Living life for the sounds.

grind i mind

absolute audio-rhythmic beats pound a dance through an etching ring.

beats box across the field and further across a synapse

fill up my cup to the fuzzing auto-metric top

meters into yards into miles into years zoom fumble into wall and leak without gravity.

naked.****.phat.spat you out like good stat.( ic.)

The ceiling fan is deafening
and my vision is as unfocused as your appeal
both spearing forward in fierce concentration
only to phase into vagueness, midway to their destination

As you continue to speak
my eyes continue to blur the scene
and I hear a series of moods, rather than words:

Anger... Anger... Injury.
Injustice, Pleading.
Righteousness. Vulnerab-- Demanding.
Reason... Reason... Reasoning.

I sit this way, fuzzing out your face
and decide it's effective, attending to your aura
selfishly shielding myself from the specificity of your language

but listening, intently listening, to your atmosphere

ringing out against the drone of that **** incessant ceiling fan.

Are you in there?
Miryam said
through the canvas
of the tent

no
you replied
I'm out
you are there

she said
and unzipped the zip
and poked her head
in the gap

you were lying there
in your sleeping bag
gazing at her red
fuzzing hair

and large eyes
where's your friend?
she asked
gone for a shower

you said
she unzipped all down
and came in the tent
walking on her knees

like Toulouse Lautrec
in a wig
and lay down beside you  
how long before he's back?

no idea
you said
have we time for ***?
risky

you said
sometimes risky
is enjoyable
she said softly

running her hand
down the outline
of your leg
not when an ex-army guy

comes in
and see his sleeping partner
******* some red head
in his tent

you said
she pouted her lips
spoilsport
she said

in your ear
yes I guess so
you said
what we doing today?

she asked
we're moving
onto Malaga apparently
the coach leaves at 9.30

she looked
at her wrist watch
gives us an hour
she said

in a whispering voice
gives me an hour
to get showered
and dressed

and breakfasted
and such
you said
she lay back beside you

on the sleeping bag
isn't Malaga
where Picasso was born?
yes that's right

you said
do you like his work?
she asked
sure

it makes me
want to see it again
and again
it does?

she said
as if I had said
I like to wear
ladies's underwear

don't you find his work
kind of odd?
she said
that's what I like about it

it breaks out
of that prison
which people have put
around art

as if only
such and such
can be art
she put her lips

on your cheek
wet and warm
don't I tempt you at all?
not one little bit?

she walked her fingers
down your leg
and moved them
towards your groin

not about 6ins worth?
she said sexually
how did we get
from Picasso

to you finger walking
on my *****?
all is art you said
she whispered

you've left the zip unzipped
the ex-army guy said
poking his head
in the gap

what's she doing in here?
he said
just popped in
to see how he is

Miryam said
looking at the guy
with his short
back and sides haircut

and smelling
of shampoo and soap
well now you've seen
you can go

he said
can't he and I
have *** first​​?
she said

in her imitation
Monroe voice
no you can't
he said

go elsewhere
if you must do
such things
and he sat back

on his haunches
and stared at her
his arms folded
Ok

she said
and kissed your cheek
and walked on her knees
out of the tent

and stood up
and looked in
before the ex-army guy
could zip back up

shame
she said
we could have had
a *******

go away
he said
before I slap your backside
promises promises

Miryam said
and walked off
towards her tent
across the camp base field

girls huh?
you said
but he didn't reply
he just began packing

his stuff into his suitcase
ready for the next move
and so you closed your eyes
and imagined her

there beside you again
listening
to the patter patter
of the Spanish rain.

... like obscure fuzz is surrounding my body
its the channel on the TV
that is black and white static
with the sound of no sound
taking away my ability
to hear the cheery banter
of the normal, tranquil people
who must be here
somewhere around me.

The ever buzzing fuzzing
static anxiety takes away
my ability to see
the people and things  
that used to make me smile.  

And I can't hear myself think
Over the sound my heart
beating intensely in an attempt
to get the hell out of me  

Out of this corpse inside
the obscure buzzing fuzzy
static electri-city  
that shares a name with me.

This hostile prison
I live in. The bars made
of the absolute worst
possibilities encapsulating me

The bars of fear and the
fuzzy buzzing static
stealing my time and tearing
the breath from my lungs


It's called anxiety.

