5: Nice Jewish Boy, Poet ******,
And ****** Of My Own Life

Dedicated to the people
Who keep me company here,
Some in the mid of night,
You know who you are...
and the POlice trooper who caught me
doing 85 in the HOV lane.  Cost me 200+ and 3 points on my entry ticket to heaven
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Listening to Daughtry^
Like ya oughta,
Singing very loudly along
to, and as it so happens, when
I'm agoing
Home.

Long neck Corona
Cooling my sweaty brow,
Top down,
You betcha my neck is
Red, and the officer who just pulled me over
Ain't looking none too pleased,
In fact, he's alooking a little red too!

Officer I said,
Saw that sign,
30 MPH Minimum

Swear I was doing
At least that
Above the 55 speed limit.

He said, it's ok dude,
I like your music taste,
Heard you singing
Daughtry and Green Day,
James Blunt and Nickelback
In the HOV lane,
Maybe even some Buble
I may have heard, as well,
But don't Miranda incriminate yourself!

I like your taste in beer,
I like that you don't use no sun lotion,
If it's ok with you,
I'll just stand here and listen,
And maybe, join you later when
I'm off duty, at the station.

Officer, a nice Jewish boy I am,
Officer, a good ole country boy from the city,
Wear Harlon River's hat when he ain't,
Went out fishing with RRR (r) on his boat,
Woodpecker chaser,
got me a .45 neath my pillow,
And you should see me gut a

Poem*

Slice its belly open,
Sometimes straight, sometimes Askew,
Feed the gulls them
****** insides on the dock, by-moonlight,
Can ya cut me some slack?

Mmm, I see here in your license,
You are a disabled guy,
A **** poet ******,
Who often does his best work
Legally all alone in the HOV lane,
So I'm gonna let you off this time
Just with a warning!

If you drive and compose,
Ya gotta observe the signs posted:

No more than five per day,
Poems can you post

If singing while driving,
Top gotta be down

No writing about drinking,
there are underage children
Reading your wrotes

Finally,
No more sad poems,
The world is way over its quota,
No mention of scars or pain,
Tears, loss, broken or going insane,*
No heart sickness on sunny weekend days,
Got it?

It's a big problem in these parts,
If you see one, report it to the
Poetry Authorities!

Yes sir Officer,
If you give me your name,
I'll slip it in some little
Unobtrusive limerick,
By way of a thank you note,
Cause after all
A nice Jewish boy
I.am.

He said that won't be necessary,
Voyeuring yourself ain't illegal,
Just bad manners.
But if I catch ya one more time,
Using those aforementioned bad words,
And doing 85, in the left lane,
I know where ya live, and
I'll see ya 'when September ends.'

I'm a wreck of mixed up words
I want to blame you for it all
Place you in the corner and publicly shame you for stealing the heart I gave you
Nothing is right but how can I prove it's wrong when I can't tell the future
Can't I just blame you?
For leaving?
For Vegas?
For all the tears?
Can't I just scream? Just this once?
Can you just come back? Just this once?
Then never leave again.
Can't we make this work?
Am I making any sense at all?
All I feel is the wreck.
The car crashing
Your hand reaching
The words in my heart
The fire in your eyes giving away all of your lies
I am a wreck and you deserve the blame.

So I'm a "fly" white guy,
with "Jet" black tendencies,
Try to be a nice guy,
But somehow end up the enemy.
I'll treat you like a princess,
But I'm a fort,
You can't get into me.

It makes no sense to me.

How did this knight in shining armor,
Get slain by the dragon?
So once upon a time,
I was a hero,
Now I'm a has-been.
Last in the castle for I belong with the Pagans,
Slaying distressed damsels,
Giving hell to the angels
With strangers wrapped in mangers,
Destined for greatness.
Trapped within this labyrinth of my cranium.

But when it comes to blame,
My pigmentation begins to change,
But this time it's not my shame.
'Cause you play the same game
That the dames did before you.
You're no different.
You're not worth a fortune.
Fortunately, you revealed your horns for me.
It's torturing how for me it ended horribly,
and you moved on to the same dude you ******* before me.

Love's supposed to be patient,
Love's supposed to be kind,
Instead it's a battlefield
Filled with landmines.

You say it's false,
that nice guys finish last?
Well clarify why I'm starin',
At taillights from my past.
They say when you have everything,
You give nothing back.
So I guess that explains
Why your feelings for me lack.
You're like "You're a white guy,
That tends to be black.
Well how in the hell
Can I get used to that?"
That's *******.
You're afraid of commitment.
That's why you had to end it,
Before it could begin with.
You're a cynical, sinister,
Hypocritical minister,
Angelic sinner sent to incriminate innocence.
Evil's equivalent,
Yet as sweet as carcinogens.
If heartbreak were a game,
Girl, you would be winnin' it.
If my soul were a food,
You would've finished it.
I had a confident conscience,
but girl you diminished it.
Listen kid,
I get you're immature and ****,
But don't go and slander my name
When you used to worship it.

Love's supposed to be patient,
Love's supposed to be kind,
Instead it's a battlefield
Filled with landmines.

From creation ill forever stay in rotation,
Feeling temptations, which slowly turn into frustrations,
Switch feelings, anger turns to rage, which burns to hate,
Words change to actions, fuels opportunities to incriminate

Blunts begin and go clockwise person to person, thoughts get lifted and minds worsen
Mentalities bend, back around the start becomes the end,

I forever stay in rotation, travel from station to station,
Slowly pacing forward to reach my destination
Though from the very start, fates the same ill soon depart
Forever in rotation, from birth to death to my reincarnation

Sun cascading through the window,
The Mountains my blanket
Everything in its right place, and I in mine
For surely life is a wonderful thing
and I am no mistake.

Can a person be defined by a word? Can we, in reality chain a person to one word, or even a great sum of words? Can all that is encompassed within each individual human being, be summed up with a word, a description, a label? For the very meaning of word is a unit of language, consisting of one or more spoken sounds or their written representation, that functions as a principal carrier of meaning. Are words the most effective "carrier of meaning"? Or is it possible that there might just be something more, something deeper? This makes me think of the quote from The Mozart Effect, where Don Cambell says, “On the psychiatrist’s couch, the board of the local PTA, or at a job interview, we strive to assert our identity as strong, independent persons, our persona or public mask—all from the Greek roots per son, or ‘the sound passes through.’” Our very core nature is that we desire to hear a vocal confirmation of who we are and labeling ourselves and others with words, gives us a false security. The way we are labeled and seen and judged passes through us, it effects us to our core. When someone “fails” they are then in turn labeled a “failure”? My question is, by labeling a person who has made mistakes, or is even continuing to make mistakes a f a i l u r e , are we really encompassing all that is within them when we say the word “failure” and chain it around their neck? Is every action that they have done a “failure”? Do they not also have things that are successful about them, and isn’t simply their state of being a success?

