Floating above the rifts of apperception I glaze over the gaudy faucets of imagined vector thrusts in hibernation by the lucubration of space-time materialized crystal in the somber beats of fetched farrago of choice slices in delicate hums of hemmed balance rantipole only in ethereal importance but otherwise supersolid above the sprauncy vagrancy of dilettantism. We shout a clarion virtuosity so that the conclamation of neovitalism conjures upon a spell of lapse and regress a motive for further crystallization of epidemiology into harmony with syndicated admonition sleek in design and parceled into renown by feats of completion rather than slugabed gregarious fountains of wasted ingenuity bleeding from the vacuum of an empty hearth in a hospitable dwelling otherwise cleared of imperfection. Right now, I levitate with transcendence with an approximated eidetic memory that is the surgical vibrancy of renewal rather than the chameleons of hidden talents buried by the walls of Jericho sounding tocsins of alarm that the anointed favor of choice destruction is only an encircled rapture of rhapsodies of confluence found in axiomatic truths ribbed with the futtocks of seaworthy but cauponate recidivism into the donnybrooks of apocryphal revelation preceding the whimsical fall of cascading permanence just as gravity so ordained it. We breathe the life of the ethereal numinous spirit of isangelous repute because we navigate the exquisite cobweb of reconciliation to surpass all understanding in peace what would be a miscegenated carcass of war otherwise apart from the incidental apartheid of the drones of causality ignoring the antecedent reality too much to register fathomed streaks of preventive endeavor because of the scars of a scrappy schlep of the rampicks of ecbolic servitude to moth-eaten star-crossed lovers of the mean menagerie of gutless succor renowned only in tepid rejections of harbingers bequeathed in succession but ignored because of the procession of “Billie Jean” politics.

   The citadel aflame with controversy buttresses carnality by witless contaminants of hidebound scaldabancos of ineffable destitution so craven in eisoptrophobia for their hypostasized indolent fatuousness of capitulation that they are but a minor punctuation in the largesse of centuries to favor audacity in candor over the prevarications of catastrophe to dented human pride against humane dictates of theodicy in fatalism that predestination experimented with its own vaulted verve to find permanent solutions engraved in the agrapha of time to solidify the redintegrated truth of God’s divine stewardship above the quisquilous deism of former regnant centuries of blench and blandishment. We revolt at the specter of rot only when the effluvia of disgust elevates the visceral reality above the utilitarianism of recycled prim nuisances of noisome lineage that yet balk because they are bereft of attention but not a vacant talent and therefore should the subsidies of man surpass the ignorance of appearances he will shrug of the demur of the scrimshank and sharpen his scrivello in the service of redemption found through cultivated prowess of gardens beneath where rivers flow above a cubic centurion of embattled visages of the heavens becoming the rampart for the vestigial clarity of Secret Masters to foresee the bypass that heals decadence and rebukes the formalism of puritan endeavor to sweat with exhaustive patience over the gossamer intertesselations of a ripe reality rather than a groveled fragmentary world shattered too much by exigent metanoia to mount the crenellated catchpole of vigilant enmity towards the stew of listlessness found in epigone and farce more than in organic fortunes. We flip the upheaval of society to squander our proportionate degrees of wealth on the necessity created by dire quandary which enamors by interrogations of pulchritude the verisimilitude of participle ivory dalliance of etched canvasses of simultagnosia for the librations of the liberated rings of betrothed liberation despite profound lurches of the mistetches of ignorance presiding dismally over the hulked disdain of glamborge rather than resselenque.

     The winter is a poor porcine glut of ciconine swelters because the prickly obtuse recoil of the delopes of caution find their permeable balance with a sort of photographic photosynthesis that braves the dearth of reprieve for the reprisal of nostalgic deeds found in the docimasy of riveted reflections because the preordination of God is the superlative champion of the witeless grandeval protectorate of infinite concepts guarded from the parvanimity even of the most strident minds squabbling over the braseros and battues of history as though those funereal stains of lachrymose regret outweigh the traditions of vaunted human progress because they are finicky about importunate pleas of subsidiary injustice rather than fulminations of the modern rebuttal to the disclaimers of an uneven history that shepherds the doubts of nihilism into ripe fruition at the expense of very expensive moral rot for the codlings of urbacity and mendaciloquence used to foment that tribalism of totemic justice. We see in Penuel the wrestling match of specters and heroic giants documented on the ageless pages and we notice the ironic twinges of struggle that kneaded the propriety of gentilian privilege that ultimately fostered an insurrection against chosen bravado among those that sear with zeal beyond the yordim afflictions of yobbery because the Jewish heart is stronger than any calamity even if it departs from the reverence of the colporteurs of the integrated syncretism of the attempted monolith that beseeches polyphiloprogenitive growth in mindset rather than in testy abeyance of forbearance because of known scrutinies into the tropology of wilted facts remanded by curious historicity that crumples without disdain when we memorialize the erasure of scepsis by modern standards of thaumaturgy.

    The minauderies of growth are a repositioned tacit allegiance to the untold fanfare and hearsay immunized against the broach of facetious levity to buoy discordant hearts above fumatoriums of relentless ignorance because coherent masterwork can be cobbled without such lapidary toil and toll on sincere affectations of wizened brevity. The seismic precautions for the forefathers of incidental convergences between expectancy and crystallized history are an ironic intortion of priorities because the heralds and tribunes matched the peerless foresight with the gerrymandered figments of apartheid between the imaginary and the real so that the delicate synchrony of events could unfurl a riveting carapace from the shells of protection even in amiable squalor for its impenitent attrition on the volleys of sensible rumor becoming fashioned in covert bedazzled errors in judgment leading to the triumph of the eventual civilization over the futtocks of the burial of the former trekleador of zenkidu belonging to provincial cadasters found so tucked in the hedges that discernment of frikmag would be an indelible scourge on the biognosy of the diagnosed endeavors that elapsed into remediated circumstances that brave the depths of deontological violation for the breadth of apportioned loaves and two swanky fish earning a place among the miracles of transcendent liberation from articles of decree imperious by sardonic disdain becoming nullified by the histrionics of a delicately staged orchestra that cements human achievement.

       We relish the frescades of a ruffled autumnal reminder of flourish above pothers of the screed of admonition swamped by nostalgic backtracks in the séance with ultimatum of design and the impregnated and carnal lusts of a world pitched in darkness with guarded lambent lights fomenting a perjury against tact for the deliverance of freedom in tacit agreement with owleries that every bonanza be tithed in their favor regardless of hibernation of spoilsports or their subsidiary remarks on indelible quills of invented manufactured realities we crave with desperation rather than cower from in requited nescience urging us to depart from affairs and stagnate the loyalty of fealty above the limber of utility mobilized above levities for solemn remarks and rejoinders. Promulgated above the robotic rubble of staffage haywire in wiredrawn contemplative resonance of tremulous subterfuge vestigial but immediate to the yardsticks of reprehensible malarkey, is the barnstorm for erratic dimples sauntered by the saunas of shelter above the chaos of ruined ginnels for the gimcracks of auxiliary duty to service, is the glorification of the sultry intimations of legions of remonstrance in guarded decorum about sunken atrocities lapsed in memorial to the incumbent brunt of sockdolagers of justice returning revenants from the bridewell of historical internment. The symphily of orchestras to cineaste symposiasts of surquedry in impudence beyond the brays of betrayal is the aborning mythos of regimented perceptions of a world that when magnified by minutiae appears starkly contrast to the gapped gubbertushed reality of the average patron of the arts to such an extreme gulf of receptive understanding that the qualia are dovetailed only in the swink of careful kisswonks to certify certitude itself when all the fragments coalesce into subjoined harmony to the substructures of inherent conscientiousness. The miracles at work that are vesicles and vessels for the swage of imprint above the loyalty of the imprinted tribunes of the fluminous is how hidden protrusions can emerge so victorious over popularized glazes on the pastures of a farmed culture itching for timmynoggies of innovation but only finding the etched remarks of pristine imagos of heroism dwindling in motivation to surpass the imaginative leaps accustomed to a newfangled laziness that bedazzles the guzzle of crowds but not the discrimination of the crowded morass of incompletion found in mosaics missing enigmatic philters of intoxicated love for the profound. So to be intermediary as a custodian for artistry we must cozen the wheedled imaginations not of the relic but the archaeologist that discovered the embedded prisms of attentive scrutiny for glinting sunshine inherent in troves of surpassed excellence beyond parochial sympatric blandishment of donnism rather than a resselenque that floats above demeanor to usher the cosseted age of treasure above the glib brocards and florews of past success.

