For so long I thought I'd never find
the one I couldn't get off my mind
but she was standing right there
wind blowing her perfect red hair
I never thought I was good enough
I always had to be 100% tough
nothing ever went right
I cried myself to sleep at night
"why can't I find... the one for me?"
"why can't I see? is she right in front of me?"
everything changed, I saw her in the rain
feeling like nothing more could ease my pain
I spoke to her and instantly fell
for this demon spat from hell
she's a hellhound, a fiery little wolf
I hoped her fire burns, hope it will engulf
my heart, make it throb again
so that I could love again
it only took three days to see,
to ask her to be the girl for me.
its seven months later and we're still together
every day is the beginning of our forever
she sleeps in my shirts every night
I tell her everything will be all right
my hoodies are her pillows, she loves them to death
because they smell just like me, i'm all she has left
for her to take, to make us whole.
that is my only goal.

Beautiful Soul tunes booming
A dance with the devil looming
****** tendencies, stop assuming
Only one way to bring me down
Is with hex bags, have them drag me around
Hell on Earth by my 22 piece bringing peace
A paradox, a pair of docs couldn’t pick up on
Point blank piercing ears, hiding wounds tear
I point blanks just to introduce fear
I shoot rounds just to step with the devil’s snare
Conjure up the hellhounds for this is their heaven here
The good Lord and his reverend
An a irrelevant justice for revenge ends
I’m hell bound, show me the hellhounds
I can’t let these last few rounds go to waste now

I'm burning with every soft whisper down my spine, my pulse is vibrato.
Like the soft and energetic hum of horsehair melting into song.
Writhing in dance against the twisted embrace of chromium on the strings.
A clash of furious titans.
Making storms when they collide; the wind and the tide.
Wrestling for power 'til the waves crash one over another, gasping, growling.
Oxygen.
When my lips meet cotton crisp and sweet, and beg for freedom of another kind.
And there in quiet whimpers do we seek, together this enlightenment of lone and fallen ones.
Grazing sharp and silent little wounds, quieted by scar tissue.
Healing through our fingertips and moans, twisted as an ouroboran knot;
feeling mirrored heartbeats strike like savage drums.
When the guise of warpaint loses shape, cast aside for inner feral forms,
grinning cheshire, hidden thorny claws.
In the darkness of another night, heavy with the weight of misty breaths, there from underneath do they then come,
the master and his hound, the lord and fallen one.

I'm losing hair
As I'm losing air
For what isn't fair
In your electric chair

You strapped me in
And kept me waiting
Your craft of sin
Got me hating
The pain on the other end of the line
The pain that tortured away my time

You're an executioner
With the flesh of Lucifer
And the keen nose of a hellhound
So you can bury me in the ground
And return as you like
To shock me back to life

I feel your electric pain
In a lightning rain
I am reborn
And you're sitting there
I begin to mourn
The fact that you don't care
My death is repeated
After I am defeated

I feel the pain
And need to gain
Someone to share it with
Instead of your electric chair grip

Got a Hellhound on my trail
Devil Dogs locked on my scent
Hears the barkin and yowlin
Still runnin but my energy's spent

Got a monkey on my back
**** thing stranglin my soul
my skins crawlin, liver aching
self abuse done took its toll

bill collectors keep callin
dialin me up in real time
debt for ill spent life past due
bro won't spare a **** dime

ol sun did rise this mornin
Lord gave me one more day
to see the light, set things right
before he takes me away

sick and tired of sick and tired
can't play this tune no more
take one step to a brand new life
before I knock on heavens door

Music Selection:
Robert Johnson,
Hellhound on My Trail

NYC
3/19/05
jbm

Beloved wanderer,
What are you running after?
your external commitment to reach crassness is taller than a benevolent Tikbalang
you are quicker than its long legs to lead a soul astray
But my beloved,
where is your soul?
your Passion is non-existent
like an ondine, all you seek is an immortal soul to waste
on your blinded fate
on the woes you continue to create
and your petty blown up mates
a thick, bold flesh they’ll never extricate
surrounding the empty stems from which they originate
My beloved,
your eyeballs were so viciously extracted and replaced
with poisonous bile
your hellhound eyes are so vile
if one stares at them twice
they’ll be seized, and they’ll be sacrificed
and their souls disintegrate
their roots begin to decay
they merge with your spirits
and they aimlessly gyrate
around in circles,
my beloved, you **** the souls
dumping their bodies in holes
indulgent in mutilating the skin around your heart
vandalising your worth and claiming it's art
but my beloved wanderer
where is your drive?
where is your start?

