My father used to bring home kites
from Pakistan,
made out of colorful paper
and thin sticks.

Mine was pink and blue,
and caught my eye as soon
as it was taken out.
It was beautiful,
and i imagined it soaring through
the skies,
viewable from all the houses in town.

The yarn was grey,
and had minuscule shards of glass
woven within it.
My father told me that it was for kite fighting,
the way they used to do it from the rooftops
of the villages.

One would fly the kite
and the other would be in charge of the spool.
Together, they would change altitudes
and attempt to cut other kite strings.
The last kite left in the air would be the winner.

And my mind would run to those rooftops,
the very sand ridden rooftops he had described.
Imaginarily controlling the kite
with a friend handling the spool behind me.
Together winning the kite fighter crown,
and my father being proud of his only son.

All while i lay in bed,
with a grand imagination,
and not a single clue
on how to make the last thought a reality.

Yassou, I say to you in poetry,
To the 'Alive Poets' Society',
Here is one for your fantasies,
Make love with one feather-erotically,
But with a whole chicken, well, like, *****!
Run that past your thoughts, imaginarily,
Making love like that, immaculately,
Definitely one for your fantasies,
Using a whole chicken, well, like, *****!
Yassou, one of the 'Alive Poets' Society'!

talking exhaust writing, talking leaves no impetus to write,
talking is like staring into a closet or a boiler room,
there are fumes of missed chances, or of shadowy skeletons
asking for a revision of the social etiquette no made:
what is the quasi-dialectics modern society prescribes
nudging in a lie with a lie followed by another lie?
whatever the defining term, it only prescribes a loss of furthering
discussion, empowering this etiquette with solipsism;
or there this overly psychologised parent thesis,
this morbidity of the lost beauty of language, fixated
on guarantees of never being undermined - it stinks of
excluding all other uses of language, or it simply tries to
incorporate them under the banner that history, poetry, philosophy,
physics can be psychologised into one affordable use of language,
which is why when i write psychological words i am greatly pained,
e.g.:

