What if dawn never comes
No more bright light from the sun
With no sun the moon won't shine
In the total darkness will you lose your mind

Will you be able to face your fears
When your monsters are closing in and getting near
Or will you keep running trying to out distance them
Feeling like you have been condemned

Or will your turn and face those demons
And find the greater meanings
Will inside yourself you find that gem
Will you find where your darkness stems

Will you be able to restart your spark
And leave in this world your wonderous mark
To show the world your true being
To let the world know you are no longer fleeing

To destroy your mask can be so freeing
To banish the dark with the light thats inside
Because that's what happens when you have nothing left to hide

I’m sorry I took a month to respond.
I’m late because I didn’t know what to say.
I say “I know this is still really painful”
but what I’m really trying to say is “I’m sorry.”

And by “I’m sorry” I mean
“I’ll never forgive myself for the pain I caused you.”
Caused us both.
And by "us both" I mean this was hard for me too
because I’m the one who had to make the decision.

And by make the decision I mean I’m the one
who had to take a real, hard look at us, you know?
I’m the one who had to tug the thread
and feel the unraveling in my hands,
and watching the unraveling in your eyes,
and do the unraveling of our life.
I’m the one who had to face what neither of us would.
We hadn’t had *** in months.
We were newly weds.

And I’m sorry we were newly weds.
We should’ve been newly broken up.
And what I mean is that
I shouldn’t have married you in the first place.
I shouldn’t have planned a wedding with you.
I shouldn’t have said yes.

And what I mean is that I felt the burning in my belly
that night you asked me to choose you as my knight,
and to assume the role as your queen.
And by burning in my belly I mean I knew
even then that my “yes” was tentative
and that it felt more like a “maybe”
and that maybe I wouldn’t go through with this at all.
But what do you say, other than an emphatic “yes,"
to the man who has loved you for a decade?

And what I mean to say is that the “yes” wasn’t mine.
It was theirs
and it was yours
and it was ours,
but it wasn’t mine.
What I had was “no.”
Because what do you say, other than an emphatic “no,”
to the man who has tried to love you for a decade?

So my “no” sounded a lot like a “yes” that night
and I’m sorry I got them confused.

And what I mean is that you deserved better.
Not someone better than me; that’s not what I mean.
What I mean is that you deserved courage.
You deserved all of the courage
I let hide behind the moon that night,
and all of the courage
I tucked toward the back of our closet those months,
and all of the courage
I swallowed in favour of a more palatable flavour that year.

And what I mean is that I should have said “no.”
That you deserved “no.”
And all of this is just to say that I ****** up,
and that maybe I was stuck in the Upside Down
where weakness looked like strength,
and absconding looked like leaving boldly,
and “no” looked like “yes,”
and “I do” sounded a whole lot like “forever”
didn’t it?

“To my love, forever”
I said.
Emphasis on the comma before “forever”
because I never could pass up an opportunity to be pretentious.
And what I mean is that
I’m sorry I got your ring engraved with “forever”
when “forever” meant more like a year-ish
and I’m sure as hell positive
that you haven’t felt like “my love,”
have you?

And so I’m sorry I said “forever”
when what I meant to say was “not ever.”
How freeing that would’ve been for us.
And by freeing I mean I could’ve saved us both from this mess.
From this d-i-v-o-r-c-e that we now have tattooed on our hearts.

And so I’m sorry I didn’t say all that I meant to say.
And that it’s too late to say any of it now,
because now we’re strangers,
but what I meant to say that day is that
I love you
and
I want to leave you.

Hex Birthright in Hellenika

The Celestial Spirit of Vernarth began to walk through the Castellum del Horcodising, after the parapsychological regression in the conclusive auction and purge of him. He was looming at the Horcondising Keep; here all toilet modules, food, and medicines were well equipped, except for the inks and writing papers that were totally exhausted. Here you can see his mother Luccica, who was in a position to scribble and write on an upstairs deck, and in the other hand, she had a rosary of liberation, which anonymously appears before her purging in the presence of the protervative spellings that still wander through the cells and bedrooms of the Castellum del Horcondising. Her mother is seen twisted over the voices that polished the eight moons that she had designed for her son Vernarth from the very machicolations of the Castellum, but now with a rosary of liberation. It was clearly seen in the leaves written by her, which said that “My son abandoned his weapons, now in fluids of holy water, symbolizing real chimeras by the projections, to those who read his life verses in our Castellum, in Gaugamela and Patmos ”. Vernarth, mostly Hellenic, awaits to manifest healings for all creation, dumping water from moon storms on Rhodes, and lighting Matacan wall light at the door of the Messiah stand.

Vernart says: “my adolescent look, she has to be reborn with that of my father Bernardolipo; a whole Chamberlain, making himself free and a supporter of the baronies that were part of the servants of my servants…! Although now to climb his cabinet I have to raise my knees higher before his amplified step, calling us all and trying to be closer to a new bell to call us to dinner, as an entity of pride of architecture defined by his pen, ink, and white sheet that I mention. The mother I have to mention; My mother Luccica, rests not condemned or corrupted before her flesh, rather perfectly united to her spirit that envelops her free of sin, so that her company would be of complete solitude in our Castellum, we will continue to be in conformity with the spirit because our mansion is a beautiful spirit of vicissitudes, life, and peace, that our esplanade holds hunger and coldly indifferent to loneliness, cooling and pleasing the company of its own cold, rising from the first rays of the day, as well as rising from the first pinches of graduated ink, agreeing in the corrals where my father already lived according to his life among debtors, mortifying what he has not been able to mount on his steeds that inhabit his senses, leaving not so far to greet them in the mornings free of errors of not greeting, even When the minimum space is left to think of him as a joint-heir. Because the laments sob and others are born in the virginity of the light of the world with other lines Luccica can scarcely write, writing her co-age spirit, manifesting itself foolishly in suffering perfection; manifesting itself as everyone's delight, although ringing with anger at not freeing itself from glorious freedom. Not all sing to the tune of the disability of putting the strength of the grapheme of posterity, rather we blind ourselves by putting hope, but of patience that we arm ourselves by losing our courage to have it. Our will is of the magnitude of saints when doubt and fear entertain us, according to all the things and purposes that irreversibly will surprise us. I do not know where I have to walk here in this tower ?, because I know that myths of the unknown will fall according to the fact that I am his son, being the first-born of all men in the world, speaking of who among many intercede before tribulation or anguish, that strips me of all spirit still asking for it and justifying that I keep talking about them, but that I have been gone for a long time. For this reason, venerated mother, wake up from this frozen cell of the courtesy tower, because I am jealous and I believe that neither death nor life will fill the dead suspended in your room, which support more lives with their angels adorning their bindings and paragraphs, with principalities that are increasingly so distant more than imminent to come to please you. When your name is tried in real vices to increase, they are being stripped of the sons of the principality in which they shine from afar, but with our feet dancing on despotic brilliance, and not of the hollow that still does not fill my heart for you”

Emerging from the last lights of the Castellum del Horcondising, Vernarth bids farewell to his reign, leaving his mother Luccica in the company of three Angels who mined him with the amber mistletoe, of sallow light. However, she will remain frosted on her desk with ink at night and by day, so that when the day ceases, she will draw ink from the darkest night to continue writing that she can already be without Him! Near the Halleniká Necropolis in Rhodes, a statue of Peltasts stood, shielding the site where the “Vas Auric” Auric Medallion would sporadically rest, which came between the bilges, now inside the Eurydice. It came predestined with sacred amber garments alloyed, to make up for the between Peltast mediators who guarded them, to deliver it to its Commander Vernarth.

