.oh yeah... chris isaak's: wiucked game - plenty of "facts" went into taping as many covers as the song spontaneously made replica... so many objective "facts"... too many to count... when will certain subjective taboos be recognized and other, objective "truths" be denied?! how long must humanity be obliged to secure the argument by "confusion" be deemed liberation as necessarily-arguing the case of confiscatory material? what?! my grammar is bad? if my grammar is so ******* bad... ask someone from Rotherham!

.i tend to forget that people have this, collective amnesia regarding subjectivity, somehow they only associate it with news spew... they vaguely recognize an old widow walking from a surgery to a bust stop, stopping my a lavender bush, to pick a few flowers off of it... like some quasi Notre Dame hunchback... joyous that she bypassed all the ghost souls on the "waiting list" of an English doctor, joyous... clearly innocent... there can never be a place in this world for objective truths... objectivity is limited in the realm of aesthetics... whereby objectivity is a truth: whereby two uncorrelated people say the same thing... but  when it comes to a taste in music? what is objectivity that focuses on the differentiated between the sound of Wagner with / without an orchestra... and a traffic jam? objectively? both are sounds... extreme comparisons... but you can't call one black and the other #A, can you? subjectivity is not a 1-dimensional propaganda machine, it is also a truth... and when it comes to aesthetics... within the confines of personal taste(s)... i can say Wagner works better without an orchestra than with one... but... you can't tell the two apart... subjectivity is not a bias... it is a profound truth... in comparison objectivity's claim for truth is a tirade, compensated by the mere excavation deposit of journalism, which is becoming ever more fractured in compensation; it was always the case that life, expired prior to the, death... but now? it appears? death expires prior to a, life. Wagner isn't anemic without the orchestra... Wagner merely hijacks an orchestra to overdo the purpose of the piano... to enrapture a concert hall; nothing more, and i wouldn't expect nothing less.

i'm drunk...

  you're sober...

good luck
reconciling either,

even if either:

invokes:

         none....

   who gave the reigns
to the internet,
under a sober guise?

****! quick!
catch me a moth in a lampshade
and send me off to
a CIA acid camp!

IVANA BELIEVE!
and congregate
like a ******* beehive!

or a termite mount...
whichever...
            what?
i'm drunk... you're sober...
    
unless you have some
fetish for Swedish pop music
akin to Roxette...
  we, have, seriously,
nothing, to, talk, about...

  savvy? is that privy enough
for you?

tell me the difference between:
i have no rank, no lābrador
to mind suite for an orchestra
worth a Wagner...

**** it... i just watched
Apocalypse Now...
   3 and a half hours of what i could
make of the heart of darkness...
prior to the ride of the valkyries...

but to be honest...
i'm with david...
             take of pure piano...
of Wagner's
     the entry of the gods into Valhalla...
sole, piano... it's not anemic...
it's justified interpretation,
it''s... the justified counter
to Chopin...
  a refined honesty...
                 i never liked
Chopin...
   unlike most Polacks...
i never like Jean-Paul II either...
like most Polacks...

i'd envision a Jean-Paul II emeritus...
like all old Polacks lay claim:
it you have been nice to see
an otherwise different,
process of dethroning...

no... the orchestra undermines
Wagner... the piano will do,
for now, for as long as it takes...
the piece doesn't require orchestration...
if the mere piano makes the pieces
anemic...
then the orchestra makes is
gluttonous...
  
people shouldn't expect their children
to be intelligent by merely
listening to classical music...
what they should expect...
is listening to classical music...
elaborating into jazz...
and then coming back into classical music...

why do i hear such horrors...
that the only classical music made pop...
is classical music underscoring
moving image...
why is the only classical music
"worth" listening to...
the music composed for movies,
or at least, incorporated
into them?

            no... Wagner is not anemic
on the sole basis of piano...
     das rheingold: is not anemic...
Chopin might be...
with his intricacies...
a bountiful butterfly in the age
of Bonaparte...
              
               but? listening to the piano?
of Wagner's exclusion of
orchestra?

