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ryn Sep 2014
What's my worth?
Am I worth a second glance?
Till present, from birth
Am I deserving of chance?

What's my value?
Am I worth time spent?
What did I do?
Did I squander the life lent?

What are my virtues?
Do they even shine through?
Do I put them to good use?
Or useless like a pair less shoe?

What defines me?
Is it the words that write?
Or work I do diligently?
Could it be my punches in a fight?

What have I done?
Take your time to think
Did I do it with a loaded gun?
Must've done something; must've missed the link

What am I good for?
Important work or menial labour
Could have I done more?
Achieved alone or together

Do I think differently?
Indulge in fairytale notions
Is it sheer folly?
To believe in magic potions

Am I just silly?
Do I dream too much?
Accept reality
Am I capable of such?

Do I shirk what I carry?
Should I have said no?
Did I delay and tarry?
Have I nothing to show?

Am I wrong to feel?
Is it foolish to want?
When it all is real
Now bearing the brunt

Do I wear you weary?
With my endless stupor
Why can't I bury?
Before we expire

Why do I wallow?
Wading through eye puddles
Should I just burrow?
Deep into these riddles

Why do I falter?
Why can't I heal and rise?
Why do I break and shatter?
How do I stop my eyes?

What is this dense forest?
Must everything be obscure?
Can I not be honest?
Can I not be insecure?

Could I be any more random?
Asking as they come to mind
Have I compromised my decorum?
Have I been blind?

Should I delve even deeper?
May I go on and ask?
Am I worthy of an answer?
Or should I just don my mask?

Gargantuan was my crime
Thick was its girth
Absolution this time?
Of it am I worth?
With nimble hands, the opening of a plastic
bag transpires,
Dire need to consume food, edge of bag rips
A roar of condemnation, sneering at you
Contents of food fly out from its captivity,
Dispersed across the floor like lawn sprinkler

With frightened eyes, overcome with the rush
of tears as if they were competing to fall out of
Food stares at you and relishes in its final
Should I abide by the five-second ru–
A gargantuan foot bears down on food, like one
slamming his foot abruptly on car brakes
Cccrunchhhh, cccrunchhh...

Such a tragedy!
But, by the way, this pair of shoes sure look
better than mine
With nimble hands, you seize the individual by
the neck and–
Sssnapppp, ppopppp...
Dire need to feel remorse, but none embraces

With nimble hands, the opening of a plastic bag
Don't ever touch my food.
Thank you.
Don't you hate it when you eat a snack from a plastic bag, open it up, only to witness one of the edges ripping?
Andrew Jun 2017
When education was restricted
They ran to religion
When solace was stripped away
They ran to martyrdom
Loved ones fell
Hated ones rose
As hearts sank
To the depths of the maelstrom
Fueled by the unholy trinity
Value, vindication, and violence

Bombs decimate Afghan villages
With the precision
Of a needle hitting a vein
And as casually
As a contractor putting a dollar in his pocket
The rubble of their town
Lost in a mist of dust
The rubble of their minds
Lost in a mist of vengeance

The rabid dog chases the subjugated raccoon
The raccoon discovers a sacred hole and hides in it
The predator attempts to encroach the void
The raccoon quivers in it's sanctuary shelter
Finding relief as the hound becomes stuck
And laughs as the infected beast starves to death
But ecstasy turns to terror
As the raccoon realizes it's only way out of this hole
Is being blocked by the gargantuan corpse
Terror turns to sorrow
As the raccoon starves to death
In the dark
It's holy land now ****
For once it had protected the raccoon from unbridled rabies
But since the hound's death
It's Cerberus size obstructs all progression
Holes become graves
And prey are left to pray
For someone to drop a bomb and clear a path
SøułSurvivør Jul 2017
Natalheme was on the balcony gazing up at the moons again. She always did this after talking to The One. And, as always, she was awestruck by their beauty. Perfect spheres of crystal, with a scintillating sheen due to the shield that surrounded her world. Three there were. The largest was ivory, the second aquamarine, and the smallest the color of Tourmaline lilac. This is the human equivalent of the shades. But these colors only the Seraphs could see. For they have a much broader spectrum of color to enjoy.

