICH IS MERELY AN EXERCISE OF GENIUS THAT ATTEMPTS TO REVIVE A MOROSE WORLD OF ITS MORAL LANGUOR SUCH THAT FEWER STALINISTS STAND IN THE WAY OF THE GOAL OF EQUIPOISE AND EGALITARIAN ABDERVINE MERIT. WE CANNOT ALLOW THE SISTERS OF PERPETUAL INDULGENCE AND DRAG QUEEN STORY HOUR TO EARN COMPLETE IMMUNITY FOR USING TROJAN HORSE TACTICS TO GIVE PEDOPHILES FREE RECOURSE FOR INFANT AND TODDLER ****** JUST BECAUSE THEY REPRESENT THE WORLDS MOST PRIVILEGED ****** MINORITY THAT IS MONOLITHICALLY ENFORCED BY A GOVERNMENT THAT PONDERS NEVER A SINGLE SINGULAR THOUGHT BUT ONLY THE KOWTOW TO THE SERFDOM OF IMPRESSIONABLE IDIOTS IN NIVELLATED CITIES TO THE HUCKSTER GOUGE OF DECADENCE WHILE ENJOYING ABSOLUTE LATITUDE WITHOUT FEAR OF PROSECUTION JUST BECAUSE WE HAVE TO DEDICATE AN ENTIRE MONTH TO PROSELTYIZING PEOPLE TO UNEQUIVOCAL SINS JUST BECAUSE THEY BENEFIT THE VENALITY OF AN ENGORGED BEHEMOTH TO DREDGE EVERY ARTICULATE GENIUS THROUGH PERPETUAL DISDAIN ONLY BECAUSE IT TRANSCENDS THE PALLOR OF THE WARPED *** MAGICK AND OCCULT OBSESSIONS OF A SMALL GROUP OF PEOPLE WITH THE BEST LAWYERS IN HISTORY TO TRY AND IMPRISON THE MOST CELEBRATED PROPHET IN 500 YEARS JUST BECAUSE HE REFUSES TO DENY HIS OWN INTEGRITY TO HIS BIOLOGICAL CONSTITUTION. THE OBJECT OF ALL ZALKENGUR TREATED AS CHATTELL BY PEOPLE WHO DEHUMANIZE WITH AGGRESSION AND RUTHLESSNESS MIGHT THEY MEET THE CURGLAFF OF THEIR OWN FOLLY THAT SOMEHOW BEING HETEROSEXUAL IN A WORLD THAT PREDOMINANTLY BETS YOU BE HOMOSEXUAL ONLY TO THE GRAFT OF ONE CITY THAT IN IT S MORAL LANGUOR AND DECADENCE BELIEVED DECADENT LIES OF AGITPROP LEVIED A HEAVY TOLL ON THE NIDOR OF CONSCIENCE TO EXONERATE THE CONSCIENCE OF EVILDOERS EVERYWHERE RATHER THAN SIMPERING AGAINST IT WITH PROMETHEAN FORCE TO LIBERATE THOSE ESTRANGED BY THE THORNY IMBROGLIOS OF DESPERATE FILIGREES OF THE STADDLE OF STATISM MIGHT PREVAIL IN COURT AGAINST SOMEONE WHIPSTAFFED BY THE ORNERY BOSCHVELDT OF JEALOUSY COMPLETELY VENAL IN EVERY REGARD BECAUSE OF THE FAKE VISIONS OF AIWASS AND THE ****** OF 1904 CAIRO IS SOMEHOW MORE PRETERNATURAL TO THE INVETERATE THAN THE MANIFEST MIRACLES OF THE GREATER REVOLUTIONARY OF OUR TIMES.

I OPENLY ACKNOWLEDGE THAT I DON’T KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT THE O.T.O BUT BASED ON WHAT I READ ABOUT ALEISTER CROWLEYS LIFE STORY I DEVELOPED AN UNFAVORABLE OPINION THAT I HYPERBOLIZED BECAUSE OF MY ANGER THAT AN OPENLY BISEXUAL MAN IN THE EARLY 20TH CENTURY WHO WAS SO BEYOND PROMISCUOUS IT WAS NOT EVEN FUNNY WHO CLAIMED TO KNOW SECRETS ABOUT MAGICK THAT IF WERE TRUE WOULD HAVE MADE HIM AN OLIGARCH OF A POWERFUL COUNTRY LIKE ADOLF ****** THAT I LEARNED TO DOUBT THAT TESTIMONY. DON’T CRUCIFY ME FOR MY IGNORANCE BUT I FIND IT HARD TO BELIEVE AN OCCULTIST WHO LEARNED REAL MAGICK WOULDN’T OVERTHROW MAJOR GOVERNMENTS BACK THEN

