I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets' tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.


                                   II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance's strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies' decimation.


                                   III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror's first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.


                                   IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.


                                   V
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men's placidity from his.


                                   VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever mourns in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears

Hers were the beautiful blue eyes and the black long hair,
She watched her blood dropp freezing to burn in the air.
Her pale lips were keeping the mark of her love's glow,
She wanted a child having the skin as white as the snow,


The hair as black as ebony and the lips as red as the blood.
That red on that white looked as beautiful as a flower bud.
She was sewing and watching the ebony of her window's frame.
An angel became visible in the air to tell her the child's name.


''Light up this love, my Lord, and give me this child of light
Unbearable is this pain of mine, light up my soul and my sight.''
Coming up the stairs, the king saw this and he told his queen,
'This white angel is the most beautiful creature I've ever seen! ''


The queen's heart used to be like a little book being unread,
But in front of her husband, it has become an open thread.
He tenderly kissed her, ''Your broken heart is no longer dead,
Because for Snow White on the snow your secret has bled.''


When she gave birth to her child, the sun rose to be so bright
And everything in the castle could be seen in the holy light,
But when the king came to see them, he heard only the sighs.
When he saw his dead queen, sad tears flooded his black eyes.


While he was living with his child being a lonely sad father,
The king thought to bring to little Snow White a new mother.
''Light up this life, my Lord, because I have only fears and sighs,
Change my fate, because I need a new morn in my sad eyes! ''


He married again, but the queen's heart was mercilessly beating.
She was like a dangerous snake and poisoned was her greeting.
Her sarcastic lips were always keeping the mark of her hatred,
Her powers were hidden, because for her the devil was sacred.



She kept her frozen air, although the snow was melting in Spring,
Her words could remain suspended in the air to freeze everything.
‘'Mirror, dear Mirror on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all?
‘'You, my queen, are fairest of all'', echoed the mirror in the hall.




The Snow White grew up becoming more beautiful than the queen,
The king told her, 'You're the most beautiful child I have ever seen! ''
When the mirror told the queen, ‘'You, my queen, are fair; it is true.
She added, ''Little Snow-White is still a thousand times fairer than you.''


The king started seriously to think of the passion they had known
‘Cause the queen's self-satisfaction and insensibility have grown.
He realized that it's a wretchedness to continue sharing their bed.
He wanted to open a dialog with her, but the words left all unsaid.

His bag of accusing words was opened and ready her heart to fill.
Her swear about playing fairly by being in love was like a bitter pill.
A subject to change himself was his escape from her malefic mess
And all the power she used had the purpose to gain her own success.



She summoned a huntsman asking him to push the little Snow White
Into the woods, to stab her to death just in the middle of the night.
As a proof of the her death, he had to bring back her lungs and her liver.
‘Cause the queen wanted to cook, to eat them and to feel that shiver.




The girl was scared to death, when she saw him taking out his knife.
She convinced him to find, however, a good solution to spare her life.
After promising to run away and never to return from the forest's core,
She asked him to give the queen the liver and the lungs of a young boar.



She admired the accidental depth, with which the oak forest was draped,
She went quietly and very quickly, because from her death she escaped.
She stood for a second, while the breeze was flowing with her breath,
She heard the voice of her mother telling her the secret about life and death.




She heard the birds singing and she wanted to be like a little bird so much
Sitting under a huge mushroom's umbrella, she avoided the light's touch.
Like shining diamonds were the misty clouds above the oak wood's trees.
She stayed there for a while to enjoy the symphony of some honey bees.





However, the cold night time came to hold all her empty unwanted dreams,
While hallucinogenic horror images were there to catch all her bleeding screams.
She woke up, but the fog's confusion enshrouded the whole dawn's entrance.
In that forest, the mystery was cast in some strange fairy shapes by chance.





Dry huge branches hardly hit her and swished in her frightened ears,
She noticed that her wet clothes in the rain were mingled with tears.
Suddenly, she found a very little house in the middle of that forest.
It was well hidden and nicely surrounded by red flowers as a florist.

A white abstract silence falls heavily like phosphorous snow… odd and oblique with nervous intensity of random limitations… sensitive and fragile in its unremitting generosity…A fluency of motion of imaginary realisation in silent turbulence descends in tenebrous shadows of illusion detonating the unconscious… the symmetry and exactitude of silence beyond all compass…. an intricate camouflage… meticulous and consistent.

Disinherited it tries to sanctify the air….. a silence in where stars evaporate vibrational loud and inquisitive…. freezing time by the velocity of its inner momentum of silent adrenalin.

Concealing its true identity isolating me in unknown realisation of what is to occur.. It resonates with constant tension waiting for unpredictability’s of indispensible voices that don’t speak….. This is a realisation of the imagination…. a vibrant insensibility…. density of unravelled thoughts that vaporise within me causing a vibration that fractures the equation of time and space in the burning crucible of my mind.