The child yawned, and stretched her graceful arms as if to grasp the one small moon, now the color of heather, as it was moving behind the largest ecru orb. She then looked out at her home planet. The balcony provided a spectacular view. In itself, the cantilevered balcony was a feat of engineering without par. Gracefully it perched on the side of Natalheme's home like a dove would place itself with spread wings upon an olive branch. It had a texture like mother of pearl, but with a subtle sparkle like marble. The child went on the tip of her toes to look over the edge of this edifice.

Her planet was the loveliest this universe can provide. Her people, the Seraphs, were created by The One just as we were, but their female could not be tempted by Evitamar (their name for Satan). Therefore, their world, and indeed the Seraphs themselves, never lost their original Glory. Enormous trees spread like umbrellas of emerald and turquoise. Some were the shade of peridot. Others had leaves that were molting, and were every shade of fire. A mist swirled up from the foliage beneath the gargantuan trees. Flowers of every color (and as I said, their spectrum was endless) and shape graced the garden beneath the shade of the beautiful trees. The Mist watered everything growing. It never rained on her world. Cathedral like crystals erupted here and there from the russet earth. Natalheme (pronounced nat-al-eh-may) could hear the azure ocean. The waves sang and sang...

Above her an enormous eagle-like raptor soared on the thermals provided by the Mist. It looked down on the child, it's eyes having the same natural frown as our species of bird. But its eyes were ruby blood. It had feathers the color of alabaster and amber, and were crystalline in nature.

All of the sudden it positioned itself to swoop... its body angled down and rushed toward her with blinding speed! Its talons extended like landing gear, and snatched the child up like she weighed as much as a cotton ball!

It hauled her into the air by her light tunic, took her miles above her planet... And proceeded to drop her!

She shrieked...

... with utter delight!

(To be continued)

(C) 7/13/2017
A story I've been writing I thought I'd share... I'm adding more instalments when I have the time.

Thanks for reading!
living up to it is bringing me down.
so much life grieving out loud
and all the glorious tundra of genius
wrecking my toes. I misstep…
to a point… I never fathomed.


I have long lungs and short breaths.
I come undone effortless.
I do what must be done
regardless…. and soldier on.
but to the sticking place,
i am gargantuan,
but a clumsy fool
with a fancy


something in Me has died a lot.
i must Live more
to love as much
and when you can’t…
you rot.

you sleep where things have no love.
you weep where things have no eyes.
you are sincere
where a sun is a fist.
and you fight
for not so much.
but you Live