Spacemen, cavorting, ridiculous jollity,
Fuzzing stars buzzing in the fabric
Space-time, folding, holding on
Spin, seven, nine, four,
Okay,
Just try to hold on.

Spinning lights flee by feeling
Hurry on Sunday
Slow
Circles.

Why? Why?
Why?
Why? Why?

You have no air.
You didn’t listen.
You had a warning…

Strap yourselves into the spin
Dazed and conned
Fused into your seat
Dancing in madness
Whistles, flutes and shakers
Unsettle your
Muted rhythm.

We sing for blessed distortion
Then drop away
Away
Who did
and
Why?

Why? Oh, God…

Bridge.

Wonder threw four bidden streets
and re-jet, the Prince Palls,
Ash on faced the walls.

Bridge.

Why? Why?
Why?
Why? Why?

Causes her arm.
Cause is her harm.
Cause is arm.
Arms are the cause of her harm.

Then-

Bridge.

Then-

Begin again…

You should not have done that.

i can't just sit anymore
let my sight roll over the window pane
and the silence of the bears roar in my ears
without obnoxious pink clouds fuzzing everything

i itch to be more
tight legs, tight arms, tight mind
but everything is too loose and bunched
in the least aesthetically pleasing way
so i treat myself to another bowl
of honey nut cheerios

and propel myself further into the trap that is my mind

I am an umbrella.
The cold rain has soaked my hair and
I can hear thunder in the distance.
I see the lightening strike the maple
Trees of Connecticut and
I can taste the garlic from my lunch,
Still on my tongue,
Three hours later.
My brain is fuzzing.  The smell
Of gasoline permeates my nostrils
Like fresh baked cookies.

And I remember.
The car flipping, taillights over headlights.
Me in the front seat.  We landed
In the ravine and sunk to the bottom
And here I am.

I walk across the busy highway
And reach the divider where
I find them.
I reach for the flowers and
They smell like rainbows.
Blythe, a moldy card reads,
Take care in the afterlife.
I place another next to it
From me that reads,
You will be sorely missed
Hasta luego.

I walk back across the highway
Headlights staring into my eyes
And open the front door of my car
To drive away.  Moving on
Makes the pain go away and
If you forget, no one remembers
But I will until you come home.

This is a night
Where you can’t tell the road from the rain
Where everything is dark and light
Peaceful and weighed down
With the smell of smoke and water
Where you stand in and on and around it
And let it soak your skin
And your hair
And your clothes
Until you’re freezing
But you’re not upset
You stand under the porch
And watch it fall
Fuzzing the grass and the ground and the trees
So that nothing is horrible
Nothing is wonderful
Everything just is as it is
Where your house and the road and the car
sits and absorbs and expands
Into peace
With the birds sleeping
And the squirrels hiding
And the sky is even
And everything is beaten down into the soil
So that you are meditating with open eyes
And an open mind
And an open heart
You feel no fear
You feel no stress
Only a gentle love and awe and amazement
At how throughout the modern years
The heavens still do the same they did
When the world began
The rain is truth,
Never swaying.
Everything is nature in the rain.
If there is a god, the rain is not his tears
They are his calming hands.

Run and hide from the summers eve thrill, while the sun's going down, Mrs Midge has her fill.
She gets in your hair as she buzzes in air, waiting to sup up your blood.
Um.
She leaves a strokes of hormone an invite to all her fuzzing friends,
Hey she screams come see me, these guys make for yummy feeds.
****** midges...****** women, they leave their men at home!
(C) Livvi