Intractable proportions of silent thought…. hovering… a constant mirage of irrational calculations….. This silence forces all the tears of consequence to fall upon my face with no avail…..Then in this thunderous silence see graffiti on white walls…abstract and meaningless….Like primitive lives…those with meaning yet possess no meaning… an ungovernable democracy of fruitless endeavour… of non factual fastidiousness… a glimpse of life and its fallacy.

Yet the words were spoken and written… by whom… And for why.. Now the silence punctuates and instructs…. phosphorous extinguishes itself and hides behind another truth…..The noise of the world cascades in torrents deafening… attempting to defeat… subordinate the senses in atavistic cruelty… Prowling searching for the silence… but it has gone…. disappeared in the imagination of my inner self…. an abstraction I call me….. But I know where the silence has gone….

Hers were the beautiful blue eyes and the black long hair,
She watched her blood dropp freezing to burn in the air.
Her pale lips were keeping the mark of her love's glow,
She wanted a child having the skin as white as the snow,


The hair as black as ebony and the lips as red as the blood.
That red on that white looked as beautiful as a flower bud.
She was sewing and watching the ebony of her window's frame.
An angel became visible in the air to tell her the child's name.


''Light up this love, my Lord, and give me this child of light
Unbearable is this pain of mine, light up my soul and my sight.''
Coming up the stairs, the king saw this and he told his queen,
'This white angel is the most beautiful creature I've ever seen! ''


The queen's heart used to be like a little book being unread,
But in front of her husband, it has become an open thread.
He tenderly kissed her, ''Your broken heart is no longer dead,
Because for Snow White on the snow your secret has bled.''


When she gave birth to her child, the sun rose to be so bright
And everything in the castle could be seen in the holy light,
But when the king came to see them, he heard only the sighs.
When he saw his dead queen, sad tears flooded his black eyes.


While he was living with his child being a lonely sad father,
The king thought to bring to little Snow White a new mother.
''Light up this life, my Lord, because I have only fears and sighs,
Change my fate, because I need a new morn in my sad eyes! ''


He married again, but the queen's heart was mercilessly beating.
She was like a dangerous snake and poisoned was her greeting.
Her sarcastic lips were always keeping the mark of her hatred,
Her powers were hidden, because for her the devil was sacred.



She kept her frozen air, although the snow was melting in Spring,
Her words could remain suspended in the air to freeze everything.
‘'Mirror, dear Mirror on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all?
‘'You, my queen, are fairest of all'', echoed the mirror in the hall.




The Snow White grew up becoming more beautiful than the queen,
The king told her, 'You're the most beautiful child I have ever seen! ''
When the mirror told the queen, ‘'You, my queen, are fair; it is true.
She added, ''Little Snow-White is still a thousand times fairer than you.''


The king started seriously to think of the passion they had known
‘Cause the queen's self-satisfaction and insensibility have grown.
He realized that it's a wretchedness to continue sharing their bed.
He wanted to open a dialog with her, but the words left all unsaid.

You are the light in my darkest hour
You made me see the beauty
Within the shadows
Everytime I see your face,
I gain strength

You are the sunshine in my rainy days
Whenever you stand here and show your light
This complicated world  just seems so easy

That everything which seems slight would turn significant
For you open my eyes to see the beauty
In each awful detail

You are the promise,
The hope of an unpromising tomorrow

That whenever you speak you would touch
The mind, the soul
The world

You are the history within the insensibility
You bring the memory of a lost dream
Creating a new child of  courage

Yes, you are a blessing
A gift of splendor
An angel
The hope
The light
The promise

But even the sun needs to set
To give way to the reassuring night...

And I am but a wandering soul
Every gift I have at hand
Is not for keeps

I am the mist
Which anytime would go with the wind
To fade

And somehow delight in
My transience

And dream
To see you smile

In my repose...

Ah! wherefore should my weeping maid suppress
Those gentle signs of undissembled woe?
When from soft love proceeds the deep distress,
Ah, why forbid the willing tears to flow?

Since for my sake each dear translucent drop
Breaks forth, best witness of thy truth sincere,
My lips should drink the precious mixture up,
And, ere it falls, receive the trembling tear.

Trust me, these symptoms of thy faithful heart,
In absence shall my dearest hope sustain;
Delia! since such thy sorrow that we part,
Such when we meet thy joy shall be again.

Hard is that heart, and unsubdued by love,
That feels no pain, nor ever heaves a sigh;
Such hearts the fiercest passions only prove,
Or freeze in cold insensibility.