      Immanent to the provisions of God as decreed from a syncretic reconnaissance of the pitiable gulfs that separate boundless divine love from the clavigerous potential for scrappy sympatric affiliation to **** through the barnstorms of internal comestions of conflated priorities we are ourselves prismatic in the indulgence of a tasty life sprinkled with zest rather than tempered with the vengeance of retorted animosity that we knead the pottery of ironclad resistance to a metallic conduit of pruned fulminations of unguided intuition so that the natural accord supersedes the goad of materialism for the sustenance of antiquity beyond its heyday for vital gains against the tauricide of panic and frenzy. The linchpin of all realistic attempts at the sympatric symphily of civilization is a guided remorse through the torment of affliction that sizzles without anteric barbs as it measures through engrenage how to pilot the vehicles of prosperity through the minefields of contingency that invisibly bequeath new hurdles and inestimable obstacles that collude surreptitiously to fulminate measured controversy against the backbites of restrained equipoise created by polities of the macadamized fabric of a welded smithy of a universe that with ubiquity proclaims above the senseless the harvest of conjugal repartee in sensible pride against militant bastions of incidental prejudice for a careen against the flyndresques of danger and the flyndrigs of glaikery alike for a humane spurt of enlightenment to tower peerlessly in supervision of entelechy created by esemplastic unity in apolaustic purpose. We cannot be puritans engaged in a pilgrimage to a palimpsest of priggishness because the daring elements of adventurism are necessary ingredients to catalyze the supply-chain of the innate gluttony of ego-seeking endless balance with a natural sustained biognosy that prizes biocentric harmony above bibliognost scepsis so that the enthused can flock with liberty divorced from libertinism. The ultimatum is a war between hedonism wed with donnism against eumoirety and self-restraint and this battle will be waged on the indolence of a future of cordslave tethers to interrogation of privy conceptualism hamshackled by the gradgrinds into the neat nexility of precise conformity that blacklists the samizdat because the genizah profoundly twists the already jumbled jengadangle and provides a junediggle of procession and ceremony rather than pomp without substantial grit embedded in the showmanship of a reality in need of a fourth-wall.

        It is ironic how we bewrayed our stewardship of the planet as a plenipotentiary sentience waged against the vesicles of instinct but more fundamental to this tattered but pregnant psalm is that the stronghold of our future is the tenacity of filial duty to enthrone the household with husbandry and restraint as an emolument to divine justice that sparkles opalescent in its own redacted notions of gravity imperfect in the taradiddles of science but refined by the eclat of the combustible syncopation of a reiterative trope of realism combined with surrealist caprice to henpeck affectionate violation above inviolable screeds of blood sport rather than conjugal affections afforded to the brood and the feast of the flocks that rein supreme over all things but exert inclement justice over the cattle and chattel of civilization itself. The minkumpf against the sacrilege of a prioritized kosher is to abhor the suffering rather than embrace the penitence of perceived but specious sacrifice which is an ornery thorn on the stained conscience of the yobbery of both the apikoros and the obedient because to attenuate all suffering even of instinctual beings we anneal our hearts to a glorified compassion that supersedes the relegated relics of pushful genuflection by succedaneum of sacrifice waged against the docile whangams of otiose theodicy. The filibusters against the regnant complexity of regalia that is a sprauncy poivrade with terpsichorean flairs to transmute the intimations of hibernated perfidy into finicky transmissions for the riometers that accord orbific merit in a lackluster time enchant the rollicking audience of this auditorium of the prevenance of the conquered universe bracing for the camorra of the insipid entreaty of defalcated casuistry—the prominent exchequer in hoodwinked political agitprop that forges ironclad allegiances to flimsy facades of the verisimilitude of dignity with recalcitrant but incondite bruits of venom militant against secular apostasy—that the fitful arrivistes that swim in dire dearth will be welcomed into the reconciliation of all time with a tempered lurid glint of revelation bounded by sunken albatross of hype unbounded with a peace insurmountable in prestige rewarded only with the highest reservations.


    On 3-1-2020 when I penned my philosophy—even at a slowpoke margin of crafty precision above rapid empirical faucets of folly—I was entirely selfsame with the autotelic engravings of the smoldering aboriginal talents within that many can swing through by tenacity for enormous plaudit but a flagrant majority will apprehend with flippant scollardical tenets of rebuke and remain honest in their appraisal only in meek resignation of parvanimity.
Consider the postulates of rarefaction whittled into a vehement zeal against the prostitution of our species to the anteric cycles of residual molds of dingy spectacle mired by the tyrannical towers of supercilious squirms of revamped novelty rather than enhanced by the freebooters of dirigisme that borrow from time the behest of philandered flairs divorced from the cadges of secular instinct and enthroned by the qualms of engineered virtuosity that is stark, barren but peerless in its outstretched clamor for luxuriant sprees against the silentium of grandeval asylum incurred by the flippant filigrees of recalcitrant modernism endangered by the irredentism of the future upon the whimsy of the present-minded momentary glare of rapture.  This impending architecture of nimble but subservient endeavor is a pinprick rejoinder against the wernaggles of prepossessed fountains of configured animosity against the stapled heed of a modality of trayned invictive invectives against the plodding course of fustilugianation that swerves in apathy of autopilot junediggle to emanate the surrender of epigone to the raktendure of the synaesthesis of the attuned perception of all superimposed minutiae delegated by calculated design into a synclastic focus on veiled caprice that is vaulted above the choppy and sketchy verdure of remiss perception to stellar continuities rather than mundane knickpoints of stodged blurs that magnify syncretic qualia into baseline congruity rather than staid torpefied resignation of the visage of thunder without the pangs of the widely vituperated lightning that bequeaths all certain notions but flouts the tortious saboteurs of the prim trucage of brittle fundamentalism.

