1741

That it will never come again
Is what makes life so sweet.
Believing what we don’t believe
Does not exhilarate.

That if it be, it be at best
An ablative estate—
This instigates an appetite
Precisely opposite.

Dark chocolatey skin bears the flag of red
Coloured, a sin; these feelings are cultivated and bred
So they're brought to toil on white soil
Reminiscing the scent of their native land, the sweet patchouli oil.
As they trudge through barren land, lost hope and ****** soles mark their path
This coloured discrimination instigates fair feelings of wrath
A helplessly agitated mind and yet they stand still
With wistful eyes, devoid of their free will.
At night, they sing to themselves songs of a land far away
As they drift off to a restless sleep, dreaming of being back there someday
Scalding feelings of entitlement and vengeance have taken birth and clouded minds
Working on indigo and cotton fields, on merriment and mirth have been drawn white blinds.
No matter how clean the records, the message is loudly heard
"When looked upon as a blue jay, you can never be a mockingbird"
These words passed down through generations deny them their say
Day to night and night to day but time couldn't change the black man's dismay.
Wanted is colour in life but shunned is coloured life
This clash of colours holds no value, only adding on to people's strife
So while i stand here trying to fathom out the meaning of it all
I hope, someday, realisation will take down this coloured wall.

Gunboats ahoy there’s pirates about
Speeding from Somali’s shore,
A fast flimsy boat and some black skinny men
With grenade launchers, cannon and more.
They’re coming to capture the tankers
They’re coming to capture the crew
They’re coming to take you hostage
Because fat cats will pay cash for you.

It’s happening more every day now
Ships are held to ransom for gold,
This contagion is out of hand now
The Somalian pirates are becoming so bold.
Hard men in the west prepare crackdowns
Gunboats sail for the Gulf as we speak,
With instructions to shoot to **** now
And make eradication of pirates complete!

But you ask, why is this happening?
Why does a man, a pirate become?
What instigates this crazy morphosis
From fisherman to pirate with gun?
Somalia has no Government to speak of,
It collapsed and went long ago.
No law or army in place here,
Life is dangerous, chaotic and low.

Some fat cats made use of the vacuum
They ditched toxic waste in the sea
They irradiated the coastline region
Making this a poisoned place to be.
The coast folk were dying in thousands
Sick mothers lost babies and kids
Black illness spread madly in villages
Then blind panic and pain hit the skids.

Some fat cats made use of the vacuum
They trawled the coastline clean
Somalia’s fishermen were destitute
The catch went from vast to lean.
The villagers were starving and hopeless
And what was pain became death.
The leaders appealed for salvation
But those with the means, had turned deaf.

Who would take this problem on now?
Who would make these ******* pay?
Most turned around and shunned them,
The world had turned and looked away.
So hit transgressors where they’re vulnerable.
Strike in sea lanes where it’s free.
Hit them near the Horn of Africa.
Attack with blades of piracy.

Hooray for the small man’s justice.
Hooray for his skinny, black shanks,
Please God help their quest for deliverance
For the West has arrived with their tanks.

Now I ask you, in all fairness
To stand back and view the scene,
Where the richest and most powerful
are doing something that's obscene
For not only are they poisoning
The most vulnerable race on earth
But compounding it with genocide,
And I add, for what it's worth,

The West, in righteous arrogance,
are crushing poorest fellow man
In his struggle for survival
Against their mammoth, global hand.


Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
25 April 2009

it's simple really, nostalgia is buried in a melody
the same way humans are put in coffins--
deliberately heart-wrenching, a science.
an old transistor radio climbs lazily in the background,
buzzing, humming but then hear it--
blank stares as the road carries on, gradually,
slow mascara rivulets kiss cheeks like the intimacy long forgotten only to come rushing back--
songs that we said were ours were never ours to have,
an old familiar lyric that we claimed to spell destiny,
auditory memories that taunt and torture:
the chorus only instigates barbed thorns to lonesome hearts,
major chords aren't happy,
but cause discordance--
clenched fists on the steering wheel, you must pullover--
you can't pause or rewind, you can't stop--
yes, change the channel--
but the music still plays, and the riffs hang in your head,
remembered and reminisced over static--
but nothing is white noise when the final notes linger on your auditory palette,
the taste like the stare of a cold gravestone...