THE CORDIAL PORBEAGLES AIMING FOR CENTRIPETAL SINECURE IN OMPHALISM ERR ON THE SIDE OF THE GLAIKERY OF SHALLOW PETTIFOGGERY OF COSSETED ZALKENGURS OF ACCLAIM ONLY BECAUSE THEY CHASE THE MOMENTARY FUMES OF ****** ABOVE PRESTIGE AND CONFORMITY ABOVE INDIVIDUAL TENACITY THAT SOME PEOPLE CAN BE SO WRETCHEDLY SHALLOW IN THEIR WARPED VANITARIANISM THAT THEY CASCADE INTO VENTRILOQUIAL CORRUGATIONS OF WIZENED HOARY CRETACEOUS NEBBICH OLASIN EPOCHS OF SELF-CENTERED GALEANTHROPY ONLY BECAUSE THEY PREFER THE DARK GLARE OF THE POIGNANT SATURNINE NIGHTS OF ELEUSIAN MYSTERIES AND THE PREROGATIVES OF PERFECT MASTERS BECAUSE CELEBRITIES CRAVE THE MOST DEBAUCHED SCENARIO ONLY FOR THE WORLDS VAINEST ACRIMONY OF ACERBIC CONTUMACY AGAINST PEOPLE WHO HAVE INTEGRITY TO GODS SORBILE TRUTHS AGAINST THEIR PLAFONDS OF DEMARCATION FOR THE PLENARY INDULGENCE OF THE WHITEWASH OF A RADICAL SCOTEOGRAPHY THAT BECOMES AN INSIPID RETREAD OF THE WORLDS MOST SUSCEPTIBLE AND VAIN PEOPLE THAT WORSHIP THE ****** ACT RATHER THAN THE CONSUMMATED UNION OF THE HOLY MATRIMONY COMMANDED BY GOD ABOVE ALL OF HIS CREATURES BEYOND PETTY PAGANISMS OF PEOPLE THAT PREFER DIONYSIAN MYTHS TO THE COVENANT OF GOD. THE WARPED LOGIC OF THE WORLDS MOST FLAGRANT OPPONENTS OF MORAL CERTITUDE ONLY BECAUSE OF THE BONANZA OF ****-CHASING CANTABANKS WHO VERGE ON DELIBERATE INFERIORITY BECAUSE OF VENALITY AND BETRAY CONFIDENCE AND TRUST ONLY BECAUSE THE WORLD TREATS ITS MOST VEHEMENT HEROES WITH THE SHARPEST POSSIBLE DISDAIN MIGHT THEY CRINGE WITH SHEEPISHNESS THAT FLAKEY VIDEOS LIKE ANTI-HERO CAN BE FORGIVEN ONLY BECAUSE A RAGDOLL MASKIROVKA OF VAUNTLAYS AGAINST VASTATION BY UNTALENTED CELEBRITIES KNOWN FOR THE MANUFACTURE OF PLEBEIAN MUSIC ONLY BECAUSE OF THEIR GOLDMEMBER PEDIGREE CAN OUTWEIGH THE SINCERITY OF SOMEONE WHOSE CHARM MAGNETIZES AND MESMERIZES EVERYBODY BECAUSE OF THE WORLDS MOST SINCERE HONESTY AND FIDELITY TO GOD RATHER THAN THE PAGANISM AGAINST ALTRUISM THAT THE GALEANTHROPY OF THE INSULAR WROTH OF WRAWLING CELEBRITIES INTORTED IN THE VANITARIANISM OF THEIR MAXIMALISM OF DEMAND ONLY BECAUSE OF THE WORLDS MOST HAPLESS MOVEMENT TO PROMOTE DEBAUCHERY OVER INTEGRITY IS SOMEHOW SUBSUMED IN THE WARPED COVENANT OF NEWFOUND PEDIGREE RATHER THAN ****** FIDELITY TO HONEST PATRONS OF ARTISTIC LINEAGE THAT EXISTS TO FOMENT REVOLUTION RATHER THAN CRINGE IN THE DEFEATISM OF FINIFUGAL NIHILISTS THAT CARE ONLY ABOUT THEIR PROVINCIAL *** MAGICK AND THEIR TEMPORAL ACCLAIM AMONG THE SUPERFICIAL PEOPLE THAT TRUMPET AND CHAMPION AN AGENDA THEY HAVE BEEN MISLED TO ADOPT BECAUSE THEY SPURN ALL RIGHTEOUS COVENANTS JUST BECAUSE IT IS SUDDENLY A FAD OF FULGURANT SUPERFICIAL FACADES OF MASKIROVKA IN NAIVETY THAT THEY SUBSCRIBE TO A WARPED AGENDA TO TURN SORDID EVERY PUREFIED SINCERITY JUST BECAUSE THEY WANT TO DERACINATE