a bit like probing someone’s subconscious for a quick
memory stimulant: in a shop two friends
passed the isles,
the music shop was blasting creedence clearwater revival...
with the song cotton fields being used
as the adequate prop for the experiment...
when i was a little bitty baby
my mama would rock me in the cradle,
in them old cotton fields back home;
it was down in louisiana
just about a mile from texarkana,
in them old cotton fields back home -*
buzzing, looking for dvds of gone girl and some science fiction
movie...
the music in the background wasn’t discussed...
but the revival of the vinyls in a corner was admired...
34 quid for the beatles’ white album... *******...
and cornershops’ brimful of asha lazy instrument at 70£...
then some tea and café awkward flirtation...
then to the pub!
two pints down the gob and the quizzical stutter gone...
the sort that means you thought for very long
and didn’t speak to someone for a long time...
nerves of caffeine and nicotine with the boogie wagon...
so yeah... prodding memory in the subconscious
as short-term, meaning long-term in the waking hour defines
the personality among other faculties of the membered brain,
whether that’s liver, kidney or lung... the brain troops
them into the body on the northern korean march sport of the army...
some say the chinese will come with a pigeon or a crane strut...
no geese in pseudo-hindu affiliations of order...
memory and the third party from sleep to wake?
how many dreams could you actually remember with the alarm clock ringing?
about none...
i wake without the alarm clock... and when waking i have a strange
dream in the 5 minutes of the snooze button imaginarily pressed...
the general anaesthetic isn’t death... because under general anaesthetic
you don’t actually dream... it’s chemical not even remotely natural.
so that part where i exclaimed: to the pub!
some landscapist on the wall with full biography lamenting
the curses of the french revolution and how the aristocracy suffered
with the new aristocracy of the newly rich... the merchants
the shoelace tiers... the cobblers and the chieftains of the cooking ***,
‘yeah, chicken hearts in onion sauce have the consistency of squid rings,’
and so... in the olden thou art a battered beetroot cheek...
this landscapist wrote four clauses about ol’ *** village known today
as gidea park... he swore that he noticed chalky graffiti
of vituperativeness... he said: no chore of violence was revealed,
since the graffiti was sworn as an oath to dig into the coal mines of melancholic bile
and simply vandalise the new aristocrats’ possessions
with words of cursing chiseled in by chalk, of the newly rich
who never passed their gains through blood but rather through molten iron or sporty leather - but you know what they say:
the merchant of mecca dies... the blood heirs become assassinated
and the four caliphs (the rashidun) emerge.
only poets have the courage to return to the beginnings
of language acquisition - they dare to mishandle language
and by mishandling it dare to usurp prosaic grammar structures,
only poets have the courage to return to the beginnings
of language acquisition, singing the alphabet:
a b c d e f g... h i j... k... el em en l o p... q r s... t u v... w x blah blah z (
with a quasi incy wincy spider timing).
that's what i mean! i hate psychologism and psychological
words in general, they literally domineer people,
it's like the jungian theory of the collective unconscious...
it's like we're supposed to remember the archetypes...
but the unconscious has no memory-content...
given the fact that the unconscious is pure imagination...
since we dream... i don't know how we remember dreams...
but it's hardly in our sleep but upon waking...
a thin red line though... 'tshh... mayday mayday...
boeing 747 flight no. 209zt is going to crash...
black box on the ready, over and out... tshh,'
unless the memory function in the unconscious is to
remember the image sequence that are dreams
upon waking... thin red line though...
oh no... how did i get tangled in this psychology *******
once again?!
unwind! i walked home in the cool autumn
wearing just a shirt...
down a very english road of haunted houses of satiated
materialism... the colour patterns of flowers
still not stampeded by winter in blush violet and indigo...
amorous chequers of flamingos and oranges...
and the sunset with a 10 - 1 bet against it...
with the moon just behind the corner of the sky
looming hazes of cloudy cider sky of the northern dark.

Its dark. Buzzing of voices zoom and echo about the tunnel. Quacking and rumbling are my insides until churned splat into roadkill. Even the vultures prefer not to feast upon my limp, ****** corpse.

I'm not me anymore, I can't remember what she was like. I read somewhere that memory loss can develop from Depression, otherwise I've developed a subconscious talent for suppressing meaningless occurrences. Bravo.

Death couldn't save me, be lucky if It could. Combine Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd along with Where is My Mind by The Pixies to generally summarize the agony i feel.
Teen angst and un-satisfaction.
A crave unfed, a thirst unquenched.
I've been beaten to the point where I enjoy it, I practically lust for it.

Life and happiness are imaginarily irrelevant. I don't want it, I never did.
I want to feel, whatever. I've been numb for too long. Almost a year by September.

Dear God, spare me will ya?
I forget, I'm an Atheist.

I’m so afraid to transform
Away from what I know
Or what I think I know
Into something I don’t
Something foreign
I must protect
That for which is known
And has been known
For if I choose to dive in
If I choose to go where my body says yes but my mind says no
Who will I be?

Surely not who I think I am
So then why the distress?
Why the anxiety?
Mind aka the hesitation
Surely knows me best
But I know it doesn’t
So behind the mind I am
Feeling the hesitancy
…So the hesi isn’t me

I already am
And I have no definition
I cannot be defined
Because who I am isn’t known
It can’t be written down
It can’t be explained
There aren’t words
Because I can transform
I can shift
My reality alters into what intrigues my mind and thus my body needs
So holding onto a definition of me doesn’t make sense
*** it’s only 1 definition
In the midst of multiple definitions
It’s open ended
My definitions continue to come to fruition
I am the seed
Sprouting into the fruit
Becoming a tree
Becoming what it desires to become
There is no definition
To what I am
For I am what feels right to become
And what feels right has no label
No, those don’t feel right
Because labels mean definition
And I can’t be defined
I have physical characteristics
I have thoughts
I have morals
But I have no definition
I can’t be defined
Only refined
And I will re-find out my definition every time I allow myself to transform n fruition
That’s how I am then defined
Not by my past, ego-defined definition of myself
But by each step forward past that definition
I am re defined
And I grow
And I continue to grow
So my consciousness rises and rises far above my head for which it currently resides
Or hides
Or desires to get out of but is held back by that initial definition of myself