love is the wonderful thing that keeps you alive.
and Alive is the  terrible thing that keeps you
i have a break at 12 o'clock
will you please come over
you don’t have to knock
i’ll leave the door open
it will be unlocked
a bouquet of flowers
i’ll have in stock
a vase and a candle
a knife and a blade
a face and a cigarette
its all about the way we explain
i mean rationalize away
do time-lines justify our decline into tyranny
send me back again to sublime infancy
retrofit the celibate instigator
lemniscate the elephant’s fingerprints
impress me with wit and charm
storm troopers unarmed
star-gazers, shadow-haters, sand-blasters, ice-skaters,
morning's lovers, fathers, daughters, shoulders and elbows
rub brows and crease foreheads
wrinkles in your timelines
define lines as destiny unwinds
reminds me of blinding light
the heights of old empires
sire warriors, stories as tall as soldiers
for real, heal the split between mind and body
kindly, lovingly, bump up against me
and kiss me again
i am music fused together with eternity
space and dust and rusted armpits
a hundred diamonds, drops of sweat
skin like leather, weatherproof, foolproof too
determine to use it all
for you are the muse of all
do as you need to
fuse it together lest it come apart again
return to heaven and mend the tear
split the hair or the atom
magic is a language
tragic is the cancerous neglect of syntax
emptiness is manic
gargantuan attacks of presence
defenseless, we are taught worthless ****
neglect it, but remember important words
stories, looms of drawings
forming in my mind’s eye
i cannot be bought or controlled by pirates
the best moments are private
you are not invited
so go home and create your own zone of entertainment
its necessary
your gentle fingers
blessing my soul
courage to roll with life’s blows
no need for stoics
or poets who deny reality’s arguments
slippery slopes
walking tight ropes
can you cope with all this mistletoe
restring your bow
dance in the snow as if everyone knows
you are crazy in love with the whole
motionless vision swift as an arrow
roofless rooms
prom queens flip you off and turn you on
sons and daughters, lions of the prairie
a child portable and small
respects the walls that you’ve made
they are not your cage but your shelter
self culture is affluent and not arrogant
sand mandalas tall as waterfalls
golden rainbows pour from the faucet in the sky
like mighty images
wisdom bridges the gaps in our imagination
i can’t wait to get this on the page
written in stone, reflecting thrones
made from the bones of pharaohs
consciousness narrows as you approach
are you a cockroach, coach or a student
strokes of wonder for different folks
cold call your own homes
do you prioritize lightning over thunder
words over rubber
sandwiches to clutter
are you interested in diamonds or other
precious gemstones
that flutter like butterflies when i utter
emeralds like butter
do you waste time arranging your clutter
stuttering utter nonsense
frequencies wasted, gentleness chased away
fantasies radioactive
magic lacks targets
darkens our fathers
keep chasing actions
satisfaction is attractive
your eyes are like fragments of rubies in the fire
i see beauty in desire, features in the sky
i look skyward and see higher
minds are wired to remain stagnant
stranded in a lack of entertainment
change this and make your own amazement
wonder over thunder, lick me down under
gone asunder like the burning acropolis
topple this bottomlessness
can't stop this, its impossible
i wonder do you make blunders
in underground mountains
we shout words like fountains shoot water
curtains topple over
and form a blanket over our consciousness
after our performances
swarms of crazy people leave the theater
shattered and too stunned to speak
to ****** to leak they keep walking down south
toward Plymouth Rock,
Mammoth Mountian or Rehoboth Beach
take stock of the situation and just move
first one out is rewarded
sordid and sorted like straw from the hay stacks
caskets of black iron casings
tastings of wine whose shelf-life is expired
past due cheese overripe and stinky
like mustard dusted with lightning
striking on time is all that we have
thinking that was a close call
we fall down and get up, remove the uppercuts
and lowercases from our mouths
doubt is a ***** word heard too often,
coughing from a coffin she offers me her hand
cold as ice cream, these nouns are deafening
love is lazy like a muffin
and hot like a dumpling
but a liaison with time cannot be rushed
i have lived long enough to learn this
a privilege to give birth to this moment
again and again vintage feathers
send me your sweaters
detest impostors who give robotic answers
i am in wonder at all this grammar
that i was unaware of
ignorant as mustard
and smooth like custard
in this blustery weather
i am glad i wore a sweater
and have an umbrella
to keep me dry and safe
i am in love walking toward the gate
and boarding that plane
i am your heart served on a plate
with a side of coleslaw, soul food for dinner
you are a winner and i am your hunger
a porcelain gravestone
a copper bathtub with claws
stored in your basement
storerooms cold as a skating rink
please don't think, unless its about me
let sentences drift away
while we chase arguments from yesterday's

Ira Desmond Dec 2018
Last night,
I dreamt that the friend of a friend had died.

His body floated lifeless on the surface of the Pacific,
tossed about between the Bering Sea whitecaps

like an orca’s seal-pup plaything
while the Arctic wind whipped

and beat the freezing cold water
across his pallid face and through his chestnut hair.