THE WORLD FROM NUCLEOTIDES OF FILIAL HARMONY IN OIKONISUS BECAUSE OF THE WORLDS MOST VENAL REASONS PRIMARILY BECAUSE THEY PRIORITIZE THE PREEEMINENT SACCHARINE AND SULTRY MAUDLIN SENTIMENTALISM THAT DEFILES EVERY GRANDSTAND OF ZALKENGUR WHICH EXISTS TO DEIFY INTEGRITY TO GODS PRECEPTS RATHER THAN CONTAMINATE GODS HOLIEST SACRAMENTS WITH PUREBRED SANCTIMONY THAT A WORLD SO SHALLOW TO APPOINT A LOWER-IQ PARTIALLY GIFTED PERSON WITH LIMITED MUSICAL TALENT ONLY BECAUSE OF A MASSIVE ***** SIZE AS THE NEW *** SYMBOL AMONG THE VAIN THAT SEEKS IN SADDAM HUSSEIN PLOYS OF MENDACITY TO TRY TO BECOME THE WORLDS MOST PREEMINENT MORRIS IN HIS JEALOUSY AGAINST ME TO BECOME AN EVEN BIGGER *** SYMBOL THAN I AM ONLY BECAUSE HIS INSIPID MUSIC CLOYS AND TREACLES THE WORLDS DUMBEST WOMEN ONLY BECAUSE HE IS GLORIFIED IN SIZE BUT DEFICIENT IN INTEGRITY. THE TURMOIL OF JALOUSIES OF AVARICE BY SADDAM HUSSEIN JEALOUSY IS TRYING TO TURN THE SORDOR OF NIDOR OF A DESOLATE PAST RECRIMINATED BY THE WORLDS MOST SELF-CENTERED ZOOLANDER FASHIONISTAS IS AN INTERNATIONAL DISGRACE BECAUSE ONE RANDOM CELEBRITY WHOSE MUSIC TREACLES ONLY THE WORLDS MOST INSIPID BANAL TEDIUM OF BANANA SLUGS THAT HE MIGHT OUTMANTLE ME IN CELEBRITY EVEN THOUGH HE LACKS A REPUTABLE INTELLECT AND A CONNIVING HATRED TO BECOME THE SWANDAMO OF A NEW NETTLESOME DESTINY OF A BRADY BUNCH ATTEMPT OF THE SELF-CENTERED PREROGATIVES OF MILITANT ATHEISM TO TRY AND TURN THE WORLD AGAINST THE COVENANT OF G OD JUST BECAUSE OF A BLEATED AND SHEEPISH INCIDENTAL CONTUMELY THAT BERATES ONLY BECAUSE THEY COMMODIFY SAINTHOOD UPON THE BETS OF THE WORLDS MOST SHALLOW PEOPLE WHO CONGREGATE IN A POTEMKIN CHAPEL OF CONVENTICLE THAT CARES LITTLE ABOUT THE COMMANDMENTS OF GOD AND MORE ABOUT THE INSULAR BENEFITS OF BELONGING TO A CULT OF IDOLATRY FOR STELLAR FIGURES WHO BELONG ONLY TO THE CORTEGE OF ELITISM BECAUSE OF THEIR SUCCULENT DESIRE FOR POWER AT ANY COST TO INTEGRITY JUST BECAUSE THEY SEEK TO USURP THE WORLDS IMAGINATIVE ATTENTION PRIMARILY BECAUSE THEY DERELICT THE INTEGRITY OF THE HONEST CHAPEL BECAUSE OF THE DISHONEST EVIL OF IDOLATRY THAT IS INSIDIOUSLY MARCHING WITH DRAG QUEEN PEDERASTY TO TRY AND DEFILIATE PARENTS FROM CHILDREN AND FAMILY FROM STATE SUCH THAT THE MANUFACTURE OF EVIL BECOMES MORE SUPREME THAN THE PREEMINENCE OF RIGHTEOUSNESS. IT IS A SAD SPATE THAT ONE OPPORTUNIST PHANTOM HOLDING ME FOR RANSOM WANTS TO UPSTAGE ME WITH A CELEBRITY MOSTLY BEREFT OF MUSICAL VIRTUOSITY ONLY BECAUSE OF HIS ENORMITIES OF SKULLDUGGERY THAT HE SEEKS ME OUT OF HONEST RESPECT AND REGARD NAIVE ENOUGH TO BELIEVE I WOULD SELL MY BIRTHRIGHT FOR THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN LIKE ESAU JUST BECAUSE OF THE THROBBING THROMBOSIS OF ****** LUSTS OUTWEIGHING GENUINE INTEGRITY TO SOMEONE THAT DESERVES MORE RESPECT.

