I.
We received a letter from the Writers’ War Board the other day asking for a statement on “The Meaning of Democracy.” It presumably is our duty to comply with such a request, and it is certainly our pleasure. Surely the Board knows what democracy is. It is the line that forms on the right. It is the don’t in don’t shove. It is the hole in the stuffed shirt through which the sawdust slowly trickles; it is the dent in the high hat. Democracy is the recurrent suspicion that more than half of the people are right more than half of the time. It is the feeling of privacy in the voting booths, the feeling of communion in the libraries, the feeling of vitality everywhere. Democracy is a letter to the editor. Democracy is the score at the beginning of the ninth. It is an idea which hasn’t been disproved yet, a song the words of which have not gone bad. It’s the mustard on the hot dog and the cream in the rationed coffee. Democracy is a request from a War Board, in the middle of a morning in the middle of a war, wanting to know what democracy is.
—E. B. White

II.
Ew ievcdere a eterlt ofrm eht Wesirrt’ Wra Odabr eht oetrh ayd isankg ofr a saetmttne no “The Inegnam fo Yoracmdce.” It ypmlrseuab si uor tydu to ypclmo twhi cuhs a rteequs, and ti si inlytcrea uor plreusae. Elusry the Odbar nwosk htaw dymcercao si. Ti si het enli that froms on hte trghi. It si eht ond’t in nod’t hesvo. Ti is the hole in eth stffued rhist thghuro hhiwc eth tdsausw wyolls slrticke; ti is eht etnd in the ghih hat. Dyomcearc si eth ecnerturr insupicso atht oerm ntha fahl fo the ppleoe rae rhtgi omer anht afhl fo teh imet. Ti is hte ignelef fo iarvycp in eht ogtinv hsootb, hte eglefin of momcnuoin ni het bsiiarler, het ngeeifl of ilyvaitt eweyerhevr. Merdccayo is a lrette to eth eidort. Mdeccyaro is eht csroe at hte ninbginge fo eth nthin. It si na edia hcwih sahn’t eneb dpdsrevio tey, a nogs teh rdsow fo ciwhh hvae ont oneg adb. Ti’s teh damtrsu on hte hot dgo dna hte ermca ni teh deoanrit efcoef. Omeradycc si a eetsurq mofr a Rwa Daobr, ni the eddlim fo a orinnmg ni the dimedl fo a wra, twangni ot nkwo wtha ccoedryam si.
—B. E. Ithwe

III.
ǝʍɥʇı ˙ǝ ˙q—
˙ıs ɯɐʎɹpǝoɔɔ ɐɥʇʍ oʍʞu ʇo ıubuɐʍʇ 'ɐɹʍ ɐ oɟ ןpǝɯıp ǝɥʇ ıu bɯuuıɹo ɐ oɟ ɯıןppǝ ǝɥʇ ıu 'ɹqoɐp ɐʍɹ ɐ ɹɟoɯ bɹnsʇǝǝ ɐ ıs ɔɔʎpɐɹǝɯo ˙ɟǝoɔɟǝ ʇıɹuɐoǝp ɥǝʇ ıu ɐɔɯɹǝ ǝʇɥ ɐup obp ʇoɥ ǝʇɥ uo nsɹʇɯɐp ɥǝʇ s’ıʇ ˙qpɐ bǝuo ʇuo ǝɐʌɥ ɥɥʍıɔ oɟ ʍospɹ ɥǝʇ sbou ɐ 'ʎǝʇ oıʌǝɹspdp qǝuǝ ʇ’uɥɐs ɥıʍɔɥ ɐıpǝ ɐu ıs ʇı ˙uıɥʇu ɥʇǝ oɟ ǝbuıbquıu ǝʇɥ ʇɐ ǝoɹsɔ ʇɥǝ sı oɹɐʎɔɔǝpɯ ˙ʇɹopıǝ ɥʇǝ oʇ ǝʇʇǝɹן ɐ sı oʎɐɔɔpɹǝɯ ˙ɹʌǝɥɹǝʎǝʍǝ ʇʇıɐʌʎןı ɟo ןɟıǝǝbu ʇǝɥ 'ɹǝןɹɐıısq ʇǝɥ ıu uıonuɔɯoɯ ɟo uıɟǝןbǝ ǝʇɥ 'qʇoosɥ ʌuıʇbo ʇɥǝ uı dɔʎʌɹɐı oɟ ɟǝןǝubı ǝʇɥ sı ıʇ ˙ʇǝɯı ɥǝʇ oɟ ןɥɟɐ ʇɥuɐ ɹǝɯo ıbʇɥɹ ǝɐɹ ǝoǝןdd ǝɥʇ oɟ ןɥɐɟ ɐɥʇu ɯɹǝo ʇɥʇɐ osɔıdnsuı ɹɹnʇɹǝuɔǝ ɥʇǝ ıs ɔɹɐǝɔɯoʎp ˙ʇɐɥ ɥıɥb ǝɥʇ uı puʇǝ ʇɥǝ sı ıʇ ؛ǝʞɔıʇɹןs sןןoʎʍ ʍsnɐspʇ ɥʇǝ ɔʍıɥɥ oɹnɥbɥʇ ʇsıɥɹ pǝnɟɟʇs ɥʇǝ uı ǝןoɥ ǝɥʇ sı ıʇ ˙oʌsǝɥ ʇ’pou uı ʇ’puo ʇɥǝ ıs ʇı ˙ıɥbɹʇ ǝʇɥ uo sɯoɹɟ ʇɐɥʇ ıןuǝ ʇǝɥ ıs ıʇ ˙ıs oɐɔɹǝɔɯʎp ʍɐʇɥ ʞsoʍu ɹɐqpo ǝɥʇ ʎɹsnןǝ ˙ǝɐsnǝɹןd ɹon ɐǝɹɔʇʎןuı ıs ıʇ puɐ 'snbǝǝʇɹ ɐ sɥnɔ ıɥʍʇ oɯןɔdʎ oʇ npʎʇ ɹon ıs qɐnǝsɹןɯdʎ ʇı ”˙ǝɔpɯɔɐɹoʎ oɟ ɯɐubǝuı ǝɥʇ“ ou ǝuʇʇɯʇǝɐs ɐ ɹɟo bʞuɐsı pʎɐ ɥɹʇǝo ʇɥǝ ɹqɐpo ɐɹʍ ’ʇɹɹısǝʍ ʇɥǝ ɯɹɟo ʇןɹǝʇǝ ɐ ǝɹǝpɔʌǝı ʍǝ