The Apostle Saint John says: “The Sephardim like us in exile did not see reasons restored in our union and tradition, we resembled a diaspora that did not derive voluntarily, according to events that occurred in my case in Judah at the hands of the Romans. The Alexandrian Jews form on my part certain Israelites dispersed in my prayers, leaving us where the radiance of our faith makes sense and dispensed power to us. My economy is to create the furniture that will inhabit laborious houses in the Staurós histos, even among those Jews and mercenary soldiers, freeing themselves from prejudices and clothing that represented them alone and fragile, being sensible by the diaspora. The world separates itself from the matter cell, clinging to the consciousness of the unity of dispersed Mosaicism as a sacrificial cult, to cater to those who write history more distant than a synagogue without a Rabbi. When bad winds blew there, they often made the situation worse for those scattered in a foreign land. At the end of the Hellenistic era, we had Jews in Persia, Mesopotamia, Syria, Phenicia, Pontus, north of the Black Sea, Cappadocia, the rest of Asia Minor, Egypt, and Cyrenaica, Carthage, Greece, Macedonia, and Italy. Now I in Rhodes with the Vas Auric, to trace the true effigy of Judas Thaddeus, my co-religious in pursuit of an intellectual and theological religious activity of edifying centers of prayer and universal unification, here in the Necropolis of Hallenikka, where some Davidian Psalm will be in more regions of here documented in precession, and as a reciprocal religion to Hellenic situationism. Its religiosity is felt, it even remains open in proselytism that causes the indefiniteness of the half-convert and that implies a risk for the identity of the Jewish religion as the support of a people with not a little original conscience "

He sings The Delphic Sibyl: “He bears the crown of thorns of the Coronation of Jesus, which also happened in the Praetorium, and as in previous cases to the scene represented in the corresponding neutral. In Eritrea Stauros, rather Herophile, if chaste and Delphic clairvoyant and apologetic, her vernacular artery made her a native of Marpeso, Troyana-Troade. As in fantasies of being the daughter of a Nymph and a Shepherd. Her elegy was escorting her to the Duodecim Evangelii, from Samos she is docking towards Patmos at the foundations of the Megaron. With the same polygon of the Sistine Chapel, in the quattrocento, where Vernarth had assistance in the parapsychological Regression of the Quattrocento Duodecim Evangelii, announcing that Vernolatry would be part of his Apologetic life, inspiring prophecies with the Iaspis Parables, commending scholarship after the grave that He was in the forest of Apollo Smintheus, returning to his origins in a sinkhole in Mount Coric. The idiomatic cross was its interlaced fractal, with threads and kashmar pole, surrounding the crossed palisades with linen threads, and Koiné to display the cross in the hestion or towards the Staurós or cross, in the capital event of the material instrument of execution for the man who falls into no man's land "

Be scared mortal,,,, for it approaches,
The night be young, the spirits restless,
The wind dances,, the trees echo,,
Creatures of the night awaken,
Deep dark voids are open,
You can only gasp in terror,,
Your worst nightmares will come to pass,,,,
As the sky slowly turns crimson,
As the eye of the night opens,, blood red and hungry,,
Freeing the wild magic chained,,,
The bloodmoon approaches...

Shattered and Relieved
to realize
that what we had
was nothing more
than something small
and tragic.

Distressed and Smiling
to read the past
figure out the fact
that you are nothing.

I've wasted time
but not that much
having come to terms
with the word:
"enough."

Crushed and Invincible
I've been so bruised
that now I'm strong
And all I can do
is breathe and learn.

You're a fool
but so am I.
Otherwise I wouldn't cry.
You're wise.
I'll be wise too.
And walk away
avoid your eyes
until there's no more pain.

Destroyed but Rebuilding.
I may never forgive you
but I'm okay with that too.
Even if I do,
I will never be your friend.
So don't say hello.
We are no more than strangers.

Hurt but Happy.
It's a freeing feeling
knowing you've started healing
When you stop revolving around the sun.

And start living for yourself.

You’re pretty… he says
for a dark-skinned girl
I usually don’t talk to your kind.
am I supposed to feel honor?
you hopped of your pedestal, down to mine?
I will not curve my lips into the half of the crescent moon that you’re expecting
you do not deserve that.
exclusion encumbers me and I am small in your eyes.
Surely you can see that I am a dark girl,  sweet berries ; color of night
the same colors that allowed my ancestors to take flight.
freeing them from *******,
wounds that had them tied, without my hue, we would’ve died.
I am a stone immortal, no work of erosion can seep through my cracks.
the trials of my ancestors drawn on their backs.
so our heads, we never hang down , we are to be found.
scars to be hidden
it is the gas in a run-away car,
that last sip an alcoholic has as their arm and wrist lay dangling at the bar
this is the prestige of my hue
if I’m just pretty? then what could beauty possibly mean to you. a rare blend of  history, struggle and strength.
My head will not hang, not once more
by noose or in self distress, I am history.
No more do I long to sit at a table with you,
in the wake of waiting for your admiration
I have created my own table, in appreciation of your hesitation.
To you my worth will always be in comparison to what’s missing
that being pretty for a dark-skin girl, is a blessing.
Worth far more than bedazzled insults
, convinced I was worth less
they could see it in my eyes, the way I dressed.
The hue that I am is far greater than they told me
accepting  back handed accolades,  that’s the old me.
This house that holds my soul is only almost pretty… they say
if I weren’t so dark I might be worth loving, caring wanting or staying.
My color, a rustic espresso, no cream.
you say I am pretty for a dark- skinned girl …
no I’m pretty and that’s it!
signed a FED UP dark skinned chick

Why Men Like to Load the Dishwasher

We are the artists of shape and configuration,
puzzle masters solving riddles of physics,
worshipers at the altar of labor saving devices,
this is a love poem of sorts, a Bazinga salutation,
to men and their undying love
for **** machines.

were it in my power
all cups would be handle-less,
the dishwasher time-space continuum
would be non-interrupted by black holes
where handles pointlessly protrude,
requiring endless rearrangement,
a soul destroying exercise.

bowls of any sort should have bottoms that retract.
indeed, the capacity increase, a visible fact,
is so enviro-friendly, eminently sensible,
that the loading for mechanical scrubbing
is deserved of a wing in the Smithsonian.

perhaps the budgeteers of Congress
should be tutored in this artistry,
how to make any limited resource,
better used.

the rub, as the bard would have writ,
is that this roaring tempest-tost,
our love for hard labor lost,
secret sacrificed behind a locked door,
of a Sanctum *******,
is entirely due, all glory to,
the secret society of fairies who
hide-reside inside,
freeing us to write more poetry.

in so many ways that I cannot reveal,
less the other gender members squeal,
men live to love to load the dishwasher,
for the ingenuity challenge, and of course,
the side benefit of the excusing coverup,
"I helped clean up," a relationship saver,
proof positively that the dishwasher inventor,
was surely a brilliant woman