Then his body
began to sink,

its silhouette appearing
against various monotone

canvases of blue
on its trip downward:

a vivid cornflower,
a pelagic cerulean,

a chasm of cold cobalt,
a starless twilight,

a forest of indigo,
a velvet curtain of navy.

as it reached the deepest possible shade of midnight—

only a quantum away from black—
it stopped sinking.

There, in that void,
where daylight and color are considered but outlandish theories,

strange fish of all and shapes and sizes
began to surround the decomposing corpse:

Greenland sharks hailing from the frozen arctic,
mantis shrimp from the mangrove labyrinths,

eyeless electric eels from undersea caves near the Galápagos,
vampire squid rising cautiously up out of their World War One trenches,

scores of spindly ***** and pale worms that had ventured far beyond
the safe familiarity of their alien geothermal worlds.

At first, they approached the corpse gingerly,
nibbling only the tips of its hair and fingernails,

and then suddenly, voraciously,
they consumed it—until not even a skeleton remained.

Now, only a single point of light was left
there floating in the void.

And from this single point of light,
where just a moment before the corpse had floated,

a brilliant white lattice structure emerged,
unfurling as would a fern across a forest floor.

It fanned out onto the seabed
and then swept upward, upward

back toward those reaches of sea
where color is known

and fresh air gleefully permeates
that foamy outer membrane that skirts the base of the sky.

Scores of familiar fish began to lift up the crystalline structure—
schools of shimmering sardines,

stately, dignified manta rays,
skipjacks, bluefins, and white-tips,

brilliant cuttlefish, humble pufferfish,
shifty barracuda, gargantuan whale sharks,

all of them
beating their tails in concert

to carry this lattice away,
this measure of a life,

this husk of a soul
at last freed from its earthly bindings.

The fish were carrying it somewhere deeper,
somewhere darker,

to a place that I understood—
even from the inky depths

of my dreaming mind—
that I could not enter.

But then again,
I knew that someday

I would.
OC Aug 2018
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Had so much fun with this one
Remember growing up together?
If something got difficult,
You'd rather ram into it head first
Than raise a fist against it
Or ask for assistance.
I remember when challenges became bigger,
When "difficult" just became a word
Used to describe your past,
Instead of describing actual tasks
Because those were now
Gargantuan, demonic walls
Syphoning your soul on contact.
I remember you bashing your face
Into every obstacle
Until there was so much blood
You'd go blind.

You changed.
i don't know....
but like... a ******...
thst's not overtly-pretentious
about opera...
makes me feel
warm... all inside...
like eating a doughnut...
screaming off
*****! dino bones!
   it's like...
       i am allowed
to heave a hope for man...
and remain dodo-project
    and tell one woman:
your god,
is a mastrimony to
having abdandoned me...
how a white
****** imitates
a black woman
with "her"
innuendo tractact
of imbargo
for the scuttling tongue...
i have to simply start
calling trannies:
     or the gargantuan
mimic scoops...
with woman having
made the digger's grave
of a man's primordial
        i remember
chasing shadow,
and a non-existent
hide & seek...
are the games played
by children
   with finding
i feel...
there's one curiosity
left for me...
what came first...
the oyster shell
or the oyster?
              sieve past
the strutting chicken
encompassing the ****
alt. uniformschwarz!
              whiskers missing
from a cat...
but a salute nonetheless!
trans- men make
me feel warm inside;
like doughnuts...
i was supposed to feed
of the horror off women
being incorporate(d).
Otis Feb 16
sunflower flying,
are you not stuck in the morning?
neon and crepuscular;
spoken for
by the white walls,
the incandescence, and the caterpillar
in make believe.

higher on the podium, kissing,
in gargantuan now.
rolling and rolling and rolling,
always to watch
as the long day's hard judge.
all things do not make it
to the kingdom
of night.