I am convinced that we are all on the same level, one person no greater than another person. No person a mistake, no person a failure. For let us all challenge ourselves to not define people but rather feel them, seek to understand them. Let us really see them, for who they are, not for who we think they are or what we may see. Like the quote from T.S Elliot’s book Family Reunion, where it says
“I tell you, it is not me you are looking at, Not me you are grinning at, not me your confidential looks incriminate, but that other person, if person, You thought I was: let your necrophilia feed upon that carcass.”

Or the quote from the Invisible Man,
“I am an invisible man. No, I am not a ***** like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasm. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids- and I might even be said to posses a mind. I am invisible; understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless head surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination-indeed, everything and anything except me.”


These are both excellent examples of how our own judgments, preoccupation with our problems or ourselves, anything and everything, can distract us from really getting to know someone, to understanding them in the cell of their heart. For if we were silent and simply allowed the music of life surround us, we would listen and hear, the people when they spoke. For “to listen is to vibrate together with another human being.” And how eloquently Lao Tzu said that, I can’t think of a better way to describe what I am trying to say. What a provocative way to think about the simple act of listening. Think of feeling what people are saying as two harps being played in perfect unison, vibrating together. To really hear someone we must reach a place where we can be receptive to whom they really are, throwing aside our preconceived ideas.

How could we take the sacred and beautiful act of listening and distort it into something that is so uninvolved, so impersonal? How can we, how can I, constantly throw away the precious gem that is to listen, only to pick up the garbage of judgment and lack of concern? I’m convinced that constantly doing this has left quite a toll on the human race. When was the last time you felt that someone got you, really got you, or saw past your flaws or the masks you wear and simply heard you, felt your pain, knew where you were coming from, simply was just there with you? Chances are it’s probably not often. I believe that no matter the outward appearance or what people do that it’s the state of their heart that matters. We are all fallible because we are h u m a n, so when people in their own state of humanity, hurt us, let us choose not to take offence, but rather choose to see past our own pain and see their own pain that caused them to hurt us.

I believe there is beauty in our shortcomings, and humanity. Not that we continue to remain the way we’ve always been but rather accept that we are flawed and that can’t do this on our own, and then we will begin to grow. In our state of being humbled and broken, we grow, we change, we transform. Slowly and surely as the flower that springs from the cold ground and bursts forth from it’s shell and becomes something completely different, we as humans will break through our own “shells”. First we must admit that we have flaws for this process to begin. Being flawed is beautiful because it’s something everyone shares. We’ve all been hurt, but once we come to the place where we understand the pain behind the flaws and see how we can’t possibly judge anyone because we all have flaws, we all have failed.

We are all equals. We are all connected. We are all sons and daughters of humanity. We are connected to the earliest of times and the latest of times.

What happens to someone on the other side of the earth does in fact, effect us. I believe because we are numb to the reality of that connection, never listening, never feeling, that we miss the beauty of this great fellowship of human beings. When we isolate ourselves, not only are we denying ourselves that desire to b e l o n g that dwells in our innermost being, but we also can begin to elevate ourselves over another person. Which leaves me to wonder why we spend our lives awarding ourselves for being better then the person next to us, not doing what they did, when shouldn’t we be listening to them, hearing them, seeing them for who they are in their own brokenness, and helping them through?

We spend our lives harboring anger towards and event, person, or even ourselves and judging and comparing ourselves on a made up idealistic scale to define our worth. We are already worth so much simply because we are humans, and we are alive. Is not even a single rose still admired by the gardener? We are special, and if someone were to bring all the wealth of the world to offer for one person, or to measure the worth of that person, it would not even begin to compare to our worth, no matter our mistakes or who we are.

Just as we hurt and long to be accepted and approved of, so does the person that has hurt you or the person you see yourself as better then. Do we not feel our connection to humanity when we feel the sense of deep loss in our spirit, our innermost being, when our actions cause pain to another person? So since we are all one, all connected, why not shower people with love and grace and feel them, feel with them, instead of labeling them and trying to judge ourselves against them.

We have exhausted ourselves by denying ourselves the basic needs to be known, loved, heard, connected, and accepted, for far too long. It’s time for change, in both my life and the lives of those around me. We’re beaten and bruised from holding on to our anger, relentlessly trying to gain approval, judging our own mistakes and comparing them to others to see if our mistakes were ‘slightly less bad then those of the other person’. If we would set aside those chains that imprison us, and allow ourselves to feel the pain of others, allow them to see our own pain, then, although we will never reach perfection, we will grow, the deep yearnings and aches of our body crying out to be known and our pain from the wrongs done to us will stop.

If we’re willing to bare the burden of feeling with someone, or simply allowing ourselves to just be, exist, beside someone who’s hurting and be open to simply let the sound, the vibrations of their words penetrate our souls, then, and only then will our lives and the lives of others be drastically changed for the better. It would be infectious; spreading to every person we came into contact with, causing a worldwide revolution.

So what I’m saying is even after all this, I believe in changed lives, I believe that our impact on others is far greater then we will ever know.I believe that one single person, no matter how flawed, who stops for one moment and simply listens to another human being, and sees them as they are, then proceeds to reach inside their chest to reveal their beating, heart, alive and full of dreams, will change that person forever, whether we see it right away or never see it. It's the same in our lives, we may never see the fruits of our labor, but we must focus on the goal and not the distance needed to reach our goal. We impact people. When we judge people or don’t see them for who they are, they become dead to us, they can no longer change into who they were meant to be, or we simply do not hear them, the passions and dreams are not awakened, and in doing this, we are robbing ourselves the joy of knowing someone, investing in them, and seeing them change and they feel the effects too.

We all need to be awakened from being the living dead, to a state of constant awareness of our body and all our senses and the surroundings around us, the people around us. People as a whole are hurting so deeply, and I believe that one person can in fact change that. All it takes is one [broken] person to spark the flame and soon, others, much like kindling for a fire, will catch ablaze. I believe, that we must allow ourselves to climb into another person’s skin and feel, and see the world as they do.

We must realize that we are no better then one another, for we are all broken and need one another. I believe that no one is hopeless, no one a lost cause, for if we take the time to listen to them and care for them, something in them will change no matter what we may see on the outside. In this investing and caring, listening and feeling, seeing and believing, we will awaken in both the people around us and in ourselves the dreams which we thought for so long to be dead, and the world will see change like it has never been seen before in history.

I’m not saying that I have any of this down pat, I’m not by any means a model for not judging someone and seeing them and hearing them. If anything, I am the complete opposite of this consumed in my own problems and too busy to stop and feel. This is my apology of some sort to those i have hurt, and giving recognition to those who have helped me along the way. So thanks for believing in me. I believe that it’ll take some time, but that I can and will gradually change into someone who is aware of people around them, someone who is awakened. Even when my actions, are completely opposite of everything I’ve just talked about, there is still a part of me that is quietly reminding me to humble myself and see myself for who I am, no more, no less, and then see others for who they are. Somehow, I’m going to get to where I want to go, and I’m going to become who I want to become, I just have a lot of judgmental ideals, preconceived ideas, bitterness, pain, and self-absorption to leave behind to step into who I want to become. So I’m going to commit to this journey even if it means sometimes the only thing I can do is just be, in my failures and my success, and even when the pain seems unbearable, it is my deepest desire to stay on this path. I want to change and help the people around me, but before I can do that I have a lot of work to do.