Misery haunts me like a vengeful lover’s phantom
Grey clouds of solitude drench me with the rain of cold silence.
The thunder startles my vision with its sudden piercing vibrancy,
but the accompanying sound is inaudible to my ears.
Perhaps the deafening screams of my soul have rendered them useless.

Misery bites into my flesh like a famished Hellhound
the crimson of unrequited love bathes it mercilessly.
Its dagger like fangs bite into my calf,
but the accompanying feeling of pain on my skin is nonexistent.
Perhaps the innumerable pinpricks inflicted by words have rendered it numb.

Misery paints me like a mournful artist,
into the monochromatic shades of abandonment.
The slicing strokes of his brushes, highlight crimson suffering,
but the accompanying cries of bitter pain are not possessed by my throat.
Perhaps the incessant demands of respite made by it have rendered it sore for an eternity.

Misery slithers inside my nostrils like a toxic repulsive snake.
Trails of blue betrayal are left by its slimy flesh while it travels to my lungs.
Its venom covers my nerves in the burning sensation of ridicule,
But the accompanying smell of approaching death seems absent
Perhaps the putrid smell of my burning conscience has rendered my senses immune.

you have not held anything close to your heart since that night.
you hellhound. you dog of war. you *******. you absolute fool.
when did a knife to your throat become your hail mary?
when did the blade become your prayer?
justice, oh, they talk about justice
and it makes you want to laugh
there is no justice in this world, only
judgement.
this gun in your hand is the reckoning that you have needed for years.
you are his punishment.
(and, for all your sins, is he yours?)

Okay that's it
I finally quit
I've had my years of fun

I've got exercise
Clear in my sights
Fat will soon be on the run

Had a problem in
Getting in the gym
The doors won't fit my **** double wide

So in disgrace
I plaster my face
On the window to watch the skinny's inside

In my depressed state
I went and ate
Another meal served up for four

One thing I like
About the places I dine
There's always room in and out the door

Then guilt overwhelms
Like a hellhound
As I was in the middle of my desert

It could have come sooner than this
And for that I am blessed
It could have come during my last course

Here I am back in my boat
Without a paddle to row
My only form of exercise

But before it's to late
I toss a little more dirt on my grave
With another order of double fries

With my meal out of the way
I go back to the start of the day
Which seems to be sunnier than ever

I decide to go for a jog
Before all my arteries clog
Maybe though I'll wait for better weather

........................................................­........

Here we are a new day
This is the earliest I've ever been late
You know what they say about catching the worm

I stop to eat my worm on the way
IHOP  double stack pancakes
Will that worm never learn

The only exercise these days
Is a fork in my face
If this were the Olympics I'd win a prize

I wonder if this is considered a sport
The reaching of maple syrup
And wouldn't squeezing the bottle also be exercise

I'll try tomorrow again
To reign myself in
One of these days it's bound to catch

I'll look to the future in life
Instead of behind
Then at least I won't have to look at my fat...

My hands shake and thoughts clash
I revise life, like flashbacks
I won't last living in my past
Pull back, snapping leash he attacks

The scent is strong he's on the prowl
A predator of beings foul
Revenge dished he's hellbound
Took a vow as hellhound

His loyalty holds no borders
He's borderline disobeying orders
He's ordered but he ignores
Okami, a lone wolf

In midnight his eyes shine
Blood red it contains skies
He's hunting down a worthy prize
Defending honour he can't die

Vengeance and fuelled rage
Powerful and untamed
For too long he's been caged
He suffered so, debts be repaid

With head high and hackles raised
He's raising hell, his endgame
All cards held have been played
Run and hide, its too late

Piercing your eardrums
Cower in fear as you hear
the deafening howl of a hellhound
Echoing of deathbrought crying
and screaming of banshees
Body burned from the inside
incineration by the infernal flames
burning from the black flames of hell
While being immobilized by
the cold lifeless kiss from death

Pain?