     As the flawed paragon of a picaresque youth punctuated by vibrant plumage of self-wrought tropophilous usucaption of remote groomed frontiers of desolate luxury but buoyant morale into the ballasts of a nimble usufruct that hikkles yet still against still-framed thilloire--fatuous in endearment only to the polity of the waterdrip of craven but gravid disingenuous flickers of lambent cloaks of perfidy—that earned its birthright by meditative fruition rather than prodigal tallespin of indolent frapplanks of a vicarious personage rather than an autotelic haecceity showcases the folly of heterodyne inclinations meeting an impasse of accidental dislodgement. The interregnum between the spurts and sprees of luxuriance is a staid pause between continuities of afforded parlance becoming stapled demographic solidarity affixed to a strident gallop of effortful pushes against the tenacity of the slumberous wicked hibernation of vetust magpiety without hieratical internment because youthful industry beats hackneyed bludgeons of wiseacres of a stilted manufacture of steamy nostalgia for lickerish moments that dignify but undermine moral virtues but splash anointed and sometimes disjointed favor upon the congeners to a rabid escapade of a heedless love frowning on the girdles of the prim balderdash of heralded jolts dim on levity and puffed with elusive contextualized control of libidinous serrated defilement because the crotaline **** outmantles the sweedled limber of exploitable folly. The cosseted reality of wheedled gourmands of continuous perception rather than the Gaussian blur of the protean invention of stitches in time that obscure rather than magnify the supernal levity inherent to most artistry is a linchpin of lenient gravitas that levies the lavaderos of ripe perception into annealment.
Excuse the bravado of the gait of winnowed forks in a bronteum for heralds of megaloscopy fastened to the macroscian reality of indelible filigrees of countermanded controversy becoming its best behest in the sempiternal flowering of burgeoned demonstration rather than illustrious overhang of drab slabs of manufacture rather than organism that should be interposed between the constellated concepts of both apperception and the aggrieved counselors to obtuse obsessions that are an improper tutelary for a designated reprisal of the once profane now immediately gratified by ramshackle tenets of a guarded sublimation of the tenets of post-modernism into a sustained force of the internalized tabernacle of haecceity shepherded into exuberance by the manumission of spirit from the ******* of purblind scalds of defamation that incurs the penalty of flippant privation. The refuge the Lord provides is not contingent upon the vagaries of deliberation nor the calculus of oversight but the remontant amaranthine glower of a listed deed becoming an eternal reminder that a dismantled and disjointed world fathoming only remorse rather than the trudge of gentility against the headwinds of brunt asperity will always flout the successor rather than atone for the failure of the imponent condition that constellates around rudimentary drivel grubbing the momentary out of avarice for allotted merchandise rather than glommed magnets to amoeba sentiments for the kisswonk of ulterior motive beyond dungeons of desperation that lurk ghoulishly with spectral frights at the disfigurement of morale created by errors askew rather than a contagion of righteous valor.

   Ask the heedful servant if the captaincy of reneged commitment owes homage to dutiful instruction or whether it is a balking corpse of necrosis accorded to the omphalism of brutish carnal repose in times of sedentary silt siphoned in spelunked rijuice for preordination is a predominant specter for a world scared scurrilous and skittish in a diatribe against the very notion of tribal screeds embedded in the sedimentary heft of traditionalism above the pother of vacillation commended to the apikoros but counterfeit fiat system of a ruddy governance without a supreme magistrate. Now lets venture into the territory of visagists as we envision the swanky subversion of impoverished and nebbich visions of oligochrome that fixates on belabored but dead notions of rigid propriety and levitate above those concerns with a querulous transcendence that never wernaggles about the profaned irrelevance of burlesque tropes of sidereal friction but instead memorializes the thermolysis of permeable endeavor above staid countenances of imposture that lurk in the shadowy penumbra of the connivance of persona above the archetype of the tutelary guardian spirit that through windlass and sometimes deliberation affixes nobility to even the pedestrian in order to assize its proper proportions to granular ironies expounded into megalography transformative by the very rivets of its supersensible existence and cohabitation with histrinkage among human taboos.

   The handiwork of a permeable race prone to exacerbated proclamations of prerogatives bulldozed by the rapid percolation of insoluble quandaries to the gripes of the feast of foofaraw sometimes shelters our otherwise regnant concern about the plenipotentiary God that observes all latent affairs without the paramours that conflate vivid carnality with appeased luxury and superimposes a crafty system of seismic shifts in rantipole dances with numinous flux rather than dissipated militant suppression of the fracklings of dissolute pollution which swirk in their dastardly desperado endeavors to corral the entire monoliths that guard each province into a winnowed rumble of rubble by tarnish of Tyre rather than by the upstart rejoinders of Canaan. Every creature which has the capacity to perceive language is afforded benedictions by the overhailing force of the hypaethral heights of superlative ingenuity founded in the bolted speculation of the endearment of all to tropological seesaws embattled against the hearsay of nyejays that contaminates the telmatology of the ecosystem of revivalism rather than buries the leaden debts of the disjointed revenants of past prominence into recycled irrelevance for posterity rather than for anything but a machination of a clockwork apple rigged for a rotten worm to swindle the sweet delicate tempests of unforeseen disaster to perjuries against financial solidarity.

The spinsters of sardonic drollery underscore the imminence of an incondite cutthroat collapse blackguarded by the hucksters of incontinence grubbing every fetched noisome notion and congealing a bonnyclabber of desiccated mildew that proves vestigial when the victors of time earn their joyous serenade to the pinnacle of the totem of jaundice slits in wavy endeavors for the participles of sejungible syntax of the ephorized furor to outlast the draksteng of droned dereliction manned by half-baked spies of ulterior recitals for imprinted vicissitude in supremacy in synquest for frizzlounges rather than the pedestrian circulatory system of careworn polity. We vaporize the petty hatred of sympatric regelation that neuters the virulence of motivated impediments to the draconian surge of asperity that sinks temporal haplessness as a regaled blasphemy that crowns only the ringed betrothal to spumid serrated halts in slick superstition that is a buggery to the idea of insectivores devouring the erratic chantage of germane germs that pauperize rather than even blind the deafened to be a crutch to vehicular homicide. Melismatic sennet is a dirigible of immense herculean sinew without the traces of vestibulary retches of kisswonked grisly tepid intimidations of eccedentesiasts by the radioglare of wizened corrugations in thanatism that exhort the avatars of narquiddity over the natural departure of revenant souls back to their temporary hostility to crass lifeless decarnate immediacy that slinks with foibles magnified by vertiginous heights of scollardical reputes rigged by the rijuice of the plackiques of meaningless spoils for swashbuckler bonanza borrowed from serrated vengeance exacted in prominence to provide false avenues of extenuation to malefaction that is confidant to the panopticon of exemplary dimples meager in the largesse of the composite realism of a sizable imprint on megalography that outlasts impertinent excuses for dangerous trout swimming against the mobilized selachostomous frizz of sharks gathering to avenge disclosure with insolence and gravid atrocity of incisive surgical evisceration of attempted depositions that falter by innumerable facets of countenance that belie ultimate realism and the perdurable construction of a sturdy hive of bibliognost revelry.

     Even with the blaring sennet of majesty inundating my piecemeal perception with the marstions of flarium that is an efficacy in a flaccid world of otiose pretenses limpid only in folly but contraplex in ironic skewbald skerries of grubbed destination that is the terminus of karezza despite the maledictions of vehement guarded betrayals that conjure up lurid noisome virility against the gamines and gallywows that populate interstellar fictions of virtu rather than mundane pragmatica that astound with the resselenque of contaminated skeumorphs of latent fracture belonging to a skeletonized ossified reification of farce above historicity in seemly seamless countenance with overwrought princely stature deserving integrity to ripples through sparkling opalescence. The vapid insularity of the self-contained mythos of appeased groundlings is based on the rhizic and rhizogenic fracklings destitute in predicative flares to swelter above stratospheres of the illimitable into the dwelling of the highest serenity inherent to the pacification of truth to neglect its egregious errors of mistetches of a ripened pachyderm of bravery in times of austerity and now a reclaimed notion of sempiternal charades swimming above the punitive draksteng of dranger that is enlarged by acclimated attempts at foiled raltention hikkling against its own superior forces of galvanized preterition to elide over screwball insanity of derangement in this virtual paradise of inhabited souls belonging to former times congregating on the pasture of the evanescence of now for all eternity having the optative condition of incarnation above the ferules of the stagnant brevity of oversight in heavenly realms by postulate but not confirmed by regal logic.