it was the year of the piñata,
too much wine and beer,
but today i revised myself, bought thirteen quid’s worth
of whiskey and lost my former bias,
and as i read the informational cameo
it dawned on me, it dawned on me to revise it, like so:
uk chief philosophical officers recommend adults do
not regularly exceed -
3 - 4 units of advice as men daily
and 0 - 1 units of advice as women annually.
well give woman everything and she might give just
give you all of what eden isn’t -
and you’ll be up there thinking out why anally speaking
the crucifix was a violin jew of the place he once once
knew, but golgotha isn’t a city or a place,
it’s a crucifix and nothing more.
but as i sip my handy new friend to shake me later
i remember... this story isn’t really about me,
it has a vague resemblance of me included in it,
which means that all that is surrounding this tale
is more about something that’s beyond ‘the guilty me,’
a sort of rasputin oddity of strength,
i wish i could capture body language humour with letters,
but i can’t, all i can say is that when she was near suicidal
taking the advice whispered into the air for her presence
she didn’t slit her wrists but aimed at cutting downstream
aiming of an artery like luke suggested,
and when i was there for three days, i only undressed
in bed on the second night, slept with the window open
and the cold edinburgh late autumn fuzzing up my shortcut hairstyle
into a hoped for meningitis,
while she played a video game talking about
not being able to kills this giant lizard,
with the odd outburst about her brother being dead
and the best *** she had with sam,
while i brought her curry from the mosque (this time not barefoot),
popped one of her anti-depressant pills
and then left speedily on a train i came;
this edinburgh haunted me,
she texted me on the train - ‘why did you leave without
saying the daydreaming goodbye?’
and i replied - ‘ whisper sometimes girl, whisper,
and i’ll give you a cat’s whisker.’
edinburgh haunted me this time - this time i was ready
with the chocolate minstrels upon arrival
but not the ****, odd thing is
i turned a relationship of a few months not even worth
to mention half a year into a writing career;
and if i do it for free for the rest of my life,
i won’t have to think about engaging in gambling
or buying her a nice new floral outfit in the parallelism of imagination.
i’ll be among the ancient greeks thinking about
the stilettos of mahogany tables and trying to find a
stray dog for companion in a jar like diogenes;
but i might come across the whitecoats who will symptomise
everything about me for a 9 to 5 for five days a week’s worth of
bacon eggs and bread.

***** this false illusion of hope
**** the promise I made
cause you may not realize it... but I'm back
in the middle of the street laying down
drowning the conspires out with the loudest music I own
but even that won't do....
my mind buzzing with lies
my chest literally hurting from the stress and adrenalin
gasping for air that seems to have dispersed away with you


I'm losing grip
losing focus
cause tears that should be fuzzing my vision are once again aren't.
I can't keep our promise..
You kiss my scares in the aftermath and assume like
it's still not going on.....
but even you now don't notice...
you can't look past my kiss...
the falsehood I wear with my smile.
The fact I can't ******* read or write anything properly with out a check
The fact that this poetry is ****
The fact that this place is no longer a sanctuary for me.


I took six-teen pebbles out
I'm purging
the chest pain stops
the buzzing subsides
the music I stop....
but then the car horn wakes me from the daze


and I realize....tonight was a bad idea
it exposed my small light world of fire'
and her blissful one of blood
I took you to my second safe zone
but I don't trust you now....
what to do, what to say
is this a price I wanna pay ?
questioning every word you say
...even the things of beauty...that made me fall at first anyway
NO
yes?

This is my goodbye to this account.....
see you in another life ?
or maybe on a especially good day if I see one again.
winter is here.

The plot unravels in a place where there is a conflict,
The Just turns the **** locking arms with the Instinct,
Wrapped around a ribbon of constant struggle,
Not an inch of movement was seen to loosen the knot,
Warped under a sheet of plastic paper it carries the thought,
Caught in feet of the moment loved and boggled,
Altruid and Maltruid speaking into the world,
Reflection of mists and essences scuffled into artificial pearls,
It peaks as they peek the unended curiosity,
Whilst the mirror is fuzzing and buzzing,
Of their frail but truthful simple realities,
The key to the treasure they do not see when those eyes are in pus,
.
.
.
.
They yearn or want to call everybody an "Us".

Blow backs left right,
flowing from the up-side
sphere of my down-facing
brain.

Cluttered pages of a book-mind,
the junk of thought-pages,
with doodles on the lined edges.
and the corners dog-eared.

Peering through the eyeglass
of the head, one finds a circus
of impulses, a parade of thought-beams
bouncing and pinging off the skull-wall.

Mindless and formless shapes,
of squares and circles, and
more strange formations begin
to come to a discombobulated life.

Shaped by stray desires,
and flaming envy-fires,
and raging dream-embers,
the circus is coming to town.

The clowns paint their faces,
the elephants don their dresses,
the trapezists prepare their rope,
the ringmasters ring their voice
the typewriters begin their dance.

The Parade of Impulses has commenced,
the ringing-pinging-tinging of the bells,
the clanging-banging-jangling of the drums,
the crashing-bashing-thrashing of the cymbals.

