I loved you in the timeless hours
of a dark city.
In the morning, who you were
had been replaced;
the people that we were together
no longer there.
All the memories erased, so you
could love somebody new.

But the shadow of you still lingers
incompletely;
wandering through my slideshow memories
like the glimpse of your eyes fleeting
round the carousel.
A flash under the cinema lights,
over before it began.

Now I'm on someone else's mind
but I'm still under you
in mine.

I FALL full length into all life,
And my lust for living roars within me.
No pleasures in the world can equal
The stupendous joy of one who can't tell it
Except by rolling on the ground in the grass and the daisies,
Mingling with the dirt until his suit and hair are ***** . . .
There are no verses that can grant this.
Pluck a blade of grass, bite into it, and you will understand,
You will completely understand what I incompletely express.
I crave to be a root
Pursuing my inner sensations like a sap . . .
I'd like to have all the senses -- including
My intellect, imagination and inhibition --
On my skin's surface so that I could roll over the rough ground
More deeply within, feeling more roughness and bumps.
I'd be satisfied if my body were my soul,
For only then would all winds, all suns and all rains
Be felt by me in the way I'd like.
This being impossible, I despair, I rage,
I wish I could gnash at my suit
And have a lions tough claws to rip at my flesh
Until the blood would flow, flow, flow, flow  . . .
I suffer because all of this is absurd,
As if I could scare somebody
With my hostile feeling toward destiny, toward God,
Which arises when we confront the Ineffable
And suddenly perceive our weakness and smallness.

i sexually identify as the 28 degree january breeze sneaking through your cracked window at 5am

one time a school of fish said to me, "everything will be fine. we promise. just hang around longer."

it was mid-june, i believed them

one time i tweeted, "you have so much undiscovered depth. you are an ocean,"
referring to my gay friend who is known for being sassy and, well, gay
and not for what he really is
or what he's worth

anyway, someone replied to it
"you're a cork in the ocean"
and to this day i still think about what the **** that even means
but its poetic sounding and i like it
i guess

we are all the **** of a great cosmic joke
and i am not me anymore
i'm a hurricane aftermath
it swept away all the worth i had left
and here i am,
incompletely resolute

my favourite shade of orange is the one leaves turn before they commit suicide and if that doesn't say something about my personality then i don't know what does

all i'm trying to say is that
the grass is green for a reason and it turns brown and ugly sometimes but it always goes back to how it was before and i need you to promise me that you'll hold on

My stomach is filled with molten things, but I will be able to feel more love than you ever will. Inside my stomach and throat pipes the hate remains incompletely digested. Our bodies cannot digest our own blood.
There happens to be silt film foaming on top like the fate of a desecrated porcelain sink, a vessel that ceases to be drained. This vessel will always be able to feel more pain than you ever will. The depth of feeling is all that there can be.