     The troponder of the flickered lambent niceties of polity is a countenance that piggybacks on simpered jostles of negligent engrenage to appease sworn enmities among beatific havens for certitude swarmed by the fisticuffs of darbied bridewells of desiccated drainage traversing the distant disdain for the gravel of cemented slits of stilted pragmatica that is a gavel of atrocious estoppel mediated by heroic heresiarchs against pitiable betrayal for forceful remedies in acclimated servitude to the groans and groaks of a life of remorse and dearth rather than the glut of luxuriance in forbearance to its own intorted mirrored ironies that etch infinity with every scrawled rejoinder to austere ploys of checkered rumbles of threat and exigency posed by the clairvoyant hypocrites who benefit greatly by the design of the omphalism above the frays and brays of corporate dogmatism slowly outmoded by vibrant plumages of heteronormative originality beyond petty chantage. A hesitation overcomes the bluster of bravado as the restive earnest concerns of tribulation beset the minauderies of divine affection to reaffirm the teachings of the Gospel so that future generations genuflect beneath the altar of the ultimate stroke of sociogenesis and the blood ransom of suffering that promoted the human latitude and liberty against incarcerated throngs of virtue over caesaraproprism accorded to genuflection beneath denarii rather than absolution by tether to the eternal vine of sensation of the supersensible entelechy of all valiant insurrections against defective polities and renewed policies.

     We thus seek a transdimensional bridge between the morphean virtu of rudimentary alchemy of propitiation divulged by leverage and the teeming rambunctiousness of fiduciary tribes to the ultimate duty of man to consummate the future of eternity even in slowpoke mannerisms that sidle through rigors of entelechy and assize the masterwork of tutelage above the circumforaneous entrenchment of glut above the mastery of the subtle subaudition that beleaguers an adept conflagration of harnessed human ignorance staid in the incarceration of exotic virtues of freewheeling sapience never vulnerary to hospitable concerns that entrenches the verisimilitude of a refracted justice to reign over the stultification of a primitivism inherent to man and not man alone.

the second phase of marxism is:
why do people enforce Hegel
to commad, when neglecting
Kant?
              i find Kant to be neglected...
of all schwabe...
     bewildering: like admiring
a yoyo sling...
             if there ever was
a dialectical materialism,
  capitalism is profound,
in that it killed communism when
communism was a premature
death -
            too young to
match up to the relieved serfdom -
yet communism will continue
to subvert,
           it will sentence
the subconscious with a tease -
said poet - said terse -
       otherwise the scaffold!
dialectical materialism has
morphed into
dialectical historiology -
        could it be an exclusion
of space? by comparison
the 20th century is absolute
in these times, its not relative,
yet relativism pervades
the narrative...
            we always and always
have lived in absolute times,
the allude to relativism
in a framework of temporal
affairs will never achieve
spatial democracy,
   untied from the spaghetti past...
love it or loath it,
         the 2nd phase of
the: ignoring Kant while
fervently adamant concerning
Hegel trusts what is
already apparent:
journalism is a trans-categorical,
szubrajce!
                journalism's primo
concern is the loser white
living with his parents,
little do they know of the investment
paid by the man who
entertains being patient...
journalists,
the ones who send their grandparents
to homes for the elderly,
quack out a Bulgarian **** joke
by now...
   a baby is far from an Alzheimer -
rotten memory,
   rekindle imagery of
lost years...
ensure that memory is
a citadel, and not some
     meagre fancy worth the pillage;
of those who find thought
least entertaining,
find morality the hardest
the fathom -
for the said concern,
lacking a mediating ought -
principle theta;
buckle on the P -
boss around a cleavage,
       pardon, rho alt romeo,
ultimatum grzechotnik...
   rattler... god i hate crosswords.
- because of journalism
history has become irrelevant...
   i hate journalists,
journalists are to me
the grand inhibitors of
what's necessary: inhibitions...
the journalist is the new Jew
to me...
         a leech, a parasite,
akin to the parody of a kiss
under a mistletoe...
  ever set foot on Slavic lands?
ever see a tree, plagued by
a mistletoe?
  mistletoe is a parasite...
yet you kiss beneath it,
cranium above myrhh's worth
of crown...
         jemioła,
ever see a tree riddle with this
parasite?
  as i once said:
the cancerous man better
invite the sight of the botanical
cancer akin to the mistletoe...
  only in Slavic lands,
akin to mole mounds
   (maulwurfhügel -
germanem, faust, chem -
czyli chmiel; zdrowo)...
and yet the social norm is
to kiss beneath this botanical
scurvy...
             easier seen
on a botanical body
than on a heaving gloat -
          yet have you ever seen
mole mounds, or mistletoe
on a tree in its wintry skeletal
form?
          what a sad sight...
but a sight kept, as reminder...
western lands do not
allow such trivialities -
quasi-germanic Gaels -
               akin to the labours
of the mistletoe -
sometime mistaken for
abandoned nests of migrating
birds -
   man lost,
in the advent, atomising
the percularity of swan
and stork nobility -
namely monogamy...
             feeble man knows not
the sixth sense bypassing
sight of ghosts:
   fickleness -
     and chance of adequate
temperament stagnate-:
for the exploration of
the civilised caste.
         mistletoe is a botanical
parasite...
              in the wild i've
seen it green on branches
of birches and oaks -
while the host hibernated
the parasite grew...
    yet this kiss-me-lovely
parasite never managed
to bind itself
to the acidity of the pine,
the evergreen, the prickly
needlework of insomniac
tree...
              and they
make amends with a kiss,
under a parasite...
     how horrid wild
mistletoe is,
        perverse,
nonetheless,
  what else to comfort a cancern
patient with,
  if not a tree labouring
with a likened strain
of excessive bulge?
o, right...
  dialectical materialism has
been replaced by
dialectical historiology...
        at least the 1st tier
achieved something akin
to competition...
the second tier of communism
is merely confusion...
   economical model intact...
yet talk of ****; thoroughly.

My feelings are like squirrels who hibernated in my heart. No matter how much I wanna keep them, I know I can't; eventually, they'll go out because it'll never be winter forever...

What a rash of time we've wasted.
Drunken, displaced it all.
The hiking trails up solemn, summer
ridge lines. Jagged arrowheads lifted
out toward the sky and we feel gifted.

A crack in the rock a millennia old.
The dangers of going it alone;
the spy who came in from the cold.

Two open throated eulogies and scatter her ash.
Two years of time spent together, now memorized pash.

Sifting through sight lines of our mediocre city streets.
Sweating up the summertime together-alone,
and getting twisted as we jam to louder growing beats.

We took our hands and divined a place on the timeline.
Steady rocking for two revolutions until
she set over the horizon beyond the sunshine.
Look for her and see her in every which place.
It's never her figure and never her face, but
shower curtain blurs and the curls in hair of other girls.
She exists as every brunette that I'll never forget.
Not that I'd want it.

They say, "She loved you. That much is clear."
What a romantic gesture to abandon me here.