IV.
˙ǝ ǝoɹsɔ ʇʇıɐʌʎןı;
Ʌuıʇbo ǝɥʇ ǝʇɥ bǝuo.
Sı ıubuɐʍʇ sbou ɹɹnʇɹǝuɔǝ ʇǝɥ;
Ʇǝɥ ıs ǝuʇʇɯʇǝɐs ǝɥʇ ɔɔʎpɐɹǝɯo ɹon ɹqɐpo ˙ʇɐɥ ˙ɹʌǝɥɹǝʎǝʍǝ;
Ɥǝʇ oʇ oʍʞu ˙ɟǝoɔɟǝ ʇɥǝ ɹɟo dɔʎʌɹɐı ɥʇǝ ɥʇǝ sı ɟo ıʇ ɯɐʎɹpǝoɔɔ ıu ıʇ 'ɹqoɐp ʇɥǝ ıu ˙q—;
Ɐ ɥʇǝ;
'ɐɹʍ uıɟǝןbǝ;
Is oɟ ʇuo;
Npʎʇ ɐ ǝʇʇǝɹן ɥɥʍıɔ qɐnǝsɹןɯdʎ ʇɥǝ;
Is ɟo ʇɥʇɐ oɟ ɹɟoɯ.
Ǝɹǝpɔʌǝı oʇ ǝoǝןdd ɐʍɹ ǝɐʌɥ;
ʍɐʇɥ ןɥɐɟ puɐ.
ןɥɟɐ ʍospɹ;
ʎɹsnןǝ ɥǝʇ ʇɐ puʇǝ ”˙ǝɔpɯɔɐɹoʎ ʍsnɐspʇ ɔʍıɥɥ;
Iʇ ǝɥʇ;
Ǝbuıbquıu ؛ǝʞɔıʇɹןs uı.
˙ʇǝɯı ʇɥuɐ ɐup.
Ɔɹɐǝɔɯoʎp ɥıɥb ǝɐɹ;
Ɐ ɟǝןǝubı ɥʇǝ ǝʇɥ;
'snbǝǝʇɹ ןɟıǝǝbu ˙ʇɹopıǝ uıonuɔɯoɯ ɥɹʇǝo ɥʇǝ osɔıdnsuı oɯןɔdʎ;
Oʎɐɔɔpɹǝɯ ˙ıs ǝʇɥ ou ɯɹɟo ǝʍɥʇı obp ɐ sı ɐɥʇʍ oɟ sı uı ɯɹǝo ǝɥʇ.
Ʇɥǝ oɹnɥbɥʇ s’ıʇ ʇ’pou ǝʇɥ;
Ʇsıɥɹ ʇɥǝ bɹnsʇǝǝ ıs ıs uı ıu oɟ.
Ʇı ɥǝʇ.
Ɯɐubǝuı ıɥʍʇ ʇ’puo 'ɹǝןɹɐıısq.
ʍǝ ʇ’uɥɐs ɐǝɹɔʇʎןuı ʇןɹǝʇǝ sɥnɔ ɐɹʍ ʇıɹuɐoǝp qǝuǝ ǝɥʇ oɟ ʇɐɥʇ sןןoʎʍ ˙oʌsǝɥ ɐ sı ɯıןppǝ bʞuɐsı oɟ;
Ʇı ʇı bɯuuıɹo oɐɔɹǝɔɯʎp pǝnɟɟʇs ˙ıs ɐɥʇu ʇoɥ ɥǝʇ ıs ɐ 'ʎǝʇ ıbʇɥɹ oɹɐʎɔɔǝpɯ ǝʇɥ ıu ɹɐqpo.
Ǝןoɥ pʎɐ ˙qpɐ.
ןpǝɯıp ıןuǝ ɐ.
Ʇɥǝ ǝʇɥ ɹǝɯo uo ˙uıɥʇu ʇo ˙ıɥbɹʇ ıʇ;
Ǝɥʇ“ ɐ ɥıʍɔɥ ɐıpǝ uo ɐɔɯɹǝ uı ’ʇɹɹısǝʍ;
Is oıʌǝɹspdp oɟ ʇǝɥ.
Iʇ oɟ.
Sɯoɹɟ 'qʇoosɥ ɐu ɹon ˙ǝɐsnǝɹןd ɐ ǝɥʇ nsɹʇɯɐp.
Ʞsoʍu

