Where does it come from?
This love so foregin
With is language hard to comprehend
and its ways so different from other feelings.
Where does it come from?

Child Child! I beckon

Cometh to my feet.

Giveth your spirit.

May your eyes heat.

 

From the tears that poureth

Down vicously

Giveth your spirit

Whilst laughing deleriously

 

I recieveth affection

From foreign hands

That giveth their spirit

From foregin lands

 

Child! Child! I beckon

Cometh to my feet

Grovel 'til I'm laughing

Your pain makes life complete

The rain falls, a soft pitter-patter in the background
Over it plays our music, calm and sweet
A song of love lost, never to be found again
Sad music, the best we have
Outside the windows, we watch the world pass us by
The rain distorting images, refracting light
Making the world a foregin, beautiful place once more
Like when we were children
Uncorrupted by the cynicism we develeop as protection
From a cruel cruel world
You drive, while I sit passenger
We don't talk
Words would only spoil the moment
With the rain, and the music
Your hand and mine, intertwined
We achieve a state of peace, tranquility
Perfection
And then
SWERVE
No more

I can look at an Afghani
and want to **** them
wish the most horrible death uopn them
and yet I can save their life

I can look at the blood, guts and even death
and never bat an eye
or even remember the injuries
until I have to load and unload them once again

I can cry tears of sorrow
and hide them upon my sleeves
so no one can see
what is exactly wrong

I can look down the sights of my carbine
with a round in the chamber
and mutter to myself
its only a job I have to do

Yet i can not express simple emotions
spoken, simple and direct
as if it would make a difference
of whether i am sane or not

I can understand a consequence
as it is the law of nature
every action has a reaction
that is equal and justifiable

I can write something meaningful
and never mean a **** word
if context and understanding
is never understood

I think i understand life
or atleast the simple meaning therein
any creature is meant to have
eat, drink, reproduce and sleep

I think I understand death
or the permenace thereof
when the look of dispair
is transfixed upon frozen eyes

Yet i can gaze upon the stars
in a distant foregin land
where death lurks in the shadows
and still feel so meaningless

. genocide, or contraception? jobs... the export of jobs? technological advancements... it's not genocide... but it is a variant of contraception, isn't it? it's slow: slow implies: non-existent in the journalistic wortsprechen... which implies: covert, & metaphor... but we are talking about a contraception variant... it's not genocide... it's... well... the basic economic utility of you, = nul. automation is... sniff sniff... smell it? well yeah... poetry got no soul... just some bogus depressive antics for what doesn't even register as: tabloid.... fringe encounters of the tabloid kynd... but we are talking about a slow genocide, economic migration is war: in slo motion without brutes und goons... it's condoms: for... why wouldn't we?!

well... it's not exactly genocide...
given that it's slow
implies something, natural
and coincidental
to allocate an justifiable
association with it...

you know what happened
when the iron works
were undermined in Poland,
people were displaced,
i could have worked
a job in a metal work factory
like my maternal & paternal
grandfathers,
like my father...
  eh, **** it,
economic migrant:
     which is an alias
of what isn't exactly a cold
war: with hot egos
lodged into red buttons
and fidgety nuclear warheads
itching for that:
firework display!

everything economic is
a testament of sloth:
in decay...
    a media attention broom
of bored egotistical
ambitions facets:
the virility of
the other, sided argument:

that whole
"just" economic migrants...

war is a variant
of economics,
why are those migrating
for economic reasons,
not given what
is given to:
the immediacy of
the violent squabble?

delay, sure,
      and that is all,
it will ever be...
            you think i like
speaking this tongue?
you think i like
having to parody
the citizen?
  you think this tongue
is all that will ever
be: like a circus virus,
like nothing more than
a parasite?

the english in me
is a parasite...
i am: succumbed to its
presence,
for a "polite society"
rubric...
        i die:
i want this slithering
slob of an "invitation"
to be begone from me...

i, host,
   see nothing but
the mortal transcience of
a suited use for this...
string of words...

it has infested me
with a presence that
ignobles me...
no brown intact or
a pale hue of a skin's
colour:
   this... grits my
very fundamental
posit of verb: i think...

