Henny-yussly mischeevyuss
He orfed growshurries irregardless
Of the rawshussness and disgustment
Of the masonairy surrounding him.
We consistiountly tried to keep aholt
Of his mumbeulizing narrativation,
But he was dissensibly non-coherent
With a naturalistic talent to devaricate.

He was consistively disassembling,
Misindicating his intellectuality
And his irreality noissomely aloud.
Of his malapropicisms he was proud.
His crassy disaparagements reeked
And his ununderstandments peaked
They pointed out his misconstumblement
About his privates and the government.

His blabbermouthedness notoriastic
Rerendered him atombombastical.
His practicication of the irradical
Was mostly piraticalish; nastical.
His pernowncements so disapplaudable
Too bad his words were so megaudible
Unpossible, hyperdisgustisizing,
To the point of indisguising.

eight, nine
nine, eight, nine
Hello, father, spare me a dime,
and pay the mime with
five landmines;
******* the bridge if
we've got time.

Appalachian Yeti-man:
set fire to the trashcan.
Call me hobo-stan,
and if the beard fits
grow it.

Show it;
show me the D.
Dentistry,
stay with me;
Explain for free:
"Dichotomy
of the mind"
thoughtfully,
for a time.

Robot-o me,
Mr. Oregato.
Set phasers to ****
stunningly.
Make fun of he
for bad grammar
and intellectuality.
He dumber;
me smarter.
She's aderall;
I'm martyr.

Destroy my innards,
Captain.
I need them not.
She leaves me rot,
and he feeds me Scott.

Scottie doesn't know
that Fiona and me
eat him in a van while
he's sleeping.
Cannibal,
call me Hannibal,
and she's the Jane to my
Tarzan,
pulling the fruits of
my loom.

It’s ok to be harmlessly pretentious
give your ideas and life some credit
& venerate your ideas with research
don’t browbeat others with negativity
or a misjudged sense of intellectuality
but don’t be afraid to aim for lofty ideas
perhaps ideas that are hard to fully grasp
even seemingly beyond your comprehension
the most interesting ideas usually work that way
immerse yourself in the terminology of your interest
until you can understand the language of their glossary
eventually writing new sentences that become paragraphs
until what seemed like a pretense becomes the present tense.

Remember those city nights we spent
inhaling the marijuana and halal truck tinted air that fills the space
between the skyscrapers?

Glowing storefronts illuminated
both the skies with their stars glistening quietly under coats of dust
and the streets, dense under ***** and ***** spilled by boys
who yell obscenities to girls
who hang their heads low,
ashamed to be happy to have their push up bras appreciated.

It was the summer we read Catcher in the Rye religiously.
We were overflowing with privilege and hating privilege.
Oh god, how we thought we hated privilege back then.

In June we graduated from middle school,
and you found out your father was cheating on the woman
he cheated on your mother with.
In July you kissed a boy for the first time,
even let him feel you up a little.
I couldn't help getting uneasy,
even though you said it was nothing.

Most nights we couldn’t contain ourselves, shouting ideas
fast as the taxi cabs who'd nearly run our still-growing bodies to the ground,
always in a hurry to get home to their own sleeping children.
We raged rebellion against the red lights.
There was no time to wait around for things as unimportant
as people who weren't us.

In August, I took a klonopin pill from my mom’s drawer
because I couldn’t stop the dread beneath my skull.
It made me sleepy.

We were so filled with poems and wine copped at art galleries
where we’d feigned intellectuality,
that we'd see a *** on a subway train
and call him a vagabond.

Back then we thought we knew how life worked
like the palms of each others hands.
By September, albeit, our fingers were calloused
from the time we climbed a playground's wire fence,
twisted the caps off beer bottles,
and swung from the Monkey Bars.

Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Maintained “the power of words”—denied that ever
A thought arose within the human brain
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables—
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit “dew
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”—
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has “the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures,”)
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,
I cannot write—I cannot speak or think—
Alas, I cannot feel; for ’tis not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
Upon the left, and all the way along,
Amid empurpled vapors, far away
To where the prospect terminates—thee only!

Dear Picture-in-my-head,

I wish I had you for my reality instead.



Your star spangled banners,

your dim faded lights,

that alan walker music

misty, misty night.



Him,

from the corner of eyesight

letting his frown drop,

asking me in. Our time.



An audacious vivacity,

the merry sliding down of unhinged desires.

A mating of intellectuality,

less of skinny lust, discarded mask and pride.



Wafting smell of earth drenched in season’s first rain,

halting words breaking the initial stranger pace.

Cups of ginger tea than ***** and ice,

living the moment than getting drowned in haze.



I could whisper my secret wishes -the one that involves a mountain top,

a leather jacket, bullet ride

an unfaltering speech – woman of the moment,

a potential done right.



You could tell me about that night you cried,

That misunderstood age

Your favourite cartoons,

And their funny ways.



We could draw the clouds on our palms,

The ones that compliment a picturgasmic sunset

Feel the lightness of solitude,

the sweetened somethings in the nothing.



The breeze would crash against me,

Before it hit you softly in the face,

And it would feel just right,

To let you have a bit of me this night.



It would be good, or even better;

but it’s just stuck in letters.

For it’s a trapped swansong – in a party with people I barely know,

and wouldn’t want to, at the end of the night.

