I wanted to go everywhere with you,
to dive into your past, the beautiful and the *****.
To meet every version of self you have ever been.
I wanted to see your frosting stained smile
on your 8th birthday. To know you when
innocence and hope still reigned.
I wanted to hear your midnight laughter on an
ordinary Tuesday in California. To sit on the floor in
that apartment that you couldn't afford to furnish.
I wanted to walk hand in hand
through the years of your life.

And when my curiosity had been sated
with endless waves of knowledge of you,
I had hoped you would've liked to
walk through my stories.
To meet the now-gone women
who molded my soul and gifted me with
love and a sarcastic sense of humor.
I wanted you to greedily feast upon all my days gone by.

Armed with an overwhelming acceptance of one another,
I hoped we would embark on a path we forged together.
I dreamt that when I savored pasta in Venice,
I would look up to see you sitting across the table.
I imagined that your smile was the last delight
I would feel before I slowly drifted to sleep in Amsterdam.
I thought the next time I dove under a salty wave,
It would be you at my side.

I wanted to experience every taste, every touch
and every breath with you standing next to me.
For, life was more beautiful with your hand in mine.
You were my welcome rose-colored glasses,
now laying shattered on the floor.

Without you I see the world in
all of its harsh grotesqueness.
Without your cloud of sweetness,
My past pain and horror yet unknown
have taken on new strength.

I now only wish to travel back to the time,
when I thought I had a chance with your heart.

So uncomfortable in my own skin
Walking through this empty place
Flat, no hills, no valleys
Just grass

I come to a well and in it is me
I see myself and ask myself questions
Why am I here?
As I stare at myself I can feel a new set of eyes on me
I turn and there is me again.
Why am I here?
A third set of eyes snaps to me and yet again it is me.
That same old reflection of insecurity.
Why so insecure?
Why am I here?
So quickly a new set of eyes gazes upon me and then off of me
Holding nothing but my insanity as a constant reminder of the grotesqueness of my character.

The well’s bucket holding my heart;
I looked at it.
And what a surprise a picture of me.
The well asks me why I am here.
I reply with a shrug.
Indifferent of the situation I walk.
Seeing myself everywhere now.
Why am I here?
I come to a different person, but all of my qualities reflected off of her.
Haunting me to my extent, I *****.
For I do not deserve this.
I’ll just give in.
The bitter sweetness of her presence is enough to be fatal.
Looking in her eyes I see my sorrowful and diffident self.
I give in and turn slowly towards the well…

I walk to that well…
I take the bucket off the string and pour out my own heart and listen to it splash at the bottom….
Tie my knot…
And hang myself…
Why was I there…?

If perception truly is everything, then to age in Amerika is a psychological disaster.

Amerika is a youth obsessed country;  a capitalistic consumer oriented country. All the power of capitalism goes into (via advertising, etc.) creating and maintaining this youth obsession.

Take women as an example. If you are female in Amerika, you must always look 25. You must be slim, long-haired, sexually alluring, preferably blond and dress youthfully. Even if you are 60.

This goes a long way toward answering the question why so many women who are 40+ are so fat, unhappy, depressed and ******. Simply put, there is no reasonable way for most of them to meet cultural expectations.

Either they let themselves go (fatties abound in the US) or they resort to grotesqueness to measure up (extreme diet and exercise, plastic surgery, etc.)

They can't win so depression and self-loathing abound.

Most mature women have known that horrible moment when a young, attractive man looks right through them. They have become culturally invisible: they are shocked and hurt.

Men suffer from all this too, but not as much. Younger women will sometimes actually see value in an older man. Rarely, but sometimes, so cultural invisibility comes later for men.

Mid-life money, Corvettes and condos only delay the inevitable. The same moment will arrive and so will the hurt and shock.

This is not as simple as all men are pigs or all women are *******.

If we know that the perception that we don't exist is created by the capitalist media and advertisers, why do we do we buy into it?

Every age has its beauty. Why not accept it and be how old you are? Be who you are. Forget those impossible perfections. Stop trying to be Barbie and Ken. Be real.

It is difficult but possible. I have seen it.

In France you see lovely older women dressed alluringly (but not like 20-year-olds) who are slim, can run in high heels over wet cobblestones and exude sexuality. You often see them with handsome younger men, who are clearly entranced. Why there and not here?