but even colder still,
the empty seat next to you.

beauty is born
torn and tired
tirelessly turning 
into itself
she unfurls 
her long and shapely legs 
like a chain of
tibetan prayer-flags
waving to the Sun
immediately she begins 
to stage the play
that penetrates the heart 
with strong arms
and a silken mane 
the color of sea-spray 
her neck is the foam filled ocean 
and her ******* 
are coral reefs that protect
the polyps that cluster 
in her unfathomable depths 

modern day education
is beyond biased 
and most definitely broken
impermanent knots 
are haphazardly tied
to bind the minds
of dancing children
short-term memory
instigates a fleeting vision
some call it autism 
others prefer anarchy
a fear of growth 
or is it really indecision
that when you can no longer respond 
to life's most pertinent questions
with anything other 
than no thank you
eventually every syllable uttered 
becomes the stuttered sound 
of overly clichéd ambivalence
that frequently masks 
itself as wisdom


despite our higher self's 
best wishes
such limitless awareness
our very own bodhichitta
slowly becomes 
an interminable trickster
also known as Ego 
which incessantly repeats

phrases like 
i’ve earned these blessings
i've learned these lessons
aeons ago
therefore it is best to
meditate and inspect one's thoughts
on a daily basis
before all these shadows 
have a chance to grow and become
funeral wreaths
still the ego says
oh what fun it is to look at
the shimmering shawls strewn 
haphazardly like wedding veils
upon our watery souls
as if you and I were a couple of
Jackson ******* paintings


to heat the flame
inside the
limitless
space of your soul
you cannot
deny your heart
the swamps, vines, rocks and peaks
it seeks for eternity
the ancient trees drink light
and breathe out the heaviness
of splintered sight 
into the ephemeral night
divine breath
is calling you home
sounding trumpet flowers
daily...

gathering falling branches
and transforming sticks of palo santo
into star-studded candles
which permanently leave 
their ashen and iridescent marks 
like tattooed scars
upon the painted face of the sky

while angels fly
with flaming bundles of hair
weaving silent smoke signals
rising up from warm coals
the spiraling eyes of the spirits 
are alight with the embers of love
which impress their radiant etchings 
upon the daguerreotype of darkness' 
burning eyeballs


faceless in the heat
grief is asleep and dreaming
of justice
a curse on those 
who evade their emptiness
in culturally appropriated places
harboring...

regret like a fugitive 
such frustration that i wept
for the lack of fruitfulness 
******* the chords of love
slowly and gently she strums
her weeping guitar 
as if arrows and yarn
were woven into her arms
like baby blankets and bundles of cotton
naked and forlorn 
her hair worn short
still she swore that she could not rest
until all had sweat their prayers
through hollow caverns and windy staircases
her vision forever strengthened
by a ceaseless determination

balancing multiple lovers
is never an ideal situation
hearts broken and freedom falling
toppling down from heaven’s peak 
into these dusty old basements
just as we suspected
everything is resurrected
to time’s smiling amazement
both old ones and new ones
are reflections of truth
juniper sours
and blooming flowers 
of golden waterlilies 
poppies and sprigs of amaranth
jaundiced and porous
loquacious are the stages 
that we must pass through 
on our way to becoming 
dew drops and frozen apples


remediating all this concrete nonsense 
would be to our immediate economic advantage
these tragic promissory notes 
where landed lords of wealth 
have repeatedly replicated themselves 
upon trillions of meaningless pieces of paper
their stoically printed faces 
should not be readily trusted
nor traded or exchanged
for life's necessities
they are not only useless but truly 
dangerous
as they often claim
that they are only passing through
yet as each new day dawns
they are forever inclined 
to once again dine with you anew


bold in flesh and sinuous
only a moment before
the Sun shall bloom and whisper
with sleepy eyes
into yarrow flavored water
the secret of not knowing
the ancient face
of grandmother Moon speaks
through alabaster teeth
so intent on biting through sheets of
dawn’s iridescent sky
that the sounds of her words
are instantly drowned out 
by her tears
yet if you listen 
really closely like an owl
to the chorus of the night
you can clearly 
hear the forest echo

i love you

Family hate that's just great
Aunt cusses out a persons morals
Not believing but full of it
Questioned actions because of th wrong
Turned into a feud like this battle meant to happen
Bros fighting not talking
Got physical before the wall of silence got built
Mother who instigates hates on others happiness
All perfection ruined by one pointed flaw
Sister talks big but cries her way out of trouble
Grandmothe verbal abuse generation to generation and the next cycle of crazy
Alcohol empowers the weak
Drugs to stimulate fake emotions
Sobriety stuck in the war doing good judge like evil coil do no wrong

Attachment to anything is bad karma.
Naked in the winter.