Memory

     is  the birth of cool, it is rapture and ignominious spokesmanship unearthed. Packed into a slatted-wood crate, milking the obsession from cash-toting hands. Freeing itself from your bottom lip while life ticks itself away on a digital stock-exchange display. I am down and you are up, and you save pennies while I search for Chrysanthemums and vanilla-scented candles. Scent is my fifth grade spaceship,
     I hide it in my pocket and take it into the forest when the week is over. Adventure is the part of our story that's caught in between complaining about money and having clean sheets. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday my hands mend themselves back from bleach, their crevices cave under bright lights, I go to the garden strip and put dirt on my face, over my shoulders, and on my back. I make a altimeter from an alarm clock, and worry what will happen if your feet should ever touch the ground.
Relief
     is a sarcophagus, the satiny silk chrysalis I weave into invincibility. I make myself a small child with a demon-proof lair, no one comes in, not even you.  I see

     how drugs take out your heart and put you anew, fresh: orange, pink, ultramarine. A wave is a soft gesture for twilight, a slow walk among the greying statue towers, bliss extracted from person to person tedium. How you exclaim about **** music as if your temple home was unfocused by jazz or synth-electro.
     I forgot your room of quiet had no bells, no hope, and no notes of resolve. Tragedy was the desert of your six to sixteen, while I made an opus out of crystal glasses and Cran-Raspberry jars. Then it was the relief, Neptune's hands on your *******, red dots of ecstasy connecting you to a higher vibration. You felt it was time to start exercising. I didn't **** you for modifying your perception of color, degrading in a salt pool- I didn't own your ****** it was just a place I went into to write.
    
    Three years later. I was growing backward, I was sixteen, making you the muse in my doorway, a James Bond goddess unraveling my fingers on her silky skin, except your golden crown was really a turban of snakes, and instead of silk I was groveling underneath you. That was the sweat that Ryan Shultz said I garbled up into two pedestal doves, I aimed by eyes straight at the city of gold, and then inside me shucked out every piece of self-respect and vitrified my spirit, castrating my lips and my tongue for something to come to or come at, he said I lived under pointed stars and that lying isn't a good way to get over past phases of silence.

     A few days ago, it all game back to me, in a random series of songs on an iTunes playlist. One memory from an isolated beach outside a strawberry patch near Santa Cruz, a second, two hands cupped over the ears, my face closing in on her smoothed-out pink bottom lip on an over-exagerated car ride to the San Francisco airport, and the third was the mention of non-vegan banana cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, a birthday I celebrated several years earlier. All of them in the coda.
    
     Verse four unbelievable. It caught me straying from the next stressor at hand. What's next? I move my cold hands from a keyboard versing strange relapse of mind, or I tear out another page, whip across town, and peel stamps onto a postcard to send.
     They were all tails from a memory. A slowing ghost that cooed at me from far away, beating me up and down, pulling my eyes away from a scent I continually tried to remember.

The tortured heart and soul do not drive these words anymore
Instead, it’s the delightful lovely thoughts of what the heart and soul has the opportunity to feel
Delightful lovely thoughts that drives and create these new words
Thoughts of a new embrace
New lips
Thoughts of a touch from new hands
Hands to let caress me
Hands that try to find where my skin ends
Tracing my curves
Getting lost as they move in
So many thoughts of where a simple “Hello” can lead
A simple flirty hello that spreads...a smile on my face
Lovely lovely thoughts bounce through this free spirited mind
Lovely lovely things that could become real after a glass of wine
How freeing it is! ...to say all of these things!
I’ve written these words from a depth of sincere happiness
A free soul
No more binding emotional ties that hinder the smile I now like to share all the time
A smile that comes from the bright spirit I now hold
A freeing smile that invites the opportunity of new chances
New chances!
I never thought I would say those words
Lovely thoughts
Lovely things
I’m exited for what they will manifest and bring

Innocence in the sunlight
Lose all your inhibitions in the nightlife
A feeling so freeing
Intoxicated with the moonlight
Drinking in its radiant beams
Such a feeling

Love everything, and everyone. Thank the grass for being a soft place to fall, and those who own the arms of your safe place to crash.
Love the girl who taunts you, love the boy who tries too hard.
Love the woman who screams that you will never make it, love the man who stares a little too long.
Do not waste too much time on loving yourself, for when you exude love you will receive it.
You must love those who do not deserve it, and all the while you will receive love you do not deserve.
For love is not a feeling, but an action.
For love is not restraining, but freeing.

2. When you start to notice your reflection, remember that it does not matter. A soul needs a home, and your home is a fine home. Your body keeps your soul safe, and warm, and fed. So worry more about what you put into your mind than your mouth, and never forget that your soul cares not of the shape of it’s home.

3. When you see someone who is in need of help, they become your obligation. The only true way to understand a person is to love them, and the best way to love a person is to serve them. There is no man or woman who was born undeserved of love, and you ought to give more than you think your heart will allow.

4. When lost, know that you do not have one sole purpose. You have many facets, and many talents. Each day you may have a different purpose, and each day it may not be a grand one, but each day it is an important one. Be open to things you did not think of yourself capable, and know that nobody cares about your embarrassments more than yourself.

5. Every day of your life you will make mistakes, and if you think that you have to right to belittle others because of theirs then honey, I am here to tell you that you are wrong. Unfair judgment hinders understanding, which hinders the most important thing of all: love.  

6. Forgive all, but do not trust all. Love all, but do not pleasure all. You are to lose yourself, to emerge yourself in the work and service of others. You are to overwhelm yourself with love and kindness, so much that it spills over. You are to give more than you have, and to take less than you need.

7. Do not worry about being happy. The search for happiness is never ending, and a path that has no destination. Lose yourself, and happiness will find you. Look for happiness, and you will lose it all.

It all happened so fast. Like most good things in life--the really monumental moments--it's like you float out of your body and come screaming back just soon enough to realize the moment had passed.

I didn't know how many miles were behind me now. It seemed like a thousand but it didn't really matter. I wasn't going to be one of those mindless wanderers--blindly probing my way through life's misery and defeat to one day wake up wishing I was young again.

I'm taking my youth back from the government, the bankers, the Wall Street gamblers and racing toward the horizon like there are commercial airplanes in my blood and skyscrapers burning in my chest.

You can only go to the same god forsaken place to have your soul ****** out of you for so many ******* days in a row before you either become one of them or make your own revolt and

collapse
                 *into a sea of ash
                                              slithering like snakes along the city streets.
You just run as fast as you can.

I chose the latter.
__________________­__


I'm going to do the cliche thing I suppose. Do as many drugs as possible, do as many women as possible, keep chasing the next good time until I get high enough to slap a saddle on my car roof and ride off into the Atlantic--fireworks shooting off in every direction to *** up the stars--refracting radials within the iridescence of the shimmering sea.

>explosions echo endlessly<
[wrap around the ambient rhythm of the TidePuller]

touch! caress! make love!--stare through eyes into deep blue souls and find something of yourself there.

That's how I'd like to go anyways, I don't know about you--.

That might just be this narcotic cocktail talking. I take my pills ground up in a wine glass mixed with cheap scotch. Then I chase with cups of watered down coffee--chugging until ceilings start to undulate and shake me loose. That's when I know I can start the day.

It's usually my most productive days when the ceiling tiles arrange into piano keys. Then I get to create my symphonies and soliloquies before I try to go get laid.

Now that I'm out here on the road though my mind is being blown.

Try waking to the same white black piano key ceiling everyday, to then finally feel the colors of the sky--for the very first time!

A never ending metaphysical canvas for the thoughts and longings of a drugged up DaVinci who just woke up in his time machine to start the 2nd Renaissance in the clouds. It all makes me wish I would have left years ago.
__________________­_


You see, I'm your typical twenty-something passionate kid trying to turn a ****** past into some kind of salvageable foundation for a chance at catching up with the rest of normal "adult" society. But I've got some problems with this whole "reality" thing people are so adamant at upholding.