Maybe it's the champagne or maybe it's just sanity.

mce

It looks as if my heart is night.
Darker then the absence of light.
The taste is as if death cooked it himself.
The smell of miasma expelling forth
From my muscle beating.
                               Beating.
                               Beating just to keep alive the death.
However, I would had to be alive at one time to measure death.
Yet it has been so long since I can remember that.
My body feels cold and it grows still colder.
I can feel it spreading, and faster it goes when seen with condemning eyes.
My hands now black like ice on a road.
I attempt to remove the shallow grave from my hands,
But all I’m wearing is white and it’s spreading like wildfire.
Moving from the hidden into the visual sight.
I wear gloves to hid the grotesqueness, yet it bleeds through.
I have learned to except the fact of my situation.
All the pain it inflicts is in a certain sense something I'm use to,
And if it does leave I would not know how to be.
For it is my life to rid my life of such infliction,
But when, or if, I do I will have used up my existence
On that single fact and die from the inside out.
If I rid myself of the darkness there will be a hole.
A hole wider then can be filled by human measures;
Thus, my heart will fill with blood and drown itself.
I just need the idea of searching for a cure;
Not necessarily the cure itself.
Consequently, I will search to the end of the earth for a solution,
But in the back of my mind I know I shall never find.

Birds sing and fly
Flowers smile
Rivers flow
Mountains invite
Rainbows bend in
Seven colours
Sunset and sunrise
Do not amaze us
With their beauty
Their beauty
We do not care
With them we cannot pair
We do not have time
To stand and stare
At them to feel
And heal our broken selves
We catch them
In our cameras mechanically
Showing off our taste
In a haste lest the time
Should pass between
Our fingers stealthily!

We are busy fighting
Over a dead carcass
We use all our might
To prove our commonness!

While Nature laughs at
The grotesqueness of humanity
Its song, fragrance, breathtaking heights,
Soothing colours that might bring sanity
Are squandered and drowned in the rites
Of violence engraving epitaphs at
The doors of suffering humanity!

The grotesqueness of Man
Shown to a clouded mind.
The animalistic nature
Of a society that separates itself
from the animals
Revealed.

In the moment,
Thoughts too jumbled to express
The stark realization.
The realization that society is sick.
A pustule ready to burst
Packed with the greed and malice of the masses
And the Hypocrisy of a people
Where being equal means being white
Where opportunity only lies in lineage

And then the sharpness and soundness returns
And all those realizations fade
Chalked up to delusions of a drug induced dementia

An extreme hedonist
Pleasure is the point
In all things
Be they love
Be they life
Be they war
It has a certain charm
And a certain grotesqueness
Or so I'm told
To seek pleasure
Over enlightenment
Over duty
Over all
So little pain
Except the fun kind
And
You can have all the starburst
You can keep down.

I have seen hatred of me
     on the face of total strangers...
I have known
     ...physical
         .....emotional
              .....unendurable abuse and pain.
Each strike ripping my soul
       to shreds.
Yet I have found strength
     amidst broken pieces
Determined to repair
    both heart and soul
Some say~
     "Clearly with Crazy Glue"....
What's wrong with her?
      She laughs
         She dances
             She sings
Oblivious to the grotesqueness
       others firmly believe
            to be all that is she.
Yet my monstrous
   ....malformed
       ....aberrant
           tortured essence~
Still finds the compassion
     to offer a hand in friendship.
Able to muster the strength
      offering care
          and understanding
So desperately needed for self
         to others....
For the faint of heart
     may naught but see
         the scars
              the fears and
                tattered shambles of my life.
However, the few who stand
         in shoes similar to mine.
Share an understanding...
       A commonality....
          A symbolic connection
The stark realization of the
          courage it takes to survive...
              derived only through experience.
My shattered heart and soul
    Are but a badge of honor.
Proudly I carry
    til the end of my days....

Is it a drought if I thirst for you?

You a cascading angel who freely falls to mortal ground.

I attempt to hide my grotesqueness
                a body and soul of broken debris as you softly crash upon me.

You quench my famine lips with your wetness served on porcelain skin, the smell of your darkest parts soothe the pain that enslaves me.

I know the devil holds no mercy, sins not forgiven nor atoned, but for this moment, your sweet oasis gently pours over me...

...my body and soul of broken debris as you crash and lay upon me.

Upon the day of my death, my last wishes are inscribed here.
I wish for Tyler Roth my closest friend, to hand down this will to whomever he sees fit, by chance I outlive him. Please had this to the next legal recipient.


They have granted me strength, enduring support, and became the mold from which I sprang from.

You, unknown to me who you are, yet it is to you that I entrust my bones and the flesh that expressed my wishes upon this world of which I can no longer call my own.