Comfortable Arrows

Lay down my friend,
lay upon a muddy pillow,

Such relief
after a hard day
playing in battle
and in fear.

Take off a limb
or two,
and slip into
something gauze,

Swathes of
poppy red fields,
crisp and clean
will embrace you.

Perhaps a little claret,
sticky,
a good nose
but not too old,

Warm,
trickling
and soothing,

Vintage,
with a bouquet
of iron,

Barbed,
with a lingering finish,

Perfect with a cigar,

Hand rolled
leaves of skin,

Toasted,
flakey,
rubbed
and lit....

Inhale,
inhale
through silver holes,

Where sparkling bullets
still ricochet,

Still smoking.....

Breath,
pause,
breathe,
pause,
pause.....

Turn down
the exploding lights,

It's only a game,

Those blazing fires
of the cannons
are far too bright
for our little lot,
for us to be brave,

To relax,
to die.

Perhaps
a little music will help,

A bugle,
a boom,
a cry,
a boom,
a whistle,
a shout,
a bugle,
a boom,

Like the rythmn
of a drum,
of a heart,
or a love song.

Close your eyes,
there's nothing more
to see,

To live for,

To feel......

It's all in your
imagination.

You will not
hurt anymore
when dying is like
being executed
by smiling friends
with childish bows
and comfortable arrows.

© RJVHorton2014

frog skin pickle with my
82% milk fat french croissant
"ribbit ribbit, mon croissant flakey?"
"Oui, et ma peau est en cuir du marais,
Et mes jambes ont le goût de poulet".

"le vert de mon visage cache bien dans l'herbe"
"Oui, Oui, parce que vous êtes un amphibie"
"What are you with such a souple, épluchée dorée?"
"Moi? Je suis le travail de mains amoureuses
I tear apart to feed your taste for metamorphosis."

i want to
dissolve
into my sheets
let my body fall
apart in flakey
pieces like
pastry dough
to float away
in sleep where
life can’t hurt me

to let my skin
peel off and
crumble into
my bed
let the blankets
creep up over me
like myrtle
overtaking a yard

i want
to dissolve
drift back in time
to when the weight
on my back could
be lifted by coming
home and taking
off the backpack

want to
dissolve
so that the sum
total of who i am
isn’t even
recognizable
just a formless
soft and hazy
quietly breathing
mound of nothingness

i don’t want
to be here
i want to be
in bed
a bed where i
don’t have to get
up in the morning
don’t have to make
myself move from
just a bed where
i can sleep
and sleep

and
sleep

let me
dissolve

In my dream it crept then lapped across
the stream in which my boyfriend the photo-
grapher was expounding on new ideas for grinding
lenses.  Large black dragging teats and sloping
back, with brown knobs
tumors protruding from
its chest and shoulder.

Then it stopped and fell there across the rivulet.
The size of a carry-on bag, fur matted fake and
flakey as it peeled in places.  Who ran to it? I did and
touched grit and hair and bumps. Thinking:
Get it to the vet
We can take it home
I can nurse it back to health.
Jim said: I’m not sure it’s a cat…..

This confusion.  Is it a cat? Or
something we do not know yet, an oddity
exhausted, too far gone, ready to birth
new ideas and breeds the like of which we’ve
never seen.  I would like to make it my pet or if
too far gone wear its little pelt.