   Handel is the new Bach...
and Wagner is the new Chopin...

you don't make toddlers listen to classical music
because they might be better
at arithmetic like some prized
monkey who later struggles
with economic biases -
or tax returns...

                     you need a classical
music appreciation,
to hit against jazz...
and if it doesn't return to classical
music?
then the original investment was
worth... zilch!

       orchestra ruins what perfects,
or rather allows Wagner
to stand-out from a Baroque tradition
of Germanic exfoliation...
   and hurts, hurts...
hurts the gentile spirit of a Schubert
or a Schumann...
      
the just Libra interlude hanging
within a composition,
the dangling in the air...
or a dire, interlude, a dire... note...

                   Wagner minus
orchestra...
                      what a fine affair to...
anticipate:

                                              ­    en oeuvre.

We treat our hearts like fighters,
12 rounds trapped in the fear cage inside.
Pride be our fuel, anger our lighters,
Our souls wastelands with nowhere to hide.

Ego hijacks our common sense,
Making shallow love our prize.
Emoting makes our minds go tense,
Until help screams out from our eyes.

The leaps and bounds we **** ourselves for,
Isn't enough to keep our hearts at bay.
Nothing will ever even the score,
There are no words they can simply say.

So why do we put ourselves through hell?
Why can't we just swallow our pride?
Because love is a feeling they just want to sell,
And in debt there's no place to hide.

Last night
I missed you so much

I made love to
your nightdress

... passionately.
        
Now your nightdress
hides from me

slinks under covers and pillows

avoids my eyes.


I can't take another night  without you!

Your nightie can't take another night with me!


I am holding your dresses hostage

threatening them with kisses...caresses

if they make one false move.

Your other clothes
tremble in the wardrobe


...come back to me!

you are a fractal

in a sea of branches
you are the air between

the dust that spirals in the sun streams


the decimal point in the equation

the dividing line between oblivion and infinity

you are a loose end
fraying
made of left over dry skin








you are the chemical

you poison my drinking water

you are

the secret ingredient
the last place they'd ever look

you are

the dark matter
the imaginary number I can't wrap my head around

you cure my melancholy






we are

alveoli

we breathe fire

seen through telescopes
we believe we are alone

we'll believe anything they tell us




they won't love you
they can't see you

you are too much
they'd never understand


you don't give
what you don't receive

you give life
as you breathe through me



I see you when my eyes close
I trace your shape on frosted windows





you spark the fire that hijacks my biology



you draw upon my skin with ***** fingernails

your handwriting is embedded in my DNA




your name echoes still
unfamiliar voices without faces


your secret's safe with me



hidden in massive outer space places
untraceable
mastermind configuration
takes ages just to give up out of frustration

On a smooth cushion of silken air

I stand moderately off kilter.

We are elated and healed

Everyone is astounded.

We stood there like living sculpture,

We fed each other hope and affection.

I will kiss you eternally

I will never treat you like a slug.

On a smooth silken cushion of air,

Standing moderately off kilter

I don't get rude comments,

From adults, strangers, enemies and teenagers.

Everyone greets us with Hello, hello.

And then laughter hijacks my mouth.

You have been unshackled

Their death, my life, our cradle,

Our bodies, our souls unfettered.

On a smooth silken cushion of air

We will lay, moderately off kilter.

anxiety is a terrorist
who holds me at gun point
and hijacks the plane that
i should be flying.
i don't know where we're headed
or what i'm going to do.

i am not safe on my own.

If we are puppets,
Then sleepiness
Is a dangerous
Puppeteer.

He creeps up on you
And hijacks your
Mind and body

Your eyes are closing
Your body feels heavy
Your head may drop off
Anytime

Your shoulders are drooping
Your feet are weary
Your back supports you
No more

Your head is swaying
Your body is aching
Oh how you wish you were
In bed

You can’t hear properly
You can’t speak properly
You don’t care
Anymore...
                                                                ­                 ...he whispers in your ear
And this is when
Sleepiness
Slips you onto
His puppet strings
And starts to sway
Your bearings

One, two
One, two
You plod on

Left, right
Left, right
Your vision starts to spin

You can’t hear properly
You can’t speak properly
You don’t care
Anymore...
                                                                ­                 ...he whispers in your ear
Continuing on
Your way
You know what you’re doing
But yet, don’t notice
Anything
Around you