sunflower of the moon,
resting under easy breeze
and lurid fire;
we are all for you.
Wk kortas Aug 2018
It was, as the New York Times all but sniffed
(Even then, a haughty mix of bluenose and black ink)
Further proof the poor, misguided Upstate rubes
Were no more than ample fodder
For any tinhorn, two-bit confidence man to take for a ride.
Fair enough—it was, to the careful eye and unheated psyche
Clear as the azure blue sky that,
Despite the best efforts of acid wash and a year underground,
So obviously a statue as to be absolutely laughable,
And yet the vox populi came in waves,
Not only one-gallus farmers from the fields nearby,
But from the great cities near and far
(Chicago, Philadelphia, and, yes, even New York itself
To throw Hannum a quarter to view his gargantuan grotesquery
Just as described in Genesis itself, he noted solemnly
So many, indeed, that Barnum himself was divinely inspired
Not only to purloin the giant, but its prior owner’s epigram
As to the frequency of the manufacture
Of his too-credible customer base.
While there was (briefly, at least) some mystery surrounding
The origins of the brobdingnagian mass of stone,
It remained (to some, anyway) equally unfathomable
Why scores of folks would careen in unsteady coaches
The full length of the Catskill Turnpike,
With its questionable lodging and uneven roadworthiness,
Or patiently suffer the mosquito-laden flatboats of Clinton’s Ditch
All to spend the cash equivalent of two trips to the county fair
To see a perfectly good hootchie-kootchie show
Simply to gawk at an unevenly carved rock of questionable authenticity,
But that explained quite simply,
As the public always gets what the public wants.
.and what if the referendum was secured, by the single vote, if it was predicated on: only and only if, there's a 60% consensus... the current debate is taken place, because the consensus is, extremely marginal... we're talking about fringe politics, outlier political opinions... the the remain vote is argued with the same verocity as the leave vote... for the benefit of outlier opinions... if only there was a predicate: it will be passed... as long as there's a 10% difference between the votes... 51.9% for leave to 48.1% for remain, of the country having voted... if only the whole point of voting, was akin to the "ancient" enforced tactic of drafting men to serve in the army... 67.7% voting areas voting to leave... 32.3% voting to remain... yeah... the "obscure" parts of england... with scotland, clearly being an anomaly with regards to "obscure" rural regions... should the argument come: concentration of power, in urban babylons.

someone should, really, really try to remaster
that vague piece of work

                       that pristine rhythm
    section: notably on the song bite now bite
from the album
          eat your heart out -
                              by... a belgian band:
of all bands... it had to be, belgian...
  ******* choccies (KLINIK) -
   oh look, an intra-racial slur...
because what would be fun:
  if language was plain, safe,
                                                      in vitro:
and not the islam to the individual -
   whenever: i, am to submit,
                     to the language of the other?
well obviously malice is reserved
for something else, but not for breathing,
thinking or feeling,
   or for that matter:
     the "problem" of idle hands...
itchy hands...
               i guess some of the throng,
of the volk: chatter chatter chatter...
    bite... chew... but then forget to
swallow... (sow s-, s-, swo-, swo-...
'the **** an A charge in, eh?
                                     i guess, that's how).

but no one
likes to see
likening it
to the Milan

                               and all those poems
that look like this:

|begins here


|ends here:

|can anyone please tell me...
   why zee / zed:
              is a conotation
                        depicting the process of sleep?

and all this nonsense:
                   england is spelled with
a capital: who says it's anywhere but london?
E this, E that,
    E sat on a wall
                    didn't fall accidently...
i know a rat when i see one...
   Nigel, Nigel (see... capital N,
implies emphasis, like italics or a colon
       Nigel... can you please bring back
your fwend, Dawid?
                     just a few questions...
2 and a half 'ears lay'ter...
   and... no end in sight...
to those loitering... shuffling their feet...
how many votes do you actually need...
when there was only one
                     for die volk
- and i have to admit...
       it was close...
                roughly                      51 to 49...
i know why they voted leave...
           because of the people who poured
in, most, probably momentarily
back in 2004...
                              the people who were
taught two, of 20th century's prime lessons,
by foreign entities...
               arbeit macht frei

