The body that I am incarnated in was born in the middle of the very rainy summer of 1939.
My vehicle for life.
All seeing-all smelling --all tasting--all touching--all speaking--all hearing --all sensing --perambulating -singing-dancing-cooking--drinking --painting--******* etc etc vehicle.
Born a few months before the Second World War,with all its nonsensical religiously patriotic and democratically oligarchic and liberally fascistic evil nonsense, started.
Makes me a Rider of the Storm eh?.
Eat yer heart out Jim Morrison!.
Slid out of my mothers womb in the upper room of a brand new house.
Situated on a new street somewhere on a new development on the edge of a 3000 years old walled city in 'gods' own country'--that's what they called it.
Yorkshire!.
First smell I remember,clearly,was rain soaked Lilac and Earth mixed together.
Their scent coming hrough the open bedroom window.
AAAAH rain soaked Lilac.
Second smell was Tobacco from downstairs where my father was anxiously chain smoking.
Then came my first taste.
He,my father,dipped the tip of his little finger into his glass of celebratory Whiskey and poked it into my mouth as I lay there,wrapped in swaddling clothes.
Irresponsibility!!.
Second taste was her warm rich creamy breast milk.
And so my days and nights started.
They told me the name that I was to answer to--as if it was the whole of me.
They told me my beliefs and attitudes and desires and limitations and skills etc etc.
They told me that what I have come to know was my conditioned identity was the real me---but it isn't!..
The lied to me --in innocent ignorance.
My sister taught me to read and write by the time I was 3 years old.
I grew up knowing,deep down, that I was something else.
Not the 'Something Else' that Ornette Coleman played,on his magnificent disc,either.
War raged elsewhere throughout my childhood--mainly across the seas far away.
I watched flight after flight of four engine bombers roar overhead every day ,on their way to drop bombs on children I would never meet.
There was a busy air base 2 miles away from the house I was born in.
Once an injured bomber,coming back from a raid,crashed in flames on two houses at the top of the street I lived in.
I found war to be a hellish and frightening experience.
And along the way I discovered that I couldnt explain to 'myself' who I was, exactly,either.
That my parenters gift of identity was misleading.
I asked 'myself' who or rather what was I?.
By the time I was 3 years I was a ******* from 'Osteomylitis'--or so they told me.
I couldn't walk with massive  left hip joint pain I suffered.
I spent the years from 3 to 6 in a traction bed in a couple of hospitals.
Gobbling down Cod liver oil and Malt for the vitamins--and it worked!!!.
At 6 I learned to walk--YES!!!.
All that pain was left behind.
Thank you Gautama.
My life was suffering but as you supposedly said.
Suffering can be overcome.
And I overcame it.
And I ran and jumped across streams and climbed trees and walked for miles and miles and danced the dance of life.
I foraged for blackberries and wild mushrooms and crabapples and horseradish roots and rosehips and other fruits of nature.
I fell in love with the song of the Yellowbeak--Blackbird to you.
Became enraptured by the smell of wild Roses in the hedgerows.
And I sang and sang and sang and danced and danced and danced.
And all the while I just knew that I wasn't the body that I was incarnated in.
Even though my parenters kept on insisting that I was that body.
And I knew that I wasn't who they had told me I was either.
I knew that I wasn't the conditioned identity of the body that they insisted I was..
At 9 years I passed an exam and won a free scholarship place at a fee paying 'public' school.
My education started in earnest.
Lain and French andAlgebra and Geometry and  expectations of University.
I fell in love for my very first time at around 12 years old.
Raymond was his name.
He taught me how bisexual I was.
I swallowed litres of his body fluids.
Oh how I loved him.
Then after 2 ecstatic years he rejected me because I was a different class to him.
AAAAARGH!.
Then around 14 years the monthly seizures started.
A regular dark descent into unconsciousness.
I experienced the small death of Julius Ceasar and Leonardo Da Vinci.
Back to waking consciousness after an hours out of the body trip into the Astral realms.
Waking with total total amnesia.
With no mind or conditioned identity but both came back within one hour of waking and took over again.
Along with a helluva headache.
But I woke as me--who or whatever that was.
I wasn't who they said I was.
I was me!.
Whatever that was.
Where did I come from?
My purpose in life became to find out what I was and what the source of my existence was.
Teenage life as a rock n roller started beckoned and I embraced party life.
I won cups of silver for dancing very energetically to Bill Haley and Chuck Berry.
I discovered the other half of my bisexuality.
I found girls.
Oh girls how I love you.
and love you and love you.
I started to play trombone at 18 years.
Then trumpet and drums then into my life walked MISS SAXOPHONE and I melted!!!!.
Alto alto wobbly lines of sound poured out from the bell of my alto sax.
I was 23 and toying with buddhism and social alcoholism and playing saxophone jazz(probably badly).
26 and I got married for the first time.
I was playing Free Jazz rather amateurishly by now.
In 1967 I moved to London--became a longhaired hippy--started my own band called BrainBloodVolume--took many doses(literally 1000s) of pure LSD and Mescaline and Psyllocybin and DMT--embraced diet reform--became ordained as a buddhist monk in 1966--played with Jimi Hendrix and John Lennon and the pink Floyd--went to live in the Balearic Islands--Mallorca,Ibiza,Formentera--started to do oil paintings--had a Master Class in Concert Flute playing from Roland Kirk in the dressing room at Ronnie Scotts Jazz Club in London.Became addicted to Macrobiotic Food and Spring Water and puffing Waccy Baccy(always through a Water Pipe..



Its been seventy seven years in this incarnation that I have been wandering the face of this big ball in space seeking the answer to the eternal questions of life.

What am I and where do I come from and what is my purpose?.

And here  is the answer--!!.

I am an individual isness formed solely from a small but equal independent and autonomous portion of the isness of the universe.

Each individual isness is an eternal, small but equal, independent, autonomous,nameless, formless,genderless,classless,casteless,non physical and unconditionally  loving portion of the isness of the universe.

The isness of the universe is the whole of the nature of reality and is the sole source of all existence and is eternal,nameless,formless, genderless,beingless and autonomous and unconditionally loving and is not a 'god' or a 'goddess' or any kind of being.