Until that loud beep
Jolts you from your sleep
And brings you out of
The puppeteer's spell

The puppet strings
Are broken
And you are left
To face reality
The fact that you could've                                        should've
Died


You can’t hear properly
You can’t speak properly
You don’t care
Anymore...
                                                                ­                 ...he whispers in your ear

anxiety kicks down the door
and holds you at gunpoint-
he, who is the most unforgiving of all,
does not care where you come from,
what you’re doing, who you’re with.
he hijacks the system. he takes over
the plane you were trained to fly. he
is a terrorist who you cannot escape
from and you cannot imprison.

you are not safe in your body.

CRAZY LONELINESS HIJACKS MEMORY OF A BEAUTIFUL GIRL

Last night
I missed you so much

that I made love
to your nightdress

passionately

now your nightdress
hides from me

slinks under covers
and pillows

avoids my eyes.

I can't take
another night

without you.

Your nightie
can't take another night

with me.

I am holding
your dresses

hostage
threatening them with

kisses...caresses

if they make one
false move.

The rest of your clothes
tremble in the wardrobe

...come back to me.

*

Ahhh back in the day when poetry was the new rock'n'roll and we sold poetry in broadsheets from pub to pub and all piled into an auld van and headed down the highway to the southern counties and turn up at a local radio station and proclaim ourselves in poetry so that that night people would be enticed into readings at arts centres and the like...those be de days. A mechanic who" didn't give a toss about poetry" and underneath a car tinkering with its thingymabob heard me reading my "nightdress poem" on the radio and came along to hear me read it...he was very put out when I didn't and then I had to read it then and there on the pavement and he went away satisfied. One of my best performances and one of my best audiences.

This must be '84 or'85 as in '86 I took the boat to Land of the Angles and ensconced me self there for the better or the worst of it.

bat flies out of the night into
my headlights
loops in draculan arc

it is 4 o clock in the
dark in the maze where my
heart knows no clock

the radio is singing a lesson in
lost love where the wires
buzz and intersect

animal notes in the streets

metal on the field of my tongue
hijacks your signal
like a surprise flight of bat

Aside from New Year’s Eve specials, it’s a lean week for original programming. Still, there are a few stand-out offerings. Here’s what caught my eye on television this week:

Sunday: “Undercover Boss” 7 p.m., CBS: Yeah, it’s just a reality program, but it’s one of the only new network offerings tonight, so we’ll take it.

Monday: “Happy New Year, Charlie Brown” 7 p.m., ABC: The ol’ blockhead hunkers down with some choice Tolstoy during these Peanuts’ festivities.

“******: Cape Cod, USA” 8 p.m., HBO: This documentary explores the grip of addiction through the stories of eight twenty-somethings.

Tuesday: “The 38th Annual Kennedy Center Honors” 8 p.m., CBS: Host Stephen Colbert pays tribute to Carole King, George Lucas, Rita Moreno, Cicely Tyson and Seiji Ozawa; James Taylor, Janelle Monáe, Yo-Yo Ma and others perform.

“Almost Genius” 9 p.m., truTV: This new reality comedy series looks at folks who fall just short of their goals. They should be knocking on my door any day now.

Wednesday: “The Twilight Zone” 6 p.m., Syfy: The annual marathon features 156 episodes of the acclaimed anthology series and ends on Jan. 3.

“In Defense of Food” 8 p.m., PBS: Michael Pollan trots the globe in search of people who eat for health.

Thursday: “The Simpsons Movie” and New Year’s marathon, 5 p.m., FXX: The animated motion picture kicks off a back-to-back showing of 56 episodes.7 p.m.

“**** Clark’s Primetime New Year’s Rockin’ Eve With Ryan Seacrest 2016” 7 p.m., ABC: Whew! That title was so long that it’s almost 2017. The special breaks for local news and resumes at 10:30 p.m.

“Pitbull’s New Year’s Revolution, Part 1” 7 p.m., Fox: Jussie Smollett, Shawn Mendes and others help the performer ring in 2016 from Miami.