Last time I visited my human family around the world they were all drowning in debt and poverty; trying with every fiber of their being to find that one bright spot. Stuck. In the deepest, darkest, most cavernous rotting excuse of a day to day life.

All because some meaningless number
on some computer
in some bank building
with their name on it
either is too small or doesn't exist.

Most of my human family know things are bad,

But most in the impoverished third-world are so deprived of basic human needs that they never get the chance to ponder who really holds the key to their cage.

So they are inclined to accept the status quo and the system and try to live inside of it. Failing to find sunshine within the deepest depths of an erupting volcano; mistaking the heat, the burning alive, for some kind of sign that the brightness has got to be somewhere close. So we will just try to sink a little deeper with the rest of them.

Here in America:
Sure, let's go on back to ringing registers for minimum wage all day until my ears bleed and my head wants to fall off so I can go home to watch some television!

Yes, God Please just let me relax here with my box of flashing pictures and scintillating sounds. The only truth I'll ever need.

Just let me relax here with my reality being defined for me by the volcano directors--telling me that I didn't just come in my house dripping with magma all over the carpet.

YES GOD, just let me relax a little before I have to go to my volcanic, skin searing hell again tomorrow morning. Where they tell me on T.V. that I'm going to find that sunshine I desperately long for. But It'll always

*collapse
                 into a sea of ash
                 to scar the sky grey, silence the sun's rays, blot out the stars, and darken our days*

You just sigh and say "Tomorrow's another day..."
_________________­__


Yeah, I was right there with them yesterday. I was with them for years. Getting brainwashed and ***** slapped by advertising--getting barraged with constant reminders that all I was meant to do was to work my life away--decide to be some tiny insignificant cog in this "economy" they call it.

Looks more to me like I signed up to be some mindless consumerism *****! Sheeping my way along... buying and wasting; buying, wasting; buying again, a bunch of **** I don't need and throwing it away.

We're Living in a society infected with some sort of capitalistic contagion that pretty much siphons off the Earth's life force.

We are conditioned into a reality that the richest & most powerful would like all to believe.

Art-full hearts are stomped on, told to get a job, and plan for retirement. Told to slow down and be reasonable rather than speed up. Velocity of the heart may as well be an act of terrorism unless it's for marriage--and LGBT is on the no fly list.

This is a reality set up predominantly for the endless profit of a bunch of trans-national corporations who won't be satisfied until they hold complete and utter dominion over their ***** and pillaged planet.

Perhaps then they'll be rich enough to fly away in spaceships to **** the next Earth and leave all us sheep here with bargain sales, social networking and reality T.V. as distractions...

Too bad for them some people still read. So I'll learn the different strains of herb from my local library and become a ***** of feeling good, freeing love, and accepting all artistry.

Have you ever seen a painting in the sky? Or witnessed windy symphonies in trees? Hey, don't judge me,

you're the one addicted to killing everyone and everything with your mindless dollar bill.

kneel before almighty god,
mind your founders,
adore their wise countenance,
looking up at you,
re-assuring you,
comforting you,
taking the pain away,
but DON'T RUN OUT!
you'll be back for more.
you'll come crawling back.
You'll do anything for just enough,
just one more fix.

It's got its hooks in bad,
don't it.
___________________­_


PRODUCT-XA110357: Capitalism
DRUG STATUS: Still in Clinical Trials
TEST SUBJECTS: Human Race
PHARMACEUTICAL LABORATORY: Earth
INITIAL FINDINGS: Subjects not receptive, keeps causing: Anger, Greed, Jealously, Oppression, War, Ignorance, Famine, Inequality, Imprisonment, Slavery. Environment not receptive, will cease functioning in the future. Time of Earth Death is unclear. Thankfully it does seem capable to last through the next few fiscal years. A relief, as this is what our stockholders are concerned with.


Symptoms of Withdrawal
Users who are addicted to money and are going through withdrawals may or may not experience a loss of food, water, shelter, clothing, transportation, education, free-time, happiness, fulfillment, reverence of nature, beautiful moments, relationships with friends or families, and love.


FDA Warning
If you are poor, lazy, and uneducated it is your own fault. Being poor and lazy may or may not result in Debt. DEBT may or may not lead to SLAVERY, stress, illness, and an early death.


Poison Control Center
If you have ingested too much debt, slavery, stress, illness, and are fearing an early death please do not call any corporate buildings. Access your phone, computer, or go to your local library to find reputable resources and EDUCATE YOURSELF IMMEDIATELY. Get some nice speakers and start exploring ALL GENRES OF MUSIC. Look at as many paintings, sculptures, forests, and gardens as you can--as often as possible. Lay under the stars and dream about what YOU want to do to make a positive impact on this world. FIND OTHER POSITIVE PEOPLE and AVOID NEGATIVE PEOPLE. If you know someone that is poisoned who you want to save please refer them to the nearest Poison Control Center

-->Smile at the sun--feel its warmth<--

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happy hearts:--after love--not money--free from pain--sickness will surrender--
addicted to art, peace, compassion, and empathy--feel the sky get closer--.

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"In a state of enlightened anarchy each person will become his(her) own ruler. They will conduct themselves in such a way that their behaviour will not hamper the well being of their neighbours. In an ideal state there will be no political institutions and therefore no political power."
-Mahatma Gandhi

It’s a peculiar feeling, this sentiment healing
A comforting numbness, that’s freeing my conscience
A fallen angel, rising to the sky
As night falls, we reach for the light
A new child has been born, from eons of the known
The truth that it harbors will free men from hope
That sickening darkness, we tried to forget
It’s seeping right through, the things that we dread
Will we have the courage to stay through the night
To see the cosmic indifference and meaningless of you and I
To stare through the night’s eye and see past the lies?
Truth is all I ask for, though it breeds also lies.

The fuzzy purple blanket under me,
Like fur caressing my skin,
So soft, so sensual, like a soft massage.

Soft black fuzzy pillow under my head,
Like a cloud, soft but supporting,
Cradling my head in its arms.

Colourful Tinkerbell blanket covering me,
Soft like velvet, rubbing my bare skin,
A cocoon containing me, to change to a butterfly.

Tight thong embracing me,
Holding that precious centre,
My well of nectar, held in a sweet embrace.

Soft cami covering my *******, my tummy, my back,
Soft on my skin, like a hug, a firm embrace,
Containing my, constraining me, freeing me.

Tight shorts hugging my hips,
My *****, my thighs, Peacock, teal, jade,
Bright and conforming to my curves.

All the textures surrounding me, holding me,
All bring contentment, like heaven,
The textures of my second skin of sleep.

October 20, 2018


I've spent this year

Learning how to deal.

This isn't melodrama

Just the truth

Condensed into just a few words

To express a vastness

Guaranteed to fill a few pages.


Like all years, it's been bittersweet.

I've fallen down

Tripped up

Left a bruise

Quite a few times.

But, of course

You have to fall --

Maybe even bleed a little --

In order to teach yourself

The triumph

Of bringing yourself

Back to your feet.


I've stood in front of a lot of mirrors

Most of them metaphysical

Truly getting to know the girl

On the other side.

The more we talk

The more I like her.

She's a hot mess sometimes, sure

But she's kind of a cool person to have coffee with.

She doesn't look like she used to, not at all

Especially when she's obviously trying to do better.

