Her personality reminds me that of a hardcover book,
tough and undescriptive on the cover,
but soft and vast of layers to discover inside.

You're a hardcover novel I can't seem to put down with charming tea stains on your pages, endearing creased corners and torn edges I look upon fondly but I can't open you far enough to break the bind of your spine. I’ll keep trying though as I soak in and inhale every toxically flawless inky letter you are composed of, scribbling quotes from your chapters onto my wrists so I feel like I always have you with me until I know your story inside and outside, forwards and backwards, by heart. You have and immensely lovely and irresistible sleeve around you and a fascinatingly stirring summary for your description on the back but I’m more interested in what’s inside. It’s an incomplete tale though so I hope I get the chance to rewrite the rougher parts like the heartbreaking paragraphs of your past and maybe I’ll get to be a co-author for typing out your happy ending.

Please repost if you have ever experienced or are experiencing the budding beginnings of puppy love
Please comment! I love to read any thoughts you have on my poetry or poetry itself as an art! :)

This world has me in transitions
From good to bad
But deep in my roots
I'll always be good
This image is just a shield
Protecting me from unnecessary pain
You say you know who I am
You say you're reading me
Yet you haven't opened a page
My hardcover may be misleading
But what it contains
Is nothing but a blank
Undecided in a society of pressure
With no identity I roam free
Of becoming anything I want to be

I miss my cargo green canvas backpack

Shredded with the mass of three
science textbooks: biology,
classical history, chemistry.

Not like backpack was meant for
several colossal three hundred page
hardcover books.

When it was empty,
it was light,
barely anything, tugging
on my shoulders;
but I insisted the friend come with me.

But I used backpack
for study,
drudgery,
play.
The linen wore
with every use.

It was my safety blanket,
under loose cloth
that contained
sacarine
orange glucose
tablets that I hoped
to never need

Inside the main large pocket,
there was a secret
zipper, within held
a pack of cigarettes,
an excuse,
to pardon myself into a realm of aloneness-
with little questions asked

There were strings that adjusted
its position on my back that
I would pull down,
using tension to fling myself
terminal to terminal

More than fifteen times, I lost
count, of my partner traversing
across oceans, gently cradling my laptop and phone-
my trusted links
with the outside world

Nervousness alleviated by the tassels
in my mouth, I bite and chew
on the cloth, but it holds steadfast
as I ponder how to approach
what's next,
the bittersweet coffee they fell into
rehydrates with my salivating mouth,
hungry for adventure
but a stomach empty
knots itself
anxious
for what's to come

My backpack weighs
on my shoulders, empty or full,
but it's trained my body
to carry the load thoughts in my
head bring upon me

But it yielded to what was to come,
the seams at the bottom gave out.
Backpack let me know: I needed to
learn to carry on
without reliance.

war took mine, i was sold  playing tenchu
on level 6... just before i was to
assassinate this ***, and he practised all
his bow skill in private, then it was made public
by a ninja... i only completed final
fantasy 7 with a walk-through...
i hate the fact that i stuck to
the schooling narrative...
  but hose were the PS1 days,
those days are gone, gone gone gone,
bye bye gone...
                 the **** was that?!
an oscar for best actor at the gladiator premier?!
why isn't more gaming mentioned in poetry?
where is raziel, and the the legacy of cain:
soul reaver, and the story about how he
squashed his brothers:
dumah, melchiah, rahab, and zephon?
oh look: the geek in me!
                 100 years from a youtube video...
i'm bound to do the bristol d'uh and say:
i've never been to south america...
nor ever...
                        me go sort out this avalanche
if that's o.k. with you, hmm?
this is the thrill you get when seeing peoiple
play a reincarnation of gameboy,
i.e. candy-crush saga... if you moved beyond
the PS1 universe you won't get it...
if you remember PS1 games, you'll probably
remember SEGA and sonic,
and age of empires 2, and sim city 3000...
**** me! but you won't probably remember the
weathergirl... who was becky mantin
when this was written...
           odd, that little gray box of saturdays
and sometimes sundays, but definitely
saturday mornings...
                    it gone... and i don't feel like owning
an update of it, because games have become
overtly narrative prone, they only allow thise gameplay
that's too narrated... i switch on the console
and i want mario bros. calculator type of dynamism...
instead i get this really complex story
when i should be reading a book...
   no, really, when did gaming become so
****** engrossing that i try to become distracted by
brick walls?
           when did i or when didn't i take to playing
chess? well... when i started playing dominos
with 6 cigarette stumps and a black hardcover
philosophy book... maybe around then.
books i great, believe me...
but this nook of counter-arcade games?
i woke up at 9am as if about to go to school
and played that japanese fetish for hours...
so much if our culture in nearing the post-20th
century culture was axis... it was almost all japanese...
you can't take that fact out and replace it
concerning: god intervened at Giza and yawned
at chichén itzá...
because you would... still, i thankfully retired
from the gaming experience (when did PS2 come out?
i wanted it for about 2 years and still didn't
get it)...
    1998? 1997?
                      thankfully i get to mention computer
games like novels... SEGA mega drive?
yep, owned that.
                   and yes, i can cite an ATARI,
and ****, **** **** me!
   that original NINTENDO?!
              and that shooting mallard simulation
against a screen of televisions that could
still issue you with van der graaf static
   of "levitating" hair?
(when televisions were still 3D and played
you remnants of the big bang
       in televised black and white khrrr sound,
all dicta fidgety, like looking through the eyes
of a bluebottle fly)... or
    the original prince of persia?
     those two dimensional ferns rotating round and
round when approached in the original tomb raider?
oh forget the cone-****-madonna...
shaid the ish cream van man to shaun shoonery...
cheap ****: said the dead with charlie
at the head of their horde of entertainment's flops.
i retired from the gaming world though,
left it when PS1 expired...
and morphed into PS2...
           i'm half sad and half saying: i can understand
candy crush, because i can understand
the origin: TETRIS.
like i can understand why i can't do crosswords,
my father just said: even i can't do them,
the clues are all a bit of a wanking to comprehend...
it's as if they only based them on the thesaurus...
   we're good on sudoku though, that can be solved
without problems...
        i miss those games though,
i finished final fantasy 7 with a walkthrough
though... tenchu was also fun to complete,
crash bandicoot? anyone remember him?
           now for not faking it...
                                     i'm glad that's over,
i'd hate the gaming experience as i hate interactive
t.v. thesedays... all this pause and rewind?
  thanks to it i sometimes press the STOP
button when listening to the radio and wonder
why it just keeps running... oh right: this isn't
a c.d. transmission... funny though, the gaming experience
translated into t.v. really has made advertising
ultra competative or utterly useless....
   you just end up pausing before a break, and then
scrolling past the advertisers' airtime...
next thing i'll be buying is when they make
an advert for shoepaste.