None come close
to that feeling
when you find out
that your loved one
loves someone else

august

I share my bed
with a memory

Something is off,
a pale yellow
a dull white.

The dread and lingering,
the fear
Something is off,
coyly passing you by

A scent maybe
or a colour
a flickering light
or dead flower
or maybe

the hellhound
staring me down
on its leash by your side
You are going away now
but you have left this behind
and you still live here
between off-beats

First kiss at the psych ward, strap me to the gurney
Deliver me from evil, tempt me eternally
Lucifer’s hellhound is space bound like my mentality- Venus.
To be great like em-inem I bet he has a big (rocket ship)

Alliteration, pronunciation like Smash Pan-
Alley where we used to fight about it.
Drinking king cans by the river
A blimp of a memory drifting endlessly

Listen to your voice emanate synchronicities
Haunting me vocally as I condemn myself to his servitude, I’m holy
Saint of the church like Mother Theresa, pray with my rosary
For forgiveness.

Undress me slowly, ripe for the picking
A flower blooming seductively under duress of the past atrocities committed upon me
by trauma
I own that ****, I’m a sinner.

Repentance for misdirected animosity
Be who you are
And love endlessly.  

©rhetoricalcuriosity

Sometimes I think I am alone
And I don't know where to go
Sometimes I wonder why I feel
So utterly inhuman

The things that I remember doing
That I could not possibly have done
Though I have hurt a lot of people
I also remember killing one

My name was Ire, I was transformed
He screamed, but still I struck him down
My hands, they trembled, then I was gone
I was a murderous hellhound

The next morning I awoke
And fear was struck in all of them
I wonder what I actually did
I wonder where my victim went

Pages turned, memory bound
Your life is resting in the lost and found
Uncertain, creation and evolution pound
Affirmations, sought and found
Bleeding questions, pulling you, southbound
Frantic scramble, run from the hellhound
Your body and soul, earthbound
Awaken from this nightmare, underground
Unadulterated Exploration, consciousness resounds
Absolute freedom, profound

The raccoons on this Kentucky farm formed a quagmire. They're wild thieves embedded in the ecosystem. Irreplaceable valuables are erased in the cover of night. The farmer offers to negotiate with the masked vermin. A raccoon response results in scramble trash, they say they've got a birthright from the past. Wits end is where dog ownership begins after the adoption of a rabid dog that only sees death. Regret rocks raccoons wrestling with Cerberus but there's no turning back, Cujo is chained in their yard.  Hellhound terror leaves spellbound hares abandoning their warrens until only reddened raccoons remain with their canine warden.

Lamenting the loss of liberty, a revolutionary raccoon resolves to romp around. The dog of damnation's laser locked bloodlust focuses on the rodent-like rebel. Charging like a rocket out of its launcher, the driven dog is lured from its isolated den. This game of cat and mouse has magnanimous stakes reaching across the farmer's lake.

The rebellious raccoon runs rapidly from the rabid ravenous Rover. The runner dips and dives through cover to avoid the teeth of the other. A snapping jaw matches the movements of the juking and cutting critter. Inside of a hollow tree becomes the raccoon's destination, he enters and ascends, the snarling snapper chasing in after him.

Death's embrace seems certain for the raccoon as the hound's teeth shave the edge of its fur, but at that point the fatter can go no further. The hound's blinding bloodlust vanishes upon realizing it's stuck. Its unwavering rage turns into panicked fear once it realizes its end is near. The raccoon revels in the dog's misery, enjoying watching it slowly starving.

The raccoons revelry is rebuked once the dog just starts staring at it. They both stare at each other, unblinking, waiting for the other to die. Neither of them willing to move an inch for fear of accidentally helping the other. Both willing to die to ensure their opponent's death. The hollow facade that saved the raccoon now becomes its tomb. Defeat and death act as a sedating punishment for the dog's aggression. Fierce foes drink the poison of resentment as they both accept their demise while staring into each other's eyes.