V.
˙ʇɐɥ ɥɥʍıɔ ʇɐ oɟ. Ʇı ʇ’uɥɐs
ɹɟo puʇǝ ɯɹɟo ıs oɟ ǝʇɥ oɟ. Sɯoɹɟ
ɐ ɐɹʍ ɥǝʇ ɐ oıʌǝɹspdp
˙ʇɐɥ ıʇ ؛ǝʞɔıʇɹןs ɟǝןǝubı ǝʍɥʇı ıu ıɥʍʇ
ıu ɹɟoɯ. Ǝɹǝpɔʌǝı ǝɥʇ; Ǝbuıbquıu ɥʇǝ bʞuɐsı
ɹon ıʇ ”˙ǝɔpɯɔɐɹoʎ uıonuɔɯoɯ ǝɥʇ. Ʇɥǝ ɐɥʇu ’ʇɹɹısǝʍ; Is

ıubuɐʍʇ ıu puʇǝ ıu 'ʎǝʇ
qɐnǝsɹןɯdʎ ɥʇǝ osɔıdnsuı ʇ’pou ʇןɹǝʇǝ ɐɥʇu ɐ. Ʇɥǝ
ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ıs oɹɐʎɔɔǝpɯ 'qʇoosɥ
ǝɥʇ ıs ʇɥʇɐ ǝʇɥ; Ʇsıɥɹ uı pǝnɟɟʇs ǝʇɥ
˙ʇɐɥ ؛ǝʞɔıʇɹןs uıonuɔɯoɯ ɯɹǝo oɹnɥbɥʇ
˙ǝ ǝuʇʇɯʇǝɐs sı ʇɥuɐ ou ʇo ɐ

uı. ˙ʇǝɯı ɐɥʇu ıs ʇo oɟ. Sɯoɹɟ
ʇǝɥ; Ʇǝɥ oɟ oʇ puɐ. ןɥɟɐ ʍospɹ; ʎɹsnןǝ ɐ ʇןɹǝʇǝ
˙ǝ sı ıʇ puʇǝ ʇɥǝ
qɐnǝsɹןɯdʎ ǝɥʇ; Ǝbuıbquıu ןɟıǝǝbu ǝɥʇ ǝʇɥ ɹǝɯo ’ʇɹɹısǝʍ; Is
ǝʇɥ; 'snbǝǝʇɹ ɯɹǝo qǝuǝ oɹɐʎɔɔǝpɯ pʎɐ
ʇǝɥ; Ʇǝɥ ɔɔʎpɐɹǝɯo ǝʇɥ oɹnɥbɥʇ ɐ ǝʇɥ ǝɥʇ

uıɟǝןbǝ; Is ɟǝןǝubı s’ıʇ ʇıɹuɐoǝp ıןuǝ
ɹon ”˙ǝɔpɯɔɐɹoʎ ǝʇɥ; 'snbǝǝʇɹ ɥʇǝ sı ɥǝʇ. Ɯɐubǝuı oɟ
ɐ ˙ʇɹopıǝ ıןuǝ ɹǝɯo ıʇ; Ǝɥʇ“
ɹɹnʇɹǝuɔǝ ıʇ ɥǝʇ ǝʇɥ ɯɹǝo ɐ oɟ. Sɯoɹɟ
ɥʇǝ ǝɐɹ; Ɐ sɥnɔ ɐ ǝɥʇ
؛ǝʞɔıʇɹןs ɯɹǝo s’ıʇ uı ʇןɹǝʇǝ oɹɐʎɔɔǝpɯ ˙uıɥʇu

bǝuo. Sı ʍospɹ; ʎɹsnןǝ ؛ǝʞɔıʇɹןs ʇɥuɐ uo
ıu ןɥɐɟ uı ʇɐɥʇ bʞuɐsı ıu ʇo
ǝɥʇ dɔʎʌɹɐı ɟo uo ɐıpǝ
ɔɔʎpɐɹǝɯo ˙ʇɐɥ sı ou ıu ʇı 'ʎǝʇ
bǝuo. Sı ʇɥǝ uı ʇıɹuɐoǝp oɟ
ǝoɹsɔ ɹɹnʇɹǝuɔǝ ʇɥǝ oɹnɥbɥʇ ıɥʍʇ ɥǝʇ uo

ǝʇɥ ʍospɹ; ʎɹsnןǝ oɟ ıbʇɥɹ ǝɥʇ
ɥʇǝ ɟo ʇuo; Npʎʇ oɟ ʇɐ qǝuǝ ˙qpɐ. ןpǝɯıp
ʇʇıɐʌʎןı; Ʌuıʇbo ɟo uı ɯıןppǝ ɐu
ʇʇıɐʌʎןı; Ʌuıʇbo ǝɥʇ oʍʞu ɥʇǝ ɥʇǝ; 'ɐɹʍ oɟ ʇɥʇɐ
ʇɥʇɐ ǝɥʇ; Ǝbuıbquıu ɟǝןǝubı sı ɹɐqpo. Ǝןoɥ
ʇɐ ɐup. Ɔɹɐǝɔɯoʎp oɟ ʇı ıu ʇo ɹon

sbou ɹɹnʇɹǝuɔǝ ǝoǝןdd bɹnsʇǝǝ ıs
ǝɥʇ ɹon ʇuo; Npʎʇ ˙ıs obp sı pǝnɟɟʇs
ǝɥʇ ןɥɐɟ ɥʇǝ ɐɥʇʍ oɟ
oʇ ɥǝʇ sı ʇ’puo ʇıɹuɐoǝp uı ɐ
ɐup. Ɔɹɐǝɔɯoʎp ou ʇ’pou ǝʇɥ uı
˙ʇɐɥ ǝɐʌɥ; ʍɐʇɥ ɥʇǝ ɹǝɯo ɐ oɟ. Sɯoɹɟ ǝɥʇ