Forgive me, mother, not
For the things I have done
For they were done with the purest of intentions
Forgive me, rather, please
For the things I intended to do
Yet failed to bring to full fruition

And if you think it so just
To incriminate me thus
For crimes I have no evidence of committing
Your punishment I will accept
Like sweet nectar on my lips
And I shall live forever buried
In the turmoil of my everlasting shame

Louder than Monsters
By: Calla Fuqua

I can’t unhear your ignorance, I can’t unsee your belligerence,
The potential difference you swore you’d make, and the carnivorous path
You chose to take.
You are louder than monsters.

Heaven must scare you and your desire to dissipate,
Your chance to incriminate, the problems you exacerbate,
I can’t articulate your need to intoxicate.
Your laughter is louder than monsters.

You fabricat your pity you pretend to give, as you wait for me to forgive,
That night I have to relive when I dream, of our short lived view of how happiness seemed.
Back then how could I have known that you were louder than monsters.

Your grip on me becomes tighter, the more your desire for me expires,
The more you secretly become a liar, and the more I ask myself why her?
Her voicemails are louder than monsters.

I end up on the floor, after you hit me and you swore,
You don’t say I love you anymore, the way you used to before,
And now I’m just your little *****, you pretend to love as if it’s a chore.
Your silence is louder than monsters.

I pray for you and the guilt you must feel, screaming out our window,
frantic to appeal, for the pain you caused solely so you could heal.
Your lies are louder than monsters.

You laugh when I say no, giving me a messed up world you pretend to know,
Now it’s my turn to outgrow you and your plateau, the one you promised
To let go. While I undergo the pain you overflow.
My screams are louder than monsters.

I still tell myself you love me after you throw your fists, holding tight to my wrists,
As I keep allowing the crimes you commit, to become imprints from the pain you inflict.
This pain is louder than monsters.

Now, nobody seems sincere, every scar is like a souvenir, You leave me speechless, when you sip your beer, like you didn’t just make my whole world disappear,          
You say you are not louder than monsters.

All I can do now is reminisce, look back on moments like our first kiss,
Before you led me into this abyss, before I was unable to dismiss the thought,
“What kind of monster does this?”
Someone who doesn’t know he is louder than monsters.

I dream about the day I can throw out your ashtray, The day
I can cast away you whole, no more arms to control my body’s soul,
A day where I no longer have to be your wife,
A day where I can play a character in my own life.
A day where love is louder than monsters

Now it might be hard to understand
But just for a moment I ask that you try to comprehend
The idea, the marvel, the miracle
Of learning love’s true definition from a child less than 3 years young

Her name was Amelia Lyon, but she was called Amy Lou
And her hair was up like Whoville’s own Cindy Lou Who
Dr. Suess would’ve been proud
I’m sure he would’ve loved Amelia, as did every single person of every single crowd

We would bring her with us to Disneyland
The happiest place on earth for both woman and man
And little Amy loved every second of it
With a wide smile, never crying, not even a bit

Bearing the power of a simple smile, and a thousand suns
She would light the very streets she crossed

Reaching out and attacking strangers was far from seldom
With a beautiful kiss of innocence, sincerity, we watched as joy would blossom

Did she discriminate?
Did she decide who to incriminate?
No, you see, Amelia would never
If someone was hurt, and broken, she could make all things better

A beautiful soul
To match a beautiful girl
I learned, let me tell you
What true love is, something new
Something that is rarely practiced
But only talked about, and the fact is
I’ve never seen love quite like this!

It was sincere, and it was real and it was amazing
A special perspective, a new trail she was blazing
And now I know what true love is
Humble, supportive, and nonjudgemental
Kind, gorgeous and always gentle

Thank You, Amy Lou.
One day, I hope to be like you.

But now she's gone, at two and a half you were taken from us
So unique, Heaven, God, and the Angels were jealous
Do I feel robbed? Do I feel cheated?
Certainly not! Because I know who I shall see when I am greeted

There she will be, adorable and precious
That gleaming smile with a child’s eyes
At the opening of the Gates, it will be glorious
Because finally, that disguise, that shroud of earthliness
Will have been torn away, and we will forever be united again

My baby sister, my Amelia Lyon, my Amy Lou
I miss you so very dearly, my little Cindy Lou Who
With love, bittersweet tears, and a heart deeply aching
Your brother, Remington Charles King

Your anonymous blog

To my face you are kindness itself:
cheerful, always upbeat,

but in your anonymous blog
you rip me apart.

You press your thumb and forefinger on each side,
hold, pull and rend,
and rupture my very innards.

You focus on me,
my life, my words, my actions and my body
like you are a Celestron Telescope
searching for every single crater and irregularity.

With an Ultima Barlow lens
and your Leica M9 18MP
You grab each natural image
and then rearrange reality with
your precious, perversely pesuasive, periscopic Photoshop technique.

poetic liberty has leased you a license to assassinate,
humiliate,
decimate,
invalidate,
severely lambaste,
and mockingly castrate
everything that I identify as me.

literary freedom allows you to liberally fabricate,
mutilate,
denigrate,
incriminate,
scathingly castigate,
and maliciously urinate
on what others think of me.

To my face you are kind beyond selflessness,
but on your online beat,
your anonymous malevolence
sets you apart
from all the others
that have ever wanted
to write me up,
put me down,
and publish me out.

– Zumwalt (2011) (copied from www.zumpoems.com)

They fear for their children,
Their things when our black men come near.
But do they forget that it was the pale faces who were the cruel ones?
They shipped and trapped our brown for sugar, molasses...
For things.
They inspected
Destructed
Degraded
Detained
Stripped naked our black men for money.
They stole much more than our black men today.
Beat, broke, and chained our black men
Only to incriminate the black body
Only to create fear of skin that has been kissed by something not man made.
So forgive me if I say "*******" to the police in their attempts at racial profiling rationalizations.
Have you no education?
Have you no intellect?
Have you forgotten OUR history?
You cannot cancel violence by enacting violence.
You cannot stop a cycle that you have began if you cannot even look at yourself .
LOOK AT YOURSELF.
It must be hard being so **** stupid.
Being so detached
And having the good graces to ignore and not to teach OUR history.
The black body isn't what you should lock your doors from at night.
Are you scared you wont be able to see it?
Are you?
It is the ignorance of our society of the simple fact
That what starts here
Ends here.
And we are doomed to continue
This cycle of shedding the blood of each other
If you refuse to educate on where the violence
                                                        ­the cruelty
                                                        t­he ownership
                                                       ­ the belittling
                                                        of the human body began.