Oh! then indulge thy grief, nor fear to tell
The gentle source from whence thy sorrows flow,
Nor think it weakness when we love to feel,
Nor think it weakness what we feel to show.

Heaven help the citizen
the worthy to be denizen
of Love inspired by Tennyson
awaken from false hope!
and Heaven help her poetry
sincere insensibility
the height of all futility
to party like the Pope!

Heaven help the serious
who grasp that sweet delirious
the simple yet mysterious
is natures way of speaking
and Heaven help our attitude
to dwell in sleepy gratitude
her longitude and latitude?
a treasure for the seeking!

Heaven help her doggedness
the sluggish **** of fogginess
the rhyme afloat in bogginess
which pulls her reader down.
and Heaven help the man again
who treads the Old Shenanigan
to find a wretched mannequin
a fool in love could drown.

Heaven help us everyone
the world has lost it's sense of fun
depending on the wealthy one
to build amusement features
and Heaven help the child within
the haggard *** to see again
to breathe the life which God has won
and offers to all creatures!

no! seriously! how many ******* times will we have to go over this format of reciting biblical compliments to each other, chapter 1 verse 1 through to 3 like it's worth 30,000 word essays on hermeneutics... if any rational man could see that somehow 3 words = 30 thousand words... he'd have written a dictionary in 10 languages, and thesauruses combining 3 of them for aesthetic purposes of non-tutored rhetoric: the talk that made drinking a pint less about st. st. st. stuttering, and more about: rub-dub-rub-dub... why in seashell the sea and in cave the echo? psst... don't wake them... the English rationalists will have a monkey scout on the trails of such loose language insensibility... they'll keep the power of the un-tripped domino with Shakespeare... the only country in the world where a dictator exists... and no one wants to own up to the identity of who he is.*

for all its worth, history is like science, quiet frankly history is
a science of humanism, so many facts in science, as there
are dates in history -
we educate people for the hamster catch -
drill them Pythagoras to reach a blind spot,
likewise quantum twins:
here too, there too,
Xerxes mad lashing at the sea for disobeying,
some Emperor of Japan not lashing at the sea
and allowing a samurai smooth tsunami stroke
against the neck wipe a million shaven heads
and a beard from the cares of
the few entombed in modern pyramids: harems.
if only Xerxes were transported to Japan
and began lashing against the sea for disobeying,
sent a few army bombers to disperse the wave,
maybe then we'd know why he failed
in his conquest of Greece...
apathy is the worst kind of madness,
it breeds no King Lear... it breeds no fear,
no theatrical splendour...
it just showcases the homeless man
at Covent Garden with the sign: please help...
walking past in fake diamond but nonetheless
esteemed ownership for status...
i'd run naked past... but to prove what?
that brother C.C. owns a t.v.?
prove what, and to whom? the grey mass
that entombs a life we once had
but are left to this perpetual-awe riddle
of up-kept science and ridicule of awe from
the beginning? up-keeping awe in science goes so
far, as Cancer Man said: the minute
they reject my book, i turn into the subverting
agent of their success... they don't
publish my book i un-publish their so called-truth
books, which become nothing more than
cookery books... the people of Siberia
are stern enough to survive without some
mush from upper-east side, some
London elitist with a flavour for Dubai...
to attain the uttermost objectivity of man's concern
is to devolve his highly evolved protection
of the subjectivity of the state, or patriotism,
of the Hegelian protective ownership of goods,
of the Marxian communal dis-ownership of such escapades:
to give birth to a God of jealous inquisitions,
one must give birth to a God of jealous intentions,
as of any time as the one time in mythology,
no greater time would be assured in being equal,
to his being... oh i favour the Cancer Man...
the object remains intact, censored subjectivity has already
been in place with the enforcement of
keeping Shakespeare saintly, erasing all existing memory
of, i admit, unnecessary bureaucracy to merely
draw a halo over a frying-pan of scrambled eggs...
it doesn't matter how right or wrong i am...
people have been given an almost eternal history,
so that they don't believe in an eternity...
but whereas a wolf once attacked a flock of sheep
and could be easily distinguished by adaptability,
the wolf within the sheep, as with the sheep within
a metaphysical suggestion (abstract) is no longer
distinguishable... we evolved to cannibalise each other...
whether intentionally in isolated cases, or poetically
with unintended cases of isolation...
we gave birth to a greater death than that of god...
we gave birth to the death of poetry, by precursor
to a death i mean the birth of the mediocre.
all the avenues are exhausted... all that fanciful
cocktail of clown and mime and acrobat are done...
we turned to comparative existentialism, as we always
did, we always wanted to protect the lamb from the wolf,
the fly from the spider... but when we were given the
bigger picture, the pyramid, the schematic, we became
so scared of our natural power that we created an overwhelming
seemingly over-worldly power of the atom...
we pitied the lamb lost among a pack of hungry wolves...
but then we gave sway to the industrial slaughter of cows
for mere food fights in schooling institutes that cared
more for imagining ourselves without body rather than
without god... god is dead... enter the dietitian.
as one swine plucked the heat from another swine's comfort,
another anorexic prickled her skin against another's
for the other's to only feel nerve and bone than anything
mammalian... we, the lizard people of the severed cranium,
who, through our concreteness to fact:
as in science as one fact changed, so history without mythology
no fact remains with the mythology of hindsight, the what if...
who cares if it happened, why are you trapped in the mythology
of what if? we are truly lizards... to the core that we imagine
the canvas of our fancies (muscles, fat, fibres) so gluttonous
with ****, while leaving cold skeletal phonetics dyslexic,
broken... why then so many people dare to read?
want to? want to escape the horrid comforts of the papier mâché?
fibula... but is that φι- or θι-? you don't know,
before you could teach the coherence of the movement of such
bones, you enveloped them in moulds of images,
which you later called sacred, and knelt before them,
in the worship of former stone engravings, which you engraved
on canvas depicting learned folk who were bitterly ignorant...
then you desecrated graves... giving fake skeletons
property over pointless words, words that could never stretch
to the sentence of: i love you... you left them,
in slogan canned, until started asking: where are the dentists!
where are the dentists! we need dentists!
you we simply slurring a stupid karaoke into a microphone
while your grandmothers ****** your very lives day by day;
but hey! ooh those steroid biceps that would
end up giving you a heart-attack when running
against true athletes of 200 metres at 20 metres dead;
oh believe me... those tourist trips to Auschwitz?
they're fakes... you don't have to go on a tourist trip to
Auschwitz to start realising you're living in hell...
those trips are only real for people who've been there
for real... even those Israeli schoolchildren have no place
there... it's a place designated for Nazis and Poles
who identified themselves as Jews first...
mind if we import the Sphinx to Trafalgar Sq. for
kicks the tourists might admire in between breaks of
watching Netflix?