I HAVE FINALLY RE-EDITED AND FINISHED MY FIRST BOOK, FROM CRO MAGNON TO PRO AVERAGE MAN: AN ASSORMENT OF POEMS!!!!!

Well, I have officially made my first book of poetry. The book is entitled From Cro Magnon to Pro Average Man: An Assortment of Poems. This was the first time I ever attempted making a book, and finally I have pulled it off!!! I made this book through the website: www.bookemon.com. Just a few minutes ago, I actually published the book on Bookemon for the whole world to buy! So, if you’ve wanted a copy all along, are interested in reading it now, and/or just want to help me keep chasing my dream of becoming a known-poet by paying for the book, YOU CAN!! Here’s what you do:

You go to www.bookemon.com

You enter “From Cro Magnon to Pro Average Man” into the search bar in the upper-right hand part of the screen.

When you hit “Search,” my books should pop up!! MY books! I actually made it.

There are two types of the book. A hardcover and a softcover version. It will say which version is which under the title. The hardcover version sells for $28.72, plus tax. And the softcover version sells for $18.07, plus tax.

If you would be so awesomely-amazing to buy a copy, just hit ADD TO CART, Then scroll down and hit PROCEED TO CHECKOUT. Hit CONTINUE under GUEST CHECKOUT, and enter your information there.

NOW, I KNOW THE BOOK IS KINDA PRICY, BUT BOOKEMON SETS THE PRICES THEMSELVES. MY APOLOGIES.

Or, if you don’t have any money to spend and just want a little preview of the book, you can hit READ beside the book and get a free 20 page preview!!

Again, thank you to everyone who has supported me through this long process of self-publishing my first book of poetry. And thanks in advance to anyone who is willing to buy the book and actually does. THAT WOULD MEAN THE LITERAL WORLD TO ME.
Thank you all again. Now I have all my time devoted to the continuing and making of my second book, Pocket Change for Priceless Memories. It’s coming soon!!

Thanks again everyone!

Nick

Pixelated bitmap e-mares



Digitized be mementos cached



Her 8 bit vocal vintage freeware



Transfers recurrent electric draughts







The bitrate of virtual seduction



Intrusively hacks my bones



Taste be my lips of data eruption



Elicited from her tone







Physique a stimulating software



Upon my Ethernet she crafts sparks



A gem society deemed quite rare



Though she possessed a vibrant bark





Her bandwith I yearned to fiddle



'Twas encrypted with die-hard lust



She moans in esoteric riddles



Keen I decode them whilst I ******





Pizazz eclipsing our veins



A billion megabytes colliding



Satiated we crash free of rein



Unforeseen servers uniting

© 2012 (All rights reserved)





This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary



The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com

.

that's what i found so problematic in
understanding thought,
but concerning the idea of a flux
i found the stasis point in it,
it was better translated by the cartesian basis
of inquiry, i can't negate thinking
because the ontology of thought
is primarily synthetic to pass the time,
rarely analytic unless professional,
so i dropped the a priori / a posteriori
compounding crap and came up with
good enough reasons for cognitive analysis
and cognitive synthesis...
i can relax now, i guess...
so wrote something in a hardcover by horace
to remind me of the origins of biases and bases...
kindergarden swing tactic and pendulum continuum,
i hate to break it to you, but my thought
has no megaphone in the 18th century,
but my words have a place in the 22nd century
given the 21st century provide the images
i'm bound to decipher...
i guessed the asian girl was a robot...
and subsequently i thought all those things
i wrote in the poem prior...
imagination is hard to insist with regards to successful
usage... it uses no patent geometry or
skeletal phoneticism of reminder...
you will not remember a picasso to say something...
but i bet you'll remember an m to utter the sound
em em mmm mumble, funny how it works.
we're not in art gallery... we're just buying
potatoes for home-made *****...
we're living under martial law in poland
before the anticipated soviet invasion and we're happy...
not like now... the silicon god of the microchip
chopped our limbs and we lost the amazon
green for london grey cement and cemetery...
we're here, there's not point poking fun at my grimace
with a flashlight.
so losing the timing of knowledge... the spacing
of knowledge is an onion metaphor for a working
car engine: drilling team in arabia,
the pirates of somalia,
the cargo ships from scandinavia,
the flirty whipping rich boy scouts asking for
a next **** mojito of fever...
well... i did the opposite to english...
i allowed "*****" words into the vocabulary i use
rather than allow dirt images to weave a spiderweb
enclosing the spider...
i rather censor images than censor words...
poor tactic to censor images...
sometimes a nibble of sadism will penetrate
this whole provision of safe *****,
censor "*****" word usage and you'll only
allow dirtier than the ***** words to enter via
images... my god... you must be a sensitive cubist!
we'll allow **** cannibalism and squares...
but we won't allow the representative of
seasonal cannibalism of spring eating autumn
with the tetragrammaton's H & H (twinned temperament
in coordinate starting vector 0ºC
then donning the appropriate clothes while
the trees change their muscles leaving the skeletal exposed),
or acknowledging that there's only a definite
capital delta / y in writing -
we synthesised the square the circle the triangle...
we got π and pythagorean equation...
we gave these shapes the thesis categorisation of scalpel...
we cut with them...
but then they cut us... mathematicians committing
suicide with drills over the π-continuum
that's anti-trigonometric surrounding anti-matter...
but as society goes... courtesy in speech
doesn't necessarily provide courtesy and chivalry
in action...
censor the words ****... and then watch the emerging show
that's antonymous to the majority of time
spent in commute: dumb gloom & grey fancy
to create a rainbow like a shaman.