so this nun mary from the school
of the sisters of notre dame
(dame or Dane?) had her brain removed
and probed: full of plaques and entanglements,
advanced Alzheimer's the coroner said,
aged 101 the brain,
yet up to her death no symptoms of the disease...
she was one of 678 subjects of the nun study,
American experiment genesis 1986 a.d.,
(journalism is really a true ally of poetry),
the 678 were told to write a character assassination
in range between poetry and diary (in their 20s),
"low idea" density they did produce,
but like Sister Anastasia: an amazing poppy-seed cake.
indeed dementia, the western medical anxiety,
10% of people over 60 and 50% of those over 85,
the grey plague i call it (grey matter, no
vermin scuttling about);
men are particularly less at the risk,
long gone the vogue of smoking tobacco -
could have asked the Apache indians about
peace-pipes long into their 90s... but no.
Aloysius Alzheimer / Oppenheimer
discovered the anti-ego unit and the atom bomb
with the neuron, in the latter case the 'd'uh' gene...
cave in the vowels on discretion
saying 'y Dinosaur kno'w, but i saw
a big mushroom boom' caving in meaning they
have to sound more hollow than you thought before
(the vowels, the vowels)...
like the article states, is it really a dis-ease?
i.e. a negation of ease? only if you found learning
at school to be torture and equipped with
a mentality for menial tasks like sunset on a monday
or summer 1904 so too summer of 2014...
no dementia in the giant Galapagos turtles,
they outlive us and still have a brain-rate
on a scale of: take one step here, plop a **** there...
lettuce, lettuce, lettuce... munching this greenery
will take forever! indeed the backlog of libraries of
knowledge and the result of those pioneer futilities
never tapped, still fucky fucky, toow dollar sucky sucky
on the cranium donning a crown.
the rest of the article concerning 4 inches closer
between the finger that dipped into peanut butter
(a closed mouth, eyes, and one nostril)
and identification of nature's diarrhoea (mm those
crunchy bits of fungi and corn undigested) -
but i'd tell you the experiment is faulty,
the peanut butter served up probably wasn't warmed up,
sense of smell and gaseous imprints, like
chlorine the disinfectant in public swimming pools...
not watching television a big give-away,
leisure time spent watching Plato's cave
at 27% of the sigma elsewhere and 18% by those
not afflicted...
then there's the whole dementia diabetes debate,
vegetables versus fruits... vegetables win...
Alzheimer's (also known as type 3 diabetes)...
imagine a creature coerced into disbelieving the
existence of water, and that alcohol is water
and a hamburger, that's me...
remember that nuns are cloistered yet sociable...

general hardbacks
1. the unmumsy mum (50,195 examples sold)
2. how it works: the mum (119,830 examples sold)
3. how it works: the husband (312,910 examples sold)

general paperbacks
1. the road to little dribbling (68,270 examples sold)
2. SPQR (26,765 examples sold)
3. the shepherd's life (61,000 examples sold)

want the fiction statistics of the publishing industry?
here goes:

fiction hardbacks
1. the last mile (4,190 examples sold)
2. private paris (3,225       "             "  )
3. predator (22,430            "             "  )

fiction paperback
1. career of evil (16,865    "              " )
2. the girl in the spider's web (55,625 examples sold)
3. make me (127,395 examples sold)

so there's that and there's the 148 diaries found in a skip
(a life discarded): apparently only 148 diaries remained
from a total of 1,000, the universal truth after seeing
Iolanthe, running incompletely from 1952 (Cambridge),
a "true thing" at 30 words per minute ranging between
1 and 3 hours of composition daily (handwritten,
imagine writing with a keyboard ***,
hand-crafted in Israel, yes the *** is an Israeli invention),

so there's that, all the intellectuals bits and bobs,
but there's also:
#instawoman: 'mostly non-fiction - so i keep
them in the loo. a paragraph is better than nothing,
even if it takes me five years to finish a book.
agony aunt "mrs. mills'" replies to modern truffles
(sorry, trivialities): my b/f wants to have ***
on trains on the Glaswegian side of scotland
bit tipsy bit turvy (turdy?) and popping to do likewise
on the Cornish coastline, her reply?
****** pervert... fetishism (Freud believed)
derived from a man's unconscious terror of once
having stuck his head out of his mother's ******...
(hey! my bladder man! my ****! that ****
didn't develop till i was outside that annoying
oven / aquarium!) - so she replies and says:
whisper "the seven o'clock London Liverpool St.
to Norwich", and as my own input:
for a premature *******.

that's Sunday sorted then.

there's so much dust in me,
dusk, and the rust,
lust and the dusk in me,
to set me alight, on fire-

so much smoke and
cold and loneliness,
the seething emptiness,
and the hollow mornings;
for the sun to rise-

the hurt in me,
always hurting me-

the words in me,
never in the right sequence
or picture;

the elegance to be,
to be, or not-
a million years of
evolution and scriptures;

mixture of chaos,
and visitors;
with their pain,
with their home,

with their bombs,
and with their gones

bones and skeletons,
sharks and teeth;

seeds and forests,
just ready to burn;
to set me alight, on fire.