One must wait for a solar eclipse.
One must not sweep out ants
One must not expect,

The exit sign instigates the young lady.
Asceticism surrounds the skyline
Releasing waves of regrets
For all to borrow, but only should one commit to self-control.

The database system
Functions off The 5-Human Senses

Age, couldn't ever wither her, her flamboyance
baffled and attracted, alternatively, a poetic thunder,
this phenomenal woman engaged life and death alike
so see her at this age, was a wonder, what a presence!
her lips proclaimed through red glow of lipstick, aloud
"Kiss me death, I'll give myself at the last breath"

Why do we hold life close to our chest, seeing her zest
if one asks her, her laughter would answer well to that puzzle,
all this passionate living is for the experience to share,
to surrender, before death that will take her through the dark hole
that connect the eons to the white hole at the other end.
Birth and death, doors to and from a stage, living an intoxicated dance.

They take her coffin, along the street, grief stricken , gone mute
dance, dance her voice instigates in silence, wildly they dance.

silhouettes above my head
hold me down like  paperweight,
the earth crumbles beneath me
and separates into quaking plates;
a toxic air instigates choking breaths
along my gasping throat that strains,
I am graveled as I contemplate
what my path is when I graduate.

Your ever presence sends a wave of revulsion
through my mutilated body.
Your voice has become the infuriating car alarm
that seems to strategically go off
at 2am.
Your arrogance instigates the razors
hidden under my mattress.

But I love you.

You cannot fathom the amount that I love you.
Because you tolerate me,
and my ever-changing outlook.
You understand that pain allows me to express
the words I will never say.

But I hate you.
And I sit here,
involuntarily,
with a maddening blank stare,
itching to scream,
"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a ****."
And I'll run through the fog for the rest of my life,
if it means being rid of you.
I hate you.


Don't leave me.

Every day now feels like that Thursday.
When the rain just instigates for no reason.
Every day now feels like a sick day.
Except there's no home to rest.

I suppose you could be my medicine.
You could break into a million shreds
and release all of the chemicals
that give me such an ideal numbness.

Because the pills that hurt us most
are the ones that we try the hardest to swallow.
And the ones that heal us
are just too much follow.

Perhaps this is why I'll never have you.
You are the poison and the pain
that can make me smile on cue.
But I
I'm
Nothing.
Nothing but a smoke and a joke,
and a sub-par kisser.
A black hole of emotion and ambition.
Nothing.

If only she had any clue
how much life she contained in one breath.
If she only knew
how many storms she creates within me.

She is here.
And she knows nothing of the endless light within her.
The only one who does
is nothing.

yesterday
she told me
two of her
favorite things
are coming
and poetry

i'll wrap them
up together
present them
at her altar
with a tongue
simultaneously
tasting limericks
in the air
and slick flesh
as we share

shuddering breaths
thundering in chests
choked with lewd scents
and a sense of urgency
surging back and forth
like waves flirting
with the coast
returning to embrace
no matter how many times
we drive each other
to new heights
of anxiety and ecstasy

a full moon
devising a riptide
******* me out to sea
will i seek peace
or slip beneath
and let the current
carry me

i've tried in vain to fight
the whispered suggestions
layered in alluring messages
but this lurid affection instigates
an aggression you welcome
with innuendos insinuating
intentions of transgression

Within the arteries of dense retentivity
There lives a captain that attracts
Waves of mass intensity

Oh the stars’ gaze
When we put down the map
And drift into this maze

The magnetic dynamic perpetuates
A life so unjust for the rarity of passion that instigates  

A constant motion that renegades  
Against the law of inertia
This is the grand escapé

Oh the stars’ gaze
When we put down the map
And drift into this maze

Your beautiful eyes covered with antimony
Instigates me in love then ask for simony
Your rosy cheeks oh my sweet honey
This situation warrants a grand ceremony

I am enthralled by you by the scene
Which makes me more and more keen
Touch of class what it may mean
Those eyes have never ever been seen

I don’t know why I’m lost in you
But love is cherished through and through
We are one in love and never ever two
With warmth of heart I intend to pursue

Sweetness of style and grace with innocence
The day I saw you I lost sense
Without you life seems tense sentence
You are my queen and I am your prince

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

In a world that is ruled by judgements, perspectives and power fights,
Aren't we all sinners?