Pictographs concoct



Quaint flavors



An appetite blooms





Ginger locks descend



Passion skates



A micro death sparks





Pixels synthesize



Collections



Of synchronized whines





Lips laced with temptation



Eyes descending sunsets



Elements of resolution



© 2012 (All rights reserved)





This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary



The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com

.

Ants carried cubes out the front door
piling into a cube truck
until I could see the living room floor
Everything moved and tucked
into my earthy living space
I packed you in envelops
put you away, but never to erase

I learned about the things you'd done
to keep our bread from molding
to replace a broken ladder rung
but you couldn't keep from folding
along the premade creases in your sheets
I couldn't stop you from holding
Five year plans separated by five day weeks

I woke up as someone I didn't recognize
belonging to the street lamps
instead of the summer sun rise

I fell asleep against computer screens
and hardcover books
Learned how the world never leens
to fit your perspective or new outlooks

I tried to place you in a cookie cutter
but you didn't fit the mold
so I let you spread and run like melted butter
along the creases, you naturally fold

I waited for you to stand on your own
then I learned about how being alone
doesn't feel like
icy hands in the morning
single cup coffee, crescent moons
or long car rides east in the afternoons

I could feel emptiness in your fumes
how the distance in our shared bed
made you wait for the darkness of new moons
So you could wander the sheets clearing your head
in the blanket of the night.

I thought you were searching for a light
to help guide you through
the galaxies between us
in our electric room

You pulled art we bought in markets
off the wall
You drifted in the reservoir, plunging under
to avoid my call
You took half the books
So I piled and stuffed my things in nooks
of the little room we moved into last July
we set up our first house
and knew it was a short-lived lie.

Supernatural



Beams dazzle



Illustrations shape





A character speaks



Pleasantries



Quakes of fear occur





Lullabies eject



From her lips



As she pirouettes





Such color spectrums



Radiate



To mold a queen



© 2012 (All rights reserved)





This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary



The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com

.

i actually did own a doberman pinscher called axl... yes: no e in the same. ****** was mad, what do you expect? his ears were sliced so he could look like some urukai orc of isengard... try trimming the ears of a human being: to then pretend "think" they'll be wiser... that part where they chop of the tail of a doberman? i wasn't around when that happened, i can clearly picture the plastic surgery on my axl... so what am i going to say about circumcision? makes the ******* mad! they're sending ****-picks to people... how about i just watch you smile? is circumcision the ideal motivation for preserving life? like you need the complete vuvla to be attracted by it? ******* surely isn't fun with that revision... just as much as saying: a billion ching changs... or we could do away with the lips and call these people the todkompflächeln; personally? i'd begin the aesthetic surgery on the ears, maybe making a few "elves" would help the situation... otherwise m.g.m. gets no mention, because those ******* don't even know what ******* with one feels like: i can peel mine back for *******... but you can't cloak with one during the grand practice of: taking a ****.

billions... it's starting to look very much like a *****,
given the character names... i mean: wags?
next season is bound to invoke the nick
*****... it has become an existential prison,
since the moon landing: bye bye
the brothers grimm and the fairytale...
i know this because someone has already
made the same conclusion...
billions? who'd i like to doppelgänger?
   mike wagner... scalp him, skin him, whatever,
i am trying to believe that i don't have
that wry smile of his when writing this,
the cheaky chappy type of smile,
what i can tell you is what happened yesterday
after my drinking session ended...
spring's impeding, *******, i'm going to
watch more television since i'll be sad having
moved from, what could be best described
as alaskan funfair... night by the 5pm mark...
i sometimes get the shakes...
but only out of anger, that boils down to
my neighbour complaining that i sometimes
lose the plot and say things aloud...
the boundaries i'm crossing is equivalent to a bird
singing in the night...
    but last night, was, spectacular...
   i forgot what chess even was...
   i had heidegger's *ponderings ii - vi
(in hardback) on the windowsill...
                       i had a crescent version and a complete
version of amitriptyline (25mg)...
       nurse! scalpel i'm getting a headache!
    ami-tri-pty-line (ptee line? or pti lean?
yes, lean, no fat on it;
   so as i was about to get the sucker punch
i was playing imaginary dominos
even if just that, or throwing invisible dice,
exchanging positions of these two pills
            and four swan (brand) filter tips...
i do remember saying something into the night,
what it was? i don't know.
            so it was either dominos or "throwing"
dice on a book on the windowsill,
moving the one complete pill and the other
bitten off crescent (what's that? about 13mg?)...
and the filter tips...
                and it was on a hardcover surface
of a book on a windowsill...
             i knew i would take the plunge at
some point, the question was when that would happen;
i don't know what i had to even cherish
the grace of thought at that moment...
the next oddity came with an empty glass
and trying to balance it on the parapet ledge...
it turned out to be a case of fractions...
     the tipping point stood at: two thirds...
it would never be done in halves, and certainly not
quarters...
              see... mm... money is fascinating
as a concept, how it was arrived at;
  i can know the man who invented the lightbulb
(jefferson, right? ol' tommy)... money?
   no clue... who could have "blinded" the greeks
to the extent where we stand now?
      the more i drink the more i think that this
cann't lead to any sort of accomplishment other than
the stated words...
    i do really retract into speaking verse that
i never write down... it's there one minute, gone the next;
but that domino / dice thing with 1.5 sleeping pills
and 4 cigarette tips (yes, i can roll a cigarette
like a machine, so the tips were not ***** by tokes
to remind people of marmite / vegemite of australia
colouring): i smoke cigarettes thinking about a sun-tan.
why was i doing this?
don't know, what's the point of playing domino
or throwing dice to gamble?
                     there is a chiral point to be made,
or at least a parallel point...
         a chiral-parallelism, as is the case with concept
of parallel per se...
such that title suggests i stole "something" that actually
steals...          hollywood and cuckoos...
      there are always two ways of saying the same
thing: moving forward, however dichotomous those
sayings are...
                  since that approach later turns into
a dualism that then eats at psychologism and morphs
into monism and: we're back at square one.

