now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the

The farmers are doing it tough
Tough, it is hard to understand
Why they give money to the farmers and when it comes to helping the homeless they don’t give a ****
You see people give all the money to protect the farmers
And they don’t want to help the homeless
The homeless need more money
They are sleeping rough rain hail or shine and if we don’t get rain the farmers want to be helped, mind you the food comes from there and you know what Australians think of Aussie grown and  we must sort of think of that but the homeless are swept under the rug by Australians when they ask for a few simple dollars and they get nothing, and you never see a telethon on television for them
But you see the formers get the nod, well I suppose farmers are having a tough time but they have a home at night to go to
While the homeless have nothing
Sorry, I feel strongly about helping homeless people through tough times and I am just saying my piece

they are already past their peak,
at only 18
that's a hard fact
to feel.

but if you asked
them how much
they had left,
they truly believe
they haven't
even started yet.

but i see decay,
gravity, and
metabolism are
already betraying.

miss teen something or other
rattles on and on about her
ingenious selection of
"georgia on my mind",
she doesn't come off
as a queen,
as she twitches with every
side glance toward me,
as her hands fumble
awkwardly,
as her ******* appear through
her t-shirt,
so much for something or other
royalty.

her friend miss broken arrow
of 2007 goes on and on
about her fattening ***,
but her friend reassures her
that the judges like that.

i can see them better than
they see themselves.

i see them as stretch marks,
as time-battered vocal chords,
as wrinkles, as used up
objects cast aside
like boring toys
flung by hungry boys.

50 years from now
if they make it that
long,
they will look into
withered mirrors
with runny mascara
about their eyes
and they will
wish,
that someone
would just recognize
them for the things
they did.

i feel so sorry for
the formers,
never again reaching
the height of glory.

I am the Individual Isness incarnated in this body.
I am not the body.
I have travelled through many lifetimes in many bodies.
always learning learning learning.
I have developed nous from my experiences only.
I WILL NOT EVER-
accept a mind in my head.
accept any conditioned identity as being  me.
cede control over my brain centres to any mind or groupmind
that exists anywhere..
I WILL NOT EVER--
cede control over my brain centres to any conditioned identity or
group conditioned identity that exists anywhere.
or accept that any other but me,the Individual Isness, using my brain centres,using my brain the way I,the Individual Isness,want to and can do
to be in charge of the brain centres in the head of this body that I,the Isness,am incarnated in.
I WILL NOT EVER--
be prey to opinion-formers and experts and  pie charts and
focus groups and surveys.
be manipulated by PR men and women in shiny suits.
see Edward Bernays book--Propaganda.
be manipulated by GroupMinds into thinking  their way.
be taken in by brutal security forces posing as "guardians of peace.
respect in any way any member of any military forces anywhere
no matter how fancy the uniforms or excuses for ****** they wear.
I do not respect these parasites anywhere as they are nothing more than paid mercenary murderers on behalf of various Oligarchies..
see Jaques Ellul's book--Propaganda.
I WILL NOT EVER--
take any dangerous addictive cancer causing drugs
such as Alcohol and Tobacco primarily--
food additives...
No one has ever died from any cannabis product.
or from LSD or Mesccaline or Psylocybin.
believe in any so-called "god" or "goddess".
believe in any so-called "prophet" of any so-called "god"or "goddess".
accept any so-called "holy" book as valid or truthful
or valuable in any way except as
emergency papers to roll a grass joint
or to wipe my **** on.
be taken in by depraved words and concepts in any of these so-called "holy "books that have led to endless wars and still ongoing terrorism and atrocities in the name of one bloodthirsty "god" or "goddess".
I WILL NOT EVER--
accept anything as reality unless I can see clearly that
it is beyond duality.
accept any Conditioned Identity as me.
For I am the Isness which is a small but equal,individual,
autonomous and independant part of the essence of the Isness of the Universe--!.
which is not a "soul" or Atman or spirit
or any other religious concoction.
I WILL NOT EVER---
accept Mind as a necessary evil
accept GroupMind as a necessary evil.
I WILL NOT EVER ---
eat junk food of any kind.
drink tap water anywhere except in direst emergency.
eat white sugar or any other pure carbohydrate.
be a hypocritical moralising vegetarian.
become stoopid through bowing and scraping
and stooping at stupas.
I will be just a Self realised man living on a big ball in space
with a Self Realised woman playing and singing and dancing the Song of Our Lives.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

Always on the search for truth
I Hide from it’s Face now and for the first time
Because Ignorance is Bliss