I live in the joyousness of shared unconditionally loving union with the isness of the universe.

how do you know (when a broken human can be fixed)


https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2644586/how-do-you-know-when-a-human-is-too-broken/

supermarket checkout line, so lazy broken down dressed,
I’m probably arrestible for disturbing the peace,
my haired piled, and held together by a broken clip,
makeup at home in
a drawer labeled ‘why bother’
my t shirt, don’t please look too closely,
yesterday’s coffee spillage outline
only mostly gone,
and the skinny jeans that felt inappropriate
ten pounds ago,
now looking semi-completely ridiculous

is this a tv show?
wallet, a twenty and a single,
who knew a pound of ground blue mountain
cost the better part of the the twenty
in that case no need for a gallon of milk
and *** a box of chocolate frosted donuts
silently slid far far away,
evidence of a guilty plea of irresponsibility resignation

short $2.42 (cut up the credit cards)
and no convenient pit to fall into
when the teenager cashier snickers,
when a sam elliot voice says here ya are,
stammering a no, a thank you, and thinking getaway direction

truck safely, made it,
knock on the window
sam elliot soundalike is a lookalike as well
standing outside with my wallet in hand,
two heads taller than my ex-petite figurine

more stammering ******* could I look any stupider

but inside a piece of brown shopping bag torn
with ten whole digits
I’ve never seen prior to this disaster
saying call when you want to return my $2.42

turns out he got, no, he is glue and paste,
an eraser man for fine lines and sad times,
and a lasso to keep me held together,
a pocket red handkerchief hanging half out
of his back pocket, never without, calls it his tear catcher

pulled out that too tight blues-blouse
from back of my closet
that still complements my complexion,
wear it ever time that day rolls around

just dumb luck ain’t much of an answer
so I’ll rephrase, dumb luck is in the everything
cause his number was 917-242-2424
and he is a gambler in matters of the heart

bust his ***** when he says he’s a lucky man,
reply he ain’t got no luck at all
compared to me on that daft day

and every daft day thereafter
I glue his lips shut to mine, no escaping,
and paste a new $2.42
into his wallet
when he is sleeping mine,
no erasing our lines,
just redrawing them deeper and finer,
just making sure my
dumb luck is working overtime

The Phoenix
(To Love and Lose Part 2)
by Ryan Kinney

It started with a broken heart. Through the crack seeped liquid fire. It engulfed me, burning away all that I was. The flames shall purify me. Boil me down to my base components, and then rebuild me. From the ashes will rise a new entity.

Who am I?

Following my divorce I began an identity quest dubbed The Phoenix. It is my own personal trial by fire. Fire is the essence of life itself. As it destroys it also creates. I will create a new life from the remnants of my former, a persona not defined by another.

Chapter 1-The Quest

Depression and Suicide
“…my life before you was very chaotic and unstable. You were the stability I needed and the foundation on which I built my life.  I never doubted that you would always be there for me. You were my rock. Of all the people that had disappointed me you never let me down. Yet you did, You pulled the rug out from under me without warning and the foundation upon which I built my entire life crumbled…” –email correspondence to Lisa; Nov. 21, 2008

It took four months to undo ten years of my life. A debilitating depression overwhelmed me. I never saw anything in my life, but Lisa. What did I have left without her? What would I do? Darkness clouded my heart.

A rusty blade in my hand. A message in blood written on the broken mirror.
I lay in the tub, leaking crimson life. In my haze I barely make out the words.
What does my final message to the world say? I cannot remember why it hurt so much.
In a few minutes it won’t matter anymore. What the hell did I write?
I can only think of one thing that torments me enough to drive me to this darkness.
Trailing down in letters, clotting on the wall…
“I loved you.”

This revolving drama played on a loop in my mind. I was lost, a walking corpse. All I felt was cold hollowness.
“All that is left is emptiness, an empty house, an empty soul.”-journal excerpt; Oct. 6, 2008
I so badly just wanted the hurt to stop. In my tunnel vision existence I was oblivious to those whose hearts bled for mine. All my substance and passion was gone. Lisa took my heart with her and left nothing inside. Without her my existence seemed meaningless. The cloaked figure smiled, offering me the almost irresistible temptation of sweet release.
“Do I give in to the darkness? Let it consume me”-journal excerpt
Ultimately, though, there came a day when I awoke from the fog. I was living outside myself watching this unknown drone on a worthless trek. One phrase finally broke through the shell.
“What a waste!”
The Phoenix was born in that moment. The match was struck to light the way on the difficult road to recovery.
“The pieces of my soul are on the floor for everyone to trample on.”-journal excerpt; Oct. 6, 2008
I was in over my head. I needed help. A therapist helped at first, but the relationship quickly cheapened because I was essentially paying for a friendship. Antidepressants proved to work too well. I have a manic level of natural intensity. Lexapro ignited fireworks inside my brain. Both, however, gave me the nudge I needed to help myself. Eventually, I grew beyond the need for crutches. A previously unrecognized army of supporters each lent their kindling to the fires. One day at a time I battled my inner demons until I was ready to accept happiness again.
“You will be amazed on how much of the original Ryan is back. Why? Because I'm over my depression about change because something I feared more came to fruition.  I lost you.  I'm doing my best to survive from that, but my past fears now seems trivial and meaningless in comparison.”-email correspondence to Lisa; Sept. 8, 2009

Denial and Desperation
“Run, Run away Ryan. Open another book, turn on the TV, surf the Net. Delve into your fantasies and escape reality. It’s how you survived your childhood…”-journal excerpt; Oct. 2, 2008
The cracks in my facade were beginning to show. I shielded myself in delusions. I lied to myself to soften the full scope of Lisa’s betrayal. I more than lied. I was absolutely sure. I trusted her with my life. I trusted a lie. I was living a lie. I betrayed myself more than she ever did. The realizations came in shards, each piece punching holes in my heart.
I wallowed in self-pity and desolation.
I yearned so badly to feel some warmth, anybody’s warmth.

The New Girls
Upon Lisa’s departure I sought to quench my loneliness in the convenient woman around me. For a moment’s time, they took pity on me.
Rebound-I immediately sought solace in the arms of a good friend. She’s always shown me nothing but love and idolization. I was ashamed for disrespecting her and our friendship. I knew full well that our brief encounters were all that would ever be between us.
Crazy Chick-She was a brute of a woman, yet conversely, very maternal and comforting. She had a unique talent for forcefully ripping out my raw emotions, breaking through the masks. As she said, though, “I’m not Lisa.” Pathetically, that’s exactly what I wanted.
One Night Stand-ups-Several brief encounters fed my addiction for attention. Like a ****** with a needle, my appetite grew. Desperation was becoming my scarlet letter.
“…but it did seem that the thing we are most proud of and the thing we are most ashamed of are but the front and the back of the same coin. They torture and thrill all at once.”-Grotesque; Natsuo Kirino
I felt guilty and *****, yet loved for but an instant. These experiences were very cathartic. I had completely lost the ability to cry, feel pain, rage, or joy. They were the prefect drug, just so that I may feel again. Without these women to reopen the wounds, the numbness would have consumed me.
“Every angel has a little devil inside them.”-Manda; 2009
What attracted me to these women was mock chivalry. Each had their own “hard luck” story. So ingrained in me is the comic book ideal of heroism that I constantly seek to rescue the damsel in distress. Women will always be my kryptonite. However, as Crazy Chick put it, “ When is it time for you to be rescued?” The divine irony is, it was they who saved me.
It too, was not to last. A long period of isolation followed, as the women grew tired of babysitting me. Another lie to myself, a band-aid on a wound desperately needing stitches.