Frozen within coloured novelties



Elegant fashion strikes tears of joy



Flawless solace veils mass poverty



Through ****** eyes we appear coy







Bewildered they bleed of apathy



Visually we appear strangers



Oblivious to such telepathy



A streak of electric danger





Revere the brilliant colours



Petite a theatrical delight



As unified in passion we muster



The enchanted rainbow knights





Your black and white hunger we yearn



To collect and radically refine



Eliminate all doubt and concern



A narrow cubicle undefined





© 2012 (All rights reserved)

This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary



The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com

.

I have watched wars waged and won,
Waged and lost.
I have died 100 deaths,
And lived 1000 lives.
I have loved and romanced,
I have fallen and cried.

Each life I live,
I live again,
And again.

Within the confines of these paperback worlds,
I have lived more truly,
More passionately.
Free of constraints and norms to censor my actions.

These hardcover entities have taught me--
Lessons more true and earnest than any parent could deliver.

I have ridden dragons, killed Voldemort, cast the evil ring into Mordor, been through Dante's Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, watched Milton's birth of the world, and seen Shakespeare deliver us thousands of new words.

O, what brave new worlds therein lie!

And all in a day's work.

All those things a man does in life,
And those a woman does, too;
I have done also.

I have done them ten thousand times over,
And done them with infinitely more passion.

I am he who lives most without leaving the house,
She for whom hours are spent, lives exhausted.

I am--
The reader.

She’s a book.
No not a paperback, but a hardcover.
An inviting sight,
yet cold to the touch.
The scent of woody pages lingers,
the edges never ceasing
to cut your grazing finger
when you least expect it.
Her intricate words, unnecessarily bewildering
Her methaphorical phrases will have your head throbbing
as you so desperately search for their
meanings.
“Daedalian”, she would say,
“As in ingenious, intricate, and confusing”
You spend hours
figuring how to unravel her Delphic words.
The more you read the more complex she gets.
A thin line appears in the middle of her spine,
a crack,
from being opened and closed too much.
Her exhausted pages tattered and dog eared.
Your determination to solve her
was no match for her ambiguity.
She’s  a hardcover
you’ll never finish reading.

Cast be thy fate to live in exile



Bated be your fair fluffed fleece



Face of said avenue beguiled



Ebbed a carmine masterpiece





Ebony landscapes you adorn



The eyes of thousands you have hooked



Whines sharp replicas of thorns



Question mark shaped be such nooks





Appeased the ice queen had appeared



Fabricating jagged thrills of mirth



A concept quite eerie, yet linear



'Til done apart by spineless dearth



© 2012 (All rights reserved)





This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary



The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com

.

anywhere u go
its about what u do
who u know
what u have
take a piece
and one for the road
take and take
is all we do
judged like a book
every single day
in one glance
no second thoughts
hardcover hollywood
special editions
and just for dummies rule
those text book kings
and things of the past
replaced by
sefl-help gurus
with a thirst for power
history books burn
and dictionaries die
bibles and korans
wage war for deeds
written in oil
more precious than blood
lawbooks lie
with family trees
while notebooks fill
with pointless lives
but my story is written
with my sweat
and tears
filled with pages and pages
of love and fears
i dont need to be
hardcovered
reprinted
bound up
and edited
forget the colors
and the revamped image
no motion pictures
just a story
on my shelf
the last of them all
the Paperback Boy.

when you're there i pine for you
like a stupid little intellectual
i theorize your face

make up stories about your eyelids
how they close like a hardcover book
sheltering your wisdom from the judge

you let it spill out to me
your ***** brine
tenderizing my leathery exterior
into broken down, cured meat
you freed me with your trust
i was savory, salty with your laughter on my tongue

you've been waiting for me
but i cannot come
if we are to ever be in the same room again, together
i would smother you and oppress you with
love, tainted by imaginary things
like the fable of us
like my contentment

like your hand in mine
                                         clasping surely,
                                                                ­     silently,
                                                                ­                                                    home

The first bite of a Mallomar,
Crunching like a boot,
On a fresh sheet of snow.

The sip of Ginger Ale,
On crushed ice,
With the squeeze of a lemon wedge

The smell of crisp Autumn air,
In September,
Just before the leaves change.

A puff of rich tobacco,
Rolled in Maduro,
With a glass of Scotch.

A salty, fatty, crispy steak,
Dripping of meat juice,
As it swims in steak sauce.

The lips of a beautiful woman,
Inside and out,
Pressing up against mine.

My fingers flicking,
Through fresh paper,
Of a brand new hardcover.

The feeling you get,
When seeing prints developed,
From your own 35mm roll of film.

A big, salty, garlicky pickle,
After a deli sandwich,
On a Saturday afternoon.

The palette punch,
Of a salt and vinegar chip,
From a fresh bag.

Looking at all that gives me joy,
One can see the truth,
In the meaning of life.

Little things,
Oh so grand,
In a world of big woes.

If we were books,
I'd be spineless
and you would be a paperback
with a hardcover head.
Page turner pretense turns to
kisses and fifty shades of
sequels.
My life is an open book.
You read?

Lullaby of the city, bright and strong,
Serenade the masses of the sleepless,
The tossing and turning, troubled tense throng
Of our kin bubbling over with stress.
Ink covered fingers flowing like water --
Pouring o'er paper in sharp curvatures.
Lips like verbs, eyes like green glass he'll shatter;
Like an open book with a hardcover.
Ballad of beautifully broken notes
Ringing through the chilling autumn air
Gathering the hearts and the tears of most
To bring the sorrowful much needed cheer.
     Like the steam from her black cup of coffee
     Not quite here; she's warm, hearty and happy.