“Live from Lincoln Center” 7 p.m., PBS: Alan Gilbert leads the New York Philharmonic in a Parisian-themed New Year’s Eve special.

“NBC’s New Year’s Eve Game Night With Andy Cohen” 9 p.m., NBC: The Bravo star hijacks the prime time portion of Carson Daly’s annual holiday event.

“NBC’s New Year’s Eve With Carson Daly” 10:30 p.m., NBC: And again, Daly is relegated to late night.

Friday: “Sherlock on Masterpiece” 8 p.m., PBS: It’s practically the only non-rerun programming on tonight, but it’s really the only programming you need. The special finds Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman’s Holmes and Watson solving a case in 1895 London.

Saturday: “Galavant” 7 p.m., ABC: Four episodes of last season’s surprise hit musical comedy air back-to-back-to-back-to-back.

“Austin City Limits” 7 p.m., PBS: Alabama Shakes and Vintage Trouble perform.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

Do not talk to me of your version of God
One that personifies God by egoistic mind

For ego by definition is Exit God Out
For your personification of God
Does not resonate with my knowing of God

The hell you believe I will burn in
Is the heaven I will transmute all my sins in

The hell you believe I live in
Is my route to heaven

The hell you believe in
Will drawn you in an ocean
Of guilt and shame

Keep your fears to yourself
I can no longer entertain them

Do not talk to me of God
When you want me to silence my soul
God can never be silenced by your egoistic minds

Let me redefine for you ‘كفر’ *
Let me redefine for you ‘blasphemy’

It is being a slave to your ideas
It is being a slave to your mind
It is being a slave to your concepts
It is being a slave to your fears

I am not here to be a slave to human minds
I am here to be a slave to my creator
His breath gave life to my body

I am not here to worship your fearful mind
I am here to worship my creator through my heart

Do not talk to me of God
When you refuse me the right
To exercise my divine gifts

Do not talk to me of God
When you rob me from free will
Divinely gifted to me at birth

Do not talk to me of God
When you rob me from exercising
The gift of freely speaking my mind

Do not talk to me of God
When  you forbid me from listening to my heart
Yet forcefully enslave me to your mind

Do not talk to me of God
When you fail to accept me

Do not talk to me of God
When you vilify my shadows

Do not talk to me of God
When you fail to see my divinity

Do not talk to me of God
When you deprive me
From the experience to witness
The limitless capacity of my body

Do not talk to me of God
When you reject parts of me
Yet God accepts all of me

Do not talk to me of God
When you fail to forgive me
While God offers me eternal forgiveness

Do not talk to me of God
When you abandon your son after he sins

For the God I know
Will never forsake his son
Nor shame him for his sins
Nor will he love him less

For the sins he does is the forgetting of self
When one acts against his self

Do not talk to me of God
When you fail to embody his love

For you have yet to know God
If you still refuse to embody his divine qualities

Do not talk to me of God
Till you reflect his unconditional love, grace, mercy, forgiveness and acceptance

Do not talk to me of God
When you sexualize my body that he has created

Do not talk to me of God
When you shame my body
For the sacred red fluid that flows out of me
The body that gives birth to his creation

Do not talk to me of God
When you separate me
From divine creations

Do not talk to me of God
When you justify killing
Yet vilify love making

Do not talk to me of God
When you normalise violence upon his creations
Yet shame the pleasures of love between his creations

We will not be silenced
By the barbaric volumes of your egoistic minds
Our divinity can never be a slave to your fears

You can not fears us into enslavement
Our divine faith runs deeper than the fears that hijacks your minds