The Kingdom of Noise, of discordant sound,
and disjointed spasms proceeds, the
cats and rats and bats stepping out of tune,
the chairs, stairs, and the mares march
to the beat of a spastic, spastic thought-drum.

Gingerbread snaps skip the sweet fandango,
while tangerines and woodwinds play
their **** tunes and the dinosaurs of dixie
tap and sway from side to side.

Paperclips and staples sing Blue Velvet,
while the idol warbles with a Golden Flute,
and the bulldog grins widely and wildly,
playing his 8-bit accordion-tambourine.

Behold the procession of business-men
and cat-women as they are swept into
the noise-sounds, and the thought-images.
What draws them in? the feeling or the fire,
the lust or the raging desire?

The beat goes on, as does the noise,
the pitch rises on, as does the fervor,
soon the soundless static stacks,
buzzing-fuzzing-wuzzing slowly louder.

The marchers march, and the players play,
the steppers step, and the band bandies,
the parade parades, and the mind
snaps.

I just want to fade into the
Background to be only
White noise,
A fuzzing a buzzing.
A screen I'm in that's void.

Sometimes it hits me
Like one to many shots of whiskey after a late night binge the taste of tequila and regret stuck to the back of the throat like some nasty film
Vaguely reminiscent overly ripe peachs
When the world goes dark and all you can do is hope to wake to something better
The kind of sudden drag that seems to smack you so hard you drool
Like the brain can't comprehend what it's thinking, feeling, or even what ******* planet it's on anymore
Some sick lingering psychotic paranoia that can only be dreamt up from the bowels of  some deranged lunatic
The kind of thoughts that would if spoken give you one straight ticket to crazy town
Where the good ones fall into the sanctity of drugs and the wack jobs play in their bird cages tweeting insanity
Those moments when the brain goes quiet like some old tv buzzing it's electric static
Hmmmm hmmmm hmmmmmmm
Rhythmically ringing the fuzzing sharp inhalation
Cotten wrapping the ears, eyes at the tantamount and hands on auto
The brain checks into where the person checks out and it takes control
Those 80 mile hour thoughts where driving off the road and not stopping meets the white knuckle grip
I could do it there is no stopping the lurching slow tilting wheel
Nor is there anyone to breath me back into control
To take the knife off the steady sturdy rhythm, to stop the ****** up intermingling of sickend morbidity
It is unlike the calm and even character clicking past the blinking static
Blipping from the slack jawed intensity like some victim of PTSD
Still teeming in the aftermath like some sick puppy waiting on the ride to end
It's terrible and equally ****** up this abstracting feeling is like never waking up
Strung out on some mental drug causing the heart tripping hazard of frequency
Like falling in a dream only to realize you had never slept

As I awake from the cryogenic slumber I was put in, I find myself walking around a mansion. It must be a century into the future, but everyone still seems to be asleep in their pods.

As I walk around, my feet guide me through a tunnel lit by hanging candelabras, as though they have a life of their own. Few moments later, I find myself standing in front of a of a jagged wooden door with tiny bugs crawling up the dented-scratches and a loose door **** awaiting to be opened to the library that stretches far and wide.

The windows are tinted vintage yellow and air stenched with the musty smell of worn books; heavied with dust. The large maghony table stands alongside the ladders and railings, allowing access to the different levels of the library.

My hand reaches out for a leather-bounded book, as though it was longing to be read and plucked from the ornately carved bookshelf. It is my biography; my breathings worded and memories penned.

Stunned, I ran my fingers along the frayed pages, to find the stories of every person to have crossed paths with stretched out across the pages.

I re-read pages, letting the wordy essence cling to my skin and the embers to re-ignite. I allowed myself to taste the salt and sugar of the sunrise to sunset span with the ones who left inky footprints across my heart. Until I came across a name that started resurfacing from the dustiest parts of my mind.

Out of curiosity I reach out to the protruding mark to find myself holding her biography, and countless pages stained with my name. “I sat there tossing sorrows from one hand to another, trying to let the blue ink gush onto the page in front. I could feel the darkness coaxing my mind, labeling me with names as I held back the tears stinging my eyes. I was an invisible cloak; an outcast who was unwanted.