i was once
young and
spilled out messy and passionate
dyed my hair too much
worked my fingers to the bone
bled
listened to good music
too loud
faked smiles
loved people deeply
who didn't deserve it.
pulled down the moon
and then the stars
and swallowed them
one
by
one
when i was young i
raised eyebrows
screamed and didn't stop.
burst into
dizzying
clouds of glitter and insensibility.
i wrote because
i thought my words might mean something to someone
someday
i thought i might as well
leave a mark
since i knew but didn't feel it.
i felt but didn't know it.
i'd be here for just a short while.
i filled up notebooks and journals
and sometimes i left them blank
because
i figured saying nothing
is
sometimes saying more than
saying something
i rode on trains for too many stops
because
i didn't know where i was going
and didn't care.
wore clothes that were
too big
traveled in cars that
were
much too drunk
to stay in the lines
based myself on baseless
meaningless
gestures.
didn't keep up with my responsibilities.
was unmistakably human.
pushed people away
crossed boundaries.
lit the world on fire
pretended like i didn't understand
chased shadows
when i could have been enjoying the sunlight.
i cried until my eyes were yellow and puffy
laughed until
my stomach ached and pulsed
sometimes for no reason
shivered and
banked sideways on
shores of quivering destruction
acted like i was
unbreakable
when i was young

spiritual burglary
delicious minutes
unlovely products of a puritanical conscience
alcohol  taken as a club with which to bludgeon  into a state of insensibility
words seemed to clothe genuine  honesty , they prove to be the veriest nonsense
epiphanic amorphous mind and its stream of consciousness
I imagine  a neural interface that could record dreams
not brainwaves, but images
phantasmagoric films beset by the florid mind
sorry echoes in the verbosity
Too bad love has fallen out of style
now that squares rule the world
I can't express "why" in words
so unrealistic a view of themselves and the world that they become most difficult to live with
little wonder I dwell alone
everything is really fragmentary
analyzing the analyst
tripping over my words
instantaneous administration
mesmerized by the minutiae of sensations
tangles of terminology writhe in his brain
collating and sorting
assigning vectors
in hopeful sectors
where heart and love abides