I try to uncover what’s underneath;
I try to uncover what’s hiding beneath these sheets.
They decorate my soul, create this person who I am,
but they’re beginning to tear, tear right at the hem.
I’m not sure why I am this way,
though I constantly search each & every day.
I try to find the answers as to what I do and what I say,
though none come up each & every day.
I trace it to my childhood; the tangled roots start there;
of love & misfortune; the burden too often too heavy to bare.
I struggle with memory, as it tears a gaping hole,
Of smacks & bruises that coated your aching soul.
These visions –though conducive to my progression-
are often the reason for my rage & aggression.
Did you not love us? Were we not fair?
Did we not have perfect teeth? Did we not have perfect hair?
Were we not the model children –the ones perfect for your show?
Why did you have to break us & torture us with each & every blow?
“The drugs,” the drugs; the God ****** drugs are to blame, right?
Then why –without the drugs- do you cause me such fright!?
I want to incriminate the drugs for the abuse;
I wish I could, I wish I could, but there’s no use!
How can drugs create an entirely new monster, such an evil spawn?
The devil was always inside of you, no matter how much coke you were on!
But if you’re the devil, what does that make me?
If you’re the devil, is that what I’m meant to be?
My life is dictated by what has occurred in the past;
I leave it behind, but it never truly lasts.
How do I leave behind what has made me -created me?  
How do I let it go & expect to be?
Do I create a new person –is that what’s left to do?
But how am I supposed to be me without you?

Talking about your assault
As if you are removed from it.
When someone apologizes for his unforgivable actions
Even though he was always unapologetic
I calmly reply
"It's okay"
And sometimes even with a smile on my face.

But it's not okay
Or rather
What he did to me will never be okay
And I always feel foolish after that response leaves my lips

You lie to people a say you hate him
But really
If I'm being honest
I never did

Although, my situation is different than most
Because this wasn't some vicious act of ******
But rather, a game my teenage cousin with Aspbergers
Told me to play.
Looking back,
I was fourteen once too
And I wasn't even close to perfect
I can't incriminate him based on one dire mistake.

I never wish to minimize anyone's experience with abuse
Except, of course, my own
Because making it smaller
Makes me feel more in control
Just as blaming myself used to do.

Granted, I have dealt with it
But now I remove myself from the situation when I discuss it
As if I am talking about someone else.
That way, I do not have to vividly see it in my mind.
That way, I don't have to explain
How I have to fall asleep to music
That way, I don't have to explain
How I can't have *** with the lights on
Or else I see his face.

When I say I am perfectly comfortable talking about it
I don't know if 'perfectly comfortable' reflects it as well as
I am just used to it
And I feel as though it is necessary to discuss.
I am not one to shy away from challenging topics.

While he made me stronger
Some days being strong is just too hard
And I give in to old habits
Or at least to the temptation of them.
I haven't bled from the result
Of a self-inflicted razor blade or kitchen knife
In nearly two years.
And my bulimia is better
Though I have only rid myself of that vice
Three months ago.

And yet,
Talking about my molestation seems
So routine, so standard
Which is scary
Because something that heinous should shock me more
But it doesn't.

Maybe it's because
He started an avalanche
When it came to boys using me for ***.
Maybe it's because
I share the same blood
As a child-molester.

It seems as though **** culture has permeated me for so long
That it's in my DNA
Woven strand by strand
So it doesn't scare me anymore.

It all comes down to perspective
And talking about my assault from a third person perspective
Keeps my battle scars under wraps
And my mind well guarded.

you're maybe atoms)but)oh how nicely they are
supplely arranged in a neat package of *******
thighs hips divinely springing with soreness
hurting to be sick with lips
                                                  A
                                                       Disease you
like an incriminate of life want to ******
your pert body on my love sword
                                                                A
                                                                     Blade
you like to put in your mouth unlike (sharper
than) a razor upon which teeters my senses
febrile bulging festering with you

                                                          A
sickly with needing for pain girl
(if you want i'll hurt you like
how you like to be hurt
                                          )
                                            A
                                                Sort of almost
                                              pain which if
                                            you do it right
                                          feels so much
                                        better

The meeting of the minds is taking place in a booth in the back corner or the pub with those beer nuts you like so much

The Cheapskate
The Peddler
The Chiseler
The Swindler
And The Big Shot

Originally it was supposed to just me the Big Shot and the Peddler
Then the Chiseler squirmed his way into the scheme
Since three was already a crowd no one protested to the company of the Swindler and The Cheapskate

"Around of scotch for my homies!" says The Big Shot to the barmaid
The Cheapskate turned pale and whispers into The Big Shot's ear

"Four scotches and a tap water!" The Big Shot called out

The last time these five character went in on something together it turned into a huge power struggle

The Big Shot got too big for his britches
The Swindler tampered with the numbers
As he and The Chiseler blamed the blame game
While the Peddler was managing the tensions and just trying to get all he could off his hands
And the Cheapskate putting as little as he could in to get as much as he could out of the whole thing

Those were their salad days
Wheeling and dealing
What a shame they never came out clean
At all
Such a shame

But this time they will not repeat the trauma
They're in it to win it
The sweepstakes scam of the century
The feel good moment

They all knew none of them got along
But they had to get on with it

The plan was intricate
First the Chiseler would take every love letter intended for a physicist
Then rewrite in as a hate note
Upon reading the phony expression of disdain
The physicist would dive into his work to get his mind off it
And develop his studies of String Theory

Then The Swindler would buy the theory from the broken hearted egghead with the money The Peddler made from selling the spinning squares that make a dizzying circle he got at wholesale from his guy in Cairo

The Cheapskate would then gather a few undesirables from the abandoned paper factory and have them ransack The Physicist's lover's house and hold at gun point to have her cough up a few of her ***** little secrets which include the fact she had been sleeping with The Big Shot

The Big Shot would at that point step in and end things with the Physicist's Lover and tell her it was because she could even protect the material things she owned
Which made him question if she could guard and protect his heart

So The five masterminds would have the rights and royalties to The Physicist's String Theory, his lover's every last belonging, The Peddler's wacko drugs and his connection and a few of The Lover's unmentionables
Plus the Big Shot gets to get laid

Not bad for five guys who couldn't get along

And not a single cop out or snide remark thrown

Thusly it was agreed upon with a five-way spit hand shake that if anything would happen that could incriminate any of them, The Swindler would answer for everything with his feet on the ground
Because the Chiseler had Plan B which involved a jailbreak

My virginal shoulders could only support so much thought,
Before they succumbed to that virulent, green Iblis.
Sons will be what they are, and what they are taught:
A morality drawn to the image of Darwinian fitness.

Casted in His image, but then caught in the net,
Stretching chained hands towards freedom, just to see it sublimate.
Never a seat at the table, but always a back for the Debt.
And to be born of this blood is enough to incriminate.

Shoulder blades tremble, just at the sight,
Of the burden born from that first gasp.
Left with no map, friend, or eyes in the dead of the night,
But have no worries, He loves the first to the last.

*******!  My knees have collapsed and split,
You sit unattached, removed, indifferent on my chest,
But it was you!  You are the one who started all of it.
And when names were called, and the cards were down, you just up and left.

I pray All my Sins be forgiven, the common phrase from our people, counting every letter like a jail sentence multiply it times one that equals out to be our current life expectacy either life in jail or Life on the streets.. We incriminate ourselves as a ppl, promoting the type of Life that Ends up given you or taking your Life..Its been proven on more then one accusation, look at Rome or Germany for example & the legendary dictators We call Kings, Presidents & Pharaohs who all rule under the same motives spit polished by evil skeems.. betrayed as the **Truth... to Fallen Nations.