She still chews her tongue a bit

When she admits that she's wrong

And she's so very shy

When I ask her what to do

And she responds:

"I don't know."

I should tell her that I love her

A lot more often this year.


I've found that the heart is a wonderfully strange instrument

And that the soul is not an *****

But is something very, very real.

I've found that the former

Is as good at persevering

As it is at making messes

And that the latter

Is something all-too-useful

In the modern world.


I've found that most friends are fairweather

And, often, so am I.

I still hold out hope

That, maybe one day

I'll discover loyalty

That can be truly permanent.


Lastly, I've found that poetry

Is a beautiful vessel

Worth so much more

Than worrying about boys

Through a series of rhymes.

It's quickfire, artful catharsis

Freeing a caged dove

With words that make me feel

As if I can make my writing soar.

It's filled to the brim with love

And laughter

And tears

And imagination

And anger

And fear

And reflection

Just like these passing years.


And with every one I finish

I long for many more.

Men fight great battles in the depths of the sea but when there toil and terror is at end they return to
The harbor that is woman no other creature is so endowed or gifted in the specific her voice soothes
Her touch turns back great emotional waves her very breath is able to untangle sorted knots the
Wayward wind is her ally it carries fragrances that the suspicion is they are other worldly they define
Majesty of power they still the warring that continues in the heart she takes up the place of the lone
Bugler she sweetly blows the call to retreat not of defeat but of honor now release of pent up
Impressions that fasten themselves in gentle souls there are pools of error that other men fall into
That endangers not our country only but their own if they are not opposed another made this
Remarkable image of a woman and called it harboring dreams a **** the color of bluish grey her arms
Across her chest her face turned to her shoulder looking down her hair gripping as it seems to be in a
Tight wind with strips of her hair carried out flaying in the wind as she looks down with intenseness
Vulnerability with determination truly a harbor of rescue but it doesn’t end the scene changes with in
A sea house she is positioned in front of a great window it is night and she with just a soft glowing light
Has a thin white blanket pulled around her as she sets on the floor with her knees pulled up under
Her as she stares into space but observe the eyes they are so large and liquid soulful eyes that speak of
Knowing suffering on personnel level it seems for lifetimes but oh friend approach them you will get lost
In them more of the harbor of woman hood is being reveled to you having passed under sea clouds you
Were adrift in the glowing moonlight your troubles were evident on your face they played the saddest
Dance pathos at every twist and turn but when she catches your glance the wings of healing descends
Two souls desperately out on the fringe hope has been lost in the foreboding wood but now feminine
Mastery through the softness of her nature covers you the enlightened rays of her thoughts will not only
Harbor you but it will instruct and be the freeing that was set forth in creation for that very reason when
Mans strength and power has gone as far as it can then the reserve of the soulful tender spirit will show
You wonders you never be held before can soft words save where might will only move matters father and deeper into conflict yes it can it truly is the hidden current undergirding all relationships the unstoppable undefeatable love of a woman the greatest harbor man can know other than God’s spirit that works the same way and it’s central elements and theme is undying love no greater refuge can be found

I am standing there in the street
Screaming at you through the phone
Not putting up with your abuse.

You are right.
I'm a heartless *****.
I am stubborn.
I don't give you a chance to talk.
I am hiding you from my parents.
I do have issues.
But those aren't your problems to point out.

I wont put up with you trying to change me.
I don't claim to be a good girlfriend
In fact I warned you I wasn't
But you thought you could handle it.
That is what you were wrong about.
And I was wrong about you
Thinking you were as lovely as you seemed on the surface
Because it was too good to be true.
This break-up we have just endured
Is for the best.

Men fight great battles in the depths of the sea but when there toil and terror is at an end they return to
The harbor that is woman no other creature is so endowed or gifted in the specific her voice soothes
Her touch turns back great emotional waves her very breath is able to untangle sorted knots the
Wayward wind is her ally it carries fragrances that the suspicion is they are other worldly they define
Majesty of power they still the warring that continues in the heart she takes up the place of the lone
Bugler she sweetly blows the call to retreat not of defeat but of honor now release of pent up
Impressions that fasten themselves in gentle souls there are pools of error that other men fall into
That endangers not our country only but their own if they are not opposed another made this
Remarkable image of a woman and called it harboring dreams a **** the color of bluish grey her arms
Across her chest her face turned to her shoulder looking down her hair gripping as it seems to be in a
Tight wind with strips of her hair carried out flaying in the wind as she looks down with intenseness
Vulnerability with determination truly a harbor of rescue but it doesn’t end the scene changes with in
A sea house she is positioned in front of a great window it is night and she with just a soft glowing light
Has a thin white blanket pulled around her as she sets on the floor with her knees pulled up under
Her as she stares into space but observe the eyes they are so large and liquid soulful eyes that speak of
Knowing suffering on personnel level it seems for lifetimes but oh friend approach them you will get lost
In them more of the harbor of woman hood is being reveled to you having passed under sea clouds you
Were adrift in the glowing moonlight your troubles were evident on your face they played the saddest
Dance pathos at every twist and turn but when she catches your glance the wings of healing descends
Two souls desperately out on the fringe hope has been lost in the foreboding wood but now feminine
Mastery through the softness of her nature covers you the enlightened rays of her thoughts will not only
Harbor you but it will instruct and be the freeing that was set forth in creation for that very reason when
Mans strength and power has gone as far as it can then the reserve of the soulful tender spirit will show
You wonders you never be held before can soft words save where might will only move matters father and deeper into conflict yes it can it truly is the hidden current undergirding all relationships the unstoppable undefeatable love of a woman the greatest harbor man can know other than God’s spirit that works the same way and it’s central elements and theme is undying love no greater refuge can be found

you are so ******* uninteresting,
even in your shrouds of silken words
that try hard to fall around you gracefully.
just uninteresting enough to me
that i will capture
both your worth and your worthlessness,
your transparency and translucency,
in tissue-paper poems
that i set alight.
the ashes that melt the carpet
and the soot inside my eyes
makes me laugh,
at least for today.

It's pouring rain and my backpack is full of strawberry kefir.
I think when we decided to take a break,
you took half my brain with you.

Kefir is a delightful crossbreed of Yop and Perrier. Creamy sublingual fireworks. A single tablespoon is sufficient to send a conga line of 5 billion probiotic bacteria boogying through your innards. But like most things I enjoy, I cannot successfully covet in small, measured portions. Which is why I went for the litre in the first place.

I imagine your face as I rinse my strawberry saturated belongings and imagine the microscopic bacterium hoopla happening between my fingers (you would laugh at my conga line comparison, because you are one of the world's only people who knows how much I truly despise conga lines).

Oh God, the water is just diluting the yogurt. It has become the great Sea of Kefir.

You would have the solution to this. When it comes to logic, you manage to beat me every time without ever making me feel intellectually inferior.

But I need to figure these things out for myself.

Luckily my other groceries were sealed in plastic:
-chia seeds
-goji berries
-cacao nibs
-wheatgrass

These were spared.

As you can see, since we have decided to embark on our own paths for a while, I have tried to be "HEALTHY!". The bathroom is a small library of moth-bitten self-help books (Thanks, Mom) and my bedtime is close enough to twilight to high-five the sun on its way down.
I've started to work out again with a little more addiction than conviction or even common sense.
And because you aren't here to regulate me, I've busted my knees (aaaa-gaaaain.)