before i begin, a pre-scriptum...
         in my hand, this minute?
                   what a rare delight...
the Beauties of Sterne:
                                with some account of his life...
printed for J. Walker,
published by J. Walker, Paternoster Row &
   J. Harris, St. Paul's Church Yard...
London... 1811!
    and being a big "fan boy" of the fiction
that a bibliophile might have an adventure:
Roman Polanski's the Ninth Gate...
   now, for a book that's... 208 years old?!
it's not in bad shape... sure...
the hardcover is missing by a half...
but all the text is intact...
              obviously colouring of the pages...
but hey... i'm not a museum...
             the book is still fiddled with...
ha ha, the opening page with a picture
reads as follows:
   there are worse occupations in this world,
than feeling a woman's pulse...
perhaps a quote about... insensibility?
   it reads as follows:
       it is the fate of mankind, too often,
to insensible of what they may enjoy at
the easiest rate (sermon XLII)...
   besides, lucky for me youtube continues
to glitch from time to time...
    now looking more in line with channels
than individual artists...
   notably? Harakiri Diat (channel)...
eh... :wumpscut, the soft machine,
demdike stare, vomito *****, feindflug
weren't enough...
          turns out... there's more...
beyond penta, matutero and GloOMy
PhAntOM... well, please, allow me:
   filmmaker - the love market,
              la ***** bianca - demian...
hell... if you want to venture into the past?
i know one band that freaked out
my ex-girlfriend... gong - flying teapot...
or that song by greenskeepers, lotion...
               i thought i'd never see someone
become freaked out about music...
curios and also highly curious, yes...
but freaked out?
                 primitive knot - puritan...
demolition group - you better...
          1986 Yugoslav minimal electro...
Bruce Roach - Gut...
              and as it turns out...
    i look from this corner of the internet and find
absolutely no need to delve into
the dark web... install Tor...
           if you really want to...
  you'll find all you need... but you need
to sift through a bibliography of a book prior
to... it's all here... this sort of material
has an inbuilt filter... it filters out
             mainstream consumers of content...
i should know...
    3 websites that banned me,
1 suspended me...
                   i crossed the threshold...
    normie poetic: outcast *****...
           yet i still sometimes happened to chance
upon a will...
           lao che - soundtrack (the whole album
is decent) -
              


.i once heard it was based upon the following maxims: bogatemu wszystko wolno (the rich are allowed anything), siła razy gwałt (force multiplied by ****)... well... over the years, that much was true... but then i conjured a reply: nie wszystko wolno bogatemu (not everything is given an allowance to be expressed by the rich) and wola odiąć gwałt (will, having substracted ****): otherwise it's still wola razy gwałt (will, multiplied by ****).

****, i only just "woke" up from
this game,
you know that game...
oh i'm pretty sure you know it...
it's called
   pass the jew along...
   rudolf höss
      cited, among the list:
ibrahim ibn yaqub,
         radhanites (there's a surd
H in there, rad-'anites)
    casimir III...
esp. the latter...
           so.. give the current h'americans,
we're still playing the globalist
nomad game of: juggling the jews,
yes, no, maybe?
so my mother tended to
two old jewish women,
because, just "because"
their sons were active in
the "economics" of passing law
and techno-literacy?
oh... right... i "see"...
                            i... "see"...
in defence, of the "neglected" ones...
makes perfect sense,
de facto 51,
                  area 51 was always
a propaganda convert term
for Israel, rather than some area
bound to Nevada, wansn't it?
wasn't it?
                      ask me again
one year from now,
did we live peacefully among the jews?
they'll tell you the joke...
didn't the jews shoot,
with riffles,
   with bent barrels / sights
aiming at themselves rather
than the nazis?
       no, no soap jokes when
it comes to yews...
the yids...
      everyone in poland just
wondered: why so pacified?
        so blatant in walking into
an inferno?
                      you know...
it took Poland longer to surrender,
while being attacked by both
the Germans and the Russians,
than it took for the Fwench
to be attacked by the sole effort
of the Germans?
    funny... that...
                               i truly admire
some nazis, for their ingenuity...
notably? erwin rommel...
   lothar von arnauld de la periè(re)...
(subtle, i give you that one,
per-y'eh...
                 'old 'ack 'old 'ck
   h-b-h-b,
                                    rein in...
otherwise perié... ergo without
                                           the -re)...
michael wittmann...
and i'm a ******...
      **** me...
they didn't bomb paris,
might as well state:
they also didn't bomb
  marienburg or most of danzig...
Warsaw? taken down,
levelled, brick by brick,
        until no brick stood on brick...
              what?!
i thought the western capitalist-ico
communist insurgents
wanted target practice?
          i thought these people
wanted nazis, no?
          i'll admit... tiki torches?
you must have never looked
at european football hooligans...
tiki torches?!
you having a bbq?
            never heard of flares?        
- mind you...
you know what's worse beside
beind ridiculed?
having your intelligence
insulted...
i.e. do i look like someone
who managed to ****
your mother with a *******
harmonica,
or, am i, bound to the responsibility,
of your parents playing
the irresponsibility card,
attempting to convey a child
into existence aged circa 50
circa 45,
and what comes out is
an autistic cucumber?!
    **** me...
try giving ****** lessons
to circa 50 year olds;
and now the paradox...
   "i'm" the "schizophrenic"...
cool cool, coolio...
     i'll just hide in that "harem's"
worth of a brothel with
the prostitutes who tell
me they get s.t.d. checks on
a regular basis, o.k.?
_____