go ahead
and worship yourself once in awhile
let the breeze come and, once in awhile,
remember how to stand -
check your posture, shoulders back, feet apart
and if all you see is cobblestone or pavement or dying brown grass,
look up
remember how to be valiant
check your heart rate
feel your fingertips
loosen the knots in your eyebrows
open your throat
remember the way sunsets look and that puppies and butterflies and popcorn exist

go ahead
and buy yourself flowers
once in awhile
buy a bouquet or seven
fill up a vase with water and let them drink love
place them on your windowsill or
coffee table
or bedside table
but remember to smell them every time you walk by
and once in awhile
buy someone else flowers
or chocolate or honey or a brand new notebook or coffee
make them feel special and important
remind them that tenderness is the root of peace
and you'll remember that tenderness is the root of peace

go ahead
and head outside
if it's raining, get wet, if it's chilly, greet each goosebump with a deep breath
and remember, once in awhile,
your eyes rain and your heart floods and they wash away whatever hurt comes
you are a rocket, baby, you are a fresh hardcover book sitting on a cafe table ready to be read, you are a tree trunk so wide, people must gather around you and hold hands to hug your circumference,
you are bright yellow rain boots, love, you are red pink white roses and lilacs and lavender and the entire flower bed,
you are the sunset, sweetie, the puppies and the butterflies and the popcorn and the peace
so, once in awhile, baby, worship yourself
go ahead
and worship yourself

i switch to my jeans
i slick back my hair
i take off my shirt
i show off my abs
i slip on my martens
i put on my glasses
i light up my cig

i also come in paperback

I don't want you to become
another foreign thing in my
closet and inside
I ask myself what I expected
What I was hoping? Every
secret thought, I don't capture
them all.

And your memories: those I
deem property of Chris inside
my head, play on a spanish loop
with He Venido on low in the background.

I don't plan on getting rid of you.
Or forgetting you, or burying your
face behind stacks of books, The Count,
The Little Prince, A Clockwork Orange,
Things Fall Apart, and most of all the
Lemony Snicket hardcover that you
hid condoms in, the ones we never
used.

I have tried to document you because
I hope that it will help or that you will
see these things, but I have taken your
willpower for granted.  You perhaps
write nothing of me, maybe in a
diary maybe no where maybe
I am buried, maybe I am gone
maybe you have ripped out
my pages, my pictures, my
hair from thoughts no longer
strays on your bed, maybe you
have chosen to move on.

I don't want to end this poem.

she breaks
boys
accidentally,
easily;
like
she breaks
the spines
of
books.

before i begin, a pre-scriptum...
         in my hand, this minute?
                   what a rare delight...
the Beauties of Sterne:
                                with some account of his life...
printed for J. Walker,
published by J. Walker, Paternoster Row &
   J. Harris, St. Paul's Church Yard...
London... 1811!
    and being a big "fan boy" of the fiction
that a bibliophile might have an adventure:
Roman Polanski's the Ninth Gate...
   now, for a book that's... 208 years old?!
it's not in bad shape... sure...
the hardcover is missing by a half...
but all the text is intact...
              obviously colouring of the pages...
but hey... i'm not a museum...
             the book is still fiddled with...
ha ha, the opening page with a picture
reads as follows:
   there are worse occupations in this world,
than feeling a woman's pulse...
perhaps a quote about... insensibility?
   it reads as follows:
       it is the fate of mankind, too often,
to insensible of what they may enjoy at
the easiest rate (sermon XLII)...
   besides, lucky for me youtube continues
to glitch from time to time...
    now looking more in line with channels
than individual artists...
   notably? Harakiri Diat (channel)...
eh... :wumpscut, the soft machine,
demdike stare, vomito *****, feindflug
weren't enough...
          turns out... there's more...
beyond penta, matutero and GloOMy
PhAntOM... well, please, allow me:
   filmmaker - the love market,
              la ***** bianca - demian...
hell... if you want to venture into the past?
i know one band that freaked out
my ex-girlfriend... gong - flying teapot...
or that song by greenskeepers, lotion...
               i thought i'd never see someone
become freaked out about music...
curios and also highly curious, yes...
but freaked out?
                 primitive knot - puritan...
demolition group - you better...
          1986 Yugoslav minimal electro...
Bruce Roach - Gut...
              and as it turns out...
    i look from this corner of the internet and find
absolutely no need to delve into
the dark web... install Tor...
           if you really want to...
  you'll find all you need... but you need
to sift through a bibliography of a book prior
to... it's all here... this sort of material
has an inbuilt filter... it filters out
             mainstream consumers of content...
i should know...
    3 websites that banned me,
1 suspended me...
                   i crossed the threshold...
    normie poetic: outcast *****...
           yet i still sometimes happened to chance
upon a will...
           lao che - soundtrack (the whole album
is decent) -
              


.i once heard it was based upon the following maxims: bogatemu wszystko wolno (the rich are allowed anything), siła razy gwałt (force multiplied by ****)... well... over the years, that much was true... but then i conjured a reply: nie wszystko wolno bogatemu (not everything is given an allowance to be expressed by the rich) and wola odiąć gwałt (will, having substracted ****): otherwise it's still wola razy gwałt (will, multiplied by ****).

****, i only just "woke" up from
this game,
you know that game...
oh i'm pretty sure you know it...
it's called
   pass the jew along...
   rudolf höss
      cited, among the list:
ibrahim ibn yaqub,
         radhanites (there's a surd
H in there, rad-'anites)
    casimir III...
esp. the latter...
           so.. give the current h'americans,
we're still playing the globalist
nomad game of: juggling the jews,
yes, no, maybe?
so my mother tended to
two old jewish women,
because, just "because"
their sons were active in
the "economics" of passing law
and techno-literacy?
oh... right... i "see"...
                            i... "see"...
in defence, of the "neglected" ones...
makes perfect sense,
de facto 51,
                  area 51 was always
a propaganda convert term
for Israel, rather than some area
bound to Nevada, wansn't it?
wasn't it?
                      ask me again
one year from now,
did we live peacefully among the jews?
they'll tell you the joke...
didn't the jews shoot,
with riffles,
   with bent barrels / sights
aiming at themselves rather
than the nazis?
       no, no soap jokes when
it comes to yews...
the yids...
      everyone in poland just
wondered: why so pacified?
        so blatant in walking into
an inferno?
                      you know...
it took Poland longer to surrender,
while being attacked by both
the Germans and the Russians,
than it took for the Fwench
to be attacked by the sole effort
of the Germans?
    funny... that...
                               i truly admire
some nazis, for their ingenuity...
notably? erwin rommel...
   lothar von arnauld de la periè(re)...
(subtle, i give you that one,
per-y'eh...
                 'old 'ack 'old 'ck
   h-b-h-b,
                                    rein in...
otherwise perié... ergo without
                                           the -re)...
michael wittmann...
and i'm a ******...
      **** me...
they didn't bomb paris,
might as well state:
they also didn't bomb
  marienburg or most of danzig...
Warsaw? taken down,
levelled, brick by brick,
        until no brick stood on brick...
              what?!
i thought the western capitalist-ico
communist insurgents
wanted target practice?
          i thought these people
wanted nazis, no?
          i'll admit... tiki torches?
you must have never looked
at european football hooligans...
tiki torches?!
you having a bbq?
            never heard of flares?        
- mind you...
you know what's worse beside
beind ridiculed?
having your intelligence
insulted...
i.e. do i look like someone
who managed to ****
your mother with a *******
harmonica,
or, am i, bound to the responsibility,
of your parents playing
the irresponsibility card,
attempting to convey a child
into existence aged circa 50
circa 45,
and what comes out is
an autistic cucumber?!
    **** me...
try giving ****** lessons
to circa 50 year olds;
and now the paradox...
   "i'm" the "schizophrenic"...
cool cool, coolio...
     i'll just hide in that "harem's"
worth of a brothel with
the prostitutes who tell
me they get s.t.d. checks on
a regular basis, o.k.?
_____