In a world where now abortion is a crime,
more than the ******'s disgusting idea of a 'lovely' time,
Aren't we all sinners?

In a world where I am told that,
me flaunting my body just because
I love it, is not fine,
But rather a risking time,
Aren't we all sinners?

In a world where,
still many places loving the same ***, takes the right to remain alive,
lest alone be accepted or thrive,
Aren't we all sinners?

In a world where joking about sexism, racism, etc is considered cool and instigates high fives,
laughing at those who go against it,
calling them stuck up and tight,
Aren't we all sinners?

In this world where people think being a witness and not speaking up is okay to confine,
not as wrong as the performed crime.
Aren't we all sinners?

And this pathetic of an excuse of
'It's grey sometimes,
not an easy black or white',
allowing monstrosity to survive,
Aren't we all sinners?

Its late for you to be mine
Its 2018 dear its not nine
May this realtionship instigates
The scattering of light in my life
By the dust
The dust that you thought
my love to be.

May this light makes me understand
That
LOVE RUINS...

Still...
Don't know why i love you...dear Raazh.
I think...
Its not that late for you to be mine.

What instigates us to get naked for strangers, losing our dignity and clothes in between the couch cushions.

the pastor prattles on
and i nod off as my
phone shudders in the
pocket of my jeans

i fish it out
during the brief
interim where
everyone obediently
closes their eyes and
bows their heads
victims for a hungry
guillotine

the screen alights with
her name just as i
suspected and i voraciously
read the rough draft of the
poem she's just sent me  

the clock stops in the middle
of two separate seconds
i ruminate over the illuminated text
on screen digesting feminine
intentions between intermittent
glances to see if anyone's noticed
how even Father Time
paused to read her lyrics

i'd read dozens of excerpts
penned by her generous hands
sonnets wreathed in somber cadences
spoken word blistering with brazen passion
and compassionate pleas beseeching
all who'd listen to thaw cold hearts
and take heed of the lost
and lonely masses but
i never read something where
she referenced me

alas
the piece was
brief
and i can't help
but think i am
one of her many
footnotes

and the sick and subtle
tragedy is that she
instigates my exposition
rises in each action
and catalyzes every
climactic conclusion

i guess after seeing a ******* i couldn't be fed jealousy by a free woman... what the ******* taught was how to objectify in such times of crisis, when a woman does a Mantis chop with her heart to make you feel jealous on purpose, the: how lucky you are to have me, so many men would be jealous in your place! i guess so... but then i would't be walking up Arthur's Seat, sitting down on a cliff's edge thinking out the mantra: god, i wish i were dead, god, i wish i were dead. i could be blamed for spreading macho propaganda, but i read a little, and seen a little bit of the world to see things play out as they have - a woman's use of jealousy is her ultimate snare... see a ******* and you become equipped with a veil you can put on her when she instigates this tactic - you won't feel jealous, you'll then become to objectify her, no i don't mean objectifying her exterior, that's just shallow ****, i mean her inside... call me Genius Frankenstein Monster for all i care, i sensed there was a missing datum when they started censoring words in western society as if they might have censored it adequately to agreed to standards of education in algebraic mathematics.*

today? pork burgers, Slavic style.
pork mince, two slices of bread soaked in water
and later squeezed (to get the water out),
salt, pepper, one egg,
self-raising flour to make the mixture less
watery, spices, garlic paste, onions,
later coated with breadcrumbs.
side dishes? ćwikła / цвіклі (ts vikli) -
beetroots with horseradish and a bit of
crème fraîche -
fried baby potatoes with parsley, onions,
garlic, paprika and turmeric.
WE'RE RESURRECTED! WE'RE
RESURRECTED WITH ISRAEL!
FREE FROM THE LAW OF THE TSAR,
THE ARCHDUKE AND THE PRIME MINISTER...
ah ****, we're being inspected for anti-democratic
tendencies by the E.U. these days...
make our culinary skills outlive western media's
meddling with concerns - about
what is and what isn't democracy.