". . .THE WONDROUS ARCHITECTURE OF THE WORLDE. . . ."

I laugh
the road over the Hog's Back
closed because....it melted

was the sun ever so
back in your day
eh Kit?

and what do I read
Mr. Marlowe?
why words, Kit, words

that word magician
Dr. Burgess he presumes
to bring you back

to life again
and so it seems
I see your blood Kit

streaming in the firmament
nay only a Deptford sunset
dragged screaming from memory

your blood upon the page Kit...
mere cherry juice it
stains the words

and so to Deptford I
do go
thanks to Madame Remembrance

I a poor
purveyor of poetry
clutching at words

and here
a great reckoning
not  in a little room

but on a lost street
staining the scene
a sickly yellow

and so enough
of Prologue...
Act 1 begins

a smiling ruffian
see his knife smiles too
the blade eager for blood

alas I
in so much pain I
have no fear of death

indeed would welcome
the flicked knife
if it would release me

from my life
a man prepared
to die if it be so

"Come live with me and be
my love..." I doth quote
in my best Passionate Shepard

"Wot?" he wots
scared of my insouciance
the ghost of Marlowe by my side

ahhh he the very villian
a scar from eye to smile
he aims to do the same to me

"Where, rogue... did
they get thee?" I mock
"VILLIANS 'R' US?"

Marlowe's ghost laughs
"Aye lad...aye lad
to him!"

"Only one of us..."
I warn my hellhound
"....will come out of this alive!"

I pause for effect
"And I'm afraid
it won't be( hee hee ) thee!"

I take a determined step
towards my would-be
now trembling killer

who all this wordage
being too much for him
he flees

ahhh the glint of words
defeats the glint of steel
he my would-be-not-to-be-death

"What God or Feend, or spirit of the earth,
Or Monster turned to manly shape
Or of what mould or mettle he be made...?"

I declaim to an audience
of cats and cans and
other streetly filth

I...I. . .unable to
find the next line
and so I etc., etc., etc.

and once more
I am of Guildford yet again
30 years or more away

and there melts a road
upon the Hog's Back
and I laugh to be alive

"Doth teach vs all to have aspyring mindes:
Our soules, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the worlde.."

.this is hardly an example of a millennial explaining something with patronißing over-tones... let's say: a thought-experiment, solipsism is more a thought-experiment, than an fixation of non-fluctuation idea, solipsism is simulated autism... that being said, if this is a thought-experiment, then me, making it public, allows for a quasi-voyeurism: after all, i just found something, that i didn't find before... imagine... the english stand on a genesis in a fixed ideology beginning with a body from africa and a mind from india... and here i am, a western slav... bewildered with the *****... armed with a knife and fork and chop-sticks... wouldn't the concept of reincarnation imply, that there were and always will only a fixed number of people? trust borrowing a theology from a people, that didn't actually invent any culinary discipline of eating, the most tasty food in the world... chop-stick man, what do you say, via the mongol? chop-stick man says to the fork-and-knife man... well: if i could... i'd try using something else, than what i already use to wipe my ***.

i became tired of american
familiarism literature...

                  like i would ever become
familiar with some part
of new york;

  i'm shackled to england,
surrogate mother,
  and i'm not planning
                          to abandon her
on some ******* whim...

yes... i will use slurs,
foul words etc.,
            but... do a drag queen act?
american literature
and this, whole, itchy...
      you familiar with
the upper-east side,
                 the lower blah blah...
talking claustrophobic
geography,
           what a load of: *******...

oh but do you know
bower wood?
         no... that part of the woods
where you turn left and then
after a while: right,
and you're... walking...
beer in hand, in between
one song finishing,
  and another song beginning
on your headphones...
and you hear...
    
                  a satanic ritual
taking place?
   and then... a throng of murmurs...
and... you take two steps back...
turn around: and start running?
that part?