dɔʎʌɹɐı ןɥɐɟ uı sı pǝnɟɟʇs
ʇǝɥ; Ʇǝɥ ıs ɹɟo ɥɥʍıɔ uı sןןoʎʍ oɹɐʎɔɔǝpɯ
ɹɟo ıʇ ɥʇǝ ɐ ʇo
ɹɟo ǝoǝןdd uıonuɔɯoɯ ıs ɥǝʇ. Ɯɐubǝuı ɐ ’ʇɹɹısǝʍ; Is
ıs ʇ’pou qǝuǝ 'ʎǝʇ pʎɐ
ǝʇɥ ʇǝɥ; Ʇǝɥ oʇ ʍsnɐspʇ ɐup. Ɔɹɐǝɔɯoʎp ɥıɥb ʇǝɥ. Iʇ

it's hard to
be with you
and not get *****
your ***
your stomach
everything about you
makes me feel like
I just want to lift you up and throw you on the bed
rip your clothes off

and **** u so hard
until u *** all over
and scream and moan
and breathe so heavy
I want to feel your warm breath
on my neck
I want to feel your voice vibrate
as you give me head
I want to hear you say oh yes
as I ******* on the desk
and lift you up
and feel your *** cheeks
in my hands
girl I can't stand
to watch you walk away
without having a taste
and a sampling
of that wetness
my body yearns for you
it's a machine
that wants to be strong
and make you feel so good
that you can't imagine
ever touching another man
because
I'm your rock

When I had you in my arms
took hold of you
took control of you
you're mine now
I'm going to dominate you
and she likes it
she likes when I take over
and **** her all over
in several different positions
on the counter
to the bed
she ****** me, she was on top
and i felt that *** go up and down
and clap against my *****
then I flipped her over
and got on top
and ****** her hard and slow

she wanted to *** on my ****

which was perfectly fine with me
as I was caressing her ****

I ****** her against hte wall
threw her against the dresser
rubbed her *** on it
hard and aggressively
and made her breath
heavily

I lifted her leg up and pinned her against the wall
and felt all of her walls
as I pulled out and slid back in
all the way to the tip
to the base of my ****
she said does that feel good baby
I said yeah it's the best

she sent me pictures
of her *** and ****
and her pretty face
and I couldn't help but think
about how I wanted to take
my **** and go up in it
pull out
and *** all over her ***
and make her feel it
make her moan
make her legs shake
and vibrate
I want to make her ***** feel like
it's having a 7.1 earthquake
on the richter
I fixed her
she was stressed out
feeling uneasy
anxious
and an ****** relaxed her
gave her the endorphins she needs
to go about the rest of the week
let's **** baby
let's do it all night long
til we can't go anymore
and we're left laying on the bed
holding each other
laying sideways
with no pillows
forgetting about
how we usually sleep
and our bodies locked in
to each other
we're the same one another
we're a unit
together
*******, not just for pleasure
but to satisfy our needs
and emotionally
doing each other good deeds
so we can go to bed
and get good sleep
and be better people
we're a strong couple
and we always know how to make the bed rumble

Jee aur aieee k sadme k mare ** jte h anjne anokhe unvrsts k hawale,nya clg nya jgh nye dost sb kch hta h nw nw,clg k strtng s hr ksi k dil m hta h rgng ka dar....2nd yr m cnr bnne ka hta h sbko gurur,frnds kai grp m bat jte h,hr koi dkhte h nye luks m,3rd yr m sbko ati h apni jimedari ka ahsas aur fnl yr ata h dston m fasle bdhte h...rah dkhe the is din k kbse,age k sapne saja rkhe the njane kbse,sb bde utavle the yhn se jne ko,zndgi ko dusre trke se dkhne ko....pr njane aj dil m kch aur he ata h,piche ja k waqt ko rok k apne andr sare lmhe ko samet lne ka jee krta h....at d strtng f btech kha krte the bdi muskil s y 4 sal bitenge lkn kse pta tha y sb chd k jne ka mn ni krga...na vulne wali kch yadein reh *** o yadein jo ab jine ka sahara bn ***...na jne aj q un palon k yad bht ati h jin baton ko lekar tab rote the ,aj un palon ko yad kar bht hsi ati h....y sch k ankhein nam ** jte h k mri tang ab kn kncha krga,m apne bton s kska sar khaungi,pranks ksk 7 krngi,ab mjhe kn itna jhlga,ksk smne ntnki krngi,jin dst p lakh kurban whn 1 rupye k ly  kn ldhnge,kaun rat vr bina soye bt krga,kaun bina pche 1 dusre ka chj istml krga,kaun nya nm rkhga,bina ksi bt k m ab ksse ldhungi,bina ks tpc k fal2 bt kn krga,bkws q kn krga,xam k ek din phle o tyri o rate,kn rat var 7 jag kr pdhga,kn fail hne p dilasa dlyga,y hasin pal ab ksk 7 jiungi....yad ati h o rec k choti si cntn bar bar jhn kch v ni mlta mre yar fr v na jane q hum gye hnge so bar...tum jse kmine dost khn mlnge jo khai m v dhaka de ayen sale srs mtr ko v joke m cnvrt kr de,par fr tmhe bachane khud v kud jye....mre hrkton se nakhro se jid s prsan kn hga ,ksk 7 brng lctrs jhlngi..bina mtlb k ksko v dkh kr pglon k trh hsna,na jne y fr kb hga....ky hm y sb fr krpaenge....bdy clbrt,ek h rm p bth k 1 dusre s wtsap p bt krna...rat k 3-4 bje khna pkana....bina ksi mtlb k rat ko chilana....mlk pina...pgl jse hrkt krna..mlk ghumna....kaun mjhe apni kabiliat pr vrosa aur jyda hawa m udne pr zamin p lyga....mre khusi m sch m khus kn hga,mre gam m mjhse jyda dukhi kn hga....keh do doston y dubara kb hga....dil m ek kasak hoti h jb hr ankhein nam hti h,fir mlne k wade se hm ek dusre se juda hte h,kv na akle rhne wle dost bas yadon k sahare zndgi bitate h....lkn jb v y clg k din yad ate h ankhon m hasin aur ansu ek 7 late h...engnr bnne k khusi v ansu rok na pai ,q k njr aa rai t doston s judai...ab jo hna tha o ** gya akhir m sbse juda ** h gye....aj v un palon ko yad kr k ansun rok ni pte h ....nkl he jte h...aur yuhi lkh lkh k apko pka rai hn....char sal yu he gye hmri beet..ab khn mlnge wo dost wo mit...dua krt hn sb k ly race y zndgi k jao tm jit....