It is an era that need be forgotten, yet not be forgotten
Isolated by the rest of humanity for forsaking humanity,
The lives of no mere mortals were sacrificed on the promise of freedom,
While in some town couped up by hate, anger and despair
Families were left an unsolvable puzzle, in infinite pieces
It was an era that they told us was over,
And yet in a trench somewhere near the tip of a continent
Men whose bodies are covered by a dark pigment no different from mine,
Different to that of the man commanding them to dig deeper,
Whose behaviour and attitude seems no different to that of his father,
And his father, and his father’s father, and their forefathers
On whose behest a mark on a people was heavily branded
A sense of nostalgia overwhelms my body
And so while I walk past these men working in the trenches
I look upon them with a face contorted by disgust
Not toward them nor the pale skinned man who dictates their every movement
It is towards those of the same pigment as the men in these very trenches
Whose stomachs have been fattened by the labour of these very men
Whose every lie they have forced them to believe
With the talk of an era that still instills fear and instigates hate
Misdirected towards still figures who have as much life in them as the men they honour
It is an era that is still not yet over

wander into town while your back hurts

edging into breaking. meet the one who

instigates recycling for its sake and others.



suggested the items, collects and delivers.



meanwhile he eats the offered sweet and

confesses there are more boxes outside.



mostly cherry ones, quite small,made to

stack easily.



help yourself, i have organised them in two

piles, wood and plastic



yes, have four, there will be more here

everyday.



i remember how we ate  cherries every summer.



those days.



( pause)



these days.



the back feels slightly better now.







sbm.

Nothing I have body nor soul to swing
But whatever remains I can just bring
I do appreciate in company, can see spring
From heart to heart there remains a string

lovers go through a severe test of patience
Even being totally crippled carry cadence
It mostly remains hidden in the conscience
Its fragrance carries hindrance after hindrance

Beauty is what instigates fire in the love
Peace celebrates itself like innocent dove
Under the circumstance chance left is bow
Who knows from where love crops ,how

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

Her intoxicating smile takes my heart away
I can't resist my soul to dangle and dance
On a swing of love like jubilant lover I sway
My heart desires ,take chance after chance

Let me play with the flowers in the garden
Let me be the part of loving celebration
Beauty instigates to take every love action
Let me be out of me for the said duration

Come and bloom in me in this spring
Let me see you all around my sweet love
Let me see you from string to string
Let me take you in arms my innocent dove

Col Muhammad Khalid khan
Copyright 2017 Golden Glow

Lacking that quality
Quantity
Haunting me
Won’t let me sleep
It just instigates
Tauntingly
Forcing me back
To the drawing board
Bland
Staring blankly ahead
With a pen in my hand
It just has to be moved,
Be expressed,
Be expelled
All attempts at rebellion
Are ruthlessly quelled
For I've spelled it out
Countless times,
Infinite ways
It still beckons me back
To the halcyon days
Or the tragic,
Traumatic
Past, revisitation
What’s one more
To add to
Its zero summation

My lover's lips are tender.
Tendered by the reed from
Which he sings a thousand
Waves and transcends to a
Dimension, which my eyes
Cannot roam without
Confusion or awe.

For the ways in which
He captivates the
Crowds of souls
Who ponder the extent
Of human excellence
Is through the mystic
Vessel of shining brass.

When his blue eyes wax,
Like glassy moons
Reflecting on cool waters
I pause. And breathe.
And float. And smile.
Uncontrollably- full
of warmth.

And even if I was
Letting heat condense
Making my angst
Obvious to he who
Instigates the malevolent
Creature within;
I am immediately at peace-

Not with myself. But
With the thought of
His love, for his craft.
Each and every
Whisper and growl
Is a hue of his
Kindred spirit.

there is  a need to pace about, wave the paper, move the arms. need to pause and       counter act. if this reading thing                      will work.   maybe moving eliminates the standing .



pause a while to correct the mistakes, remove the titles that are not needed. launch into space, with ideas which defy all religion.



googling I read that  a perfect              sonnet rules.  if according to terms ,           conditions. you think so;   if you have gone     and done it properly. I understand this                 situation. yet some  like free form  verse.