The Crush
Hers was the first light I allowed to pierce the darkness. She did more to heal me than any who said, “Yes.” Her secret, she said, “No.”
It has always been my curse to be eternally misunderstood and underestimated. I could see her scars bled the same as mine, although hers had begun to clot long ago. I am attracted to those who have a depth chiseled by adversity.
I identified with her. Her intelligence far exceeded my own, an Einstein in a circus. My eyes saw straight to her soul, seeing only the gorgeous woman she was on the inside. My friends would point out my eyes would sparkle whenever I spoke of her.
Yes, I loved her, but only in transition. We came from different worlds, but met as wounded soldiers on the battlefield. She was the catalyst to open my eyes. A sweet smile for my shredded soul.
“A worn beaten heart trapped in by bars.” From “Painless” by Tracy Reed
She held the key to my self-imposed imprisonment. My growing frustration with her opened the door for my transformation. For all her grace, all her amazing potential, she was wasting away in the same feeding trough as me.
“You can do better.”
Then it hit me…
“I can do better!”
I began to rebuild my empire. My never-queen rejected me…
I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

The Emotional Spectrum
“Stuck in a prison of abstract ideas and overpowering emotions.”-Zach; mypsace blog
Shock
1) ‘I don’t love you anymore.”
2) Letter…”I can’t wait until my divorce is over!”
3) Ryan-“So I guess this means we’re getting a divorce.”
Lisa-“Well, yeah. You knew that.”
4) “Ryan, they’re together, and have been.”
5) “I’m moving out.”
6) “By the State of Ohio, I hereby grant this dissolution.”-Judge; Dec. 30, 2008

Six bullets to my heart, six separate, devastating phrases that brought about Armageddon. I gave her a decade of my meager existence, nearly half my life. She threw me away like garbage, and couldn’t have been happier.

Fear
As the gun smoke drifted, I clutched my breast. I was frozen in horror that I’d lose myself along with her. Fear, you see, was the beginning of the end for our marriage.
I never dealt well with change. When we bought our house, the combat that ensued left me crippled. I ultimately built myself into a comfort zone again. “I don’t know what I want to do” was always an excuse for me. I lay stagnant and complacent with no true purpose or direction.
It was Lisa that first took action. She sought to elevate us from the ranks of lower middle class into which we were born. I fought her, determined to lay docked in the doldrums. “Leave me alone in my bubble.” I made attempts, but with each failure became depressed. She became frustrated and took matters into her own hands. It is obvious she loved me then. She worked effortlessly to give us a better life.
I was blind to the truth and in time Lisa lost sight of her motives. She plodded on, mechanically, no longer sure of why. She drove herself to extreme exhaustion, afraid, that if she stopped, for even a moment, she’d realize it was all for naught. She lost faith in our combined, bright vision.
So, she did the only thing she knew how. She ran away, straight to another as miserable as her. She kept running, further and further, taking greater risks. All just to not have to feel her own hollowness.
She left and my phobia ended there. What followed was a newfound fear. “I don’t know what I want to do” became “What the hell do I do?” I was afraid I was doomed to be alone the rest of my life.

Sadness
“Are you ok?”
“We’re worried about you.”
“How are you, Ryan?”…

“MISERABLE!”-Ryan

I always speak the truth. I’ve never felt so surrounded and alone in all my life.

Anger
“Like koi in a ***** pond, you can see your rage barely hiding below the surface.”-Erin Kompik
The most intense rage fueled The Phoenix. I lashed out at everything. Everyone was burned. I was ******* and the world would pay. The spectacle burned so bright it threatened to eradicate all that I was.
“I can feel bitterness and anger coming. I am fighting for control over the anger”-journal excerpt; Oct. 1, 2008
“The seams in my heart leak nothing, but hostility.”-journal excerpt; Oct. 6, 2008
“I’ve become a monster. I once loved someone so hard I would die for her. Now all I can feel is scorn and hate. My heart is twisted and black. I fear I will become the bitter man my father is. I hate myself for being so.”-journal excerpt; Sept. 30, 2008
Who was I so angry with? For all the hurt I felt from Lisa, I was most angry at myself. How could I let this happen? How could I have been so blind? My blood boiled as I berated myself. The loss I suffered left my heart festering with hatred, as nothing but fire and volatility overtook it.
“The red light of rage is violent action without consideration of consequence. It is uncontrollable. So I will unleash it.”-Final Crisis, Rage of the Red Lanterns
Then, the root of another anger broke through the fury.
“I know that you may not see it now, but time really will heal these wounds.”-Michelle Kinney
She was right. I had absolved myself of my original rage. I had forgiven her. I could forgive myself. I couldn’t be held responsible for another’s irresponsibility. The anger dissipated into the smoke. It left behind a few flickers, but I’ll not extinguish them yet. I still have a use for that rage.
“Do not be afraid to expose the darkness. Only by bringing it to the light can it ever truly be resolved.”-audio journal excerpt; Aug. 16, 2009

Love and Happiness
During my marriage, hers was the only love I let myself feel. Then, she took it with her when she left. I felt scorned and unwanted, a refuse of human waste.
I was wrong. I am a man that seeks love as an end all for my existence. Lisa unlocked my caged heart. Over the next decade I cultivated relationships with countless individuals. There was more love in my life than I ever realized. They were there when she wasn’t. My parents sacrificed everything to give me a life and family they never had. Lisa’s family had become my permanent family. She divorced me. I did not divorce them. All my friends gave all they could. Even my harsh enemies stepped off the battlefield, for they understood the casualties of this war. All of them, a shining sea of compassion, poured their hearts into mine. Their light overcame the darkness. When I finally crawled out of the pit, they got me to my feet.
“For them, I must continue.”-Naoko Takeuchi
I had to be strong. I owed it to them to survive. They gave me their love to fill in my missing pieces. For all I had been given, I could never give up or give in.
“I am meant for greatness. I am meant for happiness, for joy, for me.”-Zach; myspace blog

Chapter 2-Evolution

Picking up the Pieces
“I need to be out there.
Living.
Looking for my own life…
I need to open my mouth.
I need to be heard.
I need to live.
You’re gone…
I’m not.”
-Goth Girl Rising; Barry Lyga.
It was time to rebuild that which had been broken. My life was fragmented chaos. I needed an order to the chaos, or more to my tastes, organized chaos; anarchy with purpose. I learned to become a master strategist. The civil war I waged on myself demanded a general.
STEP 1-Stabalize finances.
My pact with the devil to keep my beloved home required emptying the coffers completely. How delicious the irony that I wound up working the same long weeks as Lisa.  Hard work and sacrifice were absolute necessities if I was ever to afford to live again. It was Lisa that taught me that. The only difference, I must never lose sight of why. Money is not the reason for existence. I simply needed enough to achieve my goals.
“Money is nothing.  It is an imaginary concept.  Its only value is what we put into it.  While often a necessary evil to survive, it is not important.  The only possession of true value is time.”- The Most Valuable Possession; 2009
STEP 2-Tear down the Mausoleum.
My home had become a testament to a dead marriage. Lisa’s five day moving notice threw a grenade into my living space. It was disheveled and disorganized. It was no longer Ryan and Lisa’s. I had to reclaim it as my own. Out of respect for our past, I kept a few pieces of Lisa as a constant reminder. I will never forget where I’ve been.
“Your spirit helped build this place and it still flows through its walls.”-email correspondence to Lisa; Nov. 21, 2008
Physically putting my environment in order likewise put my mind into an order. As I rebuilt my home, it became the new foundation for my life. The Phoenix had a place to perch.
STEP 3-Know Happiness again.
“I seem to find that my great periods of change, evolution, and growth precede an ultimate betrayal from someone I’ve let close to my heart. Is survival mode the only way I can fuel my passion? Where do I find the love that ignites my will, yet does not drive me to complacency?”-audio journal; Aug 13, 2009
The answer, I needed to love myself again. I could not rely on someone else to complete me. I had to become independent, to be ok with being alone. I deserved to be happy, to be loved, above all, by myself.
This was going to be hard.