Let us love each other
While we both try to experience God

Let us love each other
While we both try to understand God

Meanwhile I swim in the ocean of grace where hell does not exist

Thank you for being here - NwK

Nobody reads this ****... so I'm just gonna start typing. Why not? Freudian automatic writing is an old psychological gold standard, though I guess we can't really be sure how useful it is to analysis these days. Oh well, perhaps some illuminating nugget of insight into the complex inner workings of the human psyche will emerge from a later re-visitation of the text laid down here. Probably not... yeah, Freud was a strange one anyhow, he wanted to bone his mom, you know. He also loved *******. He once botched a neurological operation because he was too high, and then the patient came to him in a dream and blamed him. Of course, being the smelly old narcissistic cokehead that he was, he read some sort of esoteric meaning into the dream sequence and ignored his subconscious attempt at intervention. In light of this, it's probably worth asking if Freud is the type of person we really want interpreting our dreams... I always liked Jung better, anyway. That collective unconscious is some heavy ****, man. The thought that there are disembodied essences of character traits called archetypes, living in a panpsychic mental manifold, of which your mind is a small adumbration makes some pretty awesome dinner table conversations... until your dad hijacks the conversation and directs it back to sports.

On that note... why are sports so popular? Baseball is boring as ****, and boxing and football are barbaric. I always figured it had something to do with the human desire to act out our violent impulses, and the social constraints restricting us from doing so. Seems that with contact sports, people get to sublimate those urges by living them vicariously through the athletes. I wonder if revolution would come if we abolished sports. Lord knows, the people would need another hobby in light of that void in their leisure time. Maybe it would be political science, and we would finally realize how backward our government has become... nah, probably not. If sports were abolished, we would just go back to reality TV. ****, there's another rant... **** this, I'm leaving.

Paralyzing uncertainty
Of things we haven't seen
Shadows of unknown origins
That invade our very dreams

Sometimes, it's the sounds
That go bump in the night
It hijacks our minds  
And fills our hearts with fright

Imaginations run wild
As we shiver and we shake
Our voice has betrayed us
Not a sound can we make

Our eyes closed so tightly
As we cover up our heads
In fear of the monsters
That live beneath our beds

Imaginary footsteps
Keep timing with our heart
As their beats intertwine
Like two lovers far apart

The things that's in our closets
Scare our minds the most
It's filled with all our nightmares
Our goblins and our ghosts

The shadows then start fading
As the sun begins to rise
The darkness now is gone
And we open up our eyes

The room is suddenly void
Of nighttime's wicked intrusion
This, that's held us hostage,
Was simply an illusion

I Want to Hold Your Hand Poem
(6/16/2014)

I heard holding hands is what gives an angel its wings.
Maybe because they want to hold on so tightly,
that they need some help flying away.
They know they must go,
but don't know how to say no.
So does that explain why after we held hands the first time,
you disappeared?

Maybe you wanted to hold on.
Maybe you went to heaven,
because you didn't want the stars to see you cry.
So high above those celestial bodies you could do as you'd please,
and watch over me.

Maybe you felt...
the time, just might...
Maybe you were attracted to some other person's light,
Or maybe you were actually a devil in disguise.

One that rips wings off of angels
and traps them on Earth.
Watching with your hideous eyes,
as they hold hands with humans,
trying their hardest to fly.
While you feed off the fleeting might,
that causes their unstable plight.

Maybe you were a snake charmer,
and I, the instrument you played.
Like you could convince the sneaky shadow inside of me,
to slither out into the surface,
and convey its venomous intent,
ready to strike.
That's how you taught me to hold hands.

Maybe you were a tornado.
One that hijacks airplanes,
ripping apart houses,
and wreaking the most unnatural disaster,
that something so naturally beautiful could bring.

Maybe you held hands to stay on ground,
selfishly motivated to keep king status of your worldly mound
of dirt and keep yourself superior,
with the ability to stay,
due to simple saying "hey"
and seducing my hand to move your way.

So my angel,
Oh yeah, I'll tell you something,
I think you'll understand,
When I'll say that something
I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold your hand.

Oh please, grow your wings
and fly away from me.
Oh please, please come save me,
I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold your hand.

Nostalgia hijacks unnecessarily
bleeding into a bloodless heart
where I feel peculiar
outside of my puppet body
the force dragging me to the next location
the next goal
the next unfulfilled dream.
I do not feel alive. I do not feel like I am breathing.
My stomach rises, but my hopes crash.
Every lock crunches together when I run into a bad thing
I shut myself off to protect myself
from an inevitable feeling that will not matter
once I'm beyond the earth
once I'm packed in a grave
and shipped off to the next meaningless life.

and streaks my heart walls inky
intermittently

I don't want to keep
grieving the passed
it hijacks the now

it's all we have

just a string
of fleeting, fragile moments
with zero guarantees

I am not ashamed.
I have survived the long, slow torment,
the only hell that is real,
the one that hijacks your mind,
steals away every thing that you love
and magnifies all of your fears innumerably.
I will not lie or hide myself away to appease you.
But instead, while you are judging me, too afraid to acknowledge your own darkness
I will have the courage to try again tomorrow.