But then she came, each step paced with confidence. Her curls leaked sunshine into the room; I could feel it warming the cold that layered me. I found her seating herself near me, as the girls behind me laughed like a pack of hyenas, gossiping about the new faces entering.

I found her looming above me, her hair brushing against my forehead “Wow, has anyone told you write really well?” but all I could manage was a shy smile in comparison to her gleaming grin that swallowed her cheeks whole. That was the first time I heard someone say that and then there was something warm, fuzzy, a spark? Happiness? Hope? It felt foreign and different, almost energetic but I craved more.

In the coming days I watched as she drove herself with passion, reaching out to catch stars, blooming herself and handing it to others. She was alive and vibrant. Almost brilliant like lightning, enlightening the sky with her spark like the one that was fuzzing between my cells.

Her presence was alluring, I found myself responding to her wavelengths, wanting to resonate with it; to have purpose, meaning and life. She made me want to untangle myself from the toxic relationships I had. It made me want to stop drinking the poison they fed me. It made me want to crave for good. To nourish my body and to breathe.

She called me on my birthday; no one ever called me on my birthday. The next day she hugged me and turned my hurricanes to a whiff. Weeks after that she invites me to her birthday, pulling me away from my world as I accepted her hand paving paths for me to explore.
I flicked a few grainy pages ahead.

“Are you okay?” She said as she though she could smell the stench of it on me. As though she could see me drowning within myself. And in that moment I let her in, I broke the walls, I let them crash. I let the ocean erupt open through my pores. I let my rusty voice box to voice its cries. Even though I spoke in language that came natural to me; chaos. But she sat there listening patiently, and in that moment I wrote about how her ears were made of empathy, eyes of moonlight that made me feel lighter and blissed.

I watched her move with such zeal that I was mesmerized. She became my muse, my inspiration. So I undressed myself of self-loathing and set out to talk to people and explore. My bruised throat ringed and my chewed tongue wanted to speak. My hands wanted to write for my younger self that stayed quite all this time.

She breathed air into my collapsing lungs, became the brightest of hues in the world of my blues. I was a dead language and she pronounced me with life.

Here I am, a writer. All because of that compliment that left me to weave my sorrows, revertebratating the hope she gave me through my writing. Hoping to provide the same inspiration and passion she inspired me with. She restored the courage in my spine; the faith in my cells and the love into my heart that I tucked safely into inky words hoping someday someone feels the same.

I closed the book as I traced the last line, with a tear in my eye. How could’ve my trivial action have such a profound affect?

A little loneliness    
that is all I want  
But the world is an old TV
it can't be turned off    
pictures fuzzing  
sounds humming    
emotions being tossed about    
Just now I was hit by  
a huge yellow ball of anxiety    
followed by a yell:  
"Come on, throw it back! Be a part!"  
But I didn't want to be a part  
so I did nothing but let it go...  
A little loneliness    
That is all I need    
before I jump into the next moment

The sound ricochets across the room,
Waves upon waves,
Phasing, fuzzing, building,
The hall echoes with feeling,
My skin absorbs the notes,
They swim through my blood,
They fill my heart,
And there through the window,
I see light.

he maybe ye but i am ney 01.09.18

well done for apology
bit late it did arrive
ye and ney have same biology
pulp-fiction not needed for saturday night live.
not familiar with communication
no sparkle or glitter
it would have a implication
BRB just checking no twitter.
grateful will be gandhi
so clearly made reference
just paid for yandhi
home delivery on release is preference.
trump will be buzzing
grateful for the invest
don't no about ye but ney is fuzzing
come on kanye as nurse ratched is waiting in one flew over cuckoo's nest.

He was old when I was young.
Now I’m old, and he’s long gone.

Owner of a small-town store.
Plier of all those knick knacks
and delicious snacks that
a young boy desires and adores,
tiny fifty cent to a dollar toys,
a handful of penny tootsie rolls
and five cent laffy taffy,
with silly jokes on the wrapper
that brought a little lighthearted laughter.

Small brick building
and in the back was
his home.

Now the burnt red bricks
have lightened and cracked a bit,
like the memories of him,
fuzzing up while slowly fading,

till he is the foggiest of impressions.

I try to recapture any ****** expressions
but only recall vagaries.

The building falls behind the sun,
but his family has not yet moved on.

Soon the night will descend
consuming me as it has devoured
my memories of him.