Breaking Codependency
Not having another physical body in the house left a void. Without another heartbeat close to mine, I stopped sleeping at night. My appetite was lost and I started shedding pounds. With my depression receding, I awoke to find I was living in a desolate wasteland. What would I do in this solitary confinement?
Utilizing survival skills my mother taught me, I used it. Ever the artist, I took the pieces and created an existence. Then I improved it, again and again. Loneliness is a disease that attacks only if you let it. I had to learn to accept myself, before I could expect anyone else to. I used the loneliness to redefine and rediscover myself. I would not rely on anyone to do for me. My honor and respect for my loved ones demanded I do for myself. The stifling quiet, the sleepless nights taught independence. The silence used to frustrate and anger me. Now, I use it for peaceful reflection and meditation. Th

June 28, 2013.
    
Dear--no, this is not a diary entry, this is not a summary of the things I experienced today, this is not about how I felt when my crush said 'Hey', this is not about him or her, this is not about me.
    
Dear Cupid.
    
This is about you and your stupidity and idiocy, and your breathtaking suckery in archery, this is about how much I want to punch you in the face if you really exist, because of all the gods and goddesses the Greeks and Romans worship, you're the most vile of them all.

This is about how you whistled merrily down the street, completely unaware of everyone and everything around you, clutching your bow with an arrow nocked on its string, poised to strike.

This is about how you saw this girl who was indifferent to almost everyone and almost everything, this girl who never really cared, this girl who did not know love. This is about how you smirked to yourself and suddenly felt power surging through your veins, for you have found your target, this girl who always thought about everything and never let her heart decide, this girl who tried so hard to forget she can feel, this girl who never, ever loved, and was never, ever loved.

This is about how you felt everything slow down around you, how your sight narrowed down to the space between you and this girl, how your arrow yearned to be unleashed, to fly across the void that needed to be filled, to strike this girl who often forget she had a heart, this girl who needed to know love.
    
This is about how you pulled the bowstring to your cheek, felt the flecked feathers brush the bottom of your eyelids, saw nothing but this girl who forgot how to smile, this girl who never imagined you would set your sights on her, and this is about how your fingers set the string loose, set the arrow free, sent it soaring across the gap that you wanted to fill.

This is about the explosion of color in a gray room when the blade made contact with this girl's chest, this girl who went reeling back, stumbling back, so taken aback was she that the sudden fire in her ice-cold world rendered her blind and dumbstruck.

This is about how you snickered smugly to yourself because quite abruptly this girl was suddenly no longer indifferent, this girl suddenly cared, this girl remembered she had a heart--because it started beating too fast, it started screaming, it started living.

This is about how pleased you were you immediately set your bow and your arrows down, how you sighed in anticipation of an entertaining show, how you were so satisfied you instantly sat back and relaxed to enjoy the real life movie.
  
This is about how excited you were you forgot the most essential thing about your job.

You forgot to shoot the other one.
    
Dear Cupid.

You're such an *******.

But this is not only about you, this is not only about your folly, this is not only about your irresponsibility, this is not only about the wicked weapons you carry, because this is also about the one you forgot to shoot.

This is about him, and how I wish he could listen to the songs only I can hear, how I wish he knew I'm talking about him, how I wish that someone will somehow capture you, Cupid, so they can tie you to a stake and set you on fire, and maybe this feelings will hopefully dissipate along with the smoke into thin air.
  
This is about him, and how the sudden vibrancy of the colors around me disabled me almost completely. This is about him, and how his eyes suddenly seemed purer, his hair darker, his smile brighter. How I saw stars in the velvet sable of his irises, and I saw poems etched on his skin, words filling in the empty spaces inside him, the silence he wraps around himself a harsh barrier I can never bring myself to attempt breaking through.

This is about him, and the way every ounce of my awareness fixates on him every time he enters the room, and the way my heart flutters like a hummingbird's wings, singing a frantic, desperate melody of fear and panic and anticipation and everything dreadful contained in your arrows.
  
This is about him, and rainbows and sunshine and butterflies, and everything I've never known.
  
This is about how the girl who never knew love suddenly knew how love looks like. She knew the sharpness of his cheekbones, the angles along his jowls, the point of his chin. She knew the softness of his lips, the hardness of his jaw. She knew him a lot more than she wanted. She knew him intimately.

This is about him.

This is about the words I'll never have the courage to say, the poems I will never be able to write. This is about heartbreak and chocolates and long walks in the rain. This is about the tears I will never be able to shed, the smiles I forget to wear, the genuine laughter I always try my best to imitate.
  
And I lied, because this is also about me.
  
This is about me, and the lies I tell everyday. This is about gazing at the stars and wishing I could tack my fingertips on those bright pinpoints of light, wishing I could give my body to the sky, because having no body means not having to feel anything.
  
Dear Cupid.
  
If only you know what you've done. If only.
  
I would love to strangle you with my own two hands.
  
And maybe I'll forgive you for giving me this, the way I forgive him everyday for every hurt he gives me.
  
But this is not only about you, and this is not only about him. This is not only about me.
  
Because this is also about love.

