There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes much impression on him, and another none. This sculpture in the memory is not without preestablished harmony. The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us represents. It may be safely trusted as proportionate and of good issues, so it be faithfully imparted, but God will not have his work made manifest by cowards. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise, shall give him no peace. It is a deliverance which does not deliver. In the attempt his genius deserts him; no muse befriends; no invention, no hope.

Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have always done so, and confided themselves childlike to the genius of their age, betraying their perception that the absolutely trustworthy was seated at their heart, working through their hands, predominating in all their being. And we are now men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; and not minors and invalids in a protected corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers, and benefactors, obeying the Almighty effort, and advancing on Chaos and the Dark.

A tear is shed
For those who are blind to the beauty of this world
Who can only feast on sarcasm, writhing in irony
        *It soon evaporates.
Pictures of a future dressed in ribbons and lace, cast off and burned
Pictures of the future carrying disdainful dystopia, infamous for invalids
Hung to admire in sublime distaste by those that seek knowledge
And see the repetitious antiquities of time that come to pass
        But others care not for plans and the imminent
Those that keep to the light of the gas
And carry the past to the present
Hoping for trends to try again, reliving what they had never lived
Laconic and loquacious in emotions and words
Against the gossip, but paradoxically
Pushing for the creation of their “ritualistic social Golgotha”.
Those who abuse the glory of their munificent, malicious mentality
Pathetically unable to procure authentic happiness
       A tear is shed.
Inside the recesses of the soul where emotions dare not dwell.
       It too evaporates.
Trapped in fear and the “cliched harlequin speech of suicide”
Begging for the masses to cast them out and find each other
       A tear is shed.
Never seen but felt as it evaporates.
Felt by those who envelop themselves inside themselves
Those who plagiarize their sick self-conscious souls
Those who bring about the very misfortune they strive to devour
Those who are effortlessly envied as they exploit their habitual recreations
       By those who wouldn’t dream of falsified euphoria
Those who bastardise and deface the name of creative individualism
As waters of the soul are purged and discarded
       They are felt by those
And are quickly washed away in doubt and regret
Keeping to the light of the gas, dangerous and warm

Walking down the street
I often trip
Over the despondant and pathetic husks
Of Moral Invalids
It is easy to gloss over
The danger and contamination
The way these people pollute life
With delusions and manifestations
Rooted in their simple minded
Conjuration of the will of invisible men
Unfortunately the majority is swayed
Clinging desperately to
False comforts congregation brings
Interaction with them is dangerous
Even with a brush
One can catch the contagion of ill conformity
There is no method for aversion
We're continually besieged by
The Invalids

Get impassioned, get informed, get involved, because our ignorance makes us impotent, irrational, idiotic invalids, incapable of inquiry, and strips us of our individuality. Time to step up and take back what's yours. Hedge fund managers and securities brokers hold a cumulative trillion + dollars in assets. While you're living on minimum wage, working 2 jobs, struggling with job security, or drowning in student debts; they rake in 9 figure incomes by gambling with other people's money, and get tax breaks that come out of your pocket. Your voice is not insignificant, you are just as important as the people you idolize. Believe in yourself and extend it to others. We are the collective majority, and we have been conned. Together, we have the power to make a change for the better, so spread the word, and tell em you heard: get impassioned, get informed, get involved.

The invalids,
misanthropes-

Spell-check your ego at the dooooooooooooor
And though I fancy that fancy liqueur
I'm of sound mind and jaded-
Gore doesn't bother me and my eyes are all faded-
I'm a child of the devil
So let me level with you-
I don't know what I abhor more,
All this violence in the world, or the lack of haberdashery stores
So I'm of reasonable theory,
And awfully good at this-
So let me circumvent this infinite abyss-
Yeah, I'm *******-
Send me your tired, your weary,
your weird and your eerie,
and I'll eat them with a spoonful of peacock ore-

So I'm better at this than you are-
And I'm from France-
That probably makes you leery,
But my pants are clean and I'm the God of War-
Inadequate!
Mundane!
The pedestrian,

Heretofore-

I crush you, I'm a crusher-
A garbage compacter pall bearer usher-
I'm of appropriate quality-
I spit at inequality with a certain measure of frivolity-

I'm the benefactor of a luster-
So let me rush you into a hasty decision-
"I don't know about that," I hear you utter,
"Stuff it, yo!" I tell you, this is intermission, not the gutter-
So I'm a trap-

As comforting as a spinal tap-
Happy as a lark but fashionable as a jester's cap-
and with a wire cutter mouth-
With which I eat things with a forkful of infidelities-
Though I find the rings hard to chew-

I watch the loping invalids in the courtyard
nil by nil by nil feet
How to describe a sensation such as heat
to them? The interminable sun and so on
I wonder if they understand that
Light itself is not heat

whereupon the bell sounds
their minds divide and fog in the somnolent air

I look at a Dupuytren in the room
Cord around the chair
His clothes hanging off him
Trying to move his remarkable shock of hair
From his eyes

My room looks out beyond the yard
It is high up - precarious
Through that picturewindow, the world without
is framed, beyond the walls the oldtown
spires and roofing
I see my own sadness, my impotence
In every inch of the heights

the girls come back, propping black bikes against
the gate;
my legs are wrapped in a blanket
and I feel nothing below my waist

Through a system of cables and consent
my companion molls in Bergonic poise
each day the room behind his eyes receded, the heart
lessening
the birds gathered around the bathroom doors to be fed