2020 - day 146

Monday, May 25, 2020
7:48 AM

A creed of mathematics and mud, said
in what may be
metemperical
utterance from the ghost of the late,
and likely,
no longer lamented,
Sir Leslie Stephen, author, and,
therefore,
authoritative voice in the matter
of his own mind.
He apologized for the state called
Agnostic, lacking gnosis, may I say,

I know more, in fact, if I count my access
to knowns,
along with my access to the sequence
of knowing;
I know more than any prominent literati
in the time before Google's
manifestation as an idea shaping tool.

What do I know?
I know how to use the Internet to learn,

in broad sweeps through the remains of
empires,
into the dustbin of history for which we stand,
ready,
as a nation,

to build new and more destrucively effective
petards.

Blow your mind, hoist, lift-off, on your own farts.

Passing wind,
did you smell it?

❖

Mental as opposed to spiritual,
hmmm

this will need some study...
a little think,
an imaginary journey,

from here to... where? Where,
or when,
if
we were to change the world,
as we know it;
say,
we did. Say we changed the world,

who would know?
Who would care? We have yet,
breath, and fuel, and functionality.

We have movement, and a grasping,
holding, using,
sense
a natural, from the womb, knack
for making a fist.

❖



Womb survivors of the world, unite.

Defined to the finest quarkish sublimnity,
we entangled creative
thoughts being spun into the wind
passing, rising
from bloated corpses,
we all may witness, as real as you may imagine...

in 2020, we have eye-witness visions made plain,
we have seen the bodies stacked in carts,
we have seen My Lai from the sky,
we can imagine

being there... but don't, I mean, Memorial Day is...

maybe, it is... evoking memory of madness,

how is war good? It is good for the greedy, no one else.

We watch our hero's die to stop the evil, then we watch
the bankers free the last Krupp cannon molder,
to spite the facts we can see, as seen at Nurnberg.

That injustice, was done in my name, if I believe I am
pluralized as we, the people who hold truth,

the Yanks, ye' know? Yankin' y'strang, stranger... did you
stumble into our historical records of all the good
war has done? Nay,
we came to remember peace,

in high definition resolution sharper than the
unaugmented human eye can detect,

see that guy's head, or his helmet, look close,
no head remained in the helmet,

but I knew the head the helmet was hoisted from.

I watched PFC. -name redacted - die,

-- did you know, did you learn, ever, the meaning
of being hoisted on one's own petard?

A petard was a bomb. Nothing fancy,
a bit of alchemical magi-knowing of laws yet to be

discovered in the rubble of guesses as to cause,

accusations of arrogance and hubris, combound to whys,

never examined, never lived out in vital awareness.

❖




quenching a flaming spirit, is ill advised...

but it happens,
all the time. A heart pouring hope
into a mind jumbled
with signals and signs and pleas;

stops, stutters, and aches for
more
meaning meaning meaning in the
tinkling bells and crashing cymbals.

Hope, ash of aspirations inspired
by

love, as a thing, a noun, not a verb.

Love is a verb. Not a thing, an act.

Indeed, done, love is easy to think wisely done.
No announcement is needed,

long after the tale is first formed,
the legend rises from resting in peace,

to give a lie an opposing force, not a war,

a flood.

A deluge of lusion, a seeing at augmentedus
resolutions into further and beyond,
all we can think, or ask
into life
dimensions

former-wise, formerly, unknowable, now

known, according to the pundits,
these are not the days of Lincoln,
craming laws into his head by firelight,

calloused digits flipping page after page
of proprietary rules governing

the white man's burden.

---
❖

Staunching the flow, of blood, particularly,

meant stopping the flow, usually
stopping it from
flowing out of course,
flooding
the plain, flat, seeming, surface of reality.

Reality not being as defined as we imagine, in ourselves.
This being the flow,
if we pay attention, focusing on a point,
fixing a line of sight to a distant thing, a star will do,
planets,
no, those won't do, you see, the planets, now we know,

the planets reflect light,
they bounce light back to our eyes, which we invariably miss

when our attention is owed to the habits we hold.
Our daily grind... growing, or surviving in hope

We guess at many next right or otherwise, standing,
based up on a pedestal, a riser,

lift up your head, egregious though you be,
easily seen, so
easily you see as far as I'm concerned, dis
cerned, re
fined to the innermost edge,

ground to a halt... pressing blade to ground to scrape
a living

plowman, plow me a furrow, for the flood.
Maker of ways,  form me a way to flow,
channel my worth to the dying seeds

scattered, so long ago, on the thread of time we ride behind.