What is black, more than evil in the night?
Souls tainted by darkness, ravens in flight?

The colour of all nothingness,
Yet everything a person is,
I am not black, but inside I'm so empty of bliss.

Black is beauty, black is a tone,
There's nothing quite polar yet similar to white in its own.

With shadows come light,
Hidden from view in society.
Discriminate, incriminate,
Black is more than a variety.

It is a culture,
A life,
An identity,
Someone's strife,
To die at the hands,
Of someone,
Who doesn't understand.

Where there is shadow,
There is also light.
Shadow is darkness,
Much like the night.
Light is the beauty,
The love in our sight.
For every hateful man,
Is a hated woman who fights.

i called up my momma
but she wouldn't answer
gettin' old but still feel like a child

i went to my doctor
but he just turned ninety
writes scripts with a wink and a smile

dialed the phone to my lawyer
she sent it to voicemail
debts piling up in my file

texted friends far and near
honesty is too sincere
alone i will walk this mile

eyes
don't wanna see
mediocrity

drivin' through the tunnels,
hold your breath but don't fall asleep

high eyes
wanna be free
like virginity

drivin' through the tunnels,
hold your breath but don't fall asleep

i can't be liable
for all of your pleas
the'll inseminate some
just like a bee
those falling crumbs
swept meticulously
in the long run
please incriminate me

i'm your foot off the brake
the gear's now in neutral
you can turn a deaf ear
although it will be futile
pry your hands off the wheel
while you try to escape
don't take your last breath
foreseen cannot forsake...

Stimulate and duplicate
Your potential to potentiate
Replicate your experiment
To educate, not adjudicate.

Be your master, emulate
Your idol, don't eliminate
Your need to feel, to resonate
To meditate, reverberate.

Don't incriminate, nor implicate
Make your mark, just radiate
Make them watch, eradicate
Terminate any doubt they state
That your life is one to celebrate.

I held in vain
The hope that you'd change
And stop making me feel
Like I'm doing something wrong

In future, will, tended to how it ends, etched into the slate
Ground straight through our skin from birth, what we choose to replicate
Pointless as a new endeavor, still, another sick debate
Debased all sense of decency, enough to incriminate

Hopeless days
Keep passing by
Complete and vacant
Yet I still try

Arguably, far too jaded for this measure of reality
Wrested from our nestled coffins, directly into sleep
Fleeting things, though labeled clearly, time will never tell
Entrancing, some formality, a sliver of repetition is

But I stayed
The same
For all this time
In the hopes
You'd see me off

Still, crawling to the overture, slight against the weak
Long, death still operates, each future growing bleak
Shrouded heart of all uncertainty, for myths, voluminous  
Captive, my apotheosis, in a metric of release

At the end
I still respect
The autonomy, I can see you smile
So go ahead
I won't keep you waiting

What if you don't want to be saved
You want to live outside the box
And you would rather the bubble be popped
Not have to claim ignorance
Living in the naïve land
Of innocence

Its tempting
And sometimes its a better option
But reality should not be an illusion
Racism and freedom
Class divided systems
To chase the dream
Or see reason

Where are the black barbie's
And who's your boss at managerial
Minority controlling normality
Scapegoats and state treason
Sacrificial lambs of the season
Corporate crimes with no repercussions

Why is black history
A month set aside
Equality or special treatment
Raising awareness or reinforcing difference?

Conform to standards
Tick box rules and regulations
Invasions of privacy
For your health and safety
Treated like guilty suspects
Looking to incriminate

Social norms and subjective realities
Powers of authority
Puppets of the same ideologies
Filtered through hierachies
And you become a product of the system

A convenient but replaceable minion

I kept a box in the corner
Little box in the corner
Bright colored paper with ribbon
I kept a box in the corner
And dressed it all up
So that no one would find it
Among the other pretty stuff
But now that you've found it
You don't want to let go
You say it's fascinating,
That you're learning things you didn't know
How do I know that
You're telling the truth
How do you do that?
Manage to point out my youth
I've got a little box in the corner
Bright colored paper and ribbon
Little little box in the corner
Where am I going to hide it now?
It's a safe for my letters
And jail for the darkness
A bowl for catching fresh-falling rain
Where am I going to put it now?
It's the closest I've got
To Pandora's chest
But it's still enough to incriminate
Box in the corner, blue satin wrapping
Box in the corner, tarnished brass clasps
Box in the corner, holding me inside

To my father
I'm sure I have written this poem so many times before
But this time, I just want you to listen.
See, I keep writing and rewriting
Examining and analyzing which way will be the most effective to tell you
You ****** me up, man
But I don't hold it against you
Just against myself.
I press it to my chest every second I live
Like the hot metal pan I burned myself with last Friday
It brands my skin so tightly to form a label
One that tells me I am too fat to be pretty
Too promiscuous to be loved
Too awkward to be worth anything more than an insult.
You make me feel like such a bad person, dad
And I am screaming for you to just accept it
For the first time in your life
How anxiety and bulimia are byproducts of my chemistry as well as my childhood
How I am so hellbent on staying silent about my assault
Because you told me to keep it in the family when I was molested
And while you were supportive
You did not let me thrive by telling my story
As I could have with you by my side.
You claimed to be protecting from scrutiny
But I can take care of myself because I know what I'm up against.
How my dysfunctional relationships
In which I expect to be told I am a failure
Because that is all you have ever expected me to be
Have to do with how you brought me up.
I say I will seek to do everything better for my family
For my future
And yet, I already find the fingerprints of what you have done to me
Everywhere in my life
And my body and soul cry out
They say
"Don't be like your father!"
And yet, whenever I act in any way that even slightly resembles you
I want to tear my skin off
Bang my head against a wall so hard that my memory pours out my ears
So I don't have to hear your vicious comments about
My weight, my social skills or how I embarrass you
Is that the legacy you want to leave?
Daddy, I really don't mean to incriminate you
I just don't want you to wonder why I never came home
Or why I ran away with some man who doesn't really love me
But makes me feel human.
My heart is like a sword fight
And the scars run deep
Like train tracks, they trace every place I've been
But they don't lay out where I plan to go.
I can only hope that place is far away from here.