'well, you were the one walking
through that part of the woods
screaming like a hellhound
a few weeks past...
walking as if:
                  blind to the darkness
of the forest:
but able to recount steps from...
returning from almost being
kicked in the head by a horse:
that started nibbling on your
hand, "thinking" it was an apple,
i.e. you crazy! i'm not going
to nibble on your hand,
"i thought" it was an apple!'

true:
   **** it, screaming into a pillow
will not do rage enough
justice...
   you need the full orchestra...
the night...
          and a forest...

- well it's not like i did something
spectacular...
like climbing the matterhorn
or something...
         i took my heart into the forest
and screamed my native
tongue,  which is "dormant"
beneath this,
      facade (ç / ς) of acquired english...

notably...
             myśl (both a verb,
and a noun...
     some languages just don't bother
with prepositions akin to: to)...

now... for all the "diacritical" markers
in the english language... i, j,

in other languages you'd have
to... challenge the orthographic
aesthetic...
namely?

e.g.         musisz   (you must)
    (second-person singular
            present of) musieć

towing he she and whatever...
  funny...
gender neutral pronouns...
the gay-fest not enough,
they had to come and
    give a ******* about grammar?

musieć: past-participle
  (or at least, that's what i think it is)...

"aesthetic" vs. orthography...
depends...
   what does the dot above the iota
actually do?
   oh, right...                    nothing!

   all of these are actually right:

   □              □                   □                    □
   □                     musisz                  □
            □               muśιsz               □
  □                      muśιš     □
         □                   musiš                   □
          □               □               □         □            □

  (phonetically,
                           they're all the same)

****** square:
   so "un-geometric" when
writing it involved...
  huh? the four examples rule...

as if that was magic...
   the semites do their magic act
with vowels...
  the english have
    covered the Y...

while i... tend to focus
    on the stressors
of idiosyncracy that others
take for granted...

granted... i did hide a Z in slavic,
or an H in anglo using
the caron over S(š)...
                sharp objects...

maybe i haven't learned
enough languages,
or maybe i just became entrenched
in two, to observe this...
say what you will:
  western slavic,
with its clear syllable cutting
of words...
   coupled with its orthographic
pedantry: that's omnipresent
among almost every single
individual of the ethnicity...

it's like joining a ******* army...
you can't wipe your ***
without someone telling
you prior,
   that you're just about to ****
your trousers...
head over to england,
and everything is lax...
          sure... hell...
dyslexia whatnot...
                      and grammar nazis...

i am a grammar ****...
i have to be,
either that, or i'm just plain ol'
pedantic...
          it's either one,
                       or the other...

ezra pound had his *****-wink
obsession...
i still think:
   for such an elaborate phonetic
encoding,
     志: zhì     (ź),
will -                 zheng (źeng)
(whatever nietzsche said,
                mencius had it covered)
either that constricts thinking,
or it posits a focus on thinking,
that, that sort of phonetic encoding...

considering that
the H is a surd in all of this...

which is great... for someone who
reads latin script,
this elevated position...
but i guess the mundane
everyday conversations,
with this elaborate encoding
must, somehow...

well... evidently some Mongolian
influences...
in the language
that sits beneath these written
words in english.

Poseidon's hellhound
slithers in remorseless seas
bloodbaths are just feast

i'm way past convincing people -
    children require the demand of
being believed -
   somehow: as you mature -
your ontology changes and a
subtle variant of apathy seeps
in...
     given...
              as someone who sat in a wheat
field under a tree...
no phone... drinking heavily
and listening to the wind rustle
the shafts -
             singing along to a song -
laughing - crying -
    and then spotting a u.f.o.?
like a jelly-fish luminescent -
    not exactly solid...
              well... m'eh...
   that's nothing...
                    doing the same but
on a log throne in a forest...
    and seeing a garmr -
  cŵn annwn - cerberus:
hellhound -
     chasing a rabbit passing meters
away from...
   well... not that's something...
so... either i wasn't real,
the hellhound surely wasn't...
as was the rabbit...
   yeah... the rabbit wasn't real...
u.f.o. what?
      m'eh...
      come the winter chill -
   i'll be walking back through its
shades and shadows -
seemingly blind -
        probably listening some
demdike stare -
     well **** me.... the album tryptych
set me back 30 quid...
   worth every penny.