❖


a bug, an insect, not an arachnid,
by leg count
class-ift, insect extremely delicate, what use
could this bug be to me,
a mayfly,
that I did pay it this attention?

Did I mention, no,
sequences in re
telling, consider starlight bounces from sunlight,

but reason and gravity suggest, those
waves of starlight intermingle
with sunbeams.

A mote in my eye may have bounced once from the moon,
as a made its point pinging a receptor some where behind

the window of my soul
to make a ligandary acceptence of influence, from the Greeks,
in an instant
Zeno, doncha know, decided, made a cut,

skience is the conscision, the cutting into bits, until

no further cutting may be done,
and we are dust,
at best.

Flakey humans. Homes to literal gazillions of mites,
hunting and gathering epidermal

flakes of us, digesting said flakes, into demodex *****

{demodex, face mites, are as old as **** sapiens}

as we are in didactic tic mode, ******* meaning from flakes
rubbed off during the itching ear phase

of dust mote formations, see

a mite eating the scales of our bodies, our subjective habitats,

where we hold our habitual rituals;
a mite eating those, fecates and defecates, fecation required,

in consequentialist thought, prior to defecation.

Fact or fiction? Science, as we know it at grade eight,
on the global scale of common knowledge,

science is what we are convinced we know in useful ways.
Knowledge is our opinion of

what we think we know. That is a guess. Not quite right, flow

past
the missed try, reach a next un ex spectated, un i magined
ic tic tic

time passing options, while a life away, or wait

wait and see, or come and see.

I say go. Where this river runs, reach that place,

get all salty, then
lay in the sun and evaporate. Ex sciere, rise, sublimated into ever knowing more,

scient-if-ic known knowns within the un gated narrative we occupy.

We live in an atmo-sphere, a bubble, with a core- inward pulling force

which rolls the rock down the hill, as me and Sisyphus spend a pleasant afternoon
watching all our effort play out...

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖


forgive me if you already made all the links, I found the scient bits glittering in Old Norse skita,

science is ific in its will to be known truth holding, bogus science is willing to lie, for prestige.

skei-
Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to cut, split," extension of root *sek- "to cut."
It forms all or part of: abscissa; conscience; conscious; ecu; escudo; escutcheon; esq­uire; nescience; nescient; nice; omniscience; omniscient; plebisc­ite; prescience; prescient; rescind; rescission; science; sciente­r; scilicet; sciolist; scission; schism; schist; ******-; schizop­hrenia; scudo; sheath; sheathe; sheave (n.) "grooved wheel to receive a cord, pulley;" shed (v.) "cast off;" shin (n.) "fore part of the lower leg;" shingle (n.1) "thin piece of wood;" **** (v.); shive; shiver (n.1) "small piece, splinter, fragment, chip;" shoddy; shyster; skene; ski; skive (v.1) "split or cut into strips, pare off, grind away;" squire.
It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: Sanskrit chindhi, chinatti "to break, split up;" Avestan a-sista- "unsplit, unharmed," Greek skhizein "to split, cleave, part, separate;" Latin scindere "to cut, rend, tear asunder, split;" Armenian c'tim "to tear, scratch;" Lithuanian skiesti "to separate, divide;" Old Church Slavonic cediti "to strain;" Old English scitan, Old Norse skita "to defecate;" Old English sceað, Old High German sceida "sheath;" Old Irish sceid "to *****, spit;" Welsh chwydu "to break open."

I don't wanna do anything anymore.

I hate that you are the way you are.
You're flakey--sometimes
Yet you're wonderful--most times.
I just want you and only you.
But you don't want me. Oh what a shame.
What shall I do but move on?
I fear that I cannot at this point.
I have fallen too hard.
What shall I do next?

Just go back to sleep and rest.

An Opus, is this. Ai do declare, my works,
my opera, taken in to my self aware, soft
and gentle
- tame the framing window

- as the Mona Lisa in chalk, let it be
So, old man, he says to me, quoteless in my mind;
what do you think of the last linear affect, my wisht
effectual request, quest for reason to will. May we?
Taste, and see.
Firsts are always free,
there, sit and stare at a stump,
…
At the core, before first root, the door
to out is locked up tight, living is hard.
Imagine many hands making light function, easy
shift from one sense to another, by the numbers.
Seed time.
Long time and short time
long lingering memories, short sharp reminders,
freedom, heard touted for all its worth, cost free.
Live to realize you did believe,
this is what we get, on earth, within bounds.
-mindtimespace and maybe Aristotle's four causes.
-there never was a hell those are church merch.