"Do you know why I stopped you?"
Do you wanna have a friendly chat?
Look at me, I'm just a nice guy doing my job, you can talk to me, you can trust me, you can confess whatever crime you think I think you just committed and that'll be evidence enough for me, you can go ahead and incriminate yourself and save us both the trouble
"Do you have something to hide?"
Come on now, why are you being so difficult? If you hadn't done anything wrong you'd have no problem taking more time out of your day than I've already taken to let me look around for something to charge you with. They say you're innocent until proven guilty but you're not doing yourself any favors.
"Cooperating will make things easier on you"
Ok so you know your rights, ******* congratulations, you're a regular ******* model citizen. You know what? Your rights are becoming a real pain in my ***. You have no idea how much more difficult I can make things for you. You think this is bad? You ain't seen nothing yet punk.
"We'll just get a warrant"
You think I give a **** about your refusal to consent? You have no idea how easy it would be for me to get a judge to sign a paper to **** your entire world up so can we please just get on with this thing I don't wanna spend all day talking to you I have quotas to fill.
"I'm going to frisk you for my own safety"
Keep your ******* hands where I can see em. You don't move unless I give the order. You made the choice to be difficult so this is how it's gonna be. You got a gun on you? You might, or I could **** you where you stand and put one in your hands after. What? You think anyone is gonna believe you after you're dead?
"We have someone who will testify against you"
Guess what? We caught some other poor ******* a while back, and he's willing to do anything to get out of trouble, so he'll say whatever the hell we tell him to. Do you get it yet? You can't win here.
"We can hold you for 72 hours without charging you"
I'm sick of ******* around here, I'm taking you in, and you are going to confess to whatever I think you should confess to. You are prisoner. You are ant beneath boot. You are out of options. I am the law and you are nothing. So go ahead, know your rights, see where that gets you.

Long ago a king of France
-I don't remember his name -
when asked was it possible
to love two women
at the same time,
replied that he loved,
equally but in a different way,
burgundy and beaujolais,
and if he could love
two different wines
how could he not love
two different women?

For me, an inexperienced wine-taster,
I could not tell the difference,
but give me elderflower champagne
fermented from sugar, lemon and hand-picked blossom,
fresh, golden and sparkling,
or home-‌infused sloe gin,
rich, fruity, purple and mature,
and I would say I love them both,
equally but in a different way.

Yes, but does this mean I could love
two women at the same time?
Ah, that is a question
that I must decline to answer.
You see, I might tend
to incriminate myself.

let it incriminate you

i sense a body in the room
i feel the corporeal warmth
but i keep falling over

gross motor movement portrayal proving itself incorrect
once again

you cannot imitate and not expect false flattery
i hope you get a standing ovation
because
i
for one
think you
deserve it

you deserve it

It's either a whisper or an outburst
Either way it's done on purpose to make the target uncomfortable.

The target is better off not to hear any of those bullying comments,
although they hurt either way.
SHHHHH make sure she just gets our bullying point...
We're too smart to incriminate ourselves.
SNIDE & SHARP
BIG & SMALL
Those bricks pile higher and higher to build the target a big, strong invisible prison.

BE STRONG, DON'T SAY A WORD
SHUT YOUR EYES, YOUR MOUTH & SANITY OFF!!!

While the bullies dreaming the target can't sleep.

They collect the weak and meek or those who won't fight.
If you can't beat em' do you join 'em?
You know if you try to fight 'em you're bound to be next right?

It's wrong So wrong
So hurtful & damaging
ANXIETY, STRESS, PANIC & PUKE why not add some more to boot?
STROKES & SEIZURES, ULCERS & *****...why are the good ones the ones who lose?

Is this how giving, caring & loving humans are treated?
Oh nooooo, not here....we preach respect  then abuse it!

The bully is there no matter what, if you don't join them they lose their power! KNOW IT! LIVE IT! Don't take the cheap, easy & morally wrong road!
BOW, COW & FOLLOW OR
GROW UP, STAND UP, STEP UP & STICK UP!

Don't let anyone change who you are inside
Because from yourself you cannot hide!

What I do in darkness comes out in the light
I then have to explain what crawls out my heart
My lips incriminate me and my tongue utters false things
I know what to do yet I can't do it
Actually it's more about what not to do when alone
I do it because I can and to exercise my freedom
I'm stuck in the past so I wait for wisdom
The walls start to talk saying they don't know me
As I sit by myself smoking and letting things go

Forgiveness
What does forgive mean?
well in my definition of forgive,
It isn't to stop blaming someone
, its to be able to live knowing
someone did something to you
even if it means blocking it out.
In my case it isn't like that,
The more I block someone,
the more shame I bring to myself.
Not only for acepting,
but for letting someone go of a judgmental thought or action
It just all seems to incriminate myself.

The word itself seems so vague.
A curse: A cure: by many names, it is known.
It all seems nothing in the eye, who failed at love,
But in the other, it seems divine.
When God created such a feeling, was it meant to be released to the world of humans?  Or vice versa?
Was it meant to have two sides?
The side that cuts your heart like a poisoned knife,
And the other which heals you like a heavenly medicine.
Was it for the happiness of beings who strive for happiness?
Or was it for them to suffer more?
Love, for some, is happiness and for some, it’s a curse…
And who is the decider of who gets what?
Is it god? Is it fate?
Or does it depend on oneself?
So many questions, yet to be answered
Can we incriminate god for keeping us in such a dark?
Or should we grind to find the light ourselves?
Was god so incogitant or was it all for us to discover?
All these questions burn within
Someone who waits a hopeless wait
To have a go once more            
At the love that they lost.