what am i to add to this?
not much, is there...
was the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald
ever great?!
  how satisfying it is to be unable
to please the crowd....
words, after all, are not bread...
how one wishes
for an anathema rather than
a martyr's embrace...
            one begins to imagine...
then one loses interest...
then...
                    peering through
the eye of a needle
watching a camel walk through...
one spots something outside
the realm of the metaphorical miracle...
do i have to?
      what if i remain to this side
of the eye of the needle?
what riches do i have that i cling to...
books & music...
does that make me rich?
what are the sort of riches where either
people plunder readily (music),
or do not engage with to begin
with?
who are ready to read...
i can claim to be a book thief...
i stole two books from my high school
library... the quran and the scarlet &
the black by stendhal...
            "stole"... i extended their
licance of being borrowed...
how am i rich: if my riches are the riches
no one would want to steal?!
i am rich... though...
               but i am rich in a both
materialistic / non-materialistic paradox
frame...
                what i own no one wants to
steal! why steal a first cheap edition
of a dickens' novel if you're not going
to read it!
              
       **** **** ****.... if they were such
philistines... when blitzing London,
why did st. paul's remain intact?
   "coinicidence"? i don't think so...
and why did they steal all those
art-works? again, "coincidence"?

                    they were people:
i find it uncomfortable to suit them up
in transcendence,
to be: epitome evil...
  to be the übermensch...
                   they loved art as much
as they loved being the antithesis
of the golden horde: gucci, dolce & gabbana
zz top: well dressed men...

     nazis loved art and fashion,
by far the best dressed army in the world
and history...

   ol' herman and otto came back
from the eastern front to a scared wife and mother...
people! they weren't mythical creatures...
the nazis can hardly become
chimeras as they become in the minds
of pseudo-communists of the western lands...

they are hardly the epitome of evil,
i know the 21st century narrative
deems them: "the perfect example"...
come on... they're not evil embodied
with not subsequent examples to be given
to... historical capitalism of evil:
there's always someone waiting,
some group of people to stage
a competition libra... and they will...
overcome the nazis...
it's only a question of ingenuity /
imagination...
           gas chambers was only industrial...
it will become personal in the years to come...
methodologically trained cultured
barbarians woken from a slumber...

the nazis were not: philistines...
   in no defence: didn't they speed up the creation
of the state of israel?
   didn't they? **** uncle:
   lavrentiy pavlovich Beria is going to state
the matters differently?
like hell he is...

        my family also suffered in that war...
sure, not in a concentration camp:
but on the front...
             there's even a joke that my
grandfather remembers:
the jews were shooting with bent nozzles
of riffles...
   as he also remembers two ss-men
who he asked for sweets,
and they would give them to him,
he'd as them: herr! bitte bon-bon!
   sweets so sweet that he would have
to rinse his hands under water
to unglue them from the sickly in-between...
how all the insurgent soviet soldiers
were teenagers and preferred to
sleep in pigstys and among the goats
in the hay...

how did the nazis become mythological
i will never understand,
at uni i had a **** history teacher,
canadian, she really liked my essay
on napoleon... how he was a great
strategist...
akin to?  

   erwin rommel wasn't a ****...
erwin rommel was, erwin rommel...
a great strategist...
        am i supposed to thrive in this
current year of polarized *******?
it's the current topic,
i can't escape it,
  sure, i'd love to have a Wordsworth
moment, lurking in me,
or an anna akhmatova breakthough...
instead?! i'm given this sort of *******
on a platter,
  and all that's missing are the wedges
of lemon and the eager oysters to
be gulped down... lucky me!

no, i don't like how the nazis are misrepresented
as both the übermenschen:
these mythological epitomes of evil
(no greater evil is to come? really?!)
and at the same time
as philistines: they stole art,
they ensured that critically cultural
documents of architecture were left
undisturbed... st. paul's cathedral...

         it's not like some otto or moritz
didn't come back home to a wife
and children... no...
he came back to the shadow cult
of the ******* hanging over him...

you know what the most haunting experience
i have ever experienced was?
Ypres... world war I site...
visiting a german cemetary...
compared to the allies cemetary?
**** me, what a meagre sight!
           the allies were burried with marked
graves, each man to his own cross...
the german burial ground?!
  mass graves....
eh: one marker: 200 bodies in one pit...
                 and here's the 21st century with
games about shooting: zee nat'zees...

   just visit the world war I cemetaries...
the ally cemetaries? square miles...
each man with his white cross...
german cemetaries? as mass graves go...
one marker per 200+ troops...
so... not that much space required...
less: bombast!
               pride & prejudice /
   pomp & circumstance...
   which the english speaking world is...
of the latter convenience to suit the narrative.