I wouldn’t dream of editing you
And am Glad you Found someone to talk to
But every now and then I wish it wasn’t me

I know you well enough now to see you won’t be falling for me
You won’t be listening for my Heart Beat

The Formers
You’ve divulged these secrets to me

Open as a book
I’ll bend the spine to make my crease clear and visible
There is one who’s left a lurking Impression
I get to see the stains
They won’t wash out

I think it’s too late
I wouldn’t have been enough
Enough to make Taintless the mess they’ve left behind
Lets pretend that I’m ignorant to what You and I both know

Underneath blankets masked with lions,
Sheets twisted and tangeld from different limbs angles;
Bodies contorted to fit even the shortest,
And a faint moment where breath catches lips and eyelids flicker about...

Dreaming of simplistic bliss.

There lies a giant and a butterfly,
Peacefully sleeping and dancing upon each others minds,
Carefully finding a place for the other to occupy.

Struggling with their own stories;
and own reservations on loves that were never really love at all,
Both hesitate taking the bitter, beautiful, wonderful fall.

To imagine themselves in such a place,
That would take away the past and put a smile on each face,
And watch each other grow together,
Whilst needing to become much more than just a hidden treasure...

She whispers to herself, "I couldn't ask for better"

But the sleeping giant dreams,
While the small butterfly waits;
Each are contemplating how it is they wish to seal their fate.

Under galaxies it must have seemed,
That it was the mountain or the meadow that brought the two together,
While intoxicated by the sun, and anything else they were after.

"Nothing else matters"

The giant still holds this butterfly tight each and every night,
Escaping to a place free of the stinging strife.

As fate would rather have the two not question,
The butterfly cant help but wonder when the moments they share,
Will become a reality over suggestion.

When will the sleeping giant lay his armor down to her wings
Surrendering the double edged sword he carries right at her feet?
When will the butterfly tear down her self-contstructed wall,
Forgoing her formers and be willing to risk it all?

The butterfly mouths, come back as he gently rolls away,
Her whispers hold hope that tomorrow will be the day...

The pain of civilization the hunger of a reservation the future of your instincts manifested in the waters deep enough to drown sorrows in your own back yard formers retaliating in healing formers regaining strength in value in self governing options on the white paper hidden eyes so black so lost in your formality tie your own shoes don't try walk in ours you have no soles mysteries of the lost graves reappearing lines thru the lines found by mistake take me by the hand i won't take your truth I reform myself in dignity of my First Nation

Naivety
I put you on the back-burner one too many times, and that has influenced me in the present day. I still think about it, about us, though the intimacy I was building for you is long gone due to the busyness of my current schedule.
I can’t reminisce like I used to and can’t afford to live in the past anymore. My life has moved to a carpe-diem pace and I’ve become one of those that I had dreaded to become.
A normal.
How naïve of me to be so trusting of things I knew I couldn’t control.
How Naïve of me to believe that my decisions, all made on spur the moment emotion, would lead me in the right direction as oppose to just the direction I was facing. I’m a sucker for it now, learning languages just to express my love in a different tongue, learning dances to woo you into my arms, creating the flirtation I used to have so that I could chat us into a truce, oh, how Naïve I find myself now.
Truth is, the past still haunts me, but my ghosts are mere shadows of me, I’m not effected. I’m hunted by my formers, but I’m a tough quarry, I ***** with anything that seems to be changeable, making me a prime target of changeless society.
Naivety
What I found myself to be when I daydreamed of kissing you, our lips touching and sending tingles to my brain, sending what I would know as one step closer to the final intimacy. But now that step has been postponed, the staircase to heaven out for repair, and I’m stuck in a purgatory of my own creation, one filled with Irony and shame of idiotic past.
Naivety
What I think when I hear someone’s prayers for a soulmate, they don’t work, they just hope, and that’s unjust. Yet it be just my luck they find theirs while I stay here, sinking me deeper into my apathetic and pathetic state of being.
Naivety
The thought that runs through my mind when I think of what I’d ask you now-
Who were we?
Were we even an us, love? Because though it felt real, it was merely a half in a love that required one-fourth.
What were we?
Were we truly lovers? Sure, I loved you, but I never got to say it, never got to express it fully, and that causes an emptiness to echo in my heart. I find it as a settled score: My emptied heart in exchange for your torn and broken one.
Where were we?
Don’t be confused, baby, was your love in the past with another, or were you in the present, thinking of me, smelling my cologne as we cuddled in public, holding hands for the first time, making a display for gawking passersby that we knew? I still chuckle at that to this day, the faces peering over us as we walked, hand in hand, toward a destination to close. But I was too timid and I hadn’t opened up all that much, you were unknowingly initiating me in gradual changes that only you could’ve unlocked in me.
Can I say this to the future? My past made my future, yet my future will eventually become my past. My present isn’t the gift that I desired, but it’s a gift that I cherish regardless. It is my circumstance and my own personal Irony. And so I love it as I love you- the one with the bright smile and dark skin, the one with the chuckle but the sealed lips, the one with the shrug of shoulders but who herself wouldn’t say a word in compromise.
Naivety