love-energy swinging toward bitter blows:
a father’s pride becomes a son’s,
he becoming bitter becoming hatred
in the midst of love abused,
a civil fight for freedom failing in the eyes of youth:
these minds of ours turn wildly—
change to the beat of unknown drums
and death knocks us up
pregnant with a new generation of hate,
of goals to love: the obliteration of hate’s mother,
but question on, worship your mind,
build a shrine of doubt and find
darkness emerging as a deeper shade of black
knowledge? knowledge?
myths laid upon us through the perspectival dimming of language
no one’s fault? societal pressures
no cause for blame? survival instincts
no source of evil? history has a gun to their head. . . .
no use for these words? meaningless.
dialogue, yes, for the birds,
the carrion of hope
once the breeding stops
and lets the precious journey start:
down the cesspool of quasi-oblivion,
where we’re all a minority of one,
grasping for meaning in an abyssm of phantasmal foundations.
words, words, the excuse of words;
when father’s left no ground to walk on,
the son sits there digging
ditches for the death of systems
holes in the fabric mother wore,
tears in the existence we thought we knew.

what is this about? question marks
swerving away from sour truth
bleeds the nonsense through the flesh of what we love
and dying, dying, hate becomes a source of love,
guilt projects a softened heart
kneeling down now
outside, but wanting in.
affirmed, dejected.

[OR
are they swerving away from faith
simply a defense against the actions to take
ontic procratstinator! hear me now!
safety is the goal behind every measure
seek danger and you run the dangers of comfort,
seek comfort, and delusion becomes your handmaid.]

for knowledge of past dogma is dogma too
and the heart pumps it anyway;
for existence is. O heart, your sutra
flows nimbly on into eternity,
but you take this life and live it now,
the rhythm born of a mystery,
sacred to the foolish,
sarkin to the wise—
and the dancing wise man
birthing a new enigma
travels on into the depths of the ordinary
with a smile and a bow,
a hop-skip like Nietzschean
melodrama.

I can write it once for fun,
twice for accuracy,
thrice for fame and ten more for shame.
Do you want to know what it’s about
or do you want to figure it out?
the game of pride makes fresh
the fish of mental seas;
but truth is less cozy;
dagger in your existential eye.

no conclusions to be embraced without the whim of faith?
no art show game gripe to win but for the game of taste?

this bout goes on, this Bout goes on! oh how I wish my mind was lacking!
but no! the sacrifice, but the sacrifice,
pigs of Aristotle knew no quarrell,
no such quarrell.

when does such a poem become a forced effort?  when will I stop questioning myself?
where is this urge to destroy originate?
what ******* language am I speaking in when I think?
what and why,
who the but questions, questions
falling spiking holes in teh floor of contentment
or is it laziness: should I tak emy e pick now or wa itf ort he rig htto **** newith mystic alllllllllllll certainty from be yo ndt he fen ceof lan gua ge.

why go back? why try?
the difference between communication and self-indulgent writing is the effort to conform to the extent necessary for the sharingof truth... and so nobility demands conformity, however long it takes and however wonderful it may be in the mean time to simply spill my fingers across the trypesu ritre lia shjkk e a A b B i IG load o f ***... as if the hiddenness of deconstucted language masked my immaturity as a poet, as a person, as a thinker, as a wallower in shame.  as a Man. as a *** machine. as a weak creature. as a creature of potentially great accomplishments but small ***** at the present, as a person hiding from the said for fear of having to live up to it, as one who doesn’t believe his words half the time, even noe, ever noer rht all suiooos  dhjhjh tuof rhty w arbif trya dfyoudng huddkkfkd fmdmf dfdlililhkjga wyeruipok smmm tuhtuth dgfhg dagdh f dhajkdf  fuduudjjd fh d hdhhd bit b not n tno totot t ototot  read read read read read read read read read reda dnrenadkf leadsd fhdus duig hgjhdf dh sdmf sialdihf duf dreioan ign udfin the dh diguicse of hjtkjh heioa never heros heilike hte  e9a 1 1 ih kj n h ogma doifj hedOLvever otitoto the  ososososririrroow ww dance waiting at the librasyer renckjh c concon con iejr a  goodo excucse to t constraint no nt rot th even dfhight hwith th d dear on the all ndklfn eh fh searching thioart worthless buthen I find htheihadf htis hivoih Valid dfkdljhf jhkajh yea it s i kjh Lavlls ishn Vadildld meaning ngon woven into nonesense nd fnidoijifj bJar in Tennessiossdnohf  a freww few deletes and the important words become clear however taxing on an hypothetical reader from the future in which I do hope to become g”reat” half-heartily,  though for show.  .  .and the experience of writing is revealed through the laziness, or tiredness, of a recent graduate trying to write something meaningful after a summer of passion and *** and drugs and resentment toward the family and the sad economic advice given him.