wander into town while your back hurts edging into breaking. meet the one who instigates recycling for its sake and others.   suggested the items, collects and delivers.   meanwhile he eats the offered sweet and confesses there are more …



sbm.

what are words with no soul
whats a soul with no cords
who am i when no one’s there
and my pillow instigates
let my bed sell
my head on
the futility of rays.

     im not ok.
     im not ok.
     im not ok.

listen... i started writing to you personally... but then... i conjured up a lightning flash of ideas... i'm going to make it public... i can't help myself... you're still intact as a private entity... but i just itch when i hit a lightning storm of ideas... esp. associate with phonetic puzzles... and the Hebrew deity... i'm also too prone to being aggrevated by Easter...

well: i am truly grateful that you can share with me your innermost details: your modus operandi... i have two thoughts about water... rain... hmm... rain is my crux... the sound of a flowing river... that's tier two... but... living in London... hmm... the Thames is a strange river... you can't actually hear it flow... because it doesn't... one of... all the rivers i've come across that has a high tide and a low tide... looking at it... it sort of: sits there... like a lake... a ***** ******* lake: but a lake nonetheless... it's a lazy river... it doesn't have any tenacity about it... it seems to have not vitality of a metaphor used by Heraclitus... it has a sea similarity: it is governed by a tide... it's beautiful when the tide comes in and the river bulges to the brink of the Embankment... it's such an eerie river... but unlike most rivers... it's silent... the water ripples... but there seems to be hardly any current... how can there be... if there's a high tide and a low tide? sea... i try my best... to appreciate it... my mother is hugely appreciative of the sea... me? i prefer the vast unknown of a forest... i'm more appreciative of wind (air) than water... esp. if i enter a forest at night on a windy night... i like the music of dried branches... i like the howling of the wind being almost directionless... peering through cracks in the foliage... roughing it up like... if you can an imagine what people get into with ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response)... where you to concentrate water, having a sleepless night... with the tap dripping... funny that... i'd feel a "disgust" toward the audio... or rather: merely an itch... when the expression of water is man-made... i recoil... i can't delve into it giving me any comfort... air... on the other hand... give me the wind in the forest... sudden gusts of force... air... and then give me singing... i'm recently a convert to the Hans Zimmer Dune soundtrack... but don't get me wrong... Brian Eno's original take... esp. the prophecy theme is still dear to my heart... the reinvention is just darker... and if we were to throw fire into this whole affair... the sound of crackling branches in a fire... that's almost comforting... i'm thinking: what if i could only replace the television set with a fireplace... or if not a fireplace... an aquarium... but... ugh... sometimes you just have to be up to speed with other people's creative output... to live in a said time... but the alternative is more than tempting: it's calling me...you lived in San Francisco? that must have been fun: back when San Francisco wasn't that independent commentators describe it as: a hell hole... or most of California... i wish i could live as simply as what you described... on some tropical island like Samoa in the Pacific... i suspect life can be coupled with a sort of nonchalance when approaching certain realities that otherwise force us to... perform ulterior motives... when in the cold... you need to huddle... blah blah... but to reiterate... i'm more of an air person than a water person... esp. during the English storm-month... when the islands get battered to the point that even Essex feels the magnitudes... the woodland pigeons fly so fast you'd think the winds would be able to break their wings apart...  the trees don't have any leaves... so... they... clank... clank... like a pirate with a wooden leg walking on a deck of a wooden ship... and if you time it just right... the aura of the night can also take over... see... i never understood that in English you shorten people's names... in ******... there's actual diminutive tools in place... KACZKA: duck... can become: KACZUSZKA (small duck): it's an endearing fabric of the language... but... certain "things" remain intact... names of people... in English you will have a Peter... and the "diminutive" of Peter is: Pete... Michael becomes Mike... Matthew becomes Matt... Samantha becomes Sam... it's... lazy... it's ugly... but it's the fabric of the language... do not becomes don't... how my mother tongue works when it comes to the names of people? just using my example... from the "elaborate" Mateusz: my name becomes translated into either Finnish or Italian to not stress the SH (SZ, same ****, different cover) at the end... so either Matti or Mateo... why would i refer to you aas Edie? that's almost: Edward... since... short for Edward in short-hand English is: Eddy... and if you were to break that down to the raw phonetics: E-die... you have a name... it's elevated for the purpose of referring to you by: the... theta... if i were to write it in Greek... εδιη (maybe i'm not getting my eta contra epsilon bearings right, we'll see)... εδθ... see... i could simply write... what the Roman text allows me... but... you're missing a letter... in my mother tongue that's an: IGREK... Y... which is upsilon... but no... i can't just write an iota in between the delta and the theta... but i also can't write the upsilon... since... it's not an IGREK... i need graffiti-phonetics... E-DEEF... not deaf... exactly: like dear isn't deer... E-DEEF... like DEAD is not DEED... i know what i need... a diphthong (φθ): but these didn't exist in Greek... εδθ: the letter that's missing is a hollowed out U... it's a parabola with a leg to stand on... it's not even close to: E-D... oh such... Edyph... **** me... sorted... i had to replace the theta for the phi... and... like a magic pinball machine... the "why" or Y... approved... strange letter... don't you think? it could never be trusted as a vowel... not in my language... not in the English language, even though...