I was becoming for the record I know I'm a liability what I administer is formation that was created from my days my minutes ...that cop that  came to rescue us when everyone left gave me his shhhhh he said no one will believe you OK ..All pretty all beautiful soul dancing ....suppress your only a savage !!go look after your kids look at you disgusting... OK !!! that worker did an assessment  on me ..unfit no good violent..but I can't tell you that I cry every night I don't even sleep in my own bed!! I make my kids sleep in one room just in case we have to jump out the window... but wait I'm violent I'm unfit I'm trying to protect myself from Mr. and Mrs. originally we were put on medication because were unbalanced and we need help psych ward is next for you you crazy Indian!!! I got to make it home tonight I sit in love for my family no one can take that from you !!it's mine !!educationally I sip this rage I sip this patience pour this quality into my baby girls I promise ...that Stagger makes you look vulnerable the cab driver pulls up loud music says our native slangs personally hand his number now he has us First Nation women on target !!!! where are you I just saw you we just spoke of our kids growing up together ...where are you I was trying to make a way I didn't have enough for this ..I'm sorry ..I'm lost I cry now ...you speak ..voice me tell my mama I love her my kids show them they're the greatest and to walk forward breathe me alive in your voice!!... they're going to call an apology accordingly as order is adopted their ways speak like them walk like them dress like them wash like them drink like smoke like them think like them wait I look different than them I feel different than them I try to fit in it just does not work OutKast original first nation take me home now ...I can't stay addicted the pain of civilization the hunger of the reservation the future of your instincts manifested in the waters deep enough to drown sorrows in your own backyard formers retaliating in healing formers regaining strength in value in self governing options on the white paper hidden eyes  so black so lost in your formality ...tie your own shoes don't try to walk in ours you have no sole... mysteries of loss graves reappearing lines found by mistake take me by the hand I won't take your truth I reform myself in dignity of my First Nation !!!!mercy kindness  truth!!!

Can I decide,
Or are we chosen for this life?
Does our existence depend on purely the journey we've already taken?

Have we earned this time?
Or did our formers souls fight,
To define an outcome?
A future?
Securing a path to not get left behind?

Do we deserve this right to our human lives?
Have we waited for years amongst the shadows
For the opportunity to shine?

Or have we proven worthy
For the chance of a life time?
To fulfil our purpose, our service,
To make some sort on impact on mankind?



At the end of the road, are you happy to go?
Or are you regretting?
Still dreaming and wishing
You could go back,
Change,
See what you were missing?

But
It's too late.
You've had your chance
So you must wait
As long as it takes
To regain all that time
That you
Lost
Through your life
Because you never tried
To live.

Former lovers comes to me.
Describing things we still could be.
They lay out all their dreams.
Without realizing its their fantasy.

Cause you give me more than I can ever ask for.

Formers lovers loves to spell out.
Exactly what they could do for me.
But when we were together.
They was out chasing for others.
They just don't know.

You give me more than I could ever need.
And there's nothing they can do for me.
Cause you give me more than I ever need.

Which is love.
Which is simplicity.
Which is happiness.

Persistence is sweat on the brow of passion
born from an exercise of faith...and patience.
So Dream on.

Dream on you backyard entrepreneurs
you idea formers, transformers, informers
of nay-sayers who
would take your dreams away.
Put them in their place - your past
and face your future with
all the passion you can muster.

For in those Dreams, those dusty
secret, loud, incredible, tired, tested,
and scared
Dreams
lies your potential, and all the potential that
ever was.

Your future can be your now...or more
if your hope
can trust in time to safeguard your power and
if you believe in the potential of your future.

Dream on.

Have you ever
Sat next to a
Neon yellow-orange pig?
Stared into its black eyes,
Its thick black eye brows,
It's two ******* nostrils surrounded
By that
Neon orange
Skin,
And wondered why the kitten,
Who enters with such
Curiosity and sniffage,
Cares so much at first and then,
Cares so little at all.