And all notwithstanding, as I wandered down 13th avenue with my organic Hippie super-loot, feeling very smug and self-possessed in my birkenstocks, I passed by my favourite breakfast joint, and my kale-fertilized stomach was very persuasive: No, I insist.

Proceeded to savour three enormous pancakes that I could have stitched together to form a roomy buckwheat overcoat. Drowned them with a 3pm coffee. I thought nothing of it, but after all we've been through when it comes to food, you would have been so proud of me, babe. When I admit that I've got a broken heart (-darling, I know I broke my own) people are far too kind to me. 110 minutes and three sacks of flour later I float in a sweet gluten haze from my free (and freeing) lunch back to my apartment.

Which is when I discover the Sea of Kefir.

I think I'm trying too hard.

I think, really, the Art of Becoming One Whole Person isn't so much about us becoming the Perfect People we've always wanted to be. That's not why we strapped a hundred helium balloons to our otherwise incredible relationship and tearfully waved as it disappeared over the horizon. I think it's really about just learning how to regulate ourselves.

Here's one Truth: We will never, ever be perfect. And we will never find our perfection in each other. We have to let that go. We have to stop fighting against the invisible standards we create in each other.

But we can get over ourselves enough to be Pretty Great.
Just make peace with the Pretty Great folks we are. Have the 3 pancake- sore knee- kefir backpack afternoons, and still feel Pretty Great.

And when we do, I think our relationship will feel Pretty Great, too.

Because I'd rather be able to remind myself that I'm Pretty Great,
than rely on you to convince me I'm Perfect.

Yikes, there it is.

So that's my homework. It's full of errors, and there are countless agitated holes worn through by pink erasers, self-doubt, and heartache.

But I know, darling- that by the end of this, you'll give me a sticker-

(and by then I wont need it)

I'll put it right next to the one I've given myself.

Freeing from the shackles of the past
trickling down to a catharsis
at the slender neck of the hourglass,
the golden grains of sand
dribble down
to create my reality.

Unhurriedly they flow,
with me they flow
into the forgottenness of the past  they flow,
to rise like a Phoenix
clothed in the newness
of the present
to create a new me!

.and i wrote this... back in January of... perhaps this year... a disclaimer: bones and prose... to have reached a traction of nearing 1.4K readers elsewhere: i don't expect the same numbers here... of that i am imploring... but i want to remember something: i probably misjudged celebrating the worth of Dickens' Pickwick Papers... the moment i heard it was... an imitation of Don Quixote - it was fun to read... before i was reading the papers via the gresham publishing company edition from... oh the 19th century... that's before the book started falling apart from actually being re(a)d: no matter the decency of binding... flimsy papyrus in the end... good enough to look at when stacked on a shelf and an artifact for the eyes... so i decided to finish reading the papers... 2nd hand penguin modern... as ever... why do they write these synopsis spoilers... even a mere allusion to: 'the pickwick papers are the english don quixote'... you know... when reading this book without a synopsis-of-allusion... i very much enjoyed it... but since i have re(a)d Don Quixote... and... frankly... the ballet by the royal opera house was par excellence... now i don't feel so inclined as to be motivated enough to celebrate Dickens anymore... notably to boot there was that essay by Milan Kundera.... as any continental european: not much of english literary adventures is given much thought: it appeal to the everyman but... that's my problem too... Shakespeare is great... when recited... not when read... you require good acting to appreciate shakespeare... a stand-alone dynamic of me: reader of Shakespeare? it's not a selling point... it doesn't feel right! shakespeare? isn't that a household noun akin to chair... hammer... why would it need a capital S(igma): to focus on... what... exactly? shakespeare, hammer, nail, towel... fridge-freezer... fork... muhammad ibn abdullah ibn abd al-muttalib... hey-zeus ben josephus... flour... cheese... i was going to enjoy the pickwick papers to the end but then the disclaimer that it's an imitation don quixote tale... and suddenly the fire - of eagerness... became a stalemate of cinders and stealthy coals... no, clearly the milan kundera essay didn't help either: who would want to reread don quixote: i know some people do reread books... i don't understand my grandmother in that respect... or... i remember when it school we were governed by repetitions of rubric... i hope: prose is where allowances for voyeurism / exhibitionism come to the fore... third party details summoned... that sort of "thing"... but of course i wanted something original to come to the fore... a proverb... it might be persian but it might be absolutely original from circa the baltic region: in between all that's west and russia... a corridor of peoples and nations that... given the greenwich mean time would have to incorporate Greece... and most probably Egypt... and Israel... it reads: all in capital to escape this myopia claustrophobia fudge of paragraph: BETTER A SPARROW IN YOUR HAND, THAN A DOVE UPON YOUR ROOF... years later a proverb would have to be disguised in cosmopolitan spreschen by some "****" of a bachelor... with his 'categorical imperative'... ah... a proverb isn't... that? i like the nuances of proverbs... blindly walking to metaphors... or not expecting a rigidity of life dictated by the already creasing formality language tools: dear sir, yours faithfully vs. yours sincerely... ms. vrs. mrs. informally email: hello! ****-wit! rather than... penned to paper and carrier pigeon bound... stamp! stamp! lick! dear... besides... as you get older and drinking is still a quenching of "thirst" you allude to nicknames for certain spirits: ***** becomes a headache of pravda (truth) while whiskey becomes ms. amber... beer is notoriously gods' ****... along with cider and mead... etc. what is a black cracovite... oh... you know... just an alternative to a tequila shot i invented hearing the story about... once upon a time in cracow... it was snowing... it was snowing a soot-esque sort of snow... the lonely chimney of aushwitz... wa puffing up in all its glory... in english it can translate to: well... what haven't i to thank for... or the jews... to thank for... that these lands are the remains of... at least children might be inclined to play games at the foundation of pyramids... we sure as hell did... near Ypres... in world war I trenches... i can't imagine what games children might invent in these... teutonic strongholds of totenkopfschwatzen... i would gladly send each brick by brick to the rightful owners of these camps: 1000 years from now it might be disguided that... under the auspicious rule of king Casimir's ghost these were "our" original intent... it ruins the land but preserves the memory of a people more invested in a newly established state of the Levant... yes... i need to figure out the paragraph: i need to revisit it more often: this slender-manning of a verse esque casccade doesn't aid me: i need to replica congestion and myopia and all that's cosmopolitan "nice"... what is a black cracovite... for years i wanted to land in the old capital when visit my grandparents... warsaw was always too far removed... like london already is... back toward glorifying Cracow and some elder supreme of the Piast dynasty... that this is written in english and not in native... well... it shouldn't have been written by an englishman with all his darwinistic / anglican / atheistic / rational / ayn rand borrowed sensibilities... a black cracovite as far as i can tell is... a spin on a tequila short... one requires smoking a cigarette... the ash is deposited on a licked space between the thumb and index finger... the ash is licked... a shot of ***** is made ready... what replaces the bite of a lemon is a grit of black pepper... yes... i have to invest in a paragraph more: for all its congestive phalanx remedies: i posit this the most redeeming: remedying... closure... it's far removed from airing out grievances when words cascade... now i should have concerns for contending... imitations... cheap-sell-offs of these words... outlandishly left to the open cringe of... simply-leash: i'll probably trail off on a ***-note, a falsetto... absolutely necessary... one cannot feed too many expectations without feeding those necessarily in pursuit of sustenance... be gone! countess bathory-veneer!

this is truly a welcome break from:

freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

    pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

  a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
    they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
              
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                  a man with...
a gamble...
        i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

  the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
      there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
  even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
            past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
    i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
  and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

            Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
              lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
        i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

  when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
  weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
  much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

          chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
          da pacem domine...
            agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
        there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
  new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
      i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
            kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

p.s. after completing a walk in the woods:
a walk most adventurous in it being solitary...
i thank the forest for my solitude...
i started knocking on a dry piece of wood
still attached to the earth and roots...
in a forest: knocking on a tree...
i perceived the door
upon re-entering
traffic and hardened grit of road stuff...
let's replicate this...
me... you... alone...
let's both abide by needing
superstitious elevations of:
not truth alone... hardened and dim-witted
by objectivity...
truth tailored with metaphors...
all the nuance we can hope to find...
i need to... aloofness... solitude...
i need you, forest...
more than i care for noon
and proof of body that's this extension:
leash! shadow! noon!

                    smyč! cień! południe!