         so no laid-back work ethic coming
with the windrush, was there?
                    conflict of interests...
**** it, if i were strapped to a caribbean
island, i'd have a laid back work ethic:

yet still this whole blah blah debate...
          like... let's forget the good friday
   but finally...
            we can have the old terrorists back...
            maybe the IRA will
                  out-compete the jihadis?
or at least scare them?
  or... dunno...
                                            ol' Jack...
ol' Jackie boy'o will: simply...        unravel?
am i rooting for it to happen?
                            but it would suggest
that i'm rooting for being part of
                a historical event,
                            like the treaty of versailles...
or the weimar rep.,
                            and i was the voice
on the bottom,
               sifting through
                     eclectic ambitions to find:
culture that will never become
forever destined for the: archaic archive,
now forever the footstuff
                            of the gargantuan a.i.:
alternatively known as a.i.p.:
                   artificial intelligence purgatory.

- hey, i can't compete,
    i'm just a kid that forgot to bring
his crayons, and instead brought
   some matchsticks and toothpicks.

if only: 2 years prior to the referendum
they had a plan...
   but they thought they could do
a joker trick,
         so there you have it: agent of chaos...
agent of chaos says:
  people, 1 vote, politicians?
         an infinite number of votes by
the looks of it...
                  voting is not reserved
for the people, de facto,
we now have a strange despot on our
hands... der volk...
                    what a strange monster...
was i leave or remain?
   neither, considering that i ended up
drinking to stay somewhat sane
for the past... oh... 10 years...
    on debit...
                well... why would i even
consider drinking into the excesses of
phantasmagoria              on credit?
that would be ******, as ****** didn't.

in summary: to minor points...
    i can understand why people don't like
or the fact that their everyday language
is already peppered with poetic techniques...
figuratively speaking...
                   akin to:
   where does the technique of poetry
end, and the comedy begin?
                     yeah, that: "not literally" part?

who would mind:
   it's not an elitist "thing" to like or dislike
a medium...
                 i like the "breathing" space in
the optics... of... the never to be seen
                              literary paragraph...
i like cascades...
                         paragraphs are sometimes
a strain on the eyes...
like watching really fast cars
zoom past you on a very small race-track...
**** just gets dizzy...

.......................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­.......... (click) etc.

           well on the up-side...
once you've read some magnum opus...
say... the cantos...
    for some strange reason...
you can sit back, listen to some choccie
music from the underground...
open the book...
   and just stare at the poetry...
    without having to reread anything...
a bit like...
                  a painting...

                                    sure as **** you
can't do that with a novel,
      with its rigid, cluster-**** of a descriptive
paragraph: she said, he said,
then another descriptive paragraph:
he said, she said...

               as much as i love novels...
  give me a poetics of a framework of freedom,
or a philosophical monologue
    by some helmut
    (german) - oh look...
     another intra-racial slur...
    helmuty: germans...
                  derived from?
              helmut kohl -
                    german chancellor 1982 - 1998;

ah... what an enriching experience.
Lucy Wooding Jul 2018
What are you living for?

To operate like a minuscule cog in the gargantuan wheel of capitalism?
Like a mindless hamster slaving away 5 days a week.

Or to learn from vacuous minded socialites
That a woman’s empowerment begins with flaunting skin
Accumulating confidence through social media validation.

Are you living for a beige existence?
Where you station yourself in your birth town for the next 50 years
Wedding the first man who shows interest and bearing his children at the age of 21.

Are you tirelessly working to pay for that one bedroom flat
Situated in an overcrowded concrete jungle?
Social fulfilment sapped from your clutches.

Or for that luxury recliner
Which will take 10 years to pay off?

Are you living in ignorance?
Suppressing the knowledge that civil wars and mass genocides are manifesting every second
Yet you choose not to help fellow mortals?

Are you taking orders, or questioning instigators of austerity?
Fulfilling the anarchist rhetoric, demonstrating that you are not a doormat?