Poetry bother me,
late night,
late in the day ,
does not matter!
.It Is a desire to *****
a new world,
a new thing
that makes me crazy,
Chases in bed ,
rips the mattress ,
I steal the covers,
I hijacks the pajamas.
.all Day bother me,
everyday,
all the time,
does not matter!
.A Poetry ****** me off
all the time,
robs me the second ,
the minutes , the entire clock.
.**** with my calm ,
bare my soul ,
accentuates my anger
and stone me ,
.me Turns inside out ,
disrespects me ,
me frightens ,
***** me ,
.She Takes me
and you receive me as anecdote,
Sometimes you love me
and sometimes I hate me .
Poetry completes me ,
But never satisfy me .
So addiction me
this drug me anesthesia ,
.They Treat me like a *****
And ***** me mercilessly ,
smells all my powder
and leave me in bed , alone.
.Me Separates ,
Alienates me ,
Enslaves me ,
I still buries in life.
.Make me to be
Another toy,
poetry that complete me ,
But never satisfies .

Lay me down
Unveil my eyes to the world  

Everything is blue
Blue poisons me
Underneath my taut bruised skin
Lies a mosaic of love
For you
Hatred for me

Don't let me breathe
The horizon hijacks your job of whisking my small ragged breaths away

The journey away from you
Burns my every step
Burns a hole in my heart
Hands clammy
Belly churning

Above the clouds
There is nothing but you
Occupying my deprived mind
Gazing down I see you in everything
Every beautiful view is you

On cold sticky dirt
Take a bath
Wash off our sins
Let the water turn black

My despair swirling clockwise
Your longing swirling anti-clockwise
Close but opposite

May nothing but death do us part
May death find you alive
For me

KG

CRAZY LONELINESS HIJACKS MEMORY OF A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. . .

Last night
I missed you so much

that I made love
to your nightdress

passionately

now your nightdress
hides from me

slinks under covers
and pillows

avoids my eyes.

I can't take
another night

without you.

Your nightie
can't take another night

with me.

I am holding
your dresses

hostage
threatening them with

kisses...caresses

if they make one
false move.

The rest of your clothes
tremble in the wardrobe

...come back to me.

But he hijacks your mind, you see -
you start thinking
in pithy vignettes
and seeing ancient injustice
in a drunkard's bloodshot eyes

The universal
in the particular -
God, aye! Sheep
as avatars
for all society
and majesty in language
as it's spoken, and heard.

Then you imagine him
hiding other poets' books
behind his own
in Waterstone's in Dumfries,
and remember -
he's as human as you,
thank ****.

the real woman
never leaves behind

the real woman
never lies inside

the real woman
never hijacks her eyes

the real woman
never denies

the real woman
it was you..

did i mention that it was really important for me
to be in a bicycle accident: head split open...
bleeding... plum tattoo bruises on legs...
scabs from skin brushing on concrete on my arms...
boiling crescent crimsons (or rather sort of...) -
less crescents and more Cyprus shaped details...
simply because...
    there needed to be a reality check after i had
my *******...
           a ******* unlike anything in *******...
simply because i needed to see their faces
so i couldn't be used as a tool...
    an Isaiah who was cut in half at the torso...
or anyone that was ever pulled apart in half by
four horses...
            it really did require enough lubrication
and the simulation of ***...
                       via a hand-job... snuggling into her
collarbone and up into her neck and nose
teasing her ear sort of way...
                       while the other one: boisterous
                                                and rather annoying
all duck-lipped fake was only given the *******
to tease and in the end served with her ******* as
imitation ****** to be squirted into...
                               but i needed that bicycle accident
to compensate for the unreality of a *******...
as i lay in bed today contemplating
    fluorescent darkness...
        hand extended toward the ceiling: palm facing
me with the pretty fours of knuckle(s)
                 a quick blink... there!
   fluorescent darkness... the form of the hand imprinted
into the depths of closed eyes...
quickly open... close! there! the fluorescent darkness
imprint of the form of the hand...
    