But who am I?
I can’t be defined
I can’t be explained
Well I can
But only by the most recent medium of growth I so choose to allow happen
So technically my definition is everything up to the present moment
We stay ahead of our definitions
It’s behind us
Holding us up
Like a wall
To fall back on if we need
But also to block us from creating a larger definition, a stronger wall
Yet it’s not really blocking us because it’s behind us

---The same thing that props us up is the same thing we choose to put in front of us and thus imaginarily holds us back---

There is nothing blocking us from going forward
It’s an open canvas
Blank space to create
The definition continues
Your wall gets stronger
It doesn’t stop at a certain point
…Well it can
If you let it
…But that means you stopped experiencing
You stopped experimenting
You stopped growing
And you can now be ultimately defined
Your chapter is over
You’ve become a word
Something with a definitive answer
Strictly defined
Easy to remember
A flash card of sorts
Easily memorized
Boring
Done

Don’t be done
Don’t become a word
Written over and done with
Tucked away
Redefine your definition
So you’re never done
You can never be written about and clearly defined
Until you physically are no longer here
Then when you are done here
Your definition is so long
Your definition is so hard to describe
You are no longer a word
But you are the dictionary

They will try to make you a word
Try to put you in a box
This is who you are
And if they know who you are
They can manipulate you
They can set laws to keep you you
They can create boundaries status quo’s and social norms to keep you you
Because the external world will change, and if you remain static, fixed within, if you remain in definition, you will stay inside the box for which the greater powers have created
*** when we are internally bound by definition, we too are bound by the definitions of society
And we can no longer enjoy the game
We succumb to the game
We succumb to the rules set on us
And when we succumb
We are controlled
We are no longer free

So do not succumb
Don’t be complacent
You are not bound
You cannot be defined
Only redefined  

Make them upset
Make them struggle
*** while they waste their time trying to define
You continue to redefine
And you stay ahead of the game
While the pons are chasing
Trying to keep up
*** now you’re not just playing the game, you’re winning

Poetry
Silence
And so loud
Screams of joy and agony
Even whispers too
Living loud
Imaginarily
Poetry can do

It's true! All my lovers died.
Failure to meet the fantasy contrived.
Fabricated identities swept aside.
Only a reality in which to abide.

Really, to no surprise;
I find myself lonely.
My rouse, casted disguise.
Imaginary 'only'.
My bastion of 'lies'.
Who is the 'phony'?
Rose-tinted eyes.

They get nothing from me.
Nary even the tiniest glint.
I reward them with apathy.
They dutifully serve this stint.

Hoarding, another's mint.
My failures in me.
Covetous greed and glint.
Desire for a possibility.
Promises to keep, I didn't.
Failure to accept reality.
Unreciprocated emails, sent.

Love is the drug I'm looking for.
Fabrications manifest to adore.
An imaginarily brokered store.
Yet, inside is where i need more.

Instead of an ideal killed by reality.

There is, in the bath, not time, but moments
That stretch out with transparent reflections,
So days echo through splashes and silence.
Dreams, memories and conversations
Stream, imaginarily from the tap;
The gushing senses rushing into descent
To dive downwards, down from the gaping gap.
There is, in the bath, not time, but moments.
Fears festering in depths and splashes heard
In this wet pit where memory filthies
Words with worries and shapeless world with words.
Then stand, streaming steam and vapour leaving,
Those thoughts forgotten beyond believing.

I’ve invited myself in
To an imagination *******
Gonna get me sum
And give it my best
In the beautiful man fest
I’ve created just for me
Imaginarily
I go as far as it can
In every fantasy