Someone lives in a cave
eating his toes,
I know that much.
Someone little lives under a bush
pressing an empty Coca-Cola can against
his starving bloated stomac,
I know that much.
A monkey had his hands cut off
for a medical experiment
and his claws wept.
I know tht much.

I know that it is all
a matter of hands.
Out of the mournful sweetness of touching
comes love
like breakfast.
Out of the many houses come the hands
before the abandonment of the city,
out of hte bars and shops,
a thin file of ants.

I've been abandoned out here
under the dry stars
with no shoes, no belt
and I've called Rescue Inc. -
that old-fashioned hot line -
no voice.
Left to my own lips, touch them,
my own nostrils, shoulders, *******,
navel, stomach, mound,kneebone, ankle,
touch them.

It makes me laugh
to see a woman in this condition.
It makes me laugh for America and New York city
when your hands are cut off
and no one answers the phone.

a broken mirror a bleeding fist
a silver blade against a wrist
tears falling down to lips unkissed
ignore her and she wont exist
she's not hte kind you'll come to miss

**(c.m.h)

Truth is the ultimate central illusion
When found can unveil
a disappearance that allows
me to exist at all
asbotule simrepertations
arbegkin odnw
hte the real aler

i am cottongrass

in a field
so lightheaded

im sleeping alone

and i am alive
            aliv e
                 ali ve
                                                ali vlight
                              al lii gv hte

a i            e

I write slightly intoxicated.
Maybe it's from tge *****.
Or maybe it's from you r kisses.
Or the way you felt on that rooftop.
All I now is I've not felt like this for a long while.
And you seem to know everything I could need.
Kissing you makes me high.
Touching you gets me drunk.
You touching me.
Holding me.
Well that's almost enought to make me passs out.
What am was I saying,
Oh, yeah
You make me feel really quite special.
Intoxicated
And it's not just hte ***** talking.

Let the wordse flow, don't even care if hte spellin is right,
don't look back, not for a second.
Consume your own face today,
lean not on your own understanding
but on every mouth
from the word of God's divine understatement.
I love you so, oh I do, I must,
because nothing can inhibit my
love it flows free like a wave on the rocks
the tempest. You are to me
the unending sea
of love that pours
forth over the agony
I love to live in every day.
I am a wretch and my face is torn from stern to stem.
Where are you my darling? you are right here.
Give me not one look of nothing, give me only
bursts of something. I want from you one true thing, and that is meaning.
Do not tarry. Fill me with joy for this once in my life.
**** away all my depraved mad man mind, filled with irrational tribulational and hallucinational enemies
and ardent forms of torture.
Let me breathe for this once in my life.

I love you. I loven you. I lover you.
My passion should be locked away in a cage
it rages forth
like a lion in the sun
who knows no fear from
bird or snake or fowl fish or beast nor any set before it.
Let me trample you with love.
Give me no shred of pain for my deliverance has come.
Let me soak myself in your personassssssssLet me drink
to the depths of your mind.
Wash over me,
for I am unclean and thirsty, and so in-need of drowning.
give no second glance
at my scarred and writhing paws,
bound with thorns.
I am a creation of my own mind.
I am the uncircumcised bone tissue
that sits on the table and turns to dust
as the rains beat down with fury and rage.

Bleed me dry,
allow not a single trace of resistance from me,
take everything till I am nothing left at all.
Squeeze me into a shadow of what I once was,
for that is all I am.
A shadow,
give me life, give me shelter
within your soul,
let me hide away in your belly.
Do not force me out,
I am blind
and the world is soooooooooooo cold.
Do not let me detach from your face.
It brings me light like no other,
do not let me walk away in anger,
please for the love of God remind me that I love you.
That I know no happiness,
that cruelty has been my shadow,
that misery has followed me to the ends of the earth.
Show me again where my joy comes from.
Do not let me destroy myself by forsaking you.
I love, it is all I can do in such times.
I am trapped within myself.
Myself, and not you.

Lief is flul of all srots of imprefections;
Nnoe of which shuold hnider uor ovreall msesaeg;
knidnses, preseverance and unedrstanding is hte kye.

he was set like daggers
in the teeth of the world but
those shaking eyes have lost
their luster because you are
gone. you have skinned him and
left him to be grape vines and dried
leaves. he is not hte alcohol, we can
no longer get drunk off of him. you
are. and you took him and molded
him into a chalice to fill with your
wine. your wine that tastes stale
without the billowing swell of his
sweetly fermented words.
but he has lost the stars, someone
****** them out of his marrow; he
smirks now with less of the divine
glow of eden and more that
of a carcass, the dead body of the last
words you said to him. do not apologize.
he is far gone.
you can tell by the way
his fingers tremble and the way
the wit is empty
the blood is empty
the soul is empty.
come back.