I wish you didn't grow up feeling like you had to compromise yourself
Remember the first time you waxed your eyebrows?
Why was your immediate reaction to pick up a pair of tweezers and pluck all those thick hairs off your face?
Was it because the girls you went to school with had thin arcs above their eyes?
How could eyebrows make a person feel self-conscious?
I wish you didn't grow up feeling like you HAD to be like everyone else
The push-up bras from Victoria Secret your mother would never let you buy
The light wash Hollister jeans every middle schooler wore
The makeup from MAC featured on the faces of the popular girls in school
These were all things you grew up obsessing over
But instead, you settled for the bras from Target
25% off sale
The jeans from GAP and Old Navy
The makeup from Marshalls, your mom, bought for you
You looked at it with such disappointment
She couldn't understand why you needed all those things
When she asked if you liked what she bought for you  
You put on a half-assed smile and responded
"Si Mami, gracias."
…
She wouldn't understand
…
At the back of Ms. Pinero's math classroom
You sat alongside two boys
When they asked where you were from
You told them
"El Salvador"
There were no follow up questions
Just a couple of laughs and nudges between them
"Say something then."
You complied
Another round of jaw drops and claps
As if speaking in your native tongue deserved a standing ovation
"That is so ****."
Yes, a 14-year-old sexualized due to a couple of phrases spoken in a language foreign to the rest
As the bell rang, you walked out and right behind you could be heard the words:
"I should've known you were Latina."
You watched as their eyes undressed you, followed by the cue of stares from other classmates in the hall
But this is what you wanted, right?
Validation and acceptance?
Tell me then, why did their commentary unsettle you so much?
…
Mornings you walked into the school cafeteria with friends
The anxiety you felt pulsating through your body as you passed the assistant principal
His eyes had a tendency of wandering
But all was excused because he had a daughter and a wife
As if raising a child refrains one from being a machista
As if his presence in the lunchroom didn't suffocate and intimidate the rest of us
But we held our tongues
"It's not that big of a deal."
Girls learn to live their lives with the use of this phrase at their convenience
…
You lived your middle school years abiding by the "likability rule."
Convincing yourself if you remained
Gentle
Quiet
Selfless
Submissive and Obedient
You could escape the policing of your body and tongue
If you, a girl was deemed likable, you could avoid the pain others repeatedly succumbed to
Your high school years you burned those vices
And in turn, you became what society refers to as "the difficult girl."
Loud
Confrontational
Self-aware
Rebellious
Or in the term others would coin you as:
A *****
…
When your body began to mature
You weren't the only one to notice
You can recall the days you walked into school
Receiving looks of disapproval
And you watched
As other girls walked by, wearing something just like you  
How quickly those same eyes looked the other way
And it was then you learned that your voice wasn't the only disturbance for the public
So was the shape of your body
All the qualities your mother told you to embrace
You grew to hate
As if you had the decision to control the rate at which your body developed
…
The days you spent as the new kid
Living in the background noises of immigration control jokes
"Haha, you didn't get deported?"
No *******, I did not.  
You played it off like it didn't matter
But it did.
Deep down, you know it did.
No amount of comedic "genius" could drown out the ignorance of those boys
…
In the tenth grade
Rumors spread of someone's photoshop skills
Even as I write this to you, I can sense the discomfort in the room
Why didn't we fight harder for those girls?
Why did YOU hear about what happened and settle with the prevalent fact that "boys will be boys"?
Is that a justification for ****** behavior?
Why didn't we encourage them to be better?
You worried about those girls, and you wondered whether they told themselves the same thing you told yourself four years ago
"It's no big deal."
…
When the spotlight shone upon your friend
Humiliated by a rich narcissist
You stormed with remarkable fury to the counselor's office demanding justice
In the face of your triumph and efforts you were told
"Sweetie, there isn't much we can do."
But there was…
There was so much more that could've been done
The score settled 0-1
Down the hallway you remember your friend with the rusted orange curls
Cheeks and neck spotted red with rage after finding out the truth
You both saw the events unfolding
No punishment enforced
No threat ensued
Merely another instance of a boy's ****** behavior excused
…
Now,
Hearing your little sister tell you of the boys in her class who make fun of her
You do your best to ensure her it's no indication they like her
Because if they did, they would bestow respect upon her rather than insults
You spot those boys in the halls and you glare at them
Letting your presence be known
If things get worse, you'll be the one to handle them
…
Your mother's annual Thanksgiving party
And among the guests featured around your dinner table is the authentic macho
A true family man who adheres to respect, strength, and the protection of his family
When he asked you of your future plans
He displayed a face of amusement rather than one of seriousness
As if your capacity for success is determined by what lies in between your legs
When you stood your ground and fought for yourself
He put his hand out in a gesture to stop with the words
"Okay, okay, there's no need to be sensitive."
He turned to ask your mother with a degrading laugh
"Is she always like this?"
To which you responded, "Yes."
And his words fell short of sexist comebacks
You took a nice long look at his wife
Who did all she could to avoid eye-contact with you
…
You grow up being told to be proud,
But be so in a way that doesn't cast a spotlight on you
Be driven,
But not so much you intimidate the rest
Strive to be competitive,
But refrain from showing teeth, or you'll scare away the competition
Fight for your right,
But don't incriminate anyone else while doing so
Wear what you want,
But for the love of God please don’t wear that
Address your concerns,
But don’t be so emotional about it
…
You've lived your life with endless restraints on who you should and shouldn't be
I wish you had torn through those norms earlier
I wish you refused to settle for less all those years ago
Here you are
Reading this,
Let the world know it is not entitled to change you
Let the people know you are not limited to a figure of gratification that lives to please the rest
…
You were born to raise hell
Don't you ever be quiet about it
…
-c.alejandra

Of Wernarth's three mirrors, the second was stationed at Cape Prassonissi; on wings of Prosas de Rodas who were waiting for him in Kímolos; silvering in the extreme south of the western Cyclades. Following him behind Poliegos, who is on Prassonissi. Knowing that here the irrationality of his antiscientific prose, channeling reform and august prose in Hyper-meditation, will take you through the aureoles of the industrial poetic volcanoes of gems, following this journey in the necropolis of Hellenika, in familiarity with the harpies. Before being sunk, the prose was found to the west of the island that Ellinika is mentioned today. Here is where Wernarth with constant suffering in his chest writes the prose in the necropolis of Hellenika, from his oratory vortex:

“I have to become a hidden ghost that closes the taverns, where it smells like a cimarrón of a trough of live gunpowder, of shelves of foreign implants, outlining parallels of Kímolos in its rigor that descends from Taurus. I must here, in these rigorous words of darkness, common in something belonging to the feather of a hummingbird in the midst of the storm of the brave steps that tell me to get to Prassonisi and the epigraph of the berries collected in the retreats of the defeated harpies, with a voice convinced of what makes them aware of the prose, more who compulsively covers them from the darkness where they are born with light and incipient accent. I have to build the intuitive of parallelism that sinks entire firmaments of poetry, rebuilding itself on itself."

"Here I am sunk that I am in the unknown... Seeing myself only in a few, who have to find me in their magnitudes and sanctities that sprout beyond Poliegos, who remain to receive me with bells and trumpets...

Here I am with everyone, some together with all the obeisances, and with each latch Aghio Andreas… of Saint Andrew jumping over all the crypto lines of Kímolos, husband of the daughter of Taurus, Sidis, noble and majestic inhabitants among the mansions of the abbreviation of the storms in Wahlheim, with a juxtaposed desire to inseminate *******, between Etrestlian creatures and the immateriality of the Hellenika necropolis.

Lotte, look over the abyss that unleashes the death of Young Greece..., but re-alive in the prose that sleeps in the chapters that are about to be redeemed from the powers of those who swallow figs on high tide east of Hermes, with two coins of gold in each hand without parliament...

Here is my storehouse, full of baskets to take to the gorges of Before Christ, reflected in the fountains of their undefeated anathemas and psalms with bulls and offices... in anarchies of loves lost in the struggles to redeem Hecate's heirs, of my harpy who looks at the second mirror...

The second mirror..., the aversions of passion, whose participle is anticipated in the corridor of all who attend to the din of their own grief, of which in noun was evidenced when Wernarth with her steed Alikanto went to Werther's funeral, on the day that in Wahlheim the graffiti of the gloomy mists, gave the noun to the prose and verb, to all the conditions of Wernarth's pain, pashkein "Greek suffering”...

On the other side of the Rhine estuary, reflections of the first two mirrors, there are cults of reversal shudders, congratulations that plague the taste bond with bitterness..., which lives close to the acrimony that transitions from sweet-bitter to bitter-acidic, to who treasures the goodness and salubrious premises of a good mirror full of composite pieces, and that have never been cracked….

Court of the three mirrors in the crypt of Werther..., says no more than regret, the acquiescence of the consent of the legal guardians, giving him for alive even though he is dead... “what hypothetical laws affirm a man who wears clothes of a living heart in a body that you saw a soul of irrational officialdom preexisting...

Seventeen angiosperm raptors flew from the high clarions with seventy-four of Wernarth's lamentations, sophisms of Greco-Germanic essences vinegar, in his hands of hoplite blood that writes illustrated verses of Aryan and Hellenic plant, of never cloudiness or Etrestlian logic, which she wanders alone through supposedly illustrative anti-romantic socio-bourgeois prostration in the lodge of the camaraderie of the wise foolish fingers and brave with their weapons of death, in her hands of prose that tastes like a pompous reading of loneliness and vagueness of abstract illogical but redeemed Picnic passion and expiration.