Why should I fear
If you tell me that I am naïve,
Or weak,
Or made of far too many flowing, passioned words
Than could match that creature which life is?
I say,
That creature will bite, and scratch, and tear, and scream,
Lunging with that chain around its throat,
Until all breaks or all falls down.
I say to you,
Do you know what it is, that creature which life is?
I say,
This crying monster may not so terrible be,
When acknowledged.
Black, its fur, and sharp, its teeth,
But this is what we are unless we're free.
Let us be free, and not bound by naïve imaginations;
We are not nothing, and the cries of our souls, so black with tar-like pain, are cries for all whose liberties are bound.

I will be what I am, what I was made to be,
For I know what freedom is,
As one does know the light which broaches morning's rising sun.

And I say to you, dear heart,
Are you free?

(c) 2017 Indigo Kenna

Give up the ghost
Pour water to try to put out the sun
5:47 am, take off my glasses
Rub fingers on​ my face
Woke up aching, half on
And off my bed
Stretched, screaming
Awfully upon the rack
" I have pains in my heart which
Have taken my appetite "
Go bow down to Robert Johnson
Godlike
Poet extraordinare
" I have stones in my passway
And my road seems
Dark as night "
Ended up dying on his knees
Howling like a dog
A hellhound on his trail
Well I guess it finally
Caught up with him
I hear it's terrifying
Footsteps, padding, panting
Slavering, enslaving
80 years on and
Little has changed
" I have pains in my heart which
Have taken my appetite "
So, go pour buckets of rain
On the sun
Steal the moon and
Stash it in my backpack
Then run off drunkenly
Laughing
Laughing
Laughing at death
Laughing at life
What else can you do?
When there are;
Guilty lying tombstones
Obscene newspapers
Dead T.V.
The poisoned glass of whiskey
The dying mother
The weeping boyfriend
The creeping boy fiend
Drugs and alcohol
" Stones In My Passway "
Living too slow
Dying too fast
Stealing the moon
******* on the sun
The young girl beaten
And ***** in broken glass
The poisoned death
The poisoned life
5:47 am
Stretched upon the rack

Life comes and goes
Nothing stops the flow
To the sound of a beat-up guitar
Some believe back to the Creator
We all must go
To stop the panic in their hearts

I just believe in that old guitar
And the melody it sadly plays
We dance to its rhythm
Which is all we can do
Until our dying day

Some ancient but ageless Bluesman
Blasting away in the key of E
He hammers on, bends strings and twists the tune
That is life to you and me

He lifts the bottle to his black lips
And starts to jam on ' Dust My Broom '
Our lives are just swirls in the dust
Of his beat-up, broke-down room

He knows the Crossroads, the Hellhound too
Many times he's rode the blinds
He's walked down all those dusty roads
Knows his first and second minds

He opens his mouth to sing, out comes a moan
Darker than a moonless night
Deeper than the depths of all seven seas
The Bluesman sings of wrong and right

Of salvation, sin and all between
He weaves his words of woe
To the unearthly clang of his guitar
On the world must go

So pray he never runs out of songs
That there's always another to choose
There drinking whiskey in his old railroad shack
Sits God singing the Blues

Don't scrape my fresh wounds like a hellhound,
I'm a fallen angel of broken wings and fainting death,
A stinking rotting odor of blood and flesh on my rotting bones,
I'm a venomous fang, I'll **** you.
I'll tear you up from the chest, crush our ribs
And grotesque your heart under my clenched gnarled fist,
Rinse me in your blood.

I'll drink the sins in wonder of hate,
Under the savagery of my beast soar scream.

I'll burn the wings of fire,
Flicker my joy in the sinful air,
On the plane pale, I'll play the rain in blood,
My throat choked in soot
I'll wander under the fire and wait my thirst to cause drought
Wrench the lands of life,
Gallop all in my hateful eyes
And make a dark world where I'd want to hear writhe,
Screams and cries.