to reiterate...
   as a ******... the whole german fetish
isn't my kind of gig...
what with my grandmother being born
on the front... given opiates at an early
age so she would not cry and allow
the soldiers to locate her and my gread-grandparents...
but...
   they were the best dressed army in
the history of warfare...
they were not philistines and they certainly
weren't the mongolian golden horde...
i.e. they stole art, notably jewish artwork...
and if a luftwaffe squadron were to drop
a bomb on st. paul's? they'd probably
be shot...
  after all... Posen wasn't destroyed,
Breslau wasn't destroyed...
        Danzig wasn't destroyed...
Cracow wasn't destroyed...
             o.k., half of Warsaw was,
but we know why that happened
(or at least i do... idealist students who
thought they could fight the enemy
with slingshots and air-pistols)...
why? the Germans were simply thinking:
oh... we'll just be moving back...
i once explained it to myself...
they weren't exactly some mythological
grand evil template...
so i started thinking about them as:
Hans von Seeckt...
  or Otto Hertz...
              or some other german random
soldier...
      well... you should travel to Ypres,
Belgium... and visit a German cemetary
from war world I... then visit
the allies graveyard...
       each soldier, individually buried...
with his pwetty pwetty weißkreuz -
mostly named...
                 now visit a german cemetary...
mass.... graves...
                they just dumped them,
heaped them...
                        to me they were people...
you can't exactly reason with a mythological
evil - an archeological evil,
   an archetypical evil...
          for an archetypical evil?
try the nuclear family...
                         ******... that sort of thing...
child abuse... too many actors
were involved in this story,
too many mistakes, too many naive blunders...
evil on this scale is easily diluted...
which is why it's taught as history,
in schools...
   no one will teach children about...
oh... say... the Wiener Blut scenario...
   Josef Fritzl...
                    i'm pretty sure this will not be
taught in a history class...
                or... the H. H. Holmes Hotel story...
but it might become a jack the ripper
tourist-fetish... might it not? well, it already is.

there's no powerpoint presentation or a pocket guide nor a three inch-thick hardcover book for falling in love.
there's no rain with more oxygen than hydrogen that keeps the fire alive.
there will never be an elder who fully understands the oh-and-ah's of your young naivety.
there will be painful memories attached to your most loved songs.

this is life. you'll fall, get up, fall again, fail to get up. the lights will go out. you will get lost. you will feel the pain of being left.
this is the time when you pack up your tears and painkillers.
you will be you.
because that is life,
and this is love.

The darkness into the moon
A beastly attack that will embark on soon
An enchanted forest with a foggy presence
Consequences beyond within a precise instance
The beast from within searching for blood and flesh
Eaten down to the bone with nothing left
The beast being fed
The moon in how it led
As the beast swiftly heads for its ****
Its mind is guided upon its own will
As the beast walks off
The irony is a spinoff
Yet the imagination thereof
The vision of teeth and claws
But no mention of a thaw
Story line having its own dialog
Your mind being the electric plug
No character being a ****
Grimm’s living on am
Many more stories in their own begin
Grimm’s extending into no end
A written hardcover book that won’t bend
But a night that makes your heart and mind transcend.

i actually took to taking heidegger seriously,
i don't know why, it just happend,
i like the fact that i only have a sketch of him,
being & time and ponderings ii - vi
don't account for much... but it's worthwhile
ground to begin sketching oneself,
how, or more precisely why writing
is self-absorption, until there is no "self"
for others to ask about, that's utterly fascinating,
people ask the question when people fall out
of line in the dimension of morality,
if they ever do, in all honesty.
             but sometimes, it just so happens
that the heart says what it wants to hear
and the brain doesn't have the barricades against it,
for all its reasons it just remains a ****
encompassed in a cranium...
            on the basis of understanding the
categorical imperative... categories...
             brain is primarily fat...
                           what can poison the brain
or simply "eat" it are hostile proteins...
                  so where is the true account of what
ails?                 i'd understand a parasitic instance
to account for tapeworms, but the idea of
      hostile proteins attacking an ***** that's
primarily fatty seems as much as
           prescribing people with omega-3
in tinned fish...
              we know too much to then speak the truth...
the point of pragmatism is to lie,
our safety is bound to lie, we lie to avoid
rubbing the jinn-bottle to conjure something that
many other will disagree with...
       akin to enlarging a phobia so it's massive...
hell, by comparison to heaven: is tiny...
but then heaven enlarges itself and mars descends,
that fake hope of finding like on mars?
that died, when earth was born
   and the sun went through its secondary cycle...
oh there was life on mars, but mars is
a quasi moon, hello and welcome to radio lemniscate,
but sure, go ahead, find me martian bacterium
while i watch an oxfam advert of people starving...
i'm just going to take a very, very long bow
from this circus... drink a great deal and write
as much ******* as i can...
  i think all of this began with: a real great respect
for books... how you're not supposed to treat
books as you might, in my case, deal prostitutes...
caress them, use bookmarks, fiddle the pages
as if touching trees... taking the sleeves off hardback
editions, reading the book in hardcover,
then putting the decoration sleeves back onto them
and the shelf...
        i don't have a populist culture-effective view
of ******, i just have heidegger...
            what he wrote in the 1930s resonates as
it did back then... after going to university i felt
limbless, i was almost actually but more so honest
akin to dante's depiction of bertrand de born,
a ******* dentist had more bones to a body than
i had, thinking it was only a case of me chewing
meat / vegetables...
            universities these days represent
**** germany in the 1930s...
            i'm waiting, and i'm waiting, and i can't see
anything being born...
                          more crass on crass than
criss-cross... usually it's something you do and then
you get to forget about it... clearly people are
reading into history as this need to brush-up on
their arithmetic... me? i don't remember how
the alphabet goes, but i know a word or two,
i have respect for certain sciences...
           like abacadus?
     abecadus? 3 results (0.59 seconds),
so near to a google-whack! ****!
                            http://tinyurl.com/go9g3b8,
that "alphabet" of numbers! what's it called?
                         oh right... an abacus....
          similus non similiis qua abecadus -
but the algorithm understood it...
               but university has become that sort
of magnet of failure...
                in the earliest past of the 21st century
the labour government allowed too many of us
to access this medium...
                      what we should have been taught
was how to not be bored from a boring / repetitive
environment... i'd gladly learn that course /
unless of course that thing is self taught?
  funny enough to also state: surgeons don't
have these problems, as butchers don't have them,
it's the buddhist territory of the middle
    that gets the most spank of oink huh?
             then poetry gets agitated because people
start throthing into its gob of worth with some
obscene content, and poetry is like:
call papa phi pho lee... so people can see how
pointless their argument will eventually be,
and they can go along the route of scuttling past like
scared rats... which in this language, makes perfect sense,
given they branded western slavs as vermin...
                thank you, i'll just stick to me
aphorism no. 34 (ponderings iii) and be on my way
to stage an "islam",
                         or what most would claim to
be defeat (there really is an interpolation between
ditto and italics, or at least a symbiosis,
for what could never improve punctuation,
let alone spelling)...
                        i really have lost my "christian" / western
sensibility of indoctrinating darwinism on people,
i lost my mojo / atheism-drive of "zeitgeist" vogue...
i lost the need to indoctrinate darwinism on people,
there's too many of them, and what i see is
    "zen" libido, or at least tao libido...
i think i'm going to call it tao libido in all earnest...
well... an asian paradigm if anything...
or why the west is obsessed with fame but that fame
results in a billion chinese / blue indians that...
simply don't give a ****...
       the first rule of tao?
                   to keep a world at peace is to ensure
you forget the world, and the world forgets you.
    by this point there is no dasein,
                               there is no "happening"...
or what compulsory thought patterns suggest:
there had to be a darwinism and there had to be
a big bang, for per se reasons,
    the democratic totalitarian obliteration
                                 of the individuation process;
at least in islam we are bound to disagree...
here? we agree to annoy, or we are agreed upon
toward a zenith of annoyance that translates
into subverting violence, or micro-violence...
or: that our past be no burden on our future tomorrows...
we really are living in times that history
will later define as merely a blame game,
   after that.... people will reflect and state
the unimportant content given the context,
            and then vice versus...
   then **** sapiens will suddenly fizzle out of
existence and **** schizoi will establish his rule,
to what was naturally teasing man:
                           tell a lie, write a history;
or that "metaphor" of eden.