a   e                 o  u
   Y                     H              
   i                    ą   ę

        which is the right arm... now coming to the left arm...

ś  ł  ź
   W                      i'm going to ignore the acute O
ć    ż
                      it's just a ploy for an orthographic aesthetic...
to distinguish spelling mantras from an upsilon...
the second H in the tetragrammaton is...
either a laughter generator or a sigh capturer...
all diphthong manner of dealings...
the Latin æ, i.e.:
                                         æ   e
                                            H
                                          a   æ....

like i already mentioned... we're not going to
be going into the orthographic aesthetic of
the acute omicron...
the left of the tetragrammaton:
is a vowel catcher... one that either instigates
laugher... or catches sighs...

magically the iota and the upsilon merged:
into a "gamma"... of Y...
the splinter tongue of the serpent...
      i call to witness...
           the merger of the Hebrew though
from: the Latin...
   that this deity might testify... its phonetic
credentials... i: for one: will not serve
no "Allah"...
         day upon day... year upon year:
i have become entrenched in...
fulfilling the motives of the one, true...
deity...
                      
the English language has no concept of orthography!
it's... prone to... metaphysics...
to... para-reality...
to... trans-"prefixations" of the glories
of some, supposed, democracy...
but... without... diacritical stressors...
it lacks... orthography... that's its downfall:
toward... disrepair...

εδȗθ...
                      suppose i used a comma...
addition... on the upsilon...
to give it a more Roman accent?!

exactly... i can't exactly get rid or either iota
or epsilon / eta... when trying to wriggle
a quasi-upsilon-omega: dip!

that's the battle... ie and uo...
      certain examples have to be ushered in...
you don't say: die-ꟻ-F-ONG...
you say... dyphthong... because the iota
morphes... you dip... into... hollowing out
an upsilon: which is already hollowed
out to make the trinity of

                       υ  ω
                         Y
                         o

even if the supposed son: only son?! died upon the cross...
illiterate little ******...
here's me... picking up the literacy pieces...
making... associations...
oh sure: sure... this could fit... here... there...
i was never going to like being asked being
someone else's *******: choir, boy!

there are certain things in life... more important
than the territorial foregoings
of all that's ever supposedly to be mortal...
ask any man: what he might wish to envision...
a celestial... takeover... a lineage born
not more genes... but... the fury of ideas...
men ought to pride themselves not
on mere acquisition of wealth...
but... inexhaustible expenditure...
                        
                  i ought to be allowed to govern with
as much little... as: too much doesn't allow me to
govern...
because: i simply don't want as much...
i want the bare minimum...
               the little as possible leaves
me with the contention...
i want the least harm to grieved by
the greatest of many...
          to live: via dying trying...
                what an adventure....
                 one life... one hope...
                tomorrow's just another cope...
       hello Mars.

.i'm not even sure whether i'm right or left on any particular spectrum of politico, given the current events, but... how did politics become as engaging, as a rugby match?! now that's ******* bewildering... but i have a motto: keep the left hyper-sensitive in terms of hyperventilating, in subvert terms of: keep them talking, keep them excited, these people need the fuel that drives their a.d.h.d. mantra... the right, on the other hand? keep them tame, keep them sedated, keep them lock stock & barrel, making fetishes from being trigger-happy... real deer or imaginary deer... keep them focused, level-headed... but sure as ****: keep the left entertained, hyper-excited, give them the necessary momentum; given, after a while... the momentum exhausts, and subsequently consumes the vector, that instigates it.