It is to you that I grant the strength of all my merits, and mistakes.
A dead mans wish, is the easiest to ignore, but with hope whatever sense of honor, respect, and pride you had in me you will not hesitate to bind yourself to the completion of this will.

To my people I give my wealth, my friends my property, my family my soul along with all its works, and to you my utmost important final desire, do not bury me!

For the love of all that is I.
Take my bones from my flesh, grind them down to powder and have them forged in a heat no lesser then the inferno in my soul!

Forge with it a tool, a weapon of the onward marching spirit!
Keep it close to you don't dare allow its blade to grow dull, its gleam to fade.
It is the embodiment of how you see not only my legacy but of what yours will become and of that to whom you will depart it upon.

Secondly take the remainder of what was once I and reduce it to a mixture of ash and dust.
Have it crystallized transmogrified in holy remembrance of what is unholy, because neither can exist Without the other.

Take it too the land of those who see value in nothing and yet still love everything.
Frame it high above covered by trees of beauty and grotesqueness so that you can only catch the light through this sprite of I on the entrances to my unnamed monument.
It will be my only way of saying hello and goodbye again.

Due this so that with the will and honor you've proven you have that you will not sit idly by saying he was a great man, or lesser things.

But that you will have no other choice but to say what have I left to accomplish of my own volition that blesses me with such honor, will, and pride as this old mans request to scatter his form.

Burrowing down deep,
that’s where he squeezed his feelings -
crushed them in his rib cage,
pulverized them into fears
that feasted on his festering flesh
til there was nothing of him left
but a squealing mush of grotesqueness
growing ravenous with rage

Overwhelmed with anxiety
From expanding her variety
Of what she has consumed
The whole day now ruined
They say just take a bite
Not understanding the fright
Secretly she'll panic
Feeling gigantic
Automatically she hears her
Screaming look in the mirror
She says, again today you fail
Don't bother to step on that scale
She makes her keep it quiet
Claiming It will start a riot
She promises my happiness
As I grow Grotesqueness
Demands that I obey
Smile, pretend I'm okay

poetry as some vague: pick-me-up...
      "poetry"...

there comes a time in a man's life:
say, he was young and foolish
and by foolish i implore anyone to conjure up

the self-deprecating fantasy of
a james joyce insistence on proclaiming
to the world this... miasma...
no... this myopia of ambition
in the literary realm:

to give unto the world a... "unique" perspective
on life, this... original sin of
prior to me not foot has trodden this path...
well... oh well well...

how void these ambitions of uniqueness
are...
stupor, agony, angst...
lethargy and all the thesauric affluence
of verbiage: like a bouquet of rose
tinted grimaces...

i was not allowed to cry to mourn my grandfather's
passing...
however stingy my grandmother
the mother of my mother was...
he died of impromptu neglect
by someone ripping all the stamps
from envelopes posted...
as if she wanted him to unwillingly known
that no one cared...

it only took a month for the deterioration
to unfold...
i sooner bumped my head on the radiator
in my room, bleeding from my head
sooner i bled from my head
than i uttered a cry, a wolf of agony...

because i was denied mourning...

angels of modern technology...
a seance with my grandfather's son,
my mother's brother...

3 weeks he spent in a medically induced coma...
30 minutes shy off of receiving the call...
i couldn't grimace,
i couldn't fake it...
my face contorted as best it could
to fathom some sort of sanity,
politeness, cordiality,
the socially sensual appeasing, appealing...

but then the video call was cut
and i spent a minute's worth of eternity
contemplating
our morality: "our":
whims, necessities,
money earning habits
money spending gambits,
frivolities and follies...

what was once a man, without due grace
to compare to a butterfly...
simply by sensual agitation
and reaction to light, sound, colour,
darkness...
was now... reduced to a recluse of
the mortal shell...
foggy eyed glass of seeing
murky brain... two hydroceles on the brain...

he vaguely spoke of Valhalla,
how we would feast on beetroots...
if my absence of "ambition" concerning
crossword puzzles was never more adamant
than now, then now:
talking to what was once a butterfly:
regardless of ascribing grace,
but at least virility and an imploding
mortal purpose...
now... a larva... a cocoon even
was what become of an identity
once called: Martin...

does Martin know Martin?
because: sure as **** i don't think i've been
speaking to Martin...
hell... two hydroceles are not two
imaginary horns protruding...
nor is this a gangrene of the work
of electronic tectones
of vaguely associating dreams with
sleep and sleep with death...