i am more bothered
by ethics
and not by etiquette...
the english don't
know that!
they're yet to discover
en masse,
the application
of diacritical marks...

   zee: Ęգλíш...

have you ever watched
the stew of rot
and abandonment
become: porous...
as in:
over time, time is
both the economics
of war,
and war biding:
                to & fro...

          if only: "just" an economic
migrant...
which is why i stashed
a dozen swords in my attic...

so? just war...
     you move: i move...
    
  i will only baptiße my soul
upon the altar of death
in being able to:
unlearn this parasitic
entity of the familially
cordial exchange of / for:
   having an inclination
  for a deviating purpose;

but of said things,
i am already too late to govern
a frictive foot
for a standing
    of attention and
convinced basin's depth
inclusive...

     how could have this looked
like... in a cosmopolitan
environment,
whereby a simpleton's
bilingualism would not
be curated as a schizophrenia...

                in a cosmopolitan
environment...
   of, say, Switz origins...
this could have been:
a hindering hybrid of
    stagnant cues...
for:
       no labour in the waiting:
for a bogus
      variant of a gem...

yet i find myself
stunned...
by such phrasing as...
home-grown terrorist...
some jihadi....

   and here, i am,
speaking the tongue
of the parasite,
this... acquired, tongue...
and i dare not speak
this tongue beyond
the necessary public...
and yet, there are those,
as foregin as i,
who forge a whip-for-will
in demands
that: outstrip the farce
of casual conversation...

no matter...
  however much
this nausea for the people
who would understand
ja, tym, gadam...

              gadanina:
gadać:

                  ­ yet still...
i die, this tongue
becomes tomb...
        borrowed,
acquired...
              something...
­        worth: an impasse's
worth of a conundrum's
worth of justification...

let's just say:
i became tired
of snoops,
of the natives asking
the question:
where are you from...

if only i acquired
the diacritical differentiation
of a foreigner,
and were not
forever justified in:
suspect...

                by speaking:
closely the native
narrative...

         a man to inherit
the assort of labour
to plough a field,
given but two left hands
for the smugness
of a work ethic's worth
of invest.

   this tongue dies with
me,
      oh i hope for a death,
that opens up
a horizon for
erasure,
      of my current
utility of:
                       said, tongue.

expect evenings laced with longing
youth buried underneath experience
desperate greed
and
foregin efforts to conserve the lives we lead

Self love.
Two words that are practically foregin to me.
I have never been known to love myself.
Someone is always better.
Thinner.
Smarter.
Prettier.
Always comparing myself.
Always self loathing.
I wanted to be better.
Thinner.
Smarter.
Prettier.
So I stopped eating and I stopped going out in public with no make up on.
And I pretended that I knew about all of these different places and things; even though I really had no interest in those things or places.
And I would go home and cry and I started leaving scars on my beautiful, clean skin.
Because no matter how much make up I put on my face,
Or how many days I went without a bite of food;
Or how many things I pretended to know;
I still wasn't better than someone else.
There was still always someone better.
And now I look at the body that I destroyed.
And my skin isn't beautiful and clean anymore.
And my teeth are stained yellow from all of the cigarettes.
And my eyes have dark circles under them from the nights I spent crying;
Trying so hard to be perfect.
And that's okay.
I am finally okay with not being perfect.
I am ready to love myself.

Its cold here
desperate and foregin.
LOST
Amidst all my fears,
broken promises.
AFTER
Seven blissful years.
Abandon all hope;
those who follow.

© Rayne,1-22-2015
11 days I survived.

At night, the Cool night,
The solitary night
I wait for you.
The crickets mutter
and the wind plays amongest the leaves.

At night, the cool night,
The lonesome night
I wait for you.
The stars send hidden codes
and the moon, the luminous moon
talks slowly.

At night, the cool night,
The confided to myself night
I wait for you.
The creatures do not stir
For they hear a sound so foregin
The clouds protect the stars and the moon
Clouding what they might see.

I catch my breath and
my lungs cool over.
"Its me" you say
Its you I say
At night, the warm night
The acompained with my love night
I run away with you.