**** me... a whiskey in the afternoon,
as the saying goes:
no gentleman drinks in the morning,
perhaps drinking in the afternoon
is some variant of a faux pas -
       but the sun goes really well with
miss amber...
          ah miss amber...
       my memory's fixation,
and a medicine for headaches and bad
memories...
    my amnesia prescription...
              funny... i'd love to write an epic
about memoria & amnesia...
like i might write an epic about
thanatos and hypnos...
   but alas... not to be... not to be...
although...
in the list of names...
      a Kantian ref.: shadow, something cold...
in the critique of pure wisdom
schematic (volume 1)...
so? the list:
    Nyx, Erebos, Geras, Eris,
            Nemesis, Apate,
      Charon... and the son of Charon...
****... sorry... the daughter of Charon...
Σκιά...
   ooh, played with fire, the Greeks did...
such a beautiful alphabet,
but they, really, really had to overplay
toying with the diacritical markers...
in translation that alpha, does indeed have
an acute symbol hovering above it...
but...
               But...
no... that's now how you account the word...
does a semi-wit of non-Roman descent have
to tell these people:
that's nice, nice... you're over-doing it...
look at ****-naked Britain!
i see room for potential,
a metaphor of Eden!

     Skíā             (because you're hiding
a sigh, along with a H, com, com,
   compre, pre pre, hen hen hen...
   comprende?)

       because why wouldn't i?
          first person in the family to go
to university, and what a bad idea that was,
thankfully the Labor party was in power
and the tuition fees were, an astounding
£1350 a year...
                  spotted a major tsunami of
English toffs,
  plus some English crumpets...
killed none...
          got a ****** degree in chemistry,
then inverted the periodic table on its head
and started spotting "sub-atomic" particles
in diacritical markings,
totally missing in the English language.

but beside all of this...
no... i'm not letting this observation pass...
screamers (2016),
and it's *****-mother
                    of lose plagiarism...
  the blair witch project...
  
                 i love, i love horror for
the theater, the dance macabre,
the exaggerations, the romance music...
the cenobites (covert word for monks)...
something pressing about
a disgruntled love, or memory,
or something to add a quintessential
theater....
                      even as impure as evil
becomes in the film hostel...
or how easily people talk about
the Holocaust... when not being involved...

i can stomach that ****...
but when there is no banality of evil?
rather, a canvas of the banality of life?
and there is a sharp, syringe precision
hovering of a dot insertion of
the cheapest form of evil?
            that **** gets me...
     i turn the volume down....
the images don't scare me,
          but couple that with music?
who the hell orientated themselves
with the suggestion that males were
primarily optical creatures?!
which evidently explains Mozart et al.

that sort of cheap horror?
   no theater, no art, the nitty-gritty?
the everyday diatribe?
                     i started to forget which
was the horror and which wasn't...
the dross of the happy-campers
with very subtle interludes of:
**** my pants shrieking like
playing the violin with the blunt
side of a knife for a bow...

                         ...
             did i wake up remembering
a dream? i swear i didn't think this up...
i'm pretty sure i was explaining
to someone the effects of the drug
Naproxen as an alternative to
sleeping pills...
                                  let's face it...
almost all pharmaceutical innovations
collide with
                              an artifact of derived
from Hypnos - sleep...
   Hypnos is the equivalent of Prometheus
when it comes to pharmaceuticals;

but Skíā, the daughter of Charon?
what could be darker
than the depth of night,
if not, a man casting his shadow upon
it?

by Jennifersoter Ezewi

The valiant are being tamed
By the sword of intimidation
Who lunges towards every states
With a face wreathed in vengeance.

Who is good for slaughter?
The one with the sword or
The non violence?

But they claim unaware
on life threatening issues which is the basic
Thereby replacing the number
one priority with the secondary
grease that spins money on their tables.

Who instigates and launches attacks on every route that leads to the cross?
The custodian or the cursed?

Who is good for slaughter?
The guilty or non guilty?
Why then is the blood of the
innocents serving the interests of the selected mighty?

The peaceful will prevail
But only time shall tell how
glorious it shall be.

The peaceful will prevail
But only time shall tell how glorious it shall be.