- (yes, the hyphen can act as a topic breaker,
i can become as fickle as a woman
    in that regard, whichever way the wind
blows)
               Tyskie... although i used to be
a Warka Strong fan... i was even a Żywiec
fan... but i'm settling on Tyskie:
truly, nothing better than a cold cold beer
come noon...
                  still hangover...

and no! i will not do one of these genetic tests
to dabble in my ancestry...
    i heard someone say: whatever you're
attracted to culturally... that's where you're from...

for all the barbarism of the Vikings...
they still treasured poetry...
i can be in my odd proportions: at outlier...
but i can still appreciate art...
        i can't be this stereotypical WASP
(white anglo-saxon protestant) **** and
be into sports... thick-skulled money money money...
neither rich: nor poor... happily minding
my own business...
   if Walt Whitman could sign praises for himself
then... **** it... i'll sing my own praises!

Helvegen...
    St. Cyril and St. Methodius did a really **** poor
job of incorporating the Glagolitic script into
Greek... i look at the Cyrillic script and think:
mein gott! what a monstrosity!

Ⰿ - m:eta
            Ⱁ - o:ko
   Ⱄ - s:ow
                
              to choose but a trident of examples...

Matthew's quill... or... harmonica...
or... a reed of grass split in two and breathed through
to create a musical instrument...
wild grass that is... very much unlike a grasshopper...
but at the same time:
memories of cockchafers in the summer months...
catching them in darkness and putting them
under girls' t-shirts...

throwing marbles into dug holes as a game...
the genocide of mosquitos and their
exponential libido...
    or... for that matter: the exponential libido
of all insects and sea-bound larvae...
the monstrosity of all this abundance of
the variety of life...
                    this funnel of existence of almost
everything while above:
the heavenly aura of blue... and beyond that...
the deafening void
   and within that deafening void an implosion
of reality and the discovery of anti-matter...

- most certainly... two things were absolutely
necessary... that ******* (where i wasn't a tool,
and elevated the hand-job)
and the bicycle accident...
now i see fluorescent darkness of forms...
quickly! upon waking... with a humid sun
and humid air... with the blinds of the bedroom
drawn shut...
                  hand extended toward the ceiling...
all fingers and knuckles exposed...
focus on the hand... eyes closed!
  there! the fluorescent imprint of the hand
in darkness... the form of the hand being
fluorescent!

Matthew's quill?
   you can perform the most menial tasks...
Will Alexander is the pristine example...
    you can have the most menial of jobs...
stewarding mass events...
   yet at the same time practice escapism
within the "confines" of art...
          a bit like Heidegger's hammer,
i.e. two labourers hammering in nails talking
about philosophy...
   yet... and yet! it's so rare to find!
so rare to summon!

    because i love the body (exertions)
as much as the mandible-ness of the mind...
language is neither formal or informal:
it's what i want to make of it...
             however idiosyncratic or however
atypical beginning with a dear sir / madam...

more head traumas... give me 20 more years
of drinking before i switch to hallucinogenic
fungus!
before a mushroom mush hijacks my brain
like the mushroom cloud hijacked
and made Oppenheimer take his ego-trip
into reciting the Upanishads...

               now i've become all that is necessary
to be considered alive...
while retaining the drowning vacuum of
res vanus in my 'ed...
       no narrative except what trickles down
onto paper, into encoded sounds...
   that will never capture the lettering of
the sound a crow makes when crackling
a rattle of imitating the burning of wood...

ah... how dreams are spawned...
this grand architecture of the labyrinths of sleep...
how we capture light and project it
into nothing... and prove: mortality will
not salvage the inevitable path toward
a pressing end...
   the silence of the dead and the silence
of the passing...
    even with the immortal hammer of
                      the pillars of humanity that were names
akin to Alexander, Xerxes...
our fickle demands and our daydreams...
  