If you can read this from your heavenly repose. My heart has grown fonder and still it grows. I'm sure you can see me,
the struggle of having to be anything at all.
Your number is somebody else's now. There's nobody to call.
Summertime gives way to Autumn,
I'm sorry if you hurt having to see what I do now.
The glyphs in my mountain roots.
My rotting bark and lost spark.
My constant stops and false starts.
My swelling, my welts, the harm I cause.
You're not to be blamed, darling.
Not a single word from my tongue nor do I entertain
the thought of others who wish you disdain.
I've lost a bit of myself in the guilt and the shame.
Truth be told, I'm not sure I'll recover and be the same.
A jilt is one thing, a turn down is fine.
But I lost who told me she was mine.
I should've doted more and been more attentive.
You fell in love with me because I was romantic.
So where did I fail you and how can I improve?
I just want to make you happy,
I just want to show you.
There was no need to quit the way that you did.
We could have taken a break,
you could have hibernated, hid.
But it's fine you chose the way you did.
Now you're the punchline of my dark jokes.
"Oh, I'm sorry, no, I only kid."
Repeating myself like I've forgotten what I even said.
Loving is hard when you've never felt it.
But it's harder than that when you feel it and lost it like I did.
Do you think you can forgive me?
I don't know if promises will be kept forever.

in my dreams, I found your voice whispering my name
it was so quiet, just like you, throwing your secrets in the grave
silent euphoria covering the tension in my muscles and veins
releasing the strenuous stress, but my blood still runs white
white sunlight running through me and my thoughts run to you
it's like an natural instinct, a second skin, a cause to the effect
you peer into my windows and the realization why was a slap in the face
ironic because I fell into the same guilty pleasure that you did
your spring and summer lasted me a few years, but winter came
love hibernated back into it's cave, built it's castle and lava moat
haphazardly scattered ghost starve in the back of an abandoned alley
looking for a map out of this godforsaken eath but they can't leave
not without a sign pointing them in the right direction, but i always turn left
it's like we were related by blood, but our blood learned to squander
my fingertips shake violently, do you realize how badly i need you
anxiety was taking every inch of my body and collapsing my lungs
i'm searching for a needle in a haystack and it's been found already
i'm looking for a key to the locked door but my hands are empty
i'm peering through an opening to find any source of hope for us
and i come up empty every single time.

-kra

A tiny seed once tarried in stoic stillness
treasuring in its womb
an embryo with cosmic imprint on its soul...
and the tiny seed hibernated to a mystical trail!

Frosty squalls, summer torments, marauding insects –
all came in a cavalcade!

It dreamt the mighty tree
slumbering in the core of its being,
arching over the earth,
spreading its majesty for every eye to behold!

It yearned for the calming lullaby of the rain,
for the burning kiss of the raindrops
to fire its soul,
to caress to fullness the dormant life in its gravid womb.

In silence, it gazed heavenward –
and lo, an intense raindrop tugged its heartstrings
to a melodic ecstasy
releasing the music of the seedling
from its womblike soul!

Crimson Carnations teetering in the porch
Along with the humid air of summertime.

Melodious tweet of cuckoo's at dawn
Stomach filled with hibernated butterflies.

I never believed in love at first sight
Cross my heart and hope to die.

But looking at you for the first time
Your mysterious eyes made me believe all the myths.

And all my hibernated butterflies
You make them wonder
"How it feels to fly!".

Meet me under the 'Clock Tower'.......’you said’ cold....
The missing sun hibernated, could not melt your denial
Your promise smudged, felt its docile absence
And I knew....gathered in moss, under the stone of lies.

Mistrust hung itself, swung above the entrance....rivalling
My happy cove.  It creaked to a heartbeat....b-bump, b-bump
Shelling out memories like peas. I recalled the very first time
I captured your eyes, the hesitation we felt......to blink and turn away

A thief stole and robbed the essence of you ......no stone
Unturned...I absorbed the waiting, dragged my heavy soles
Where is your foot print? Your imprint prescribed for my wellbeing
Two to be taken each day....preparing the cradles that rock my feet

Absurd, now I look back, that your word of promise...pretended
You named her "Constance", or was that the 'She woman'
I glimpsed you attached to last week.  When huddled
Together under your 'love' umbrella, soaked in one another

would

in the screaming breeze,
a whistles sound forms,
in the winds,
the hibernated scorn of hidden violins,
strung together the suspense.
In the aftermath of silenced stare;

the glare from colours crystalline,
the subtle manipulation of light beams,
in nice dreams,
across the shallow lake,
whilst opaque clouds fade, pale.
In the sound of the backgrounds snarl;

in the woods darkness, black,
the music chooses ehoes between branches,
dangling in tone in the malarkey of
the pain of the mandolins gaze;

each pieces together with tiny,
frost bitten childs sized fingers.
The icy touch lingers for the seconds of death,
that last a pastime,
a lifetime of lust,
in the blink of the dust in the wind.

Twisted tales come surging
From a mind writhing and purging
In an oft fomented urging
For expressions, pure and raw
That fight repressions, lure and claw
Their way up to the surface
To effect a sense of purpose
But it's really all just worthless. . .
That's, unless you think it's not!
But if you don't: Your brain might rot!
Your skin might bubble, blood might clot
Leaving you heaving bile and snot
Or maybe phlegm and sputum
So your mental stores, you loot 'em
Load these rhymes up and you shoot 'em
Into repressed regression's mains
Into depressed suppression's veins
Until they sing a glad refrain
Of being decoagulated
Platelets become agitated
Now the blood is circulated
And the brain that hibernated
Has awakened from its slumber
Now it ponderously lumbers
With intentions unencumbered
Gotta do it by the numbers
So, them synapses start firin'
Them cortices start wirin'
And belly full of fire sings
Of jelly beans and tire swings
Of silly schemes and flyer wings
On foul mouthed little parrot,
Owners ***** laundry, airs it
Polly want a *******?
Just a snack sir?
But old Polly sez:
"**** me harder, Álvarez!"
Look aghast, her husband Ted:
"Oh hell no *****, 'cause that's the bed
that both we AND our children sleep in!
you've got Latin Lovers creepin'?"
She vacates the bedroom weepin'
Well . . . that took a drastic turn
To dwellings where disasters churn
So silly, will we ever learn
Or for mere want of learning, yearn?

(Tom, to himself: Go eat food. . . .)
(Tom, back to himself: Good idea!)

I think he left, but I'm still near
As tattered, scattered writing, dear!
So, read me well and read me clear,
And bring some friends to visit here!

I was born in the summer and love watching the clouds move with the night time breeze
I am the youngest of four girls and when I was 13 my older sister left my eyebrows over tweezed
It was the night of my 8th grade dance and when I looked in the mirror she saw me freeze
13 years later and I laugh about how I was afraid I’d get teased

My favorite colors have always been red and green but over the years the shades of each color have risen or fallen in coolness and warmth
I have always tried to guess which direction I’m standing in with my internal compass, I always bet I’m facing north
I am learning to not run from my feelings of unrest but instead rush forth

I love when it’s snowed all day and the clouds finally pass and the moon illuminates the fields around me as I'm driven around fast
I'm in love with the idea of moving forward yet somedays I can feel the shattered somethings haunting me from my past

I love Marilyn Monroe
I love Lana Del Rey and Tina Snow
these women who have come before me, have similar scars to me that they aren't afraid to show
I love the feeling of being known
I love feeling as if I'm finally taking my rightful throne
I love this room my mind created everything hand etched and carved of marble stone

The curls in my hair sometimes come out to say hello
I've always wanted to learn how to make choux pastry dough
I love walking, anywhere and everywhere, it reminds me to take things slow

I like pickled radish
and the water of the bay that is brackish
I love when someone says "you're going to love it, try this"

I regret anytime I allowed someone to challenge the beauty and fire I hold in my eyes
and how I wonder why in the first place I even allowed them to try
I allowed them to convince me the strands of my hair didn't shine with such beauty it made the moon cry
I allowed them to drown out my colors with cheap black box dye
and tell me "I've never seen that before" as they point at my full and curvaceous thigh

I buried myself in the deepest dirt and hibernated
while everyone else above celebrated
how being away from me means they successfully evacuated
Their plan was beautifully and tragically orchestrated

I slept and I slept
through every season and even after all the leaves had been swept
I tried to hold onto anything that made me forget why everyone left
Then one day the sun made it's way down and through all the cracks and crevices, it crept
it crept til it woke me up from this comatose dormancy
"how long have I slept?'
the sun said "long enough"
and I wept

but as I wept the sun lifts my head and looks into my eyes
"you are whole and alive, These eyes have yet to see the wonders where my light shines, will you look up at the sky?" and as I look I see clouds the color of the painting above the floor in Versailles, I see every time I felt alive, I see every time I showed mercy and how many low spirits I was able to raise and revive. I see every time my presence has lovingly and unknowingly given someone the strength to survive.