Hey guys, I finally made my poetry into a book! You can buy it now on blurb.com as a 60 page hardcover for $29.19! Use the web address above.

There's a poem about you that's waiting to be written
There are words that circle your lips
Falling, slipping, spilling from my fingertips
Into late night confusion and moments of nothingness
You're a page in the center of a book with a prologue that I haven't read
But I'm still imagining the way the ink stained paragraphs would lend themselves to film
Because every story can be told through so many mediums
There's a poem about you that is waiting for the right words
I wouldn't call it attraction
I would call it an admission that having you at my side is oddly comfortable
I would call it a confession that I wanted to reach for your hand a few times
I wouldn't call it more
I haven't been lost in the starlight of your eyes
I haven't scattered butterflies from my chest
I haven't longed for lipstick stains and inside jokes, sharing, and falling apart to rebuild each other, listening, loving, forgetting the past
I don't think you and I are a would be could be should be
But I do think that you deserve something different and that I want to be someone new
Funny how those match
I think that even though you haven't sparked music in my soul
You have poems about you that are waiting to come to light
Because you have ink in your veins to tattoo words on your bones
And you're a table of contents out of context pointing to a chapter left untitled
You're a hardcover book, but not one to bother with the slipcovers
And you've got a spine that's been bent but is not easily broken
You're a story I want to read, not one I'd want to live
But I do want to write poetry about you
Because you're spilled ink that might as well be a Rorschach test
You're paper pages that act like kindling
You're words that shy away from being spoken
Or written
And there's poetry floating through the air that is sure to rest on your shoulders
Because I'm sure that your heart is shelter to thousands of words left unspoken
And your pulse is sewing together the phrases that you never said
But I'll never really know why my hands warmed up at the touch of yours
Because some poems just aren't meant to be written by me
But they're still out there waiting for you

Like the pages of a book,
I slipped through her fingers.
So intrigued by my sheets,
Each chapter leaves her breathless—wanting more.

A labyrinth of words,
Mere lines and curves—but full of meaning.
So absorbed reality has vanished,
She loses herself inside of me.

Like shadows cast from an open flame,
On her, my silhouette I leave.
Like sand to an incoming tide,
Be swept away in me.

My characters,
The excitement,
The new universe I bleed,
My Ink stained canvas—
Her escape to a new dimension is held within me.

We journey across worlds—in the same room,
I take her up mountains,
We swim across oceans,
Soar from country to country—
Her imagination free to run wild,
My hardcover constraints do little to confine me.

Spread me open,
Dive head first into my pages and reside there with me.
Lust for my contents—
Weep for the lives expired within me.

Become lost in the passion,
Written tears become real tears—emotions:
Memories,
Pain,
Anger,
Sadness,
Happiness,
With each new read she feels alive with me.

My plot— so sweet,
Once she tastes me— she realizes she was always starving.
The bookmark—her utensil,
She stops and goes as she pleases,
Feeding on the juices of a hunger that she can’t appease.

I am her favorite book.
Within me she tunes out everything,
I take her to new heights.
A free mind— captured by my mystery,
My pages are never-ending.

We will live,
We will age,
Only the smell and feel of me will change.
Yet she will always wonder what my next page holds.

I have left my mark.
Whether I lie on the side table,
Or rest upright on a shelf,
I, her favorite book— am always within reach.

I was an unshaped sculpture, wet, raw and transparent.
As is death behind a fallacious smile.
I knew nothing of intemperate stars
That appear every night, And fade in a matter of hours.
To reappear on a nightly basis.
Till there is no night anymore.

Perhaps my vision is blurred
For all these packs of little gifts I receive everyday pills.
Pink, bone-white, orange and blue.
Wherein witches, no singing, scream lullabies to my ears.
But so does this world seem to fade in and out
Till there is no night anymore.

I look for lost meanings in a rose bucket like a life-long challenge.
I look for drought in children of the sombre clouds in my neighbourhood
That lay on the storm-beat shrubs as midday approaches.
To cover up the clumsy repetition of early mornings.
But oh darling! One day there is no night anymore.
Flirty gestures, handsome men and outbursts of tears
Will turn to ancient words in hardcover manuscripts.
Through which we continue to live a dreamlike life!
Dispensed from life itself and made to live in a glass box.
Transparent, still, with ****** reeks on its windowpanes.
And the blood stains remain, till there is no night anymore.
9.02. 17