i peered into those eyes and tried
to make recollections...
coming to the fore the recollections
of vague, social justice poetics of
the cult of the token ethnicities
this semblance of appearing to live
alongside the Hyperboreans
this allure of desensitising the volk
of the northern cranium
like these people will allow
a language to become a gross grammatical
grotesqueness
on the grounds of a historical lineage
whereby my past is so dissociative
(as oppressor) from the victim -
this allure of the toothless animal
having a grip of the jaws so tight
that regardless of bone by mere evolutionary
ingenuity: necessity is the mother
of all innovation...
this grip of the jaws and the acidic potency
of the saliva easily able to leech
onto anything living and morph
it into protein, fat, carbohydrate,
vitamins, mineral, fibre components...
by suckling to a monstrous grone
of pleasuring-agony of the feast...

bad poetry vibes, otherwise a sensual realism
of the impeding: knock knock...
knock knock... someone's... ooh! at the door...

the world is strangely happening
while this personal crescendo unfolds
and i am wrapped and i am warped
into the minor tickle agony of world-speak
of journalistic world-speak...
weltsprechen...
                           talk about the weather,
talk about the premier league
and whether Liverpool f.c. or Arsenal
still have a chance of clinging
to the league title against
the cigar smoking Guardiola...

weltsprechen... weltspreschen...
me? i like the alt-Germanic addition of the S
because the germans tend to slip
into ich: with the Greek X or Spanish J
for ha ha...
with an addition of S to make -sch- equivalent
to Ś...  akin to Rammstein's song:
ich will...         it's actually isch will...

Ś: DAS IST DER WEISCHER SH'AH
                                                                     Š
שש
               by count 6 arms and 6 candles...
by count a protruding E
and almost a W
although wonk to one side...
an F's marriage to W...

       usher in the argh of a hark at SH'AH...
on the second H(ebrew)...

poor Edie... neglected by my turmoil...
her stay in London undermined all my attention
to create a fantasy of carousel rides...
it would be easier on my heart
to burden myself with tales of her
past with unfaithful partners...
two stones one bird
of my existential 0 at Greenwich
when she retracted her posit
on my claim: the meridian line is more
important than the equator...
at least to us... 17h30min apart
from flying to Lihue from London...
11h apart when stationary...

and she had the child-like tenacity to convince
me that God somehow invented
the equator... ha...
as i clocked in with Prometheus (the movie)
the citation: god does not build in straight lines...
besides one:
the straight line of you are born
and then you are dead...
the only conclave resisting the geometric
abnormality of god and the capacity of
straight lines:

one is born and one is dead
one exists then one doesn't...
ha... the ambiguity of the shrapnel words
of conjunction that are: then...
one is... and...
arguments allocated to:
but one is in heaven then one falls
then one is relocated to a heaven once
more? that is not the rite of the gods
to be bound to a heaven
then disgraced, then humbled...
incarnated among us mortals
to then relearn one's presence as the chosen,
the elect, reconveyining in one's
former abode?!

du haben mich... schrecklich denken...
zweitekummer: a second grief...
for worth of salt
and the yet unexplored Dune universe
that has come as a relief to all science fiction
and Star Wars
in that in latched onto the Islamic universe
and incorporated a second Lawrence of Arabia
myth...
for if Spice and Arakkas...
then Salt and Earth...

                  salt the equivalent of spice...
for us aquatic creatures
to truly belong among the rubble and mountains
we would have to be impregnated
by the tides of thirst and
of distinguishing **** from ****...
to retain the less fluid morph
of the agony of bones and nutrient loss...
to distinguish **** from **** unlike
our humble companions the pigeons...

only days ago i attempted to fall asleep
to an audiobook...
what other audiobook besides
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
would i care to listen to?
for a book so slim...
so much was invested in the curiosity of
Harry's uncle... Vernon Dursley...
such imaginative work by the people
who brought the book to life...
because? seriously?
              well....

the pure stroke of genius came with
the only visualbook that
was the Shawshank Redemption...
more than an audiobook... more more...

höhepunkt:
                      the pinnacle... a phrase of
revelation...
unlike when a lion "tames" an antler mammal
unlike when a spider stuns
and subsequently cocoons they prey
immobile...
death has no voice: only the tightness
of life...
yet... with a creature who will not be eaten
so willingly...
by fraud and self-
    earthquake and sea and fire...
by cancerous growths
those replica botanical spurs of mistletoe...
the voices of the softly weakened
limitless agonia
the mortal gives up his mental faculties
to Death... death personified...
vaguely speaking a speaking...

          this brood of the Nether Lord...
who makes an egotistical incision
to reassure the living:
of the transition period... from animate
to inanimate to animate once
more as grains of sand in the desert
upon the winding of the winds...
and the time, scaled... to imitate droplets
of water...
countless rain drop by drop
covering the entirety of the earth...
both the fertile plains and the inhospitable
distances either north or south
upon the glaciers...

       ich haben gesprochen mit Frau Tod...
the body is there... "there"...
weakened by 3 weeks in a coma,
once recognisable, a masculine threat
on my own integrity concerning the number
of ****** partners...
a prompt to bust my nuts (as it were)...
mortgage paid, money saved,
retired mid 50s...
           and now what?
obliterated plans of a future
spent living back with an 80 year old mother
drinking beer watching t.v.
listening to ****** music
       friends... friends... now like vultures...
clinging to the money...