I seldom indulge in letter writing
Because I consider it
To be a cold and illusory
Means of communication.
I will only send someone a letter
If I'm certain it's going to serve
A definite functional purpose,
Such as that which I'm
Scrupulously concocting at present
Indisputably does.
It's not that I incline
Towards excessive premeditation;
Its rather that I have to subject
My thoughts and emotions
To quasi-military discipline,
As pandemonium is the sole alternative.
I'm the compensatory man par excellence.
                                                              
Deliberation, in my case,
Is a means to an end,
But scarcely by any means,
An end in itself.
This letter possesses not one,
But two, designs.
On one hand, its aim is edification.
Besides that, I plan to include it
In the literary project upon which
I'm presently engaged,
With your permission of course.
Contrary to what you have suspected
In the past,
I never intend to trivialise intimacy
By distilling it into art.
On the contrary, I seek
To apotheosise the same.
                                                              
You see...I lack the necessary
Emotional vitality to do justice
To people and events
That are precious to me;
I am forced, therefore,
To at a later date call
On emotive reserves
Contained within my unconscious
In order to transform
The aforesaid into literary monuments.
You once said that my feelings
Had been interred under six feet
Of lifeless abstractions;
As true as this might be,
The abstractions in question
Come from without
Rather than within me:
                                                              
My youthful spontaneity
Many mistrustfully identified
With self-satisfied inconsiderateness
(A standard case of fallacious reasoning),
And I was consequently
The frequent victim
Of somewhat draconic cerebrations.
I tremble now
In the face of hyperconsciousness.
I've manufactured a mentality,
Riddled with deliberation,
Cankerous with irony;
Still, in its fragility,
Not to say, artificiality,
It can, with supreme facility,
Be wrenched aside to expose
The touch-paper tenderness within.
                                                              
With characteristic extremism,
I've taken ratiocination
To its very limits,
But I've acquainted myself with,
Nay, embraced my antagonist
Only in order to more effectively throttle him.
Being a survivor of the protracted passage
Through the morass of nihilism,
Found deep within
"the hell of my inner being,"
I am more than qualified to say this:
There is no way out
Of the prison of ceaseless sophistry.
There are many things I have left to say,
But I shall only have begun to exist in earnest
When these are far behind me,
In fact, so far as to be all but imperceptible.
                                                              
I long for the time
When I shall have compensated to my satisfaction.
I never desired intellectuality; it was ****** upon me.
Everything I ever dreaded being, I've become
Everything I ever desired to be, I've become.
I'm the sum total of a lifetime's
Fears and fantasies,
Both wish-fulfillment
And dread-consummation incarnate.
I long for the time
When I shall have compensated to my satisfaction.
I never desired intellectuality; it was ****** upon me.  
I'm the sum total of a lifetime's
Fears and fantasies,
Both wish-fulfillment
And dread-consummation incarnate.
I'm the compensatory man par excellence.

unbearable secrets
negotiating bearable truths as
                         day brakes in
                       everyday life of
                     rural experiments

         taken by the
huge momentum of lifes
            eventualities

               broken by the
        roughness of modern
         intellectuality as the
       devided forgetfulness
                                              grows­ into
elegant white memories

start
set the scene...
somewhere enclosed, close and closed
like a bed
(tight, restricted like, uh, the world all around me, how fitting
now it’s political)
on a morning
and maybe the sun will be rising,
or setting−yes−to represent the ethereal dusk of my cognition,
Say I’m with someone−don’t identify whom−it’s meant to be a mystery:
unfinished, left.

it could be you

and I’ll search the dictionary
for words to make my pseudo-philosophical, imagist, absurdist poem obfuscated, esoteric,
tanquam yet favillous; beyond recognition
So that it sounds like Dr. Seuss,
that is, a Dr. Seuss that knows Althusser, Derrida and the early writings of Flaubert.
add some random enjamb-
ment.  cut out the capitalizationandspacing. start a sentence;
end it. Section break

Oh, I’ll need more words, you know, to remind my peers of my intellectuality,
-out of place words that don’t actually mean anything:
Specificity or
literati
that’s good. Now, to end-

bring it to a close in one all-encompassing word:
(to be read over-dramatically)
pretension.

Creativity and ambition is real
And the feeling of risk and intelligence
Are asking for damnation please, placidly
Birds among many things that chirp around your soul that wakes up the dead
Cheering up the party with the talk of apartheid, black and white
Competition is the last word, and talk of lost causes and intellectuality
Est mir leid
I'm up in my knees with Bukowski, they call me old-school Burroughs, the Kerouac rings in the philosophical Barry Manilow
Barry Levinson, please don't make my death bed, you're plot points make sense ambivalently too in case I touch upon Bacchus
The dichotomy of the bridling ***, I suppose you switched with the surface of the country full of dunes and locusts
The swamp of the divorcee storm saves it for the orgie and the promiscuous dollar ride and melee

He brought me 76 roses
One for each sunrise we’ve seen
The snow falling
Not in unique patterns
But awkward clumps
But I like them that way
They seem more real
And with him
I hoped everything was real

He brought me to an art gallery
Where we carefully took notes
Graphite stained hands
Touched and shared thoughts
On this painting and that
Joking at our intellectuality
And he bought me a poster
Of Dali’s Persistence of Memory
And an ebony frame
Which he helped me put up
Onto my wall
Above my bed
So I could see it each day
As the flowers bloomed
Outside

In August was waves
Where we held hands
Perfectly sculpted for one another
And watched waves roll by
And sand tickle toes
Not a word exchanged
No need for it
Our scents mixing
Into the fresh air
Billowing by
A hint of lemonade
And beer from down the way

He took me on a picnic
In the middle of October
We sat under the stars
While the trees carefully
Cried tears of leaves
On us
Entwining us
Bonding us into one
As we covered ourselves in blanket
A makeshift house
To guard us against all
And we could hide away
Just the two of us

Winter came once more
Lights dangling on front doors
And that night
He took me to a café
And we sat until 2am
Reading our novels
Though it was hard to concentrate
So instead we ordered
Cappuccinos
And talked the night away
About nothing and everything
While snow fell
Not in unique patterns
But awkward clumps
But I like them that way
They seem more real
And with him
I hoped everything was real