what am i to add to this?
not much, is there...
was the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald
ever great?!
  how satisfying it is to be unable
to please the crowd....
words, after all, are not bread...
how one wishes
for an anathema rather than
a martyr's embrace...
            one begins to imagine...
then one loses interest...
then...
                    peering through
the eye of a needle
watching a camel walk through...
one spots something outside
the realm of the metaphorical miracle...
do i have to?
      what if i remain to this side
of the eye of the needle?
what riches do i have that i cling to...
books & music...
does that make me rich?
what are the sort of riches where either
people plunder readily (music),
or do not engage with to begin
with?
who are ready to read...
i can claim to be a book thief...
i stole two books from my high school
library... the quran and the scarlet &
the black by stendhal...
            "stole"... i extended their
licance of being borrowed...
how am i rich: if my riches are the riches
no one would want to steal?!
i am rich... though...
               but i am rich in a both
materialistic / non-materialistic paradox
frame...
                what i own no one wants to
steal! why steal a first cheap edition
of a dickens' novel if you're not going
to read it!
              
       **** **** ****.... if they were such
philistines... when blitzing London,
why did st. paul's remain intact?
   "coinicidence"? i don't think so...
and why did they steal all those
art-works? again, "coincidence"?

                    they were people:
i find it uncomfortable to suit them up
in transcendence,
to be: epitome evil...
  to be the übermensch...
                   they loved art as much
as they loved being the antithesis
of the golden horde: gucci, dolce & gabbana
zz top: well dressed men...

     nazis loved art and fashion,
by far the best dressed army in the world
and history...

   ol' herman and otto came back
from the eastern front to a scared wife and mother...
people! they weren't mythical creatures...
the nazis can hardly become
chimeras as they become in the minds
of pseudo-communists of the western lands...

they are hardly the epitome of evil,
i know the 21st century narrative
deems them: "the perfect example"...
come on... they're not evil embodied
with not subsequent examples to be given
to... historical capitalism of evil:
there's always someone waiting,
some group of people to stage
a competition libra... and they will...
overcome the nazis...
it's only a question of ingenuity /
imagination...
           gas chambers was only industrial...
it will become personal in the years to come...
methodologically trained cultured
barbarians woken from a slumber...

the nazis were not: philistines...
   in no defence: didn't they speed up the creation
of the state of israel?
   didn't they? **** uncle:
   lavrentiy pavlovich Beria is going to state
the matters differently?
like hell he is...

        my family also suffered in that war...
sure, not in a concentration camp:
but on the front...
             there's even a joke that my
grandfather remembers:
the jews were shooting with bent nozzles
of riffles...
   as he also remembers two ss-men
who he asked for sweets,
and they would give them to him,
he'd as them: herr! bitte bon-bon!
   sweets so sweet that he would have
to rinse his hands under water
to unglue them from the sickly in-between...
how all the insurgent soviet soldiers
were teenagers and preferred to
sleep in pigstys and among the goats
in the hay...

how did the nazis become mythological
i will never understand,
at uni i had a **** history teacher,
canadian, she really liked my essay
on napoleon... how he was a great
strategist...
akin to?  

   erwin rommel wasn't a ****...
erwin rommel was, erwin rommel...
a great strategist...
        am i supposed to thrive in this
current year of polarized *******?
it's the current topic,
i can't escape it,
  sure, i'd love to have a Wordsworth
moment, lurking in me,
or an anna akhmatova breakthough...
instead?! i'm given this sort of *******
on a platter,
  and all that's missing are the wedges
of lemon and the eager oysters to
be gulped down... lucky me!

no, i don't like how the nazis are misrepresented
as both the übermenschen:
these mythological epitomes of evil
(no greater evil is to come? really?!)
and at the same time
as philistines: they stole art,
they ensured that critically cultural
documents of architecture were left
undisturbed... st. paul's cathedral...

         it's not like some otto or moritz
didn't come back home to a wife
and children... no...
he came back to the shadow cult
of the ******* hanging over him...

you know what the most haunting experience
i have ever experienced was?
Ypres... world war I site...
visiting a german cemetary...
compared to the allies cemetary?
**** me, what a meagre sight!
           the allies were burried with marked
graves, each man to his own cross...
the german burial ground?!
  mass graves....
eh: one marker: 200 bodies in one pit...
                 and here's the 21st century with
games about shooting: zee nat'zees...

   just visit the world war I cemetaries...
the ally cemetaries? square miles...
each man with his white cross...
german cemetaries? as mass graves go...
one marker per 200+ troops...
so... not that much space required...
less: bombast!
               pride & prejudice /
   pomp & circumstance...
   which the english speaking world is...
of the latter convenience to suit the narrative.