As the rain batters the car
sighs born in a
love/hate stalemate
weigh down the air

Forests surround the parking
lot, protecting
our thoughts, nothing
saves me from you

Words spoken incompletely
float in the clouds
of sad warm breath
and ghosts turned to flesh

Limbs untangle and reach for
the moon, stereo
cherubs sing tunes
of sweet death metal

Stuck in my head with this sickle hanging low
Within the forest of music
Nestled empty under a cradle of nature
Empty chest choked with the guilt
Quivering lips forget the words
Left incomplete as you go
The tranquil grove is no more
As the stars rain down like tears often do
The light shining above me is nothing special
This razor extinguishes the pain
The swirling blue embers reminding me of you
But you are not here by me
And now I swim in the creek
The current is pulling me into the abyss
I see no reason to comply
And the sanctified caress of the grass is warming
All I ever knew was you, and now I don't know myself
I don't want to go
What choice is there in this grief
Surrounded by the maggots and butterfly
Shrouded in your vibration
Your shoulders are so strong
I wish this was all I had to be
The anger is so primal and unforgiving
You are coming to terms and resenting me
Why should I try at the cemetery
Crawling around I'm wasted in the undertow
What was it you had to say
I just want to feel normal
Now it's too late
I'll hang onto those murmured words
Even though in this twilight I am to blame

Falling slowly,
hands held tightly
spinning spinning
round and round

Easy turning
whirling, yearning
please don't let
me down

Quickly hiding,
worlds colliding
I can not
confess

Driving sweetly
incompletely
I am under
duress

here i am
pondering human existence
and loneliness;
such a universally desolate moment;
i am here.
to question the matters of
who i am, where i am
and why am i
i started the moment i start;
at the briefest encounter of warmth
i retract myself completely.

knowing that to know
is knowing too much
i realized i am emptied
a void of knowledge;
incompletely, i drift on
like the sputnik II.
as it orbits the earth
without a meaning
without a song,

and what does it see
when laika looks out
to the vast darkness?
what does it think?
these
are the questions
of my sleepless nights.

When you look to the pretty lights in the sky
You'll see all the reds, oranges, yellows, and blues
Galaxies spread out, floating
A spinning waltz, coordinated, gravitational
Nonlinear on strings, time infinite

Wish upon all those stars
Colors I can't even see
Let them have their partners
Relationships into themselves
Numbers stretch patterned lines

See much further than the naked eye
Colors don't matter, neither their cries
Epic majestic, eternal blending
Shifting skies, beaches, oceans
On alien planets, in our skies
Count the stars and their parts
Every particle, piece, elemental tie

Look much further, with your ears
A musical hum, RF bending tie
Circling waves, scattering dashes
Invisible stories, forever
Building rhythm, spicing the waltz

Taste true love, sweetest
Thirst, hunger, and peace
Encompass emotion
Eclipsed release
Hold back the awe
Utilitarian focus, belief
See time complete

This is
I love you,
three worlds
Incompletely
But neat

My words are fractured                      
                   but my thoughts are undivided.

My fingers are tapestry of both,
                    stitching them incompletely.

But to some these things make sense.

A thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail
takes at least five months.
In five months:
a fetus is the size of a papaya,
a small home has been fully renovated,
2,450 dollars in rent is paid if you live with three people,
Swahili has been learned incompletely,
the grief of a dead high school teacher is finished,
a person sinks in, gets comfortable,
the planet has turned its back,
Loestrin has travelled out of the system—
who’s to say it’s not just like the Appalachian.

I’d like to make a rope out of my hair
tie it from Georgia to Maine
sail a two-pound apology all the way down
to make up for the places my body will never make it
because five months of footwork
is too long to stop nurturing a life
that is not worth living anyway
but this way
I don’t have to lose.

Pain, so much pain
Heart, incompletely broken
Blood, red and violent
Tears, world turned black
Wall, slumped in a heap
Hands, clutching stray hair
Feet, violently shaking
Eyes, squeezed tightly shut.

I got up.
I touched the air.
I felt nothingness.
Into the light,
I blindly walked.