"In time you will see how your depth and beauty goes farther than the bottom of the sea, you will hear my hello from every leaf and every tree and when the ground tickles your feet, be still and know I am with you and will never leave. You are who you are and I couldn't be more pleased, you are the same girl who at nine fell of her bike and scraped her knee, you are the same girl who at thirteen got her eyebrows over tweezed, I promise your garden will grow once you plant your seeds."

For a moment I couldn't breathe
I was in awe of the way the sun could see me
and how even though he sees everything from all sides he still felt this way, how could this be?

"Because you have fiery embers that glow within you, your flavor is more complex than the finest coffee maker could ever brew. Your presence is favorable, please stop allowing your point of view to get skewed."

I stare at my hands and remember how they looked when I was little and how I dreamt of a life where I'd smile so much you'd see my dimple, one where every day I'd be drenched in crystals, and maybe at this point I would have finally learned how to whistle... I haven't mastered the art of it yet, for me it's not that simple. But little me would be happy to know that now when she sings she sounds hymnal.

Little me would love to know that a beautiful cobalt blue journal bought by a friend would begin the journey of a love affair between me, some paper, and a pen.
Little me would stare at the thousands of words I've written about the deep feelings brought on by men
wounds from my father and boys I loved back then
she would walk up to me and she'd be so short I'd be able to rest my hands on her head
she'd squeeze me tight and sigh before saying "I love that we never leave anything unsaid."

And she's right
I have poured my heart out in the depths of the night
to the people with who I wanted to give a final goodbye
I know the rule of ignoring my heart is one I will always defy
This declaration of claiming my life back is one I will amplify

I have spoken my truth terrified even after drinking up all the courage I could liquify  
and albeit terrified I know I'm one of the lucky few who will stand up and speak first of how things are unjustified

I will stand and put my finger in the face of any angry man who tries belittling a woman and tearing her down as much as he can
I will fly over to shield her with my 7 foot wingspan
and put a stop to all of this before it even began

I will dance in the aisle at the grocery store and not care because they are playing a song I adore
I will sing with the fervor of a thousand voices and belt it from my very core
I will drench everything in love for when it rains it pours

Hi, my name is everything I have been and ever will be
my name is the first flight of every butterfly and every bee
my name is the feeling of when the person you love gets down on one knee
my name is the way a new born baby breathes

my name is the way flowers bloom
my name is the way you stand back and smile after you've just painted your very first room
my name is the way you feel when the fireworks on fourth of July go boom
my name is the way you felt when you were a kid wearing your favorite Halloween costume

my name is the way you feel when you've styled your hair just right
my name is the way you feel when it's the first time they ask you to spend the night
my name is the way you feel when your best friend hugs you tight

my name is the way you feel when you're happy and you've had just enough to drink
my name is the way you feel when the sky is that perfect shade of orange and pink
my name is the way you feel when you finally know what to say after having some time to think

my name is my own
and when I get older I'm going to buy a horse that's a blue roan
and ride her for miles
for I used to be out on that lonely road
and my soul will forever want to roam
and as I look at her mane to comb
it's full of beautifully ornate braids with flowers sewn
I look at her and see myself and I say
"You're finally home."

Beginning with the frost and snow,
anticipation extended its tedious reach again,
but it was not right to suffer as the season
swept around the sun.  A member of the
fall, like a tender leaf felt inured, by thought,
a humble intellect to serve the usual course

in words and weather, the pride of a
recurring sort.  Weary blades of grass

were striving, even so, to grow against
the warmth in the few weeks, and, as the
skirts were purchased in the stores,
investment ruled to favor amiable, cold

breezes.  The house grew quiet as the fans
were stilled for a suspense until the
furnace roared.  The issue was patterns in
layers from the top, and the claim to the
design belonged only to the way the ice
expanded as crystals of moisture, crazy,
having forgotten how to caress the blossoms
of the shrubs; thus, a pleasure had gone to
sleep, its circulation numbed by

inevitable force, and conditions hibernated
beneath the indelible clarity of the air.  The
splendid gyrations of the course became
obstacles harder on tightened joints, while
contestants moved from the warm climate
to the chilling, northern forests.  It remained

possible to survive, because there were other
members of the team such as split sticks of
wood and cradles for sprained elbows.  It
could not be suitable to grow tired of such a
challenge.  When the door was secured, the

roots could relax and spread out like the
tentacles of a squid, beside the glowing hearth,

to read a book or watch a show.  Above, there
was nothing left alive between the earth and
the birds, scratched into the sky and dashed
along the lines of wire.  Birds sagged and were

swaying while the gusts played with their bony
feet clutched around the cylinders made of
copper and coated with insulation.  Warm
currents and feathers made a thatch for a roof
that favored the roots and left them insulated
while around them slumbering creatures had
been forgotten.  No memory existed to claim
the cycle of the warm days when the humming
in space reflected the ripples in the shaded
pools.  The endless days were the realm of
vacant threads of branches in the chilly trees.

Buildings gently rake stars
As they go by
And the buildings stand up straight,
As I do when I think of you.
The old saying is that absence makes the heart
Grow fonder
But when I’m in that airplane
So high up that I can
See the curvature of the earth
Well!
Travel makes the heart grow eager.

I’m an eager bear
I’d hibernated for so long,
Occasionally waking up to be loved
Vaguely
And drink the milk of the lavender moonlight
Which whets the appetite of my swollen dreams,
That when spring comes
The sun is just too bright
And I just want to stay in my den.
Yeah, I’m eager.

I’m a hungry wolf, too-
Hungry like the desert.
My soul is skin and bones
While my body gets big
Because I can eat my feelings
But I just swallow my empty pride.

Like a star in the daylight

Unseen but burning bright.

Like a hibernated bear in it's cave

You don't know the existence hence stand brave.


For the birds also chirp

In front of the sea's enormous burp.

For the Nats also build home

Sadly smashed when you walk or Rome.


Like a fire inside for doing right

The things that bothered when lacked might.

Like inside a prison cell as a slave

For freedom you shall forever crave.


For the spirits inside can hide sometimes

But to ignite them, enough is this rhyme

For now you should get up as I did

Remember not to be your own culprit.

Visiting my parents I learned
that I am being played,  a game
in which I am board and piece and ****** weapon.
When a picture of me sulky toddler evokes “You always hated me”
roots uncurl hibernated spores stored
through my salad days and youthful spring.
Broach the soil as I ****, ankles grabbed,
leg-locked planted firm reaching.
What do you think grows down there? Digging has
turned up rotted fibers, matted hairs and husks.

I tend to

Hope something can be done

as if nothing will ever be done

Wishing

I could've gotten something done

as if I've hibernated for the 15th year in a row.

I'm wishing

Wishing

Wishing

I would just die

as if believing that I may as well.