Certain men
Are like
This.

Certain women,
Act
Like this.

Certain people
Are meant to make
Certain people
Better people.

We are the building blocks
Of
Eachother, one another, everyone.

And I can't stand
The way my mind thinks and behaves/
Self-desctructs, re-constructs
These visions of illusory
Reality.
I've achieved nothing,
Yet,
I smile at the clouds who've achieved
Everything
By
Molecularly genetic chance.

Aren't we all just mistakes
In the gigantic genome experiement of life?
Accomplishing...something?

You know...I've got a pig roast this Saturday?
You know...I think about moving
And I think about screaming at strangers?
You know...I wonder what it would like to be hit by a
80 mile an hour car?
You know I know that all my peers, all my friends, all
My closest dearest closer than family people
Are utterly miserable with everything and just

WANT TO GET AWAY FROM IT ALL

Exhale

But,

To

Where?

We can't all become
Three million dollar

Junkies,

Can we?

There is no great state
Anymore.
It's broken.

The ideology
Of war
Is
Dead.

Patriotism has turned
The country inward when
All should be
Outward.

But then, you make,
The hair on the neck,
Stand on end.

Be in the scene and see
The small grains of sand atop
Her big toe nail, the sun-reflecting upon the nail,
How its pink shade reminds you of
Cotton candy no, bubblegum, yes,

Bubblegum.

These are the minds
Of formers past.
They've made their trists and tried
Their minds toward
Life that was both meaningful and
Meaningless.

What I wish to do is paint with words,

Our words,

So,

When all is finished,

I can see, without mirror

For a mirrow is a stage and a stage
Is too close, as is, the mirror.

Our age needs distance to affect
Any change.

What we've become,

What we truly are,

From there,

From here so to

Perhaps see,

Where we,

Should go, next.

Although I burnt my tounge on a latte
I'm back again at the cafe.
Its Friday and though the clienttile is large
they are of one hue
your upper sixth formers.,
with adenoidal soundbites.
Should I despair for their world.
I be tidy in the ground
sleeping under some well chosen bergamots.
I recall being young
it seems so deliriously long ago
but that was before the World  went flat

She puts her
Lotion on
Like a classically trained
French actress

It feels good,
She says

I watch a movie trailer
With a man with
A fake plastered head.
It looks
Good.
It looks funny.
It looks
Unique.

Then,
There are the voices and
The unexpected become the expected and
No one's
English anymore.
It's alright.
Things shouldn't be what they seem.
Every seam
Needs to tear to
Let the legs
Stretch out a bit.

But oh' the free form
Frost didn't like
It much.
It's fun to run free,
But I can see
What he means, the need
Of a little structure
And form to reveal the frauds,
The fakes, the formers,

From the

Real

Thing.

I see the ghosts of my fallen formers animated before me,
I have yet to meet the stranger who reads me bedtime stories.

Haunting cosmic music lures me from my bed at night,
I feel pink static tickle my brain before I take flight.

I’m not equipped to handle the energy mania bestows upon my mind:
A hypernova blast ripping through my universe, leaving nothing left to find.

The bustling sounds- of what once was- draws me downstairs,
I hear the kettle boiling, the television blaring, the scraping of chairs.

The magical love I feel is compressed, in my chest, into a tiny singularity.
If this is what you call crazy, then I don’t want to come back to reality.

thursday, 9 a.m.

recrudesence

picking scabs from old wounds

in a state of
what could be, has been
entroped
in 'erclueles and all the task

per formers pre formed for duty
as carriers

vectors of investment in us,
we, the people
of unbroken words,
--- imagine us words asifwe form
from that space twixt wick and smoke,
the gifts of prometheus included us

we balance values

for-by-of pre positioned players

enact the act
re quired in the right thinking
mentioned by Ben as being

the key to sought and caught
happiness, successfully pursued
pursuant to all accepted norms, but
bound up
in cultural ties
to long told stories

'avin' no aitches an gees

wise-ward toward even seems
what come t' steven
even steven's that'
the story, the psuedodylan said

behind every body must get ******
--- badumpty dump dump thumpt

c'mon, stevie, what djew see?

What is a candle
to a bonfire ?
What is a leaf
to a branch ?

For in seconds  
a gust of wind
may extinguish
the formers reign

So never despise
a new beginning,
for the latter arrives
to stand even in wind