Undeniable
irresponsibility
Congratulations

It was six in the morning**: I sat in a cab dangling on small-talk with a middle-aged white male cabbie basted in the demeanor of the over-friendly uncle. He asked me about school—I'm hyperawake, paranoid, body pulsing, feeling loose, depersonalized, and lightly psychedelic—my vision wavering as if someone had entered my skull to punch raw brain. I did a gram and a half of ******* that night; mixed lines with ketamine to simulate a proto-psychosis, but am convinced I may very well have driven myself past the point of no return. I'd been doing this strict mix for over 2 straight weeks, landing myself in out-of-body experiences and coked-out drawls on the floor like a sad, puckered monkey chewing on a lemon it mistook for an orange. Why I led myself to this existential precipice is both beyond me and totally within my rational sympathies if I pretend I am on the outside looking in.
When I was 18—drawn, for the first time—away from smalltown Powell River and into the Vancouver suburbia of Port Coquitlam, my only successful job-find was a McDonald's arched inside a Wal-Mart. The double-insult this presented me as a teenage anarchist pushed me deep into my first true emotional crisis which I only turned to accept after a particular phone call with my father in which he appealed to me to think of this stint as a 'temporary social experiment'; a chance to learn and breathe this proletarian experience from the inside out. During the pre-Christmas night-shifts, the only customers we ever had were the dark, apathetic silhouette-people Wal-Mart hired to greet the absolutely no one's walking through the door. I incessantly cleaned what was already a mirror-wet floor and made sad conversation with Rosario—the slightly autistic shift-manager with a prickly-shave of a face and an awkward sense of humor I could never come to appreciate and yet always managed to humor in polite obsequiousness. Regardless, it was a form of spread and endless boredom that began to fascinate me; it brought me to a darkness I had never quite known. It was an experience—like all experiences—to be had at least once, to the fullest and truest intensity. To be pushed with reckless sincerity.
Ever since, I have found myself pushing every limit to disembodied extremes—on occasion, to points of such profound irresponsibility or feigned responsibility that I break a particular streak and wind-up on the other dichotomous side of whatever line I unintentionally (or intentionally?) crossed (or broke?) because everything is a social experiment and I've touched the multifarious lives of overworked modernity, residential care aide, dishwasher, Christopher McCandlessesque wilderness jaunt, melancholic Kierkegaard, psychonaut, and now: a short-lived ****** inspired by the excess of Burroughs and the early beatniks all willing to **** their darlings for the sake of blood-stained posterity.
And yet meanwhile—in the cab—I can feel my headache grow perceptively wider from my left temple. Almost like a mushroom cloud over Bikini Atoll I am watching from as safe a distance as the physical body can withstand, according to some calculable hypothesis drafted by Oppenheimer himself. I am constantly amazed at how lucid I am in conversation with this friendly cabby; given that I feel as if I'm about to go ******, focusing so deftly on the way the streetlights glide across placid puddles moving only with our tires intervention—and the way I keep imagining insanity in the form of a zombie-likeness of myself strapped into an electric chair, skin melting and eyes rolling back in my head as I seizure to metaphysical death—I still laugh away short quips about the blind-leading-the-blind (he has no idea how to find my destination, and keeps pulling over to check a book road-map for 4143 Hessington Place). The only reason I am with him now is that I am venturing to see my girlfriend at her group-house past Uvic where the door is always unlocked for friends and friends-of-friends, she being the only solution to this crisis with her stash of .5 Xanax pills.
I remember those tense moments—with my body and brain as taut as a bow—he would pull over or pull out and my entire existence seemed to move through space and time as if against a wind that was perpetually in resistance—as if my entire consciousness was going to capsize into some form of overdosed darkness. Even when I exited the cab and waved a friendly goodbye to the old man, I could feel my dopamine receptors attempting to fire on empty. This caused a latent buzz that was only solved with two milligrams of alprazolam and my eyes wide shut until my head shut down.

I held her close. I knew she thought I was an idiot.

The dialogue,
The volume,
The content..
It gets better right?

The petty,
The put-downs,
Vocal *****...
Too often why I'm up at night.

Egocentrism,
Carelessness,
And Irresponsibility.
Yet I'm the sewer rat not living up to my ability.

The toxic street withers me,
Too much debt to free,
I can predict the machines' actions almost constantly.

The happenings follow me,
What I see hollows me,
Will I ever emerge from this filth triumphantly?

It's the insanity I wake up to,
The vanity and the same stew.
Sometimes I wonder if this is what I have to go through.

It's grown ever-plain to see,
This isn't the way, that life should be,
But it's tossed onto the pile I've simply named "the pain in me."

No luminosity around to save selves,
Violent sound waves bounce off of every shelf.
Through these waters I have delved,
But no life-preserver,
No help.

I am unable to manipulate,
I'm just part of the tracks.
Desensitization's turned me from an alley cat,
To sewer rat,
Just by being exposed.
So I crawl through these tunnels with nothing but hope,
That there's a way I can go back..
Reverse the de-evolution I suppose,
And return to a world I thought I knew with humanity.
'Til then I scrape on living a life, transparently.

Into the back of any thoughts it simply had gone
those penetrating words Nuclear War!
Also spoken a nuclear winter that followed
not since nineteen ninety two.
Had they been uttered with such meaning
with it a real threat leaning!

Footage of Hiroshima seemed distant images
but many countries have the weapon!
A real peril is no longer mere speculation
each with their known instability!
Without morality to hold their actions back
they'd have no qualms but attack!

Tensions are running ever closer to danger levels
as the irresponsibility explodes!
Even a limited nuclear war could easily escalate
into billions of human deaths!
Obliterated from a once green fertile surface!
to an ash covered uninhabitable place!

Maybe the few could survive along with the cockroaches!

Is this man's inevitable fate?

The Foureyed Poet.

Inspired by Meg Cranston's Artist for President
(http://www.uniteddivas.com/megcranston/megpresident.html)**

We assert that there is a youth culture that is different and separate from all other cultures and that our culture is governed by principles which the aged population finds peculiar or offensive.

We are tired of being labeled.
We are tired of being segmented.
We are tired of hearing old people talk about us.
We are tired of being the respondents to your 20 city questionnaire.
We are done with being ignored.

We are sick of 1980s spandex.
We are sick of your Top 40 hits on a compact disc.
We are sick of your rom-coms and big budget fantasy sci-fi sequels.
We are sick of 60 billion ad messages being hurled from satellites in outer space.
We are done with being disappointed.

We demand the right to change everything.
We demand the right to create our own words.
We demand the right to define what is cool in the morning.
We demand the right to re-define what is cool in the evening.
We are done with being told to follow.

We reserve the right to be elitist.
We reserve the right to choose our heroes.
We reserve the right to create jobs that never existed before.
We reserve the right to outsource, open-source and crowdsource everything and all.
We are done with your rigid ways.

We condemn the wars that you started.
We condemn the poverty and hunger you created.
We condemn your irresponsibility in ignoring our dying planet.
We condemn the forces of greed that keeps an honest man from climbing the income brackets.
We will fix the mess you left behind.

This is for school kids
This is for college students
This is for young professionals
This is for the young artist who shares his creations on DeviantArt
This is for the young blogger who dreams of being a travel journalist
This is for the podcaster who is on her way to become a successful RJ
This is for the YouTube user who dreams of her own television show and feature film
This is for the photography enthusiast who spends his pocket money on a Flickr Pro Account
This is for the opinionated Twitter-for-Blackberry addict destined to become a Twitter celebrity. (Even we don’t know what that means!)
This is for the coding guru who gifts his geek friend a mobile gaming app based on Dungeons & Dragons for his birthday. Yes that is cool...for now.

This is youth culture

Don't call me a fool
just because I don't fit your bill.
I am made of mistakes
and ugly laughter.
I am a before,
a right now,
and a happy little after.

I am gritted teeth
and burnt roast beef
and tired eyes
and skinny lies
and bloated bellies
and tiny tellies.

I am shattered hearts
and missing parts
and miniskirts
and false new starts.

I am that one channel
your parents don't let you watch,
or a giant, messy void
called a black ink splotch.
I am peer pressure,
irresponsibility,
and midnight crises
pushed into a fleshbag
to walk around the world.