I had you first
Heart soul and mind
Grown up, not apart by time
So alike, so unchanged
Through different environments, in a different stage
Now they have you, thoughts and body
Weeding away our time though unsteady
So many wishes, so many prayers to one not there, answered suddenly but incompletely
Now I have you soul mind and body
Your heart is away, on vacation these days

Now I again begin to pray, to beg one not there
May I have you?
Again the way you once were?
All mine finally for once
Uninjured, unbroken
Loved and loving but mostly; loving me?

God please!
You know me better than I know myself!
For years and years of my feelings bottled on a shelf
Resigning myself to a secret love ocassionally crashing from above, to break my heart all over again
I never minded it then...

But to have you and have you ripped away
Every night, every day
I will never be ok
The jar is unscrewed and feeling renewed courses through my chilled veins
To remember your gentle callused hands
To remember your words to me when secrets spilled and my tears would repeat
I would give anything for you to stay
Even a day or two of having you Completely having you, is worth more than lifetimes having the next best thing

I never realised I was so
Naive
Until I stopped and counted my life in so many
Unfinished pictures
Like canvases that I 'd incompletely
Daubed, the perspectives so wrong
They almost looked right.
And I wished so hard I could be
Better and best
At this life in paints that could have been more
And could have been less.

On a sweltering summer night, we met
Trifling, teasing in a soulful duet,      
Amidst the chaotic silent blur,
She could hear my metronomic heartbeat stir,
For her, now and forever.

Her slumber exhalation my love elixir,      
Her luxuriant ebony hair my midnight lair,
Her lank collarbone my chin’s night loan,
Her musk, feminine fragrance my own,    
All mine, now and forever.

Pillows cast aside and sheets strewed,
Yet nothing lascivious could be construed,
It was a night I didn’t want to come to an end,
For I knew it would be the final night I would spend,
With her, now and forever.

Her morning face more covetable than the night bygone,
As sunlight and I sparred to lay eyes on,
On her, now and forever.

A one night stand incompletely complete.
A one night stand like none before and ever after.

I saw you that day when
the end of you was the only thing in your way.
Your undulating wrinkles softened the rocks, and I caught sight
(maybe just a glimpse) of music gingerly stroking your neck,
and you were beautiful.

On the Cliffs of Moher you stood two feet calm
atop a fire you had built as a pedestal for yourself
and all your wantings.
The time was droll, playing ribbons up the backs of your knees
and as I watched you ( me, wide eyed and heart so full of wonder it hushed itself to cease to beat)
I cried.

Your stories of arms threw hyacinths to the ebbing tide,
and the breathing of the earth was left impatient.

For a moment you took to dreaming,
and your eyes filled with alabaster love.
You remembered your brother, a radiating mass of
muscle and joy; how you once vowed
to save the world together. You remembered her, your pearl,
your human nightingale with wings in her mind, how she used to steal the wind
and hold its sweet smell hostage to sing your baby lullabys.

I saw you that day.
I Saw you that day.
I saw You that day.
In your face there was a secret and I knew it to be remarkable.

The Hum of your pumping lungs set my fingertips dancing from
the Drum of your aching prayer.
The Hum of your smiling skin left me breathless and heaving through un-clenched teeth to the beat of
the Drum to your star fixed gaze.
The Hum of your words reeling through the cracks in the sky to tune the wind with
the Drum of your hands on your chest.

And in this song you moved. A manmountain in the shape of pieces.
The world lept from its axis and ran to your side. "Oh! " you cried.
"Oh, for just a lapse in the root of time. I don't care for the meaning
of it all, I only want back my rhyme!"

I was still as you dripped into the cliff. You fell
knee, knee, hands to your head and head to your feet.
In this moment you were incompletely complete.
And I saw you,
and you were beautiful.

Your ideology is isolated.

An incomplete variation of my own, that lacks success and makes you depressed as a lifetime of ancestors decide if they should scorn you,

Or if they should mourn too.