to reiterate...
   as a ******... the whole german fetish
isn't my kind of gig...
what with my grandmother being born
on the front... given opiates at an early
age so she would not cry and allow
the soldiers to locate her and my gread-grandparents...
but...
   they were the best dressed army in
the history of warfare...
they were not philistines and they certainly
weren't the mongolian golden horde...
i.e. they stole art, notably jewish artwork...
and if a luftwaffe squadron were to drop
a bomb on st. paul's? they'd probably
be shot...
  after all... Posen wasn't destroyed,
Breslau wasn't destroyed...
        Danzig wasn't destroyed...
Cracow wasn't destroyed...
             o.k., half of Warsaw was,
but we know why that happened
(or at least i do... idealist students who
thought they could fight the enemy
with slingshots and air-pistols)...
why? the Germans were simply thinking:
oh... we'll just be moving back...
i once explained it to myself...
they weren't exactly some mythological
grand evil template...
so i started thinking about them as:
Hans von Seeckt...
  or Otto Hertz...
              or some other german random
soldier...
      well... you should travel to Ypres,
Belgium... and visit a German cemetary
from war world I... then visit
the allies graveyard...
       each soldier, individually buried...
with his pwetty pwetty weißkreuz -
mostly named...
                 now visit a german cemetary...
mass.... graves...
                they just dumped them,
heaped them...
                        to me they were people...
you can't exactly reason with a mythological
evil - an archeological evil,
   an archetypical evil...
          for an archetypical evil?
try the nuclear family...
                         ******... that sort of thing...
child abuse... too many actors
were involved in this story,
too many mistakes, too many naive blunders...
evil on this scale is easily diluted...
which is why it's taught as history,
in schools...
   no one will teach children about...
oh... say... the Wiener Blut scenario...
   Josef Fritzl...
                    i'm pretty sure this will not be
taught in a history class...
                or... the H. H. Holmes Hotel story...
but it might become a jack the ripper
tourist-fetish... might it not? well, it already is.

I experienced bliss, infinite love
and powerful light
witnessed the magic that surrounds me
spread my Earth angel wings and took flight

Uncovering a world where judgment
has no power
where the mind is subordinate
to the hearts wisdom, the divine flower

I nestled into her womb
nurtured and at peace
felt the wholeness of my existence
as endless suffering ceased

I believed I had made it
to the proverbial Promised Land
I was void of deep emotional pain
until fear grasped my hands

Cast into the shadows
I was a prisoner to panic’s grip
the mind became unruly
I lost heart’s feelings and our kinship

Thoughts torment present moments
I judge my past and careless mistakes
bliss, love and magic have left me
because I failed to stay awake

Fractured, ruined, lost within my thoughts.
Soaked too the bone with baneful memories,
Like vines entwined in my brain banging at the door just to breath,
Your insensibility, absurdity and nonsense is like a fire burning deep within me,
because if it wasn't for your ignorance we wouldn't be in this reality.
Your words like venom spiting cruel ****
Always saying I love you but,
“Your thighs are too thick”
So choke on you articulation on this proper occasion,
suffocating on your enlightening *******
as if finally you taste the appalling choice of your vocabulary,
Instead of feasting on the frightening idea that you’ll be alone.
Forever most likely.
Instead of feeling the warmth of an embrace,
the sweet softness of a kiss,
or the burn of passion between two bodies.
You'll shrivel up like skin that’s been adrift in the ocean,
wrinkled, wreaked, and wicked ******.
I feel sorry for you and the way that you’ll die,
Cold and heart broken like a vase that was dropped from the sky.
Ill pry that one day you’ll awake from  this malevolent slumber
And be forced to endure the endeavoring of your madness,
To feel every verbal scar you left on anybody.
Tearing away from beneath your skin,
Slowly forcing you to mask holes of athencity to your past.
So release me from your obnoxious, vicious grasp,
Allowing me to be free from my entrapped sanity
And leave the minefield surrounding me,
Just waiting  for it to backfire and convulse right here in front of me.
Take back the conversations,
Take back the fights,
And late nights.
Cut the memories right from the root and untangle them from my mind.
You may have wasted my time,
But I swear to you I lied because I wont love you any long for all time,
I wont care for you,
You’ll be an old bruise on my fragile body.
Because I’m Fractured, ruined, and lost within my thoughts.

I have not indulged in any liquid vices yet I am enchanted into a drunken stupor.
I have not driven my bottom limbs 6 miles yet I am exhausted into endless days in bed.
I have not excused myself from privilleged meals yet I am starving, scouring around my
establishment for staples to satisfy my belly.