Don't control my life
just because you can't control
your own.
I have my own place in this world-
-a place called the throne.

Contra is my mantra
Walking contradiction
Comfort in contrast
Contracting the human disease day by day

Fighting hard and losing
But persisting
Resistance of assistance
Shake and bake until I'm high enough to lose my breath
Breath taking view
Atop the peaks of irresponsibility
Giving no ****
Consequences?
**** em
Back lash?
Bat your lashes and slither your way out of it
Love?
Who needs it when you've got the attention of all the sinners
An angel among them
Freezing in the arctic pinnacle of hell
One at a time their cold hearts freeze them from the inside

Stillness preceded the sonic storm.
Then the baton plummeted,
To summon low “D’s” from orchestral depths
And a hundred voices roared, “O Fortuna!”

The throbbing ritual had begun!
Rhythms drove and lurched
Through songs of Springtime, alcohol and lust.

Brasses flared.
Muted strings cast veils over the hall.
The chorus hummed and shouted
And tender solos wafted
Over graceful flute arabesques.

The thin white stick carved the air into segments
And by some mystical synchronicity
Instruments and voices reveled together -
Medieval Latin decked out in modern attire.

A baritone sang from a tavern
With electrifying irresponsibility.
The counter-tenor mournfully chanted
The complaint of an entrée roasting on a spit.

The love of my life skied her voice
To a high “D” then descended -
And we turned Fortune’s wheel back full circle
Rounding out this earth song beyond all comparing.

“O Fortuna!”
O Fortuna, indeed!

*July, 2006

Trash.

You called my items trash. So what if you find them useless? So what if even they turn out to be useless to me? You still have no right to tell me what of mine is worth it or not.

Are you saying I'm trash?

Am I too wild and crazy for you to deal with?

You see me as nothing but a child, and that burns me, cuts deep, whatever metaphor of pain you want to use in this awful discussion. You look at me and see irresponsibility, but what actually it is, is difference. I am different than you. I know you don't normally have to deal with people who don't think like you do, correction, you don't normally like dealing with people, but you chose to deal with me.

If you can't simply accept me for who I am, as other friends have done before you, then I guess its time for you to go.

I began this blaming myself, kicking myself, for ******* up yet again. Always the ****-up, that Grace. But you know what? I'm getting my **** together the best way I can, and if you don't like how I function, then that *****.

I can't deal with people who can't accept me. Not right now, actually, thinking about it, not ever, really.

I have to be me right now. There is no other way, and if you cannot accept that, then I guess I cannot accept you.

Leave the undesirable and go live elsewhere.

All that was lost opens opprtun
All that was lost opens opportunities for us to find ourselves; if at least for the first time ever
All that has been destroyed begs us to question why we came here
The grotesque nature we have allowed ourselves to fall in creates an endless state of amnesia so we forget about the time when we were once divine
The more we throw stones at each other the farther we are from marble halls
The more our women give into envy and jealousy, the more they are hindered to be the treasures of gold, diamonds and pearls - exuding ethereal beauty

The more we focus on material significance, the more our souls are left begging
The more we make rash decisions with an open mind, the more we are forced to live with those consequences
The choices you are making, the choices you have made, can you live with them for ten years to come or the rest of your life?
How rich are you to afford such a hefty debt?
But this is the rhyme, the rhythm that the kingdoms have sent
down to the material world...
A hefty heifer hole and a pole for prowl; oh goal
But what about our own goals
Are we cyborgs or are we souls?
Are we going to let the insecurities of one or a few compromise our own happiness?
Why are we so uneasy, we know only attacking the centredness of another
We are enemies of peace because we are not friends of love and yet we are quick to demand mercy

Such irresponsibility!
Not taking account for the things we've done
We are afraid of mirrors because we cannot face the demons we've gowned ourselves to inhabit
And yet we can proudly call ourselves princes and princesses
Or Kings and Queens
Leaders and representatives of State


But our objectives are the complete opposite
Our deeds are the complete opposite
Our thoughts and emotions tell a complete dark story

But if you can confess to yourself the things you've done wrong then you can confide them in another
If you can confess the things you aspire to be then you are ready to break out of your shell
Once again a pure chance for us to find ourselves; if at least for the first time ever
All that has been destroyed begs us to question why we came here
The grotesque nature we have allowed ourselves to fall in creates an endless state of amnesia so we forget about the time when we were once divine
The more we throw stones at each other the farther we are from marble halls
The more our women give into envy and jealousy the more they are hindered to be the treasures of gold, diamonds and pearls - exuding ethereal beauty

The more we focus on material significance, the more our souls are left begging
The more we make rash decisions with an ooen mind, the more we are forced to live with those consequences
The choices you are making, the choices you have made, can you live with them for ten years to come or the rest of your life?
How rich are you to afford such a hefty debt
But this is the rhyme, the rhythm that the kingdoms have sent
down to the material world...
A hefty heifer hole and a pole for prowl; oh goal
But what about our own goals
Are we cyborgs or are we souls?
Are we going to let the insecurities of or a few compromise our own happiness?
Why are we so uneasy, we know only attacking the centredness of another
We are enemies of peace beacuse we are not friends of love and yet we are wuick to run after mercy

Such irresponsibility
Not taking account of the things we've done
We are afraid of mirrors because we cannot face the demons we've gowned ourselves to inhabit
And yet we can proudly call ourselves princes and princesses
Or Kings and Queens
Leaders and representatives of state


But our objectives are the complete opposite
Our deeds are the complete opposite
Our thoughts and emotions tell a complete dark story

But if you can confess to yourself the things you've done wrong then you can confide them in another
If you can confess the things you aspire to be then you are ready to break out of your shell
Once again a pure soul.

when
did cooking your own jam
from real strawberries
and sugar
become an act
of treason against
equality
between the sexes?

when
did turning off the tv, the laptop, the phone
to play with your children
offline
become an act
of valour and extreme
symbolism
in most families?

when
did reading glossy advertisements
and memorising them
for extra credits
become an act
of duty as a proper
citizen
in the modern world?

when
did choosing an alternative lifestyle
deliberately
and with no concern for wealth
become an act
of excentric
irresponsibility
in an enlightened society?

If every single action,
Well thought out or not,
Has an opposite equal reaction,
You deal with what you got,

And if what you get,
Is what you deserve,
When consequence is met,
Dignity is all I can preserve,

But now my pride and dignity,
Have been replaced very quickly,
With examples of irresponsibility,
And decisions guided by stupidity,

Now weeks of bad decisions,
Are running down my face,
And all the broken provisions,
Make me feel like a disgrace,

With all the people I've disappointed,
I could build an army,
And the general appointed,
Would definitely be
Me.