In a crowd she stands alone,
her beauty creeps out.
Mysterious shades of color enchain her captivating allure,
every shade more beautiful than the last.
The efflorescence of a flower fails to image her,
flawless from head to toe.
The illusion of free will quickly fades,
I cannot deny my attraction to her,
She glows.
Warming the room by her graceful movements,
clocks slow, each second delights in her every twirl.
Tick. Toc.
Her look sets me at ease.
Freeing me from my uncertainty, I now clench belief close to my heart,
summoned by a dream with every beat.
I am left in a daydream,
As, she is gone…

I stood,
Gazing at the sunset.
Watching the sun fall...
The day die...
The light soften and dim,
Painting the sky with vivid strokes...
Freeing the moon.

A daily masterpiece,
Well displayed
Above the lines of the city.

Gray. The gray walls. The gray desk. The gray chair.
Even the gray teacher stares back at me.

I look outside to only find myself in company with
The trees. The green, vibrant, and lush buds of the trees..
Oh, how I’m intoxicated by its beauty.

I keep staring out  the pain window glass..I am in the tree,
Touching the velvet buds, looking down at the purple, pink and Yellow roses and daises budding.
Nothing gray can be found here!

I am snapped out of my day dream by the gray paper and gray Pencil landing on my desk. The gray voice saying you have
A gray amount of time. It’s wrong…It’s wrong! It is
ALL wrong! What is heaven to hell, like gray to nature?
I long for freedom, color, and vibrance…not gray bars!
A jail cell! That is what it is!

Substance!
I need substance to sustain me or I will feel empty!
Time is ticking..the buds are turning..my life will
Soon be consumed by gray but I won’t let it! Break
Those gray bars holding you in this cell and just a
Touch upon those green buds…that new life…will
Make all the difference. I can not be put in this reality.

I live in my fantasy. I want to be free with the yellow
Sunshine raining on me. Back in my daydream..but
Now it is bitter-sweet you see. More! I want more
Than gray! I want to feel chills run down my spine as I
Touch the supple leaves of the willow trees and the buds
Of the daises.

The sunshine is pouring on me and I am
Just about to reach out and glide my fingers
Along the smooth branches…until I am snapped
Back into a reality.

I see gray. The teacher calls another gray amount
Of time. My paper is blank, but my mind is not.

It’s time to slump back into my gray world you see,
Because my Fantasy can’t last forever. Only until
The day I am resurrected when the final bells ring
Freeing me from society will the gray Melt away.
The gray teacher carries on and on...but I look back
Outside you see,
And I don’t feel so empty.

.i've written so much, i don't even remember when i begin posting repetitions, i sometimes spot myself "plagiarißing" myself, sure, a commonality feature to writing, the labyrinth effect, a "déjà vu"... ****, i've said this before, which is the key feature of: enjoying the silence... but, like "yesterday", i write on the basis of a graveyard shift, as w. h. auden would have said: little ****** is at it again (i.e. writing during the night)... no, no little ****** here, i just like the idea of writing while people around me are sleeping, i can become this Loki-esque drunkard snark dream-crawler... which brings me to the following observation... a liter of whiskey, that typically takes a few good hours to get through... and, in the end, the sun is up, it's 7am... so like "yesterday" i.e. today... i unfolded the sunday times, and put it on my head, to hide from the sun, kept drinking, and cursing the sun, now and again pointing the ******* at it... cursing: do i look like a ******* camel jockey to you, eh?! i'm not a camel jockey... i once suffered a heat-stroke, watering plants in a volunteering stint in a garden for the blind... no, literally... a garden customißed for blind people... with herbs, heavily scented flowers, notably pine trees... and my favorite... stachys byzantina... lamb's ears... so that blind people could feel it... but yeah... why am i not surprised that muslims glorify the moon? while the christians borrow from the north european pagan celebration of the sun? i became a quasi-muslim only "yesterday", i said a big ******* to the sun, summer is coming, and if it's going to be the sort of summer akin to last year, with me waking up on the floor, on a colder surface to a bed, moaning and groaning from the heat... oh yeah... climate change is not real, like all form of causality just went out of the window... there's no cause (burning ****) and there's no effect... always, all the time, like jean-paul sartre said, his major premise in being & nothingness was the pillar of negation, which spawned the pillar of bad faith. *******.


what's the difference between
a thief, and a magician?
probably
a c.c.t.v. camera footage...
and a... theater stage...
nothing more...
but of course...
      the latter is an example
of... authenticity...
proper... taxation...
a paradox of championed
individualism by western
academics...
   come to think of it...
both are quick...
then... i must have been
the most slothful thief
in the history of ali baba:
the way that i stole
that queens of the stone
age songs for the deaf
album, from a w. h. smith...
____

summer is coming,
that abhorrent season,
the season of mass ******
and a spike in the sales
of ice-cream...

the season where i begin
to pity the cosmipolitan youth,
basking in the cancer riddled
sideways march of the sun...
with the heat doubled
due to all the concrete and marble...

the season of scythes
and tombstones
for the old and the asthmatic prone...
the season where i frown upon
the sun,
even at 9 thirty am,
and drink,
    and am rudely woken by
the heat...
  
  that time of year
where i think about looking
for old europe
in the vicinity of the faroe islands
or, iceland,
or greenland, even,

because i'm not some *******
camel-jockey type of
******* teen
importing cars, and self,
to london,
to race in a 30mph speed limit
just off of knightsbridge...

diesel heads of arabia...
    i'm siding with penguin kowalski...
i'm no camel jockey or
a ******* either...
      copper skinned mash-up
of Babel...
with a hard-on inferiority
complex in tune with
burj khalifa...

      yes... because who is... khalifa?
no, who's Khadija?
   the woman,
who... most likely...
wrote all the first sutras of
the quran...
after all... we are talking
about a prophet akin to
   charlamagne... someone who was:
illiterate...
sure sure...
        islam is the religion
of peace: when Khadija was writing
the script...
    but when she died...
and some ****** of a caliph took over...
then: as much peace
as... whatever equates to the funny
antonym comparison...

what was that book:
in praise of older women?
    stephen vizinczey:
ah... that story of muhammad no one focuses
on... i could focus on Aisha...
n'ah... i'm more interested in
Khadija... the older woman,
the first female arab entrepreneur,
businesswoman...

the woman who was both literate
and had mathematic acumen...
who took pity on the orphaned muhammad...
i want to speak to her...
she's my holy grail of conversation,
i can pretend to venerate the "******" mary...
but what i really want,
i want a word with Khadija...
KA DI YAH...

what's that islamic maxim?
fear the man who only possesses
one book...
   eh... you can also fear the man
who wants the afterlife to be composed
of a dialogue between himself
and only one other person,
beside his ancestors, beside a reunion,
paradise or valhalla...

are we done, "here"?
          i still have about 20cl of whiskey
left, and i rather much squirm
an evil eye at the sun,
regurgitating the fantasy
of finding 19th century european
climate in greenland,
if you don't mind.