But really, what are you living for?
Derrek Faraday Dec 2018
Before the thaw, my feet will be rooted
Into this nation’s primordial freeze
My muscles and bones will be acquainted with malaise
The sun’s altruism will be refuted

Before the thaw, I will struggle to find consciousness
The frost will leak through the bedroom window
And don the facade of a blanket
The door will prove to be bottomless

Possibilities will seem unachievable
The brain will itch for what it can not have
Buses will limp through congestion
And the blizzards may feast on the feeble

You may want to write of your misery
But your automation will halt in cataclysm
Because someone held a door open
For the gust that billows bitterly

Gastric emissions will become tangible
As smouldering wastes contrast against the sky with rancour
The wispy whites, marginalized into *****
And the world remains infallible

I will lack the tools of incision
To enact my life’s revisions
I will weep for my unguided millions
While I saunter into oblivion

After the thaw, I will smile
My expatriate soul will run in the whimsical wind
Of the morning dayspring that will march unto me
I will stand over a kingdom of honey-filled tiles

After the thaw, the arks will converge
Into the straits of the Bermudian Sea and the
Elusive Caspian Forest, where I will learn to love again
While bidding farewell to winter’s dirge

In the waking world, I will ***** a limestone castle
Where entropy will rule and the mind’s domain
Is left susceptible to perennial reverence
The sea, coloured true, nesting a fairgrounds vessel

In this Great Revision, gargantuan skyways
Will show the world how exiguous we are
That we must not wait for exodus to come
Should we fear to waste away
Into icebergs
(.) - living in the times when,
all variants of the form of fiction,
whether in the medium
of movie, or books,
allows the reader,
or the viewer,
to become comfortable in
his or her sense of
the: predictable outcome,
predictable narrative
                     "cul de sacs"...
modern fiction
and oh: so many predictable
a micro-cosmos
of prophesy that always...
becomes... a faked...
poetry as rigid as
  a journalistic account...
                        scripted and safe...
this language could
be so much more,
       if it only allowed itself
to be harvested
by 1st time users,
        who were not born into
the shackles of 2nd time users...
those immigrant parents
who discarded their
   plain in sight...
the longing of their children,
   english was
was never enough to begin
but to live
with a psychic dissonance
to the reality of, a time,
and this,
claustrophic concept of space;
there's no point
asking me to be coherent...
better look for
a "sudoku" of rigid
paragraph rubrics,
coherent, mundane conversations
between characters:
which a schizophrenic
symptom can't even ascribe
a venture into theatre...
anna maria jopek: droga na południe
   simply red: holding back
the years

spandau ballet: true
    diana krall: peel me a grape
vs. sade: smooth operator...
****... ****** ninja all the time...
a nostalgia...
   that can only transcend
a craft of finding time in
a dismembered form of a painting...
and bad spelling...
or simply for the album stars...
sure, sure,
i'll make english the language
akin to a spiderweb...
as long as i am the spider
at its centre...
never to be usurped from my use
of it, by some censorship-*****
of a litigated presence
of also drown me in
    sea of silence...
   by scripting how i am
to imitate drowning
   with this: and every other
gargantuan gurgle of visible lettering;
side-ways up with
no immediate fetish for
  hierogylphs of egypt,
and the modern digital "egypt"...
   i am looking for the modern
Rosetta stone...
     it began with :)
                                  and ended...
well... it never really ended...
music from back then...
it's not even nostalgia...
   apparently a soulless entity
like a.i. and a devil's dozen
of music producers,
can tap into writing art...
based upon the data of mood swings...
on the pure abstract of
chemical reaction basics
of the brain...
   memory... as far as i am
   is in direct conflict with
the chemical workings of the brain...
of the brain in situ,
for whatever is the concerning
of... getting your music
for free... bypassing the radio
             'ere you go...
go forth... and...
            perhaps... you can...
manage to multiply,
and if not? eh, no big loss.

— The End —