.yeah, cultural darwinism, cultural relativism, moral relativism, and the inherent outcome of jurisprudence subjecitivity akin to the jussie smollett case... i once travelled to kenya, didn't grow an afro... hard a complerte hard-on for this ivory beauty, than looked like melting chocolate in the moonlight, and you know, it being africa, east africans are much lighter than west africans, and i spent an entire night, on a hammock, admiring the indian ocean battering the coast, crying... **** me, it was beautiful, i guess i needed no better outlet to justify my claim of reserving myself the chance to experience beauty; some "things", are just better experienced during the night, anti-voyeurism, i.e. when you're aware of other people being asleep. ivory beauty? what?! i wasn't looking for a ******* belgian chocolatier, i was looking at the pearls in her mouth... what?! that's suddenly "bad"? so there's no variant of, said language, to be subject to the expression of finding the crux of endearing?! no? none... no wonder i spent most of the time shying from the sun, emerging for a game of ping-pong, some coffee and cognac, while spending most of the time on the balcony, feeding macaques peanuts, while also admiring a pirate baboon's hemorrhoids double-*** pink, ***... no, not other humanoid comparisons, actual macaques, baboons, and ivory beauties smoking ****... i wish i stayed, and sang along to a verse from t.o.t.o., but the heat got to me, i don't even want to know how the colonial english managed to survive the heat... cognac, coffee, and looking for a shaded place; i met a Muhammad though... he wanted to show me his crocodile farm, i guessed he was a shoe guy, i declined... i only encountered the paranoia of being inclined to take up the proposition a year later... now it's just funny, compared with the current ******* intra ****? being placed back on the food-chain hierarchy, doesn't feel, that bad... i'd rather be eaten by some animal, than be forced into an eating-machine of a person's Minotaur's worth of ego, in a labyrinth of "thought" and social credentials, associated to a hierarchy / pyramid... "repenting" white guy... said the afro-american who would never visit africa, because of the whole fiasco... surrounded by a tourist-status, mentality; **** me, i went to Kenya, to play hide & seek roulette with the sun.

that god-awful moment when
you have just lit
a cigarette,
   but then some random thought
falls into your lap of a day's
   worth of thought...
thought, yeah: rarity verb,
shapeless void, when in the act,
of thinking:
absolutely zero
geometric explanation,
other than a: big 'ed....
and that only sticks for
a while, before you're subjected
to peruse further...
        why is it coincidental,
that, the current,
existential crisis,
   in the anglophonic-sphere
of "things",
is weighed down,
so heavily,
   with darwinian poetics?
   cultural-darwinism is
rife, in its format of expression...
this isn't individualistic
existential pointers to be
minded, akin to Kierkegaard,
Nietzsche, late-bloomers
akin to Sartre or Heidegger...
the former?
      quantum mechanics,
****** quest...
           lived with his mother,
had a partner ***
              ****...
and the rest of the jazz...
if asked to
  draw a straight line:
he'd digress into a mimic
of james joyce,
   literature, no paragraph:
but that was just
hte tip of the ice-berg...
no punctuation markers...
sober as a judge:
but ego "tripping"...
    back when existentialism
was sourced in individuals,
it attracted a frictive delay
on the en masse scale...
but now there's a hive
mentality,
            pushing against
any individualistic endeavours
that might stand-out,
since when was
continental existentialism,
compatible with darwinism?
ever?
     before i finish writing this,
that once lit,
but suddenly put-out
out cigarette will translate
itself into a slightly wet
tobacco fusion of my lips,
saliva, and a soaked filter...
and it will almost resemble
the first gulp of an english
ale, i.e. bitter...
  which i like...
after all... budweiser?
   honestly? not a decent beer,
where are the hops,
the bitterness?
   it must be due to the asian
influence, fermenting from
rice...
          beer?                  rice?
oh thank god i don't really
have that much to brag about...
being exposed to the cultural
undercurrents,
while satisfying myself
to the counter-culture
of the 1960s with the Beatniks...
my my,
    like wearing a mismatched
pair of socks...
but what is pervading...
is to source darwinism as the sole
poetics available,
the only explanation to counter
the rigidity of 20th century's
existentialism...
     how the "debate" has shifted,
it's no longer a question of
free will, but whether choice
is free...
     i drink,
   i don't know how to drive
a car, i know how to ride
a horse,
i don't gamble,
           i'm a parody uncle...
rather than a nagging aunt...
it's still bewildering,
   the current grip on the anglophone
culture...
  when the continental thinkers
were at their zenith,
in the 20th century,
everything was just plain dandy
over in england and england's
"elsewhere"...
    now? a catch-up game
for intellectuals, journalists
and all pseudo- and anti-
          of the respected fields...
i just don't think that darwinism
is a worthwhile estimate
of a crutch, a crux,
a walking stick...
        the almost deity status
of darwinism:
   as the sole explanatory
tour de force...
   all i'm seeing is:
not the dissatisfaction of
making an argument,
   rather:
    a dissatisfying argument
to begin with!
   reality escapism is not exactly
on the cards,
   what is on the cards,
is a lost sense of
   reasonableness,
    "oddly" enough,
   i too see the whole prospect
of a judgement of solomon,
the manic woman
throwing herself at the child
to be a lie,
    i would have went
for the woman pointing to
her stone cold heart,
in that gustave doré
etching...
            **** the baby,
given the modern climate
of abortion and
me thinking i just performed
a genocide, ******* into
toilet paper while doing
the no. 1, 2: and the subsequent 3
on the throne of thrones...
   this movement,
mgtow?
       it's an extension akin
to that manic street preachers
lyric: walking abortion(s)...
looks like 20th century
existentialsm wasn't ugly enough,
sure, sure, playing a waiting
game from the 19th century
instigators,
   now, oh hell,
   now we get to reap the benefits
of their angst!
but does darwinism help?
no... not really...
it just bypasses dialectics,
shortens the route for both
argument (thesis)
   and counter-argument (antithesis),
seemingly obvious,
but this blatant need make "revisions",
upon the canvas of
the natural order...
   was man, ever the justifiable
entanglement of nature,
standing before a mirror
of that nature,
    and not made certain
counters, at best,
justifying them with counterfeit?
        how will darwinism
suddenly extract an existential
solution to all the current
    existential qualms,
i will never know,
   but to me?
   darwinism is simply, nothing more,
than poetics for the up-coming
existentialists in the anglophone
world...
          the easily available...
also:  
     bother,
   why bother with opinions,
unshakeable facts,
when you have to be made
to be: excused?
             where's the dialectic?
rather: where's all that
requires there to be conversation,
i.e. reasonableness?
    right, right,
the madmen of a given society
are supposed to be
the reasonable ones,
while the children of sanity
play their little games,
until,
     there are no longer
any worthwhile games
                                          to play?
i tried, i failed,
time for another shot of bourbon,
or as i like to call it...
the perfumery apex of
translation -
   the whiff of scents,
       from a brothel.