Insouciance
It drives reckless souls
Out into the night
Spreading their unruly plight
Knowing nothing of fear, only of fight
Irresponsibility is a term
Those of this heart know well
As it's screamed from rickety back doors
It's reek seeps through cracked floors
Gets pounded deep in their cores

They are taking over this world

Slow moving manics
Dance more frantic
When they know
They don't got a nickel to spare

Aware of the hair
Missing but still fair
Where women make love
God watching from above

So late now
Yes so late it is now
Love gone and away
I couldn't stay

You talk to me
And you write to me
As if you truly knew
Every ****** thing

That is the thing
That I just can't seem to understand
That is the ****
That made me give the final nod

Who are these people
Among the desert steeple?
Do they pray for themselves
Or is there truly someone else?

Money made me do somethings
While passion some others
Irresponsibility is guilt
Cast down from the man wearing the stilts

Believe in the sleeve
Of the beggar shaking next to you
For he can see
What we'll all soon be

These promises of luck
Or handed out
From the ten eyed ghosts
That have never felt the ****

The vacuum of morticians
Piling body after body
All covered in mud
Obsessed with this drive called love

House with a machine
That translates that into this
Get out of my house machine
I need life to believe

it is either/or
spiritual or material,
sophisticated cultural compliance
or young blind revolution,
those are the lenses however;
somewhere in the middling
an abandoned idiot pawns both understandings
with such stark irresponsibility
consciously acknowledging (all) his blunders
greeting good and evil, shadow and light
and those around him laugh and snitch
behind their masked pillar
because his way, his reality
is much different from theirs,
his position rescinds all human meaning
not as tender he seems, he is perhaps closest
to the borderline
a poised vision - a place where
no divisions exist,
of what is transferrable and true
the other side of wilderness.

How easily,
The irresponsibility
Immediacy requires,
Begins small fires.
Which turn to pyres
Before reality enquires
The cost.

© James Rainsford 2010

It's the centenary of the proclamation – we shall lift our glasses,
not to Guinness or to Arthur Diageo's dream of the Emerald Isle,
distracted, appeased, quelled an' ****** on the tainted black stuff,  
designed to keep us inferior, pig-carriers - at arms with ourselves,
but of Irish craft, guile an' the rising of Irish spirits, the creation,
of a dream long suffered for, long wished for, celebrated in private
for shame of the austere reflection of a country and its people lost,
We shall lift our glasses to the beginning of todays sour ending,
A'sure twas' a good Easter that year.

Hand shakes warm, clean an' orchestrated with restrained sincerity,
A Kingdom reborn, a Republic divided by the maths of peace-makers,
The brave sacrificed for the sneering survival of these eels of politics,
Landowners who owned more than just land - the people's will,
Testament to this abortion of values, morals, history and desire,
is the wholesale pawning of the Irish coast – to support our captors,
the constant glance over our shoulders with panic in our quiet eyes,
as the money men, smug with irresponsibility laugh safely inside,
A'sure twas' a good Take that year.

as ever, the English got something right! i adore sport... and what i adore most about these Commonwealth Games? the Olympians are competing at the same time with the Para-Olympians... that's brilliant! when the usual Olympics takes place... the abled bodied Olympians that have their games in the first two weeks... then there's a break... then the Para-Olympians have their games... ****'s sake! the two games should be coupled-up! what's that i hear? games for the "spezial kidz"?! what a load of *******... when i was completing my NVQ for crowd safety i was asked the question: what are British values? i replied... aren't they universal? i didn't even mention the details of the question: i thought the question was self-evident in that it was universal: British values are universal because they can be understood by anyone and anywhere... ergo? the Para-Olympics should take part at the same time as the able-bodied Olympics... why muddle-coddle these wheelchair bound ******* to a later date?! ****'s sake! they should compete at the same time... i'd probably run a slower time than some of these wheel-snuggling swimmers of the air... it's not fair that the Olympics is separate from the Para-Olympics... and the former Olympians turned media pundits wonder: why aren't the Para-Olympics getting the same coverage as the "original" Olympics... hell... if it would have to take 3 weeks rather than 2... so be it... these people should compete in the same time-frame! that's ******* discriminatory! what special status? no special status! they compete at the same time... they get to entertain the same crowd volume! i don't care! they should... how does it feel cycling past someone in a wheelchair? i forget to ask... i always forget to ask a question about the weather... or the taste of quails... silly me... well... it's slightly different when i see a: POKRAKA... "freak"... that's a result of the irresponsibility of a certain adults inter-breeding... cousin-*******... someone people should have learned a valuable lesson a long time, a long long time ago... i don't blame the half-witted eighth of a Forrest Gump... i just look at the "mother" and "brother" and think nothing but disgust... not even donkeys get their reproductive conduct so wrong... for a creature so highly evolved: we're stuck with cousin-******* and the "myth" of Oedipus... but at least Oedipus was an exception... i imagine that he didn't gauge his eyes out... instead became an ******... then again: what are myths? stories better than any journalistic affair... myths > history > journalism < fiction < poetry... but Para-Olympians should be competing on the same stage as the Olympians! take an extra week... but don't do what's already being done! done segregate the two camps of competitors! take an extra week! let both compete at the same time! it's not fair that once the original Olympics are finished: the crowd isn't there for the Para-Olympians! i know it will be harder to attract the same viewership for women's club football... female boxing... female rugby... i'm already baking my own cakes... cooking my own food... cleaning my own house... today i surprised myself... what herb is most abundant in my garden? beside rosemary? mint... i was cleaning the garden and i had to cut down an overgrowth of mint... well... how many ******* mojitos would i have to make? how much tzatziki? a lot... there's me: bloated... lying under a floating table: drunk but probably also hallucinating Aztecs ceremonies of human sacrifice... MINT ICE CREAM... wow... i'm getting good at this ice-cream business... i simply hate chocolate ice-cream... but mint ice cream? ooh... and chocolate chips... the crème anglaise is ready... just chilling overnight... i'll churn it tomorrow... by then the chocolate chips will be added... and i didn't even need to add any food flavourings... it's this pristine green... fit for ice... a bit like that Frank Zappa song: don't eat yellow snow... ha ha... because someone has ****** into it... i love green... pale green... then again... no wonder i dress up like a tree from time to time... my irises are green... gween boyo wonder(s)...