Two days locked in my bedroom and my skin has lost its colour, a white sidling pallor the
housekeeper.
I gape at the immaculate grey walls and soon their mouths emerged. Tales of fantastical
fancies lulled me into a ghostly realm in the state of my insensibility. My ivory marbled legs  
gradually stood rooted to the ground, lifeless logs longing for bustle. Stiff buttocks molded  
into the cheap cushions of a black swivel chair.

My head feels heavy and my eyes feels heavier.
Will you take me to solace?

Dear you,
My heart is loudly confused by you.
The only thing that makes sense are the
ordinary differences between night and day.
I’m solidifying from the inside to the outside.
Only evanescent recollections of us so vaguely remain.
Insensibility procreates itself within me.
I suppose I have you to thank for that.
I sit there for hours wondering:
Where did it all go wrong, huh?
And I wonder—
Why did it go wrong?
The clock finally strikes 6 P.M.—
The atmosphere changes with the roar of the wind,
And oil paints of the sky, yet
I’m stuck there fixed to my loudly-confused heart, the
Crackling glass, and the ******* apathy
Coding within my bloodstream.
So many things went wrong, yet
I thought we were right.
The general warmth of chemistry forming
Into one beautiful reaction.
What a shame that is.
I know I can never not love you.
Sincerely, me.

Finally;
They finally learned how to love me;
I can now feel them care and worry;
And see them giving me attention—how merry!

Some gave me thanks, while some kept saying sorry;
Why do you aplogize, dear crony?
You never did anything faulty
Can't you see? I'm finally happy.

For I can now feel their love for me
As I lie in this coffin, lifeless, and devoid of any vitality;
One by one, they walked in just to see my body
Now I feel like a famous celebrity.

The corners of my lips curled up; smiling bitterly
Wanting to shout and scream so loudly
Why didn't you tell me those words that might have made me happy
When I was still living in this world full of negativity?

But I do know the answer, honestly;
For regret is stronger than any emotionality
Oh, look how much they regret their insensibility
As they lost me, yet learned to love me—finally.

tell me
does the high last long enough for you to come to your senses
do you regret scaring your body unintentionally,
by this you are reminded of what poison lives within you. What runs through your blood. What consumes you.
You have been drained of who you are, time escapes you and nothing is legible through heavy eyes
"why do you act that way?"
"i know mommy will say yes when her eyes are wide"
collapsing more times than you can count on fingers, but gripping those coins in your hand until knuckles turn purple, showing you have something to prove
so tell me, is it worth it?
is undergoing this immoderate pain of life worth destroying your body originally created out of nothing but good, pure substances.
once pricked is a long time forgotten
I will stand by you until knees weak
until your body is colder than ice, but let me remind you this
You love me, you swear you loved me, to love me, love me
..
Love is not the worst drug
Being possessed by something so evil that it changes your definition of love. That is the worst type of drug. insensibility - oblivion

Take a snapshot of a
crap shoot in Coulsdon,

I hold on to the negative
which comes out as a positive
image.

it's all battery operated,
the insensibility,
lack of motivation

a *******
without opportunity
and that'll be me
doubled over and
down
on one knee..

Another snapshot of a locksmith
in Camden,
hat rammed on tight as if it
might
blow away,
one day it will.

An impassible insensibility
abyssal tones of sapphire
snap inevitably into place.
A forever fruitless entity,
constantly lugging this
burdensome bag of bones.
Plastic enthusiasm and
fabricated cheeriness conceal
everlasting overcast and
grey skies.

Tonight i am here .
Drink.
No ice..
Just Jack...
Cigar..
Light..
Life..
Love..
Road..
Tonight no girl is coming ..
Memory ..
Only pain..
Dark..
No tears ..
No moon..
And Jack...
No ice..
Tonight pain is coming back..
Insensibility..
No mother .
Grave..
No love..
Death..
Cold ..
No flowers..
And Jack..
No ice..
End ..
No ice..

In between the desolation
And hope of liberty
I hear stories of others You
set free
Why doesn't it work for me?
Is it something wrong in me?
I can't get closer
lower the barriers on my own
Clutching claws
reaching from the dark I have slipped into
Running from You
Prefering darkness to light it seems
Comfort of misery
don't have the bravery
to exit the cage
Coming to my knees, SET ME FREE
but give me the desire to walk when times are good
thinking You're not the one I need

I still run when the time has come
to open the book
to approach throne
What's rising in me?
maybe it's just flesh
...that isn't really me
The time is drawing closer
To your return, or to the end of my days...
still stuck in insensibility...

I cry out turn me from my ways
I cry out turn my heart away
from what I think I need
SET ME FREE


find me a reason to be
less to doubt
something to believe

making choices ... not emotionality
Change me
Where doing good is not enough
where not being empty is not filling

reaching out to set others free...
Is this love in me?