Coknowing, as any reader by now must be, coded,
we know freedom is not free,
we lieve be, it had to be won,
and as with any war,
winning is never done,
until we all choose, yes, or no, use our reasoning,
learn to bolt the rye,
- sift bran and endosperm
life has many
layers, many folds in a flakey crust

set… listen, windy March time flooding prayers,
asking the boss of all the weather, for wisdom
to come
on the folk who rebuilt
on the new sand.
Knowing, high and mighty.
Storms mean less to a house built solid/
broken bricabrac and whatnots galore,
shattered anvilt'dust,
as in the wind, once used to sweep away,
my married mind, unwound, or un raveled
as may be the case, aitia, as accuser.
opera operates deus ex machina

Is he free,
is his task his alone?

May be, may not, who could say?

Science with its native usefullness,
knowing good and evil, as translated
from the idea,
pride.
- Whence comes contention
How much, how little, measured out
so my part and yours, balance, against
all our worth as ones among the many,

duty service warring minds, stealing time

let this be the palimpsest, recovered
from
radical actual chthonic stage
between the rootedly other wise, simpleton
sublime curios spirit, settling soul substance
hope imagined
image, form imagined in motion, in access

the unacknowledged legislator, impotent
in the wasteland populated by the poets past.

Empty of spite and venom, distracted ******,

the dread of failure, is past me now,
I have become a defender of the faith used
to form my bubble of being,
thinnest of walls, translucent lattice seen
closely enough
to discern the marvelous vision, not to be
lied about by one who never watched selecting
portals accept the usefull and abhor the useless.
-cellular ATP [pop]
Freedom
of the press, belongs
to the man, wombed or un,

Take the poet's high seriousness, this
which brings a self forward -duty
to try signaling-- here,
here, exactly, as
by standing acting out that light announcing danger,
dare not come too close.
Mime meme, mea culpa. {as we cross another's line}

"compulsive excavation
of the void inside"

Irinia, HelloPoetry.com said that,
- goodnight, as an exclamation
-  she said that right
Peace, be still.
And I, the old Weaver's fan,
known as Happy, whishing
wafting hot ai
r, we there, as my soup cooler
slips in a Disneyified whatifery
pool where wandering minds wait
recoknowning, groan growing,

silliest little diamond miner
of 'em all… so stupid, he's cute.

And in that way, the hero being
generated, on the pattern
handed down, to be seen

when you gaze in to your
close kin's eye and see co-known,
we were made
for this,

Klang, that Zildjian once again!
Exclamation, thus marked, calls
attention in the mind's contextual
effectuality, becoming
realized,
instant by instant, at first glance,
whose enemy am I, is the game,
truly
win or lose?

End act one.

Act two. In realized ever after that

The Internet exists, and we were here,
to help announce it,
then we made decisions, to make this.
-Opus

Spiking hopes up, we are among
the first billion mind text to text artforms
to survive
the transition to whenever next insight
sets us right, functional, operational
points,
in reality, centers, of shapes.
- of things in mindtimespace
In this medium, this is my realm,
your role,
is yours to define, any time, think ahead,
see if this goes there, what if it does.
Read'm and weep.

Then what do you do? Ever being after
learning enough to come this deep
when
time arrives.

Short time and long time,
made some mutual sense, muse using me,
and me,
I wished for this, that's so,
I asked to know the meaning of certain things.
I third in to knowing grown, as a tiny we
takes form of information in words rye,
or reasonably surprising to confess,
you know, McLuhan says yet, you know
nothing of my work. Awry.
Successfully making pasta with home-milled, bolted flour depends upon an appreciation of the interplay among grain selection, mill settings and bolting equipment. Failing to consider these factors increases the likelihood of making a weak dough and pasta that breaks when cut and/or cooked. Although one can mask the impact of a weak dough by choosing a more forgiving pasta shape (e.g., creating cavatelli instead of making tagliolini or tagliatelle), knowing the interaction of grain, mill and sieve will help you to create the pasta you envision. Google it.
Certainty is madness, has been resaid
in many ways, all the same, nothing changes

until the bubble of all we call awesome, pops.

AND Boom, it's Art for art's own sake, and me,
for my own, as we two witness, here,
this has already happened this once,

upon, operating the game, shame is left
in your -wherever,
compost it, tell the world.