  we're to be forever elsewhere...
      forever as such never "here"...
an existential gallery...
                   i fear this will be the best we will
ever receive: whether bound to a heaven
or to a hell: this intermediate nuance of what's vivo per se:
i fear eternity will be a case of:
vivo in vitro.... life inside glass...
a sick joke-aside from what could possibly qualify
as genuine laughter...
if we can't laugh now... i'm afraid we won't
be able to ever laugh again...

consecrate the tree against a canvas of blue
and clots of clouds...
ghoulish bundles of cauliflowers thinning out
into a jellyfish expanse...

In my head runs a million visions,
Never believing a word from television,
Social Media on Race causing collisions,
Showing that they run the stories with precision,
Screaming that Black Lives Matter,
YouTube and FaceBook showing Blood getting splattered,
If you are White then you are nothing but a Supermacist,
Rappers are Overdosing and Killing, Legendary Death Benefits,
Saving my life, Music Artist the master lyricist,
Facts and Truth the Immortal Nemesis,
The Government hijacks and run,
Playing mind games just for fun,
hand everyone a ******* gun,
Another killing of a grandson,
Hitting nothing but a homerun,
Under the midnight sun,
Drunk Driver hit and run,

In my head runs a million visions,
Never believing a word from television,
Governmental war games in collisions,
Show how the run the world with divisions,
Selling us all boxes that we open and divide,
Skin Color, Religion, Sexuality is nothing but diversified,
Attacking each other for everything worldwide,
Everyone should be a mortician, inject ourselves with formaldehyde,
breathe in methyl bromide, eat some potassium cyanide,
A world at war,
Humanity no saviour,
In sight, dreams to far,
We all living with delusions of grandeur.

The earth is shaking,
Or is it levitating and breaking,
We don't know for sure,
Cause we are sleep walking.

Our lives are in danger,
They say don't trust strangers,
All I ask for is us to stay stronger.

Animals get washed away,
They get hurt in midway,
Trees and houses get blown away,
Our hearts are seen as they break away,
We can't do anything but to hope and pray,
That our world will have peace one day.

People have money for wars,
But no food for the poor,
I know I sound like Tupac Shakur,
Just throw your luxury and open your doors,
Go help others and you'll get some more.

The sky goes orange due to the smoke,
And people out there think this is a joke,
Our families are dying and some are in shock,
Though all we get is biodiversity in docks.

Ordering ****** terror and killing,
I don't think it's ruling it's called over controlling,
We don't have a good greet but just farewelling,
To those who are dead and those who are falling.

Increase of fears,
To those who are dear,
Terrorising everyone who we have near,
We are weak and bearing no gear,
Just like we were yesteryear,

Mercilessly launching attacks,
Increase of hacks and hijacks,
Is this our world where people are stuck,
Some of us are hurt and no one has their backs,
Losing their loved ones and all they get is flashbacks.

This has to stop before it's too late,
And people all around are shutting their gates,
Maybe it's fate but I know hate,
Help one another during every state.
Hope my word goes to every mate.

How sad? that my initial thought,
When I saw a man in church,
Lead youth out, was: how creepy!
I’m sure he is lovely, but even his looks
Made me lurch,
within myself, and yell: it’s not safe!
This distorted world robs innocence,
Smashes precious platforms and
Hijacks joy.
How do we restore this;
Elevate hope again?
All I have are questions, no answers.
How can we better love ourselves and one another?
How can we extend compassion?
It starts with ourselves!

Here it comes sitting at the top of her throat
overwhelming pain quickly hijacks her heart and soul
Hesitant and afraid she stares blankly ahead
Hoping and praying eventually the emotion will dissipate  
Kneeling on the ground with her head in her hands
Silently crying
It’s all apart of healing her body
Focusing on connecting to her surroundings
Slowly she finds herself back in her body  
Feeling her soul let go of the pain that has been blocking her energy for so long
She finally allows the emotion to flow freely throughout her body
Igniting her senses to support her through her healing journey
Staying focused and in control
Slowly finding the inner peace her heart has been wanting her to find all along