I hibernated for almost 4 days
Stressed to a breakdown
Reminders of what people want
Money lost
What a taunt
Defeat and anger
you wish to show your weakness
Curling into a ball
Dreams flow
Of what you want and miss in your life
You feel as if you lost
the battle of succeeding in your life
Bleeding from the cuts of debt and your artistic words remaining uncounted
Hemorrhaging  to the almost death of your talents was your cost
You try to resurrect your skills and expression to the world
these "bloodsucker" leaches hit you once, again
The fight that's left inside of you
is all that's left to keep this life source from dying out
Now, I'll give back to you what you gave
I refuse to let my love of expression be buried in any grave.

Fruit ripens on the vine
Sweet
They tasted wet
Smushing on my lips
Like you did, do, always will

The first time I tasted you, I bit
Peeled. Tore. Ripped.
Into your flesh, heart, (soul?)
I was too rough, now I know
...But so wet.

You had to pop, burst,
when your skin slid against my tongue
your eyes on my heart, I was just as vulnerable.
We were both open, damp, nature, natural, raw,
Gushing. The sound was wet
The sound ran like tears, like truths, like
Juice running, running, running….
I remember how it dripped.

How full your softness
yielded to my thumbs which grabbed you,
cradled, worshiped, wanted
to pull words, truths, adoration and
mysteries to my lips.
To consume you. To eat you.
To invite you to become
a part of me.

But the summer ended too quickly
The harvest begins to yield
We watched as vines, now entangled, withered
hibernated, disappeared, napped in the sunset

As full, firm flesh
yielded to silence, darkness, fear
I searched through thorny bramble
to be cut on your thorns
that guard an
innocent heart.

I am hungry. I yearn to know your
sound, sight, texture, explosions
As the nights get cooler,
My summer is leaving.
I pull my blankets closer
each night
wishing they were skins,
caressing skins, hiding bliss
in entangled fingers, glances
and hearts that
I dream of

Sweetness, sticky like honey
comes in summer and lasts
year after year,
bite after bite

strange fruit that
I never thought I'd
find while wandering
misty, drunken twilights
that you've claimed
with nectar that
burns so good into
dark, wooded places.

Lost in misty woods,
you've become what I
crave, desire, long for
cherish

I'll wait to pluck you
from green thickets
the scrapes of thorns,
difficulty finding you,
nurturing exploding fruit

The effort is worth all the work,
With glowing eyes and sweaty palms
Like a child, I am patient
for the first time.

Oh, strange fruit!
I dream of summers
lost in your grove
The mysterious copse
where vines cradle,
thorns please, moons burn
and suns hang above the horizon
drunk from a fruit so
dangerously sweet,
wet and supple with morning's
cool dew.

I smoked a cigarette in Times Square
The streets seemed light as day
With the full moon joining in on the neon party above
I made my way underground
And the subway rattled and swayed its way to Queens
Then I emerged to see your bright silhouette
Your fingers touched the sky
And I could have held you all night on that sidewalk

I drank tea at your tiny kitchen table
The January skyline sat just outside your window
It was the first time the color grey made me smile
And your tiny frame continues to carry you through time
And in our worlds apart I’ve wondered if your city ever wonders about me
I wonder if you hold our short, quiet life together the way I do
Sometimes I wish it could have lasted
We could have hibernated
The skyline could have watched us from afar
As we held ourselves captive
Forever trapped in Queens

Have you ever seen two worlds in contrast? One is just a plain sight. Never demanding anything so extraordinary. While the other one consists of billions of possibilities that you'll give up learning Math's permutation and combination. It's beautiful actually. You could say that it's pretty tiring but dimensions are a whole lot of fun. One afternoon, you're only reading a book in a bustling train. Never feeling that cozy in a long time. Being surrounded by a crowd temporarily makes you forget that you're lonely. Next thing you'll know, you're standing in total darkness. The loud chatter of the person you sit next to, suddenly fades into deafening silence. Hehe but don't worry you are not alone, darling. There's a smiling demon beside your face. He's quite delighted to see some company.

It's strange right? But I love strange. It's just the kind of level I need. You'll get the hang of it. The most exciting part is that it drives you out of your comfort zone. I hid there and hibernated but I learned that it did me no good. Okay **** now where was I? Oh yes, I have to tell you the ******* thing about myself. I, Erin Roma, am miserably bursting with dimensions. And it's all a slippery *****. No, I don't want to hear my skull breaking again. I'm done with that. But the question resurfaces, is he done with me? Because I still feel the blood in my forehead. It hardened so much that no matter how determined am I in wiping it, nothing ever happens. It just stays there.

The voices in my head linger. No, I'm not some lunatic killer. Hmmm I might be someday. But right now, I'm just plain lunatic with her spectacles shattered on one side standing on the top of a cliff, staring into the emerging horizons. I still wear it though. The glasses, I mean. Because you'll never know when will it strike again. The world is full of capabilities. The sharpest light sawing back and forth, ripping through the pupil in my eyes, just before it dilates. Was it salvation? Do I need some saving?

No, you couldn't possibly be referring to God. That was so 10 years ago. This real world slapped at me. Now, it's gaping its doe eyes on you. Watching our every move. Threatened by the fact that I'll go back. No, I'm not turning myself into an obsessed idiot again just so that I can solicit something from Him. I was a hypocrite back then. One of those judgmental little ****** dressed as righteous disciples.

I'm ignoring all of it. The ghosts nagging me, engulfing me in a vortex. Should I go back to the plain world? Back to the life of pretending to be things they expect you to be? I'm  a non-conformist and I've suffered way too long. Enough of the zigzag that you're currently dealing because of me. Eyes closed, I'm starting to grasp where I am going.

ALL THIS HAPPENED BECAUSE OF ONE KISS.

IT MEANT

WELCOME
TO
HELL

I laughed back saying "BITE ME."

When you have been asleep in life
When you are wrapped tightly
In a conscious coma
One that you carefully weave about your shell
Because it is easier
Because it’s a barrier from what is hard
Because it’s hard

When 10, 15, or even 20 years pass
While waiting the days out
While going about business
While walking with the walking dead
Because you have to
Because you have learned
     Learned life is a miserable professor
          That delights in your failure

When you have been asleep in life
When no one woke you
When no one told you
That you have lost
     Lost what you wish for
          Lost the courage to admit it

When you have been asleep in life
     You have hibernated your soul
Your passion and your moments
Your entire reason for being
Alive