I made nothing of myself.
I made something else, and then
I made U,
my qwerty symbolic friendly stat set,
bound near-letter
to peeling layers from this particular pearl,
today- in the post Everybody Knows, Cohen
sacred making idea in other words
sacrificial artifice,
offering unto that
super positioned we, humanity has set aside,
holy
holy
hoho ** green giant, ma jones, whole earth

Stewart Brand, right worthy former breather,
with us to this day, in word, and you know,
wheres words take us,
a we spirtitually untied, we
these days, depend to the nth degree,
on real estates in mindtimespace, literaturely.

Ben mentioned, awesome,
I did not catch the reference, I see,
I said a third I line pattern stylized me.
I see, I said for the nth dime degree
Phryigian Liberty Lady.{PLL} appearing

on the silver dimes entangled in the web,
of what Bacon knew or did not know,
when he invested with Madoff.
I know.
He did not write the sonnets.
Marking timestretched most point. Here.
right passing the point.
We imagine everything, am I right?
Line upon line, messaging any thing reader
ready, right now,
this is not the act, no novel form
of a sliver of if,
this is not that.
this is vid licet, per missions taken
for granted, as
meaning clearly I believe I have the right to say
reflectively

I know a whole
other story, new to you, but not to many readers
you were,
in previous experiences
in poetry, and books
for lievers being brought online
in due time.

Ever after that. You may, pause, and imagine roses.

Act three Realized mentally

At the end, it is mental ascent, we do form,
in conformity to the commonest of codes,
Berners Lee's Hyper-code, as manifested in hopes,
of artists,
so called by all who knew them, the framing crews
at Aaron Brother's Art Mart Penny-Frame Sales
events for staff, same
kind of crew glue,
as seen any where,
apron clad, badged, same grinning, that's me,
I did that, too. Grind,
locked in midnight restocking

Walmart, yep, #26, Van Buren, Arkansas.

Target on… Cuyamaca, Santee, San Diego New
Trolley End, right, future planned in action..,

I got black dirt cred back to Moses, m'friend,
I am as full blood American as may be by imagining
I am a Union man, distant scion of a soldier
who had a son prior to dying, around 1781.

In the war for freedom of the press, yes, Ben,
my childhood proverb provider, reminds us all,
owning the use
of money is better than owning
money.
Freedom
of the press, belongs
to the man, wombed or un,
the awesome asexual after all we know,
who who followt Jeffy, and yet did not die in shame,
I mean
after all, we know, we think, why any might
be
so tempted to throw in a sorted *** scene
to envoke audience reaction
by invoking spelchekian mastermind.
Freedom
of the press, belonging
to the man, wombed or un,
who has access to HelloPoetry, past all the 502s.

Free, if you will. No yoke. Seat of y'panting/
Ai aiai

This ain't showbiz. It is one act enacting another.

A writing being ready and read, at once, later.

SO, I bet the Diamond Farm.

Friendly local game, envision a vision of your own,
drawn from what you know is good, for food.
Good idea, fishing for everything.
Got one,
governing meat eaters,
keep your gun, pay a meat tax, by
buying a deer tag, which you may use
or put in to a deer harvesting pool.
That pool then gets used
to pay hunters and packers.

Living forests allow humane behaviour.
Be having the right to use the proteins,
- but you must pay the butchers
- as you might pay yourself
- for the gutting and skinning and all

tastes may be acquired,
that is a power, that sense, too any thing
taste
at first, too bitter

resending hate hate hate, thought caught,
infecting all who take free time to think.
Sweet persuasive, tiny
taste, ah
any, ha, may take a direct object status
in any story, told to gurgling gut gladly
reminding us, aha,
food is not imperitive, o see, im per it
-this instant, soon, however, bread's a must
imperit
ive found myself a happy enough
moment,
dopplering blue jay flies by, says Hi.
- I read myself into the game, and call

Back to Bellow, he told of a fellow in Spain,
who spoke of nudists on the public transportation
in Frankfurt, so, I slip in time slime, no crime time,
¿when was that,
in the era Bellow was an adult in,
when I was just a kid… living in those days?

Poker on the Diamond Farm, in the dust,
we swept into play in the after you believed,

what-did-you-get-to-do game?

I got old. After a while.
Actively participating in the spirit
of my time.
And most of my future happened as I did,
we happened to be here,
at this time, reading.
An opus set to end, when the contrabassoon
blow ai ai ai.

Curtain.