The verse gives to the stanza what is leftover in the poetry and what in the central verse arrhythmia of its cadence it gives to the prose, as a vital instinct..., with glory and literary destitution, that's how the grunts and eyebrows of the ejaculators of successful love fall under the insidious morality of Wernarth-Werthiana.

Here is the ill-fated light-dark episode of Rhodes, the ethical pandemic over the heartbeat, more than an ideo-logic, frustrated with poorly acquired logic in dialysis from other prose that is not sonnetized.

They are the spacious, multi-different, of theories that incriminate the verb to retentive of reactionary policies with a neat effect, of which effective life is to fall asleep in the silos of consciousness in a nap behind the back of the worst dream...

The purely assertive, with another the convictions of the extra-bourgeois class, with a certain tinge of drum major before the hated intelligentsia. Here is the new man, in the tremulous sound of others who identify with vital love, subsidizing understanding sapiens...

Wernarth destroys treasures, which do not fit in a storehouse, being part of what is leftover from the surplus, for true socialized and compulsive ones, in reflections of those who march with their heart of chaste origin, evolution, and withdrawal of Hellenic actions.

Here I am with my argument in humanity, with a bouquet of flowers returned to the sender..., we are or I am enlightened, if the dependencies of sunsets Werthians grow, with projectiles in our souls without leaving.

My delay does not exceed my progress, every day I am more reclusive of rational delay, and a simple voice that keeps silent so as not to wake the King! Here I am with my Greek roulette, one of its edges points in tragedy in the Dorus lances on the temples of the creator Wernarth, with dramas of thirst and passion, but having all the love of solitude.

I speak to the gods in their language, but they answer me with repeated nouns, I reiterate them with apothegms, and they slide me through their crowns..., who one of them does not know who I really am, that if I am more historical and comprehensive than themselves in matters of love.

I am Omni Wernarthian, I accompany those who do not sleep and do not tire because they are my pilaster, they are my bed when they wake up from my dreams resting in their dreams of utopia that calm the currents of the disguised Prassionissi temporal.

Whatever the rival destiny, it will not be to leave alone for the Lette, made piece and scarce, in the piece of a whole man that I carry in me, Omni Messianic, opposed to the distances that linens spend on whoever wears the gauze in the defenders of these little princes, who border on the pauperism of their wandering singer hormones.

My multi-versology, and urgency of oscillation, is locking the intruder, which undermines the one who offers and does not give pause to the one who symptomatically requires it…, Lotte; it annihilates the struggles of those who confine them to guilt and psychological-matriarchal authority.

I have to progress with overtimes, while the sun in Rhodes asks Zeus to illuminate me more, for an enthusiastic sentence to be his master and lord because he was before all of us who were his poet's servant subjects.

My successive oracles allow me to go further than close, I cannot get out, but nevertheless, vehemently, I slide through the winning marks of those who institute the freedom of a scientific love, to a divisive love, of eghotic economy, that shapes the iron delirium sacrosanct, and the composition of the reciprocated enmity.

I am vague, but with flammable passional decrees, of my nature as a wolf and single parent, in the shape of a man in a different personality, as a phobic wolf..., here is not to belong to this century..., reverted to an uncertain meditation...

The rule and formula of my love is the intensity that makes me abhorrent, if I lose my control, say, the world that I represent here ends... the truth of my maxim, as nothing fits in everything, I do not inspire what does not replace the whole…

I live in a half-realism, of entire externalities that make up the rules that make me a slave to austerity, that runs after simplicity…, I walk through clouds that only let me fall in the breaks of their metaphysical and rigid odes.

My basic involution is not intense; it is more than a stable system of poetic verbal sacredness, with great movement, of ethics that haunts the idiomatic devotees of the awakening of the renewed personality, but with open arms in limbo...

As an individual he foreshadows collective miraculous mysteries, contradicting the corrupt purpose of a man, who dies behind bars of his own acquiescent death. Greco-motor and promoter of systematic divinities, in the hands of magicians or millers with the instinct of a suicide ministry, even without being prepared, trying…!

Here is my dialectic, if I bring out the prosaic passion; it hurts me by giving me false lessons, only done in my field to work. Wernarth, is a believer, more believing in Werther; Lotte consul of disbelief, in the hands of the peasants to rub her abolition as a maiden, before the wiles with mendacious devotion on the harpoons of the suffocating victim...

Harpies are atheists, just as atheism martyrs them as immortal, even not giving it into the hands of their failures, Wernath enters Olympus with his steed, and it venerates him, and mythology opens its myths to him, and he despises them!

Because I have to commit suicide if here in Rhodes they sing the prose of Kímolos for me, happening at their table of superb menus and portents, with his novel that is graced with my lantern that gives the cause of light, before the storm is folly before a society Olympic.

My drama is hoarding and describing, the measurements in brief scenes, do not fill those that should not be measured if I fall in love with my creatures, they self-eliminate, before the boast of the ****** right - late Werther in chains.

I am not resigned to my agreement with Zeus to divide the world equally, but I will supply myself with cults and friends on the stage of the confinement, as a liberator exclaiming unharmed...

I am not lost in my revolution, I am percussion in sounds against my own trials, enraging myself at others with failed feelings, perhaps in a felt preparatory and not being, but aware of the outline before my bishop's departure.

My triumph is to share the enthronement with the Werthian world, over, and without initials or termination of legal conditions, with the goal of artistic lines, with the art of dialogue, with the tetra-winged Lepidoptera silhouettes, four times vivified.

My parapsychological regression between flowers and rose bushes I have not conferred on the augur, nor did I doubt an appendage of a microsecond device and divine inspiration, to conjure them to the last bastion of something or someone that cannot hold me back.

Idyllically, transit between the nobility and the plebs, in drama and comedy, but my explosion does not have to fear great distances, my parts being plagued in colorful themes and verses throughout the desolate world, burning in the embers of my beloved….

But my God, who is my everything today, made me have a colloquial friendship with my courting, but the imaginary…, she doesn't know… !, but I am still enthusiastic, I continue to venerate the possibility of making a mistake trying to be an enemy friend.

I bring rings in my pocket close to my essence, but a good part of that has a conflict of truth and fear, which accuses me with which finger I have to braid myself, and I accuse myself of measuring my words of seductive ruin and contrition.

Today it is up to us all to die because I will do it for everyone. I have to return due to the fatality of an imperishable reason, before a nebulous tutelage that germinates only in past springs, what a great conflict! But what a great solution, for someone who flourishes between loves and conflicts...

My ranks have deserted its worst category; it suffocates and does not move the feeling, only the heroic predestination, which moves my transit to Rhodes, between feelings..., for and from others, who will never be an award ruling, on my sword Xiphos!

The heroism of love is to go beyond the imperishable madness of anti-heroism, with the spirit of a clear heroine and undeniable jurisprudence of love before any pact with Leviathan..., it is to be hoped that they will not forget to make a copy of my Contract!