SĘPY...          vultures...

                     and poor Edie and all of Reyla's
upheavals coming back to Kauai:
ka-wah-e
                  from London...
i did bring the fox at Greenwich
and the two ladies were introduced to London
in the grand style of a Tudor boat ride
from Greenwich pier to Westminster pier...
grimmacking scar-lock of Reyla's face
at every corner... my best estimate overwhelmed
by the sight of such urban conundrum
that it should not: ever... have a chance to exist
against her usual sight of Kawaikini
in the morning...
so much walking... walking everywhere...
walk walk everywhere: but not a seat to sit on...

who could possibly be a fan of violin music?
i asked that once...
because it was just a precursor to
all that guitar and wig lasoo ***** jerking
stage fright fuckery...
before i discovered:
Tartini's violin sonata in G minor
                            
unlike the death wish upon cremation
of the serial killer...
Camille Saint-Saëns' danse macabre?
too ******* jovial!
where the macabre "macbeth"?
the devil weeping is nowhere to be found!
but in Tartini?! oh! aplenty!

the phantom stormed out of the english national
opera... after the first act of
the die zauberflöte...
switch to a scene from Lethal Weapon 2...
Alfons... but but... you're bleak?!
black? bleak? black beak... pity...
but... das opera ist in ĘGLISCH?!

         zee vuck?!

      the phantom stormed out of the opera
and took the girl to get drunk
in the catacombs of the Embankment
in a sherry and other south European wines...
Gordon's Wine Bar... 47 Villiers St (WC2N)...
Trafalgar... the National Gallery prior...
i was on a date night...
but why was Reyla so adamant on staying
at home?
but i know...
time for Edie, mommy... to spend the time
on the town with her hubby...
crying so adamant to let mummy translate
all the *** in the hot-tub and bed
into peacocking without a bothersome "brat"...
who might have liked Camden Market
more than being taken to the up-street
market at Portobello...
by then the Japanese garden didn't matter
in Holland Park...
so stupid, world and the word so stupid...

'i known best'          without not yet...

                 but if only she could have seen that
phantom of the opera production at the king's
theatre... then watched my storming out
of the opera production
being asked by the security staff
         at the entrance / exit... 'will you be returning?'
thank god no...
   this is a complete disaster!
would the english dare to translate an Italian
opera? could the French ever dare to sing opera?!

the English's audacity to pretend to be more
than... the operatic... the musical...
English ≠ Opera...
          
     how can i salvage the 2nd most intrinsic feast
of life while also having to cram in
death...
        well... now i can truly peacock and disregard
any notion of the 37 old man with a
******* sort of worth of a 21 year girl
to ease my take for take of seriousness
maybe in the 20th century as a serious painter
but as a "poet" in the 21st century?
more like king crimson's song:
21st schizoid man...      bilingual, mind you...

but what is bilingualism in the realm
of the polyglots and polymaths?
a stern entrenchment...

this vague allure to subscribe to a life
of contentment, of happiness....
what are they, these allusions
when contending with the clenched fist
of Frau Tod and her cohort of death-speakers?
these reassuring bodies weakened torn
and half-made half-dead half-willing
half-crux foundations of the compass
markers...
if not North then south and east
to Jerusalem and Mecca?

               what of this life to be lived
with the impeding
                                 nuance... PTSD+ us all?
alle von uns?!
                             alle von uns?!

              i drank a little to sever the nerves...
now a bicycle ride for some buns...
and more whiskers for a cat already playing
with the idea of barber as a serious
profession... so no... not some Russian
gimmick of a demon disguised as a cat
(le chat noir) with a streak of professionalism
as a joueur d'échec ***** sympathiser...

e-shek?                      d'eshek?

i will shreak....       shriek!
                i will let the winds know of my breath!
is that how you utter szachy (chess) these days?
i've been playing backgammon by myself
toying with chance, perchance and i no longer
care for the difference...

enough!