He read about Escher in bed
waiting to be plugged
unbeknownst rigours of treatment, and
unbeknownst methods
until he forgot those days in Margate
the sound of his nieces
and everything he read about Escher –


the light makes dull
the precision of the thorn

The crowded streets seemed empty now, beneath the noon day heat,
as the devils and the invalids wait 'til dusk to meet.
Then the sunlight fades and the neon signs, attract the social crowd,
the silence dies and an echo's born as the deadly night grows loud.
A ***** blonde in a ***** coat, leans on a grey stone wall,
waiting to lead her regulars down a dark and dingy hall.
While a blind man steers his cane ahead to aid his weary feet,
he gropes his way to a barstool  where he and bottle meet.
The piercing sound of a siren is muffled by angry tongues,
as an old drunk falls in an alleyway clutching his heaving lungs.
The sight of the city from the fifteenth floor turns the heart to a giant pump,
as a ****** high in every way prepares for his final jump.
Dance hall girls line the stage and kick their legs in time,
as the prestige men in business suits order gin and lime.
An aging man with glass in hand finds friendship in the night
bringing back his childhood through the shouts of a barroom fight.
The pain goes on 'til the lights go out and the wolves all head for home
for those who have no place to rest the sidewalk is there to roam.

Swift, teach us that a modest child will leisurely be milled
Eschewed from aid, withdrawn from conscious need
A child’s mind an empty bucket, waiting to be filled
And to earth’s throne, invalids will accede.

deep fried kool-aid in a purple Intrepid
the scepter of our Grief; falters
the Orion of our Agonies in the Least-ville of our Nova !
i'm about to outshine !
but before i can condemn my most recent assault
on God's little Plan.... I thought i might Jam the Signal
with a volley of Pretension
in the wane Valleys of the Seldom
and the Orange Jews.

i'm in my hard January and your Carnival, rivals my Fantastic...
you'd rather my dark be sunlit travesties, to Parade before the court of Desire
behind  a chain-linked rinse. these snowflakes
are  the ones with teeth.

not the ones you meant.

blue whales can hear us Dying, from Here.
And You still Think i love you

the haggard crags of our elliptical wards against a Pleasant Breakfast
the scuttled broth of  sour tyranny and Nonsense
you abscond with -

the virtue of our wizardry, aligned with Hostile Invalids
From Beyond !

have i said much ?

have i begun to plunder the tripwire epiphany
of the rogue star from the Unknown ?
I'm in my hard January and the Spring in Winter's failing
is a Crossing.

And a Dread

Digital displays drawing    
Invalids imaging insights  
Targets theory towards
Typing tough themes
Explaining endless endorse

Towards my fondness of you

i go to the hospital because thats what you're supposed to do. because everyone seems to change their minds about their ******* dads when they seem them lying helplessly in a bed for invalids. but i don't. i look at him and i don't feel a **** thing. until the machines shut off, he's alive. as long as he's alive, he's the man that grabbed my wrist so hard it still doesn't bend right. a terminal diagnosis doesn't change that.

all thats left keeping him alive is that life support and all the people in this room, people he's hurt, who are crying over him like he said a kind word to them in his life. *******.

when the doctor comes in and tells us its time, my sister starts wailing. i think its a stalling tactic. so i pull it out myself.

stop crying, its over.

this yearning, churning, burning, turning,
turning my head in circles
my mind to mash,
my legs to jello,
my words into useless invalids perched on the tip of my tongue.
my fingers numb.
so i turn to leave,
regardless of the heat building between my legs
in my head
about your bed
i leave
finite
the end

i might give you this. but you won't change. we have new ways of getting the pain in.
are you aware of the practical agony of our bliss-less gloom ? our two rooms a-jumblerumpskin ?
we live in the crease of at least two invalids. but you steal cake and i witness. ****, i've been this
nitwit who had a mind but squandered the perils of success in a losing myth. i was a shut in
over the moon of my misadventures. tucked into jupiter sugar with my hair clean.
but my fear out.

My soul's a wound,
I won't be sad for very long,
isn't that sad?
Nothing I do is sacred.

I sleep with dead people,
they like to stuck the blood from
my body, but that's okay.
They need life.
I sit with invalids,
we'll just be sick together.

Out of order.

Hate is a lover,
if you take that away
then I'd be cold.
I need the warm blood
of my affliction
to cover me, comfort me,
so I won't be so exposed.

Pray for me,
but God may not exist;
It's okay,
we'll try anyway...

i do not wanna grow old
nor do i wanna be an old man
put into a home with invalids
where i **** and **** myself
this may or may not happen to me
in 3 or 4 or 5 decades time
sent to the knackers yard
totally f*cked and unwanted
with faded tattoos
and blank memory
too much beer
a million memories
all broken by time
now meaning what?
now to an old man
dumped in a home
only he stopped that
by jumping off a cliff
the day before they came
they admired his spirit
he wasn't like the rest
regressing like babies
soon to die
for what?

Johny Christ, the hitman-turned-messiah,
Conferred Death Painless with his barehands
His ads were passed on secretly
And invalids formed his early clientele
The depressed, the spurned and the real thinking folks,
All awakened to Nirvana Call, called him
He left no trace, and the deaths looked natural
Death Painless- quiet as breathing
His popsicle-*******, while administering, kept the people guessing
Where his powers came from

Johny Christ was not without his own share of Temptations- he fought, for example,
The urge to Save the roly-poly kid
Who was clumsy with his hands and Stood over the dropped food and Looked clueless about life

In ruins lay his fondest streets,
The lamplights shine like ambergris,
The snow falls gently while he sleeps,
He wakes to find the glaring fleece.

The gods delight in stained-glass hours,
They peer through leaves of private bowers,
The winter drought, the April showers,
In May the imps behead the flowers.

The invalids will sip their broth,
And heave their blood into the cloth,
The curtains seize the gypsy moth,
It idles in the reaper’s swath.

With dreams of lonesome paradise,
His heart sails clear into the knife,
His rattle's quiet as the mice.
What is the point of endless life?