Songs of melancholy overseas should reach,
Elegies must be burned into ember like my innocent heart was once,

Don't leave me on loath,
It's my turn to be an evil destroyer,
An uncontrolled monsterous creature,
On the lead to pave for hell and end peace on slits of sin,
Make me that or I'll end up here
Just as a human or a fallen angel.

It's that insanity caged me in it's fist of innocence,
But I don't want to stay anymore.

Don't scrape on my fresh wounds,
I'll fill you with venom of my hate and pain,
And the aches would be terrible to survive,
Don't make me the fallen angel again!

poltroonish authoritarian skunks ruling
for decades & helped out by hellhound-like
guards authorized carrying guns, fE̲w friends
[law enforcers, personal security service agents & army]
from young adulthood turned partners in unruly
enrichment, pesky agents of cyber—
—space censorship, an unjust jU̲di—
[the "partners in crime" phrase]
—ciary, submissive legislators for power
abuse, plus bullsh#t-
and hatred-spreading information supp—liers (wassup, y'all schmucks)
["liars"]
a whole palace of corrupt tU̲[ʊ]shlicks
[the main thing ones mentioned have in common]
deserving to end up chastened by fire (chastened by fire)
which is one of the proposals I wO̲U̲ld give
["witches", which connects with "end up chastened by fire"]
as a reply on "how shO̲U̲ld ******
that hold power & are sick with
cold-bloodedness be treated?"
of course, the world has some gO̲O̲d things
to o[ɑ]ffer, but human—
—kind; for the most part, it's o[ɑ]ff-putting
like an option regarding wha[ʌ]t should be
done with that ******[ɑ]tic **** ruling
in the underdis—banded mafia lA̲nd east
of Europe (nullify the ****** mo[ɑ]bster)
["off [the surname of the dictator of the area mentioned]"; "bandit"]
it's a world of wro[ɑ]ngdoing
which is why it requires ones whO̲'d be
like mechanics, getting the ***** jo[ɑ]b done
getting Earth purified fro[ʌ]m
walking pieces o[ʌ]f dung
such as key figures o[ʌ]f ***
autocratic regimes & mo[ɑ]b ****
————————————————————————————————
you know what's a[ɑ]musing? I've be—gun putting (down)
together this one listening to some dumb music
party-fine tunes with
wicked E̲DM sounds, whI̲ch can be found in different styles
["different" is supposed to be read/pronounced the 3-syllable way]
amongst which is twerk
like a dance by a magic-practicing gal wI̲th her stern
bouncing; not a life teacher learned
["witch's twerk"]
heaps 'bout it, but here's something wise: since this world
["hips", which connects with the twerk subject in the preceding lines]
is sick, like the NO-WAVE-made
tune "Direct Action", or like that spite-ridden verse
of "POAA"
[the producer's name is spelled as "N O W A V E"]
[the phrase "this world is sick" is the most repeated part of the tune's lyrics]
[the rhyme piece "punishment of an autocrat" written by me]
sometimes it is worth
distracting our mind by things preferred
by us, esp. when our spirit's hurt
like hell; wish I sometimes could, like one free of coarse
language, no[ɑ]t give a curse
[the "to give a tinker's curse" expression]
about what's go[ɑ]t mE̲ disturbed
not sure if this is fine for uplifting words
like a penalty charge issued for
giving an encouraging speech, but I̲f you're short
on high spirits, or feel destroyed
or even feel so hor—rible that this flipping world
you want to see it burn
just like the mentally *******, yet supply—
—ing-food-for-thou[ɑ]ght guy
introduced in "Dark Knight", try doing wha[ʌ]t I
think can be of some help during hard times
[the Joker from the film mentioned & the Alfred's quote about him]
[which goes: "some men just want to watch the world burn"]
[both, the world & the Joker referenced in the latest lines]
[are sick (crazy), hence the choice of "flipping" (going crazy) toward "world"]
whatever unwicked, whether it's artistic, sport
or recreational, you like, or are eager for
(there has to be something)
just ge[ɪ]t immersed
into it, like someone who dives, leaving worth—
—less weighty stuff like doubts, fears ashore
get immersed & get enjoyment
out of the respective moment
————————————————————————————————
wish I had
a mind arranged like that

the door creeks


"Ah, I've been waiting it for weeks."