Accept this
And another
Amazing adventure
Awaits you
Aboard an
Alternative alphabet
Ark

Begin believing
Building a barge
And a bridge
To beauty
In the blooming back yard
Of your brain
I bid you

Climb!
This creation
My careless challenge
To charge
Chivalrously
into cosmic chaos

I dare you!
Devote yourself
to dream
dizzy, delusional
dazzling deep deceptions
of dormant demons

Elevate!
Ego
Exciting emancipation
To encompass eternity
Everlasting ecstasy
Escape
With ethereal
Energy
Emitted from
Evasive effervescence
Of Eden

Fly!
Feel the fantastic fires
The fury in the furnace
Fed and fortified by
Fantasy
Forming, freeing
Freaks
Flamboyant figures
And flittering fairies

Glow!
Give me a grin
A gaze
A gift of gorgeous
Glimpses of golden gardens
With glaciers of
Gargantuan greatness

Hesitate!
No!
Hesitate not!
Hurry, make haste
Take no heed
Of heaven nor hell
Hear my heatbeat
My heart
Hear it!
Do not hinder it
With your head

Indulge!
I invite you
I insist
Insinuating
Irresistible improprieties
Idolatry
Impertinence
Improvised imperfections
On thin ice

Jest!
Play the joker
Squeeze it, juice it
Just don’t be the joke
Be a jazz piece
Juggle tones
In life’s jive
Juggle life

Kneel!
Know thy mistress
Know that she is knowledge
Knock on her door
Her knickers
Until your knuckles bleed
And know
That knowledge will keep you

Linger!
Let the longing of your *****
Linger a little
Allow your lust
To lift you
Illuminate you
Let you levitate
In liquid lucidity
Leaving the low lands
Of the ludicrous living

Move!
Make magic
Moving
Me
More
Make me
Mimic
Magnificence
Make me move

Now!
Need me
Nothing else
Near
Nobody
Now need me
Naked

Orchestrate!
Organize an ouverture
Of ******* oblivion
Obsess over the opening
Obsess, occupy
The opening
Oh!

Ponder!
Pick me
Place me
Put me on a pedestal
Paint me
Plate me with precious
Platinum
For preservation
Of perfect passion
For posterity

Que?
Always question
Quaint sequences
Faint frequencies
Question the questioners
And the questions they ask
Pourqui?

Rapture!
Rip the ropes
Riddled with regrets
Ravish and ****
Reality
Ransake inner rooms
For real rushes
Always risk
Ruin
For a rendezvous
With risk

Slither!
Slip secretly
into the streams
Below the surface
Sheets
Of my sanity
Slowly,
Softly,
Like a sword
Into sheath
Of satin
Or suede
No sound
Surely,
Just surrender!

Talk!
Tell me tales
Of tangible treasures
Of talents and truth
Trust me
Let me take charge
And take you on a tour
of the tower  

Use!
The ultimate utterance
“us”
Unconditionally
Under Utopian skies

Venture!
Vivify the visions
Of voluminous vaults
With velvetine varnish

Want!
To
Walk with me
Into wondrous worlds
Where wishes
Are washed in waves
Of
Wellbeing
Of
Wonders
Walk with me

eXcite!
Exaggerate extraordinary
Expertise in
Extravagant
Exhuberance

Yell!
Your
Youth
And youthful yearning
Out beyond your years
Yell yeah!

Zoom in!
Our zone
Of zen
Becomes a breeze
And a cold fizz drink
To create a buzz

Alone I walked into the sea,

Engulfed by amber waves of ecstasy,

In which I crossed a boundary line

Where I left my mind behind.

I swam and swam until I tired

Yearnning for something I’d never acquire-

A thing that was the death of me.

O, those amber waves of ecstasy,

How they tossed and tore at my fragile being

Attempting to show me what I was not seeing;

Reaching for conclusion that would be freeing.

Amber waves of ecstasy,

Amber waves of ecstasy,

Please come and drown me once again,

Come deafen the screams within my head

That crave to be released from me.

O, amber waves of ecstasy,

The fault of my errors lie with me.

O, amber waves of ecstasy,

Please show me how to set myself free.

Preparations
For Love and Destruction
Volatile environments
Whose inhabitants
Distract inhibitions
By enacting emotional exhibitions
Fueled by liquid fire
.Injection.
Fluid spirits
Energize the soul
Chemically reacting to stress
Freeing the hostages
Housed inside the hostile hospice
Of hearts
.Ejection.
Nature’s neutrality
Doesn’t do much
For this current
Wave
Of Lust and Frustration
So,
Lo and Behold
The solo soul below
Who bellows
In the belly of beasts
Like growls
That grows into speech
As I transform from
Animal to Anomaly
Asking for the one thing
That will keep me
From the answer
.Rejection.

There were many ninja in the Naruto world,
Those that join the Akatsuki and those that fight against them,
But there was one so noble and strong,
Sadly, he could not live for long

His name was Uchiha Itachi,
His noble sacrifice made the world live free,
He gave his life up for his brother,
Protecting his village to the point where he even had to **** his mother

Fighting for the Leaf, while being a member of the Akatsuki,
Freeing the world of the Impure World Resurrection,
Preventing complete and utter annihilation,
Playing his cards through the shadows,
Once you get to know of his good deeds, to him you shall bow,

So live your life in respect to this fictional but legendary man,
Believe in his will and yours,as in this world, you neeed both to survive,
that if you can!

Yes, mechanical leaf mover,
create the shrillest sounds known to man.
See if it doesn't just slowly make the world a ******* place
by taking away the joy of crunchy leafs,
which gradually become moist, squishy leafs,
then, after a long period, emerging from a snow covering
thaw and lie there, fully exposed, recumbent,
depriving the dormant seed of grass its sunlight, preventing grass,
freeing up water for infrastructure needs more urgent and rational
than supporting the most boring of decorative plants encompassing our lives.

I guess what I'm saying is that, not only are your sounds annoying,
they're just another of the short-sighted endeavors our present society insists on.
You are the "circumcision-for-hygiene-purposes" of our urban planning.

*******, leaf blower. ******* and the excruciating environmental ignorance you represent.

I SAID *******, LEAF BLOWER, YET YOU PERSIST!

You need to let that leafy-******* grow,
covering the shaft of ground.
Rid it of the pleasure-impeding growth of grass!
Let the earth cry out for the sensation of tiny points of pressure
moving delicately along its surface.
Let the ground erupt with wild flowers, or at the very least,
the trampled exuberance of plodded soil
and the desperate levels of human debris that would collect upon it.

Or are you trying to hide our wastefulness from us by removing something
which is nothing, a nothing, invisible barrier?

You've already succeeded in giving my apartment complex the ambience
of an industrial production complex
which I suppose it always was.
Maybe your attempt at concealment
has been a revelation.

Or maybe I just can't think straight,
because there's been a god-**** leaf blower
circling below my window all morning
and now a heavy, riding lawn mower is coming to cut the grass
that hasn't grown since September
but has been watered every day
even though it froze last night
and it's almost November.