Dear Thomas: I thought about you while I was in the shower today, and I know that that’s a really messed up thing to say because I’ve been spending all of my time trying to convince myself that I’m completely gay and, okay that’s kind of ******* because it’s not like there’s anything wrong with thinking about having *** with you…
Dear Thomas: I thought about you while I was in the shower today and I know that’s a really ****** up thing to say because as the hot water was running down my spine I realized how good our fingers feel intertwined. Dear Thomas, I thought about you while- I thought. I think about you a lot.
I think that I am a gypse in your body and in your head, like I’ve hibernated in your mind all winter but I’ve crept out of your aorta valve to find myself at your centre and beating at your ribcage, sleeping with the spirits you’ve swallowed, nestled into your lymphoid, dreaming about the expanse of your stance like it’s the void.
I think about the way your skin tastes with the water after another shared shower.
I think about your gentle hold and your half-hearted snickers.
I think about the advice you’ve given me, and how I’d reply with it times twice: Breathe.
Dear Thomas: I thought that you and I make a pretty good pair, and I know that’s just kind of out of the blue but you know that old saying “I am rubber and you are glue, all that you say bounces off of me and sticks to you,” but to be honest I think that we’ve got more things in common than anyone knew so how about I just stick myself against you?
Dear Thomas: I must admit though, lately you’ve been kind of distant and I’m afraid of something that might be growing in my chest, I detest the beating but I can’t stop it enough to rest, I know most of it is  because we’re both so completely stressed, but I think it would be best if we found common ground it would ground us both in this large aray of static sound, but before I get a head of myself let my mind wander out in the open where I can focus on your body and how it moves between my thighs. I think, I think I like this wild ride.
Dear Thomas: You challenged me to write something that tasted like mahogany, and wouldn’t you know that I’m searching for the metaphors that capture our hearts in syncopation, but the trepidation beneath my feet and the heat coming from your tired eyes lie to me about your circumstance. Just by chance I might find a way to make you laugh, it might be just once, I’ll cherish every second that it fleets across your face, undoubtly like mace my awkward words will trip you into cruelty once again, send me to your room again Thomas, let us be there together. I can’t promise you forever, no I can’t even promise today, but I don’t think you want anything more than this moment of mutual laughter on your bedroom floor.
Dear Thomas: can you smell the old books in the imagery I’ve conjured? Can you conduct a survey about the respectable spans of time it takes for me to take my mind off you and find an alternative subject, when I’d rather be subjected to your passion than anything else, Thomas, can you hear the cracking of my spine when I finally let myself relax. Dear Thomas, this isn’t supposed to be anything but the musings of your mistress, but I did miss this, Thomas, being stuck in the hit and miss that is... this, whatever this… is.
I think about the way your voice sounded when you said “I’m running out of time and gin.” And I can’t begin to mention how it felt to watch you melt beneath me non the less, the stress that washes from your face, and Thomas the point of this is that life is ultimately pointless, so let’s get undressed and share in the sweetness of each-others sweat.
Dear Thomas: I thought about you while I was in the shower today, and I’ve got to say, your kisses only taste bitter if the bite marks don’t linger.

getting over him was seemingly
never an option

love does not disappear,
love haunts you

love is the source of inexplainable flashbacks to nights that were simpler

us ending...we never ended
in my mind, you are alive
I can see the dimples reflecting the saddest smile
your smell is present at bougey department stores
I am never alone

but our love hibernated
nearly a year ago
yet I am holding onto memories of simpler nights
and embraces of comfort and affection

moving away did not rid me of your existence
you are always here

I am not angry that you have not yet left my mind
but I am angry that you refused to remain by my side

getting over you was a stupid thought

you will always be here

fake news or no news,
yetis or
                    drunk eskimos
loosening a ****
                   on a trampoline...
whatever,
                   one fact is certain:
male sparrows,
                and mallards?
blush *******.
                     hands down
i honestly can only
drink... what's tha'....
less VAT and more F...
     vvvvv'aha...
v'ah thought?
   - bran...
      brand...
           BRADLY!
   caught a sober sailor:
straight, no ice...
and i somehow received
a castration notice minding
these two bird species,
which exfoliated in:
dull dumb hay-coloured
female...
   my my...
the males are ripe for
a military procession,
and a unanimous yell
akin to the modern russians...
slightly the gay hurrah,
and more mother Ural
citing:               itself...
       sparrow males
and mallards...
          cut those ballsies
off an i'll crown
myself the last prince
of a Bahrain harem...
to appease shamrock
sheikh baldy...
              start
   flustered over a well
salivated paper aero-experiment
hitting slam-dunk
shamrock rap...
       eh... the usual...
        hand only comes
in second to exploring
the ****...
          kissing prostitutes
is apparently equivalent
to stalling on: blah...
        blush *******
though...
     in vivo memoriae mors:
in life, the memory of death,
guess death has
to revive owning up
             to a bit of life...
imagination i can agree
dies, utterly...
        but memory?
    hard to **** off memory...
thinking can die the easy
death of mishearing
   the term: future...
   but memory?
            blush *******,
the male examples of
sparrow and those
english pub ducks and
bulldog card game subjects
of depiction...
     no... i'm pretty sure
a ****** wouldn't
   be composed with
      imagining a scenario
for death being
        stanced as: panicky...
problem with
perfecting a deviance...
         becauae...
this mea culpa
      *******-shaving
mantra?
                 it's...
   kinda... itchy...
   irritating...
                status quo
     fizzy, or rather:
  boiling under the radar...
          mea culpa mea culpa
mea culpa...
                to have been born
into this sort of masochism?
       counter arguments:
     heading into a cul de sac...
like the genesis of
cognition
   with an chimp scratching
its cranium...
         nice to know
the fungus brigade
having two pence worth
                of argument
to imply:
         infested, long lost
limb,
replaced with a pickled
fungus stump,
or the "hallucination"
   of a brain and spine
            in a bio-broth...
   hell, if it's safe to say that
god-head-fungus spoke
through me...
           photosynthesis
edibles are...
                  what was the point?
a ******* mushroom
conspiracy?!
              blush *******...
those male green 'ed
ducks, and notably
the in-reverse
   niqab slit male sparrows...
   blush *****...
               you almost
want them to become stuffed
mantles...
      if only not compensated
by the jittering
movements...
   the irony of being
able to float, like a bumber-sticker
with an annoying
relief for body in ushering
out a quack... like some sort
of a squeezed *******
revealing a:
                     HA-to-Q-to-mmm...
and you'll never know
visting a *******,
given the nearing a week-old
        "moral" hangover...
trigger-happy-itch though?
      don't know that
                   'un either...
           a 2 year celibacy spree?
no wonder i'm disorientated...
i attempted the same
results from cutting up
raw beef into a culinary
party-of-one in the guise
of a tartare;
             oh god, it can't be minced
beef...
            nearing sushi...
popcorn sushi -
        edible bits,
             simulating cartilage treats!
kaleidoscope of torn
                   into sinew lisps;
and it doesn't even bother
me eating poached chicken...
  given the precursor
of broth...
                   notably with
pregnant-pouch-soft
    delicacy of certain
vegetables...
  notably a leak,
   an onion or a garlic tooth...
i'll admit though:
nothing beats
oven "hibernated"
poultry skin...
   and cartilage... of any sort.

As soldiers at war
We arm ourselves with guns and bombs
Wearing bulletproof jackets to protect our hearts
Leaving trails of liquor
As we throw shots in the air
Fighting against pain and it’s army
Taking revolving shots till we see pain go down
And then we rejoice at its fall
Dance with excitement
And live beautifully

But then pain shows up disguised as a gift
We welcome pain in unknowingly
And it begins its work
We feel it holding us hostage from within
Squeezing our throats and turning our stomachs
Tormenting our minds
And breaking us gradually
Till we uncontrollably bleed through our eyes

We struggle with the inward war
And gradually lose ourselves to pain
Laying on the floor with the inability to move
Blinded by tears and hibernated in isolation

But the irony
We become victims
Falling in love with our captor
Holding on to pain as it gets tired of us and tries to set us free
Having a love hate relationship
Torturing ourselves with the struggle to live with pain and let go

And so we hold on to pain
Cause we are scared of the truth
Once pain is gone
We lose grip of what we are holding on to
We finally have to say
“Goodbye”

I would have done so much different had I known the consequence of my actions but I was a child and how was I to know?
I understand now things I once had, security even within transience and I squandered, oh did I squander.
Even now I am drawn to the childish impulse to lay blame. It was he, because he hurt me. It was she, because she lied.
Childish impulses to hurt, destroy, scream and cry-
to leap off of the top floor, a memo around my neck with chicken scrawl,
"I regret it all," and oh, I dearly do.

There are many weighs I do not know how to carry with me and so I didn't walk with them, I stayed and rested and hibernated for years before I tried to go outside again.

There are many things I still do not know that I feel an adult should.
I've never understood less in my life.