Don't patronise me when all I see,
Is a person who's incompletely living a life that makes agony their focused expectation towards a make believe fantasy,

Such twisted reality.

Morality vs humanity.

This aspect alone is putting us all on edge, destroying tranquility at it's finest and making us blind to our own wrongs;

Making everyone else's more prolonged.

Serenity vs diversity.

Which one can impact an entire generation despite being hidden in our subconscious insanity?

Deeply hidden like the oceans secrecy.

I've seen people discriminate, despite knowing it only creates more hatred to stain the mindscape.

Yet like moths to a flame- or people to blame- they continue to recreate the same dishonesty towards those who care, those who rise, those who trust and those who lack policy.

We're all corrupted in a larger version of loyalty.

Where do they lay? I observe as they say that the beast we call love is merely an elaborate escape from lifes contradictions and ridiculous sway.

I wish we could all lose our discriminations some day.

I wish we could all grow and gain understanding towards people and all the sorrow we take in to leave alone.

I'm confused as to why I still wish when I know that it won't be able to work the way my heart wants it to be;

like leaves in the trees, we'll always stay green until a greater force overwhelms and makes us fall alone or in teams,

Changing our colours for the whole world to see.

I view things differently to you, you may disagree- are almost bound to- but I never needed approval anyway so I'm glad that you've read what I've had to say.

And all that I ask is for you to try understanding my claim; I'll do the same even if it's something that I feel needs change- cause this day and age things are more open to explain.

Be grateful for the way we've been made, that we have emotions to use and people to love; making us human despite all our flaws.

It's a beautiful law that makes up our core.

You who loved me incompletely
You who's  love came in many different forms

I could no longer live with that imperfect love
I wished for you to hate me with all yourself
But you could not do so

No matter what destruction I did to your life
You still only filled me with incomplete love

Until we suffocate too much
This pretend love with continue on

And our facade of memories
Will live with time
Why the sweet love wilts.

does it hurt you when I grip the blanket?
I want tears when i'm laying in my spit
how can I be loved when I feel the sadness
in each strand of my hair
heart racing in bed, chest
bruised and falling.
with honey dripping off my fingers I see
how I could be wanted incompletely
I dig myself another hole
to decompose in

Gwerful Mechain - (1460 - 1502)

The female genitals


Every foolish drunken poet,
boorish vanity without ceasing,
(never may I warrant it,
I of great noble stock,)
has always declaimed fruitless praise
in song of the girls of the lands
all day long, certain gift,
most incompletely, by God the Father:
praising the hair, gown of fine love,
and every such living girl,
and lower down praising merrily
the brows above the eyes;
praising also, lovely shape,
the smoothness of the soft *******,
and the beauty's arms, bright drape,
she deserved honour, and the girl's hands.
Then with his finest wizardry
before night he did sing,
he pays homage to God's greatness,
fruitless eulogy with his tongue:
leaving the middle without praise
and the place where children are conceived,
and the warm ****, clear excellence,
tender and fat, bright fervent broken circle,
where I loved, in perfect health,
the **** below the smock.
You are a body of boundless strength,
a faultless court of fat's plumage.
I declare, the **** is fair,
circle of broad-edged lips,
it is a valley longer than a spoon or a hand,
a ditch to hold a ***** two hands long;
**** there by the swelling ****,
song's table with its double in red.
And the bright saints, men of the church,
when they get the chance, perfect gift,
don't fail, highest blessing,
by Beuno, to give it a good feel.
For this reason, thorough rebuke,
all you proud poets,
let songs to the **** circulate
without fail to gain reward.
Sultan of an ode, it is silk,
little seam, curtain on a fine bright ****,
***** in a place of greeting,
the sour grove, it is full of love,
very proud forest, faultless gift,
tender frieze, fur of a fine pair of testicles,
a girl's thick grove, circle of precious greeting,
lovely bush, God save it.

Preface:
On February 4, 1861,
the seven states that had seceded
by this point convened and created
the Confederate States of America
under the leadership of Jefferson Davis.