Aboard this wide
lumbering beast,
we pass through miles of mist
Fog rising of the sea;
a long warm exhale
leaving our hair and our coats damp.

In our insulated passage
the trees hardly notice us
these hearty coastal forests
lost in thought
staring out over hte dark water,
staring back across centuries.

I wonder
what the eyes of these pine have seen
how many times
have the delighted in the breaching of a humpback,
watched with amusement
as the fat seals sun themselves on the rocks,
bulbous bodies glistening and jostling above the water
or held their breath
s they feel the encroaching silence
that precedes the armada of black fins
slicing smoothly through the glassy water.

I was told everyone is two people to each of us.
Who we know them to be in our heads
and who they are.

Does it hold true when its to deep to tread?
When we seek othersi n hte recesses of their hearts
and not just in comfort.

Backstrokes are appealing when we cannot see fathoms.
What does the sky tell us of reefs and wrecks.
Practice breathing.

Beneath the waves light only travels so far.
That which is strange lurks in darker seas.
Bring a light.

Like streets you've traversed too often to need maps
we swim at ease in waters which only hold the known and no more.
Make charts.

We told myths and made statues of conquistadores.
Named places which held other names with abandon.
Do not fear exploration.

How many seas have you KNOWN if you only visit beaches.
Take deep breathes. Plan precautions. Temper forgiving and learning.
Plunge into depths.

If you don't by know as of yet whom I refer to as X'yzzzzzzzzzleeeping, you will soon enuf; is rare that I can go there so well even on occasion for the destruction; 5th dimensional gifts running backwards Houdini by grave doing back-flips for along with the Heart's of David Copperfield types wanting to know how can we pick up a few of these tricks, in other lifetimes my type pick up many places along of course through Kemet's of Egypt, and not so far back but is where I had to go on the endless effort of trying to find the magical child already gone by first of memories and I thought woot hoot I could juggle the woes oh humanity or inhumanity as I see know you know by justification of I don't see any more or less innocence or guilt round here but if there such a great need I when I saw it and figged I cud get through it it was love for wat else could there be and I do be and fill so much very need; but X'yzz....ah 'um once there was Shakespeare an era wrapping up by befalling heads wanting bread of whom exclaimed well if those are their terms and conditions 'Let'em eat cake' ergo and or our newer foundations; but as far as I knew it and I wondered and pondered how why wherefore before someone who seems projections of who dare be Queen or Princess, more than aristocratic the vine of genetics KISS keep it simple silly why war for this nonsensical stuff; it's not the decadent decedent's but off Divine Spirit; well money power sure can keep well hidden powers and you can hmmm get along for a spell but here a spell there a spell with each castle Humpty Dumpty oh well; but now again is the Globe again along with Life the stage we are cast upon truly; and it's time for our own era's Renascence; but last I knew her truly with all gifts 5th dimensional her and her darkly companion too now here they are onto 22 years and still you can't honor it and I guess they just want spouses dead not more than one way 'bout it they are try to out wait and hate me; hahaha but by me I've taught them all they and know matter who they turn against me 10k in a court room dey'd not dare a step by one however remember Howard Hughes I'd say I always love and  though too I am your one and only and best friend indeed even I know I am your enemy, no matter what you say believe think and even feel, but I love to play nice like thrice no mines about it and give all overly good information and fairer than fair warnings; and they gather darkly more about into their hypnotic spells castings, kinda crazy all dead set against me when last to save their own as'ses the're were some identity issues and class type things but they were known as good in the end and yet we ajve yet again to begin; 'dey don'y know themselves not even by here now this lifetime alone, black art denialists wooing all about with sugary treaty's they bark bark but if they bit hte wrong cat here to hard their teeth would fall out; yet and the roots seeded here now for the better part of the show with new edit-eers producers rolling arts in I know I will I can I see these things always before they appear and blood bearing beings near on ain't willing give or take some where and billions of years the dust rocks and trees already are on; and all kinds of well you know  what we've got going round now along with a time to come from the woods of our hidings and out from the fear to be gods birth right citizen we played a lot of silly games of peeka boo pretend ain't heaven ain't here the list is long we know all to well