"It's surely the Reaper, the final undertaker."


waiting for nothing


"Maybe, he has another job. The door creeked, but he sent one of his helldog to do the job."


the void avoids my thoughts


"Hellhound or a fluffy bunny, stop me feeling so moody."


"Somebody, take my thoughts and take me voice. Not to feel more sore."


waiting


creeking

". . .THE WONDROUS ARCHITECTURE OF THE WORLDE. . "

I laugh
the road over the Hog's Back
closed because....it melted

was the sun ever so
back in your day
eh Kit?

and what do I read
Mr. Marlowe?
why words, Kit, words

that word magician
Dr. Burgess he presumes
to bring you back

to life again
and so it seems
I see your blood Kit

streaming in the firmament
nay only a Deptford sunset
dragged screaming from memory

your blood upon the page Kit...
mere cherry juice it
stains the words

and so to Deptford I
do go
thanks to Madame Remembrance

I a poor
purveyor of poetry
clutching at words

and here
a great reckoning
not  in a little room

but on a lost street
staining the scene
a sickly yellow

and so enough
of Prologue...
Act 1 begins

a smiling ruffian
see his knife smiles too
the blade eager for blood

alas I
in so much pain I
have no fear of death

indeed would welcome
the flicked knife
if it would release me

from my life
a man prepared
to die if it be so

"Come live with me and be
my love..." I doth quote
in my best Passionate Shepard

"Wot?" he wots
scared of my insouciance
the ghost of Marlowe by my side

ahhh he the very villian
a scar from eye to smile
he aims to do the same to me

"Where, rogue... did
they get thee?" I mock
"VILLIANS 'R' US?"

Marlowe's ghost laughs
"Aye lad...aye lad
to him!"

"Only one of us..."
I warn my hellhound
"....will come out of this alive!"

I pause for effect
"And I'm afraid
it won't be( hee hee ) thee!"

I take a determined step
towards my would-be
now trembling killer

who all this wordage
being too much for him
he flees

ahhh the glint of words
defeats the glint of steel
he my would-be-not-to-be-death

"What God or Feend, or spirit of the earth,
Or Monster turned to manly shape
Or of what mould or mettle he be made...?"

I declaim to an audience
of cats and cans and
other streetly filth

I...I. . .unable to
find the next line
and so I etc., etc., etc.

and once more
I am of Guildford yet again
30 years or more away

and there melts a road
upon the Hog's Back
and I laugh to be alive

"Doth teach vs all to have aspyring mindes:
Our soules, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the worlde.."

Eternal the struggle
Of dispossessed rebels
I finished God’s work
Now I’m doin’ the Devil’s
Duplicitous, shiftiest,
Dirtiest deeds
To the landless,
The peasants,
The outcasted breeds
An outsider
Ghost writer
Adrifting through town
And unleashing my unbounded
Hellhound around
My cause lost
To the cost
Of a hole in the ground
That I sought to make common
Man’s claim
All the same
But to do so
Required
The gentrified’s bane
By the slain
They defined me
A murderous ****
And insane they confined me
To mind-numbing drugs
They prescribed me
Attempts to revive
The reptile
The coldest-blood guile,
Service with a smile,
Reviled exile
This side of the Nile
And in a submissive state
Made me a slave
To the for-prophet
Profiteers’
People enchained
To a system
I swore to destroy
As a boy
With his head in the clouds
In the muses’ employ
Where continuing still
Is that struggle
Eternal
But these days
It just rages on
In this journal

Stuck here memorizing lines.
Lies
That i will tell the guy in the chair
Every moment watching me
Judging me
Waiting for a slip up or a pickup or a step down like a hellhound
When did seeing become so different
So what we see does it actually matter when all of these people tell a million lies just to flatter the guy in the chair
He's still watching me
I'm too young for this
It's not worth the boba
But lonesome people don't change their favorite color to green like the rest of us
I like pink
And to think without a second thought i can think
Whos illusion do i have to see through?