Just under two months later,
on April 12, 1861, Confederate forces
opened fire on Union-occupied
Fort Sumter off the South Carolina coast.

Starting but not completely reading a book...
tantamount to being sacrilegious,
especially when storied subject matter
deals with heated issue as slavery,
which essentially succinctly describes
war between the states
(purportedly started April 12, 1861 –
and reputedly ended April 9, 1865)
allegedly triggered
at 4:30 ante meridian on April 12, 1861,
when Confederate troops fired
on Fort Sumter
in South Carolina's Charleston Harbor.

Less than 34 hours later,
Union forces surrendered.

Traditionally, this event used to signify
the beginning of the Civil War.

Self imposed onerous obligation
understanding difficult to comprehend
thought provoking printed material
subsequently generated
system of the down overload
mine (myopic) eyes see the words,
but their meaning doth not compute,
especially when an author
chooses to write

in a bewildering, style,
thus "Abort, Retry, Fail?"
(or "Abort, Retry, Ignore?")
an error message
found in DOS operating systems,
which prompts the end-user
for a course of action arises
within sixty plus shades
of gray matter within me mind.

At present my fascination and interest
with American history temporarily appeased,
whence yours truly
envisions himself a Yankee
in the Antebellum North
thirstily drinking information
detailing one figurative chapter
concerning, detailing, giving
The Civil War breadth,
scope, width, et cetera
a narrative spanning
Fort Sumter to Perryville
painstakingly written
by the late Shelby Dade Foote.

An overactive imagination of mine
easily populated with sights, smells, and sounds
linkedin to that rebellion
(as ascribed by Abraham Lincoln)
witnessing the secession
of South Carolina followed
by the secession of six more states—
Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia,
Louisiana, and Texas–
and the threat of secession by four more—
Virginia, Arkansas, Tennessee, and North Carolina.

These eleven states eventually
formed the Confederate States of America.

Though the internecine fighting
weathered the test of eighty seven years
since July 2, 1776, when
the Second Continental Congress,
meeting in Philadelphia,
voted unanimously to declare independence
as the "United States of America".
Two days later, on July 4,
Congress signed the Declaration of Independence.

The Second Continental Congress
not initially formed to declare independence.

****** battlegrounds
minted ******* military men,
which soldiers when not fighting
sang sentimental tunes
about distant love—the popular
“Lorena” and “Aura Lee”
(which in the twentieth century
became “Love Me Tender”)
and “The Yellow Rose of Texas”—
and songs of loss such as
“The Vacant Chair.”

Other tunes commemorated victory—
“Marching Through Georgia”
considered a vibrant evocation of Sherman's ...
March to the Sea.

Some even sprouted from prison life,
such as "*****, *****, *****."

Soldiers marched to the rollicking
“Eatin’ Goober Peas;”
they vented their war-weariness with “Hard Times;
” they sang about their life
in “Tenting Tonight on the Old Camp Ground;
” they were buried to the soulful strains of “Taps,”
written for the dead of both sides
in the Seven Days’ Battles.

When the guns stopped,
the survivors returned
to the haunting notes of
“When Johnny Comes Marching Home.”

We just wanna stay where we are
normally functioning
unwistfully listening
Level willed to the earth

Ladders incompletely climbing
in front of stairs that seem
impossible to walk on, sometimes
This tundras just in our minds

We seal the deal
underneath wandering times
not invoking questioning ones
Simply staying in a room

In a group homeliness is tired to find
work in short hours of the day
in the long late ones of the night
we'll stay crisp in the trying times

underneath the lines that others
pronounce towards each other
we do not want to bander
instead we try to work together

On coure;

Why does it seem like we are always putting out so many fires?

It seems so tauntingly inevitable.
You and I talk about a lot, and we get hurt sometimes.
We don’t fight in anger, but my pride is unruly and stupid.
We don’t love incompletely, but there are sacrifices we have not yet made.
But you are the greatest love I’ve ever had, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.

So then why all the freaking fires?

I have had a thought.
Perhaps the flames simply must burn when a meteor loves an inferno.