sometimes i have to admire thespians...
as much as i despise the whole lot of them:
esp. when they come together
and self-congratulate themselves...
mind you... there are actors and there are
"actors":
       most notably "actors" as depicted
in Singing in the Rain: prior to the talkies...
but at the same time...
actors like the fictional Gloria Swanson -
or i fail to tell her apart
from the very real Norma Desmond...
i can attest to two stand-out performances
in the past few years...
i wouldn't be wrong in calling them
their life-performances...
                     and it's not even in the medium
of movies...
movies have lost everything movies
once were...
i used to enjoy movies: i'm pretty sure
everyone used to enjoy movies...
in school we'd gather in packs of 7 guys
and sometimes 7 guys and 3 girls
and we'd go to the cinema to watch
a movie...
      then grab a bite to eat...
or we used to go on dates to the movies...
Troy... she wanted to see that...
because i guess she thought
i looked like Achilles or Brad Pitt...
but that wasn't a date: date...
it was an entire day... first to Tate Modern
for the Edward Hopper exhibition...
some minor strolling...
then back to Romford to see the movie...
and then some food at a sushi bar
and some sake...
but movies these days are unwatchable...
i'd rather watch the Godfather (no...
part II is not better than the original...
sure... Terminator II is better than
Terminator and the Empire Strikes
Back is better than New Hope...
no... not the Godfather)...
i'd rather re-watch that than any new movie...
i usually switch on for about
10 minutes before switching off...
i need a cigarette break... i need to water
the garden... i need to take a ****...
i need to scratch my *** in private...
- but that's how the story goes...
"back in the day": there was a profession
of a baby-sitter...
the parents would have a date-night...
they'd go to the cinema...
i once had a baby-sitter... i forget who...
it was probably a male if my memory
serves me correct... probably my now estranged uncle...
while my parents went to see the movie
SE7EN at the now "mythical" Odeon on
the Gants Hill roundabout...
these days? movies are comic books...
i prefer serious books...
          and in terms of comics...
oh man... the first time i had a *******
i think the two girls were having a *******
for the same time too...
threesomes are disappointingly
disorientating...
       they like the execution of Isaiah...
being cut in half... the upper body is twiddling
with ******* and lips...
the lower part of the body is being treated
along the lines of *******...
it being my first time: terribly disappointing...
i couldn't keep up...
we settled on the anti-pornographic
solution... hand-job and imitation ******
into the "other's" *****...
             i was limp on first take...
nicotine... better than caffeine and ******* combined
to give a man arousal...
i had to have a smoke...
               i was new to the arrangement:
they were new to the arrangement:
the three of us were N00BZ... literally...
it wasn't like in a pornographic flick...
hell! far from it!
   what put me off was the changing of condoms...
and... once knew what to do with the *******:
pull it back... while the other one
didn't know what to do with it:
i'd circumcise her... so she might get a better
picture...
hardly an ego boost...
she implored me to reply in the affirmative
when asking the question:
you must feel like a king...
eh... i'm not the one who suggested having
a *******...
i rejected you twice: *****! you butted in!
i never had a ******* on my palette...
i like the ******* where i'm
almost tentatively looking into the woman's eyes
while rubbing forehead against forehead
before quickly jumping down below
to perform the crab-bucket maestro tongue
twirl of imitating gulping oysters
and flowers of KAHUNT!
                ****... oral *** on a woman...
she's already readying her hands to pretend to rip
the hair on your hair out...
she does that specific roll of the eyes...
it's beautiful to watch...
peacocks courting is probably the nearest comparison...
thank the gods on my part for
reading Ovid... someone was necessarily
born to combat these exploits of *******...
of ugly ***...

i don't know when i'll have a ******* ever again:
i like the one on one intimacy...
threesomes feel so pedestrian...
there's always that unwanted third party...
i don't think i gained an ego-booster...
i think along the lines of "p.t.s.d."...
                              the unwanted girl orchestrated
the whole enterprise...
the girl i wanted was the one i was snuggling up
to trying to steal a kiss:
me: thief... trying to steal kisses from
prostitutes... the unwanted third-party...
fake milking cows
and duck lips... she was just a canvas
for my *******...
                    once is enough...
i don't care what ******* portrays...
they're a nuisance...
i like ******* while eating eyes... with eyes...
plus the hygienic approach doesn't help
for the fluidity of threesomes...
you can't be hygienic and irresponsible at the same
time...

stealing kisses from prostitutes is one thing...
but ******* them without any ****** protection...
come the zenith...
actually asking: can i?
   with agreement:
                    yes, you can...           oh wow...
well... i'm talking about Turkish women...
different culture, different tactic...
i live in England but by now:
i ****** well hope to never **** an English
girl...

girl, let me just water my garden...
admire the night for a while:
believe me... you can have your sway
in raising the next Oedipal myth in your
sisterhood motherhood of loneliness...
i'd love to teach the ******* some things...
the pleasures of the hammer...
the KANGO concrete drill...
the everywhere and everyone within
the confines of the loneliness
of walking in a forest...
         chemistry! English! i'd love to learn
vocal Deutsche with him!
but no... fair enough: no's a no...
back to the brothel i go...
               oh no no...
              
me and hook-up culture? nothing's for free!
- i sometimes wake up the next day:
mein gott! what damage i must have i cause:
it's a cruel addiction:
to drink and to write simultaneously:
Bukowski and Hemmingway
figured out this problem...
one in celebrating old age
the other in the shotgun...

                    tear skin, grow more skin...

mein gott! i became so carried away with myself
that i actually forgot my original theme
for this poo'em...
            literally: maybe that's why i inserted
the word BZDETA...
                 oh... it's an actual word... not in -ing-leash
of course... but i'm sure most English
speakers are familiar with African surnames:
M'Bepe Mgabe etc.
   that's hovering consonant...
        B'z'deta...
               i love how the English folk break their tongues
when speaking my mother's... tongue...
they would sooner learn Czech or Russian
than learn ******... such puritans of the tongue
we folk are... and now combine the fact
that i identify as an Anglo-Slav...
     listen: England or at least English is a playground
for me... i was implored by some deity
to come to these isles, given a ***** and bucket
and told: here! there's some wet sand over there...
go and play!

                 now: many a happy returns to the father
of the English tongue... i have to return and tease
at some Deutsche...
           Franz Friedrich: AHUND!

my original adoration for the Thespians... it... can...
happen... personally i'd rather not...
i don't see the point of these shadow-thieves...
these dopplegangers... yet artistically?
it's the most celebrated medium...
           sure... painters are celebrated... post-mortem...
poets had a weird spell of "conundrums"
in America in the the 1960s...
   but i'm not willing to write ******* for a "me"
that's either asthmatic or exasperated:
equally short on breath...

well: given the modern equivalent... everyone is going
to be the next Allen Ging-Sperg?
i don't think so... more of a composer: than an entertainer...

anyhoo...
  BZDETA... an actual word...
it's sort of in between the English equivalent of:
trivial (thing) and a pointless (thing) -
the actual "thing" is hidden within the pointlessness
of an implied "thing" / the triviality of
the implied "thing": ha! modern English grammaticians
and their hyped up focus on pronouns...
wait till they figure out that adjectives verbs
and nouns and conjunctions and adverbs and...
a- the-     -ism: the indefinite and the definite article...

- everything coming of America (culturally) is corrupt:
once the beacon for the world to admire...
i'm regressing to find alternatives...
i stopped listening to music with a tinge of
the English tongue... i've thrown my laurel wreath
toward German neo-folk...
**** it... i might be living, physically: in an anglo-sphere
but my mind is elsewhere...
i wouldn't go as far as Frank Zappa and adore
Bulgarian music... but certainly not anything
in the vein of modern-modern (post?) English...

- another word that's dear to me: akin to
   how Italians call a child a BAMBINO...
the Polacks call a child a BOBAS...
             English is so strict... rigid sometimes...
the mere fact that the ****** tongue employs
so much diminutive "accents" is amazing sometimes...
a mountain: (gurhau, no... sorry... guhrau!)
i.e. góra can become a little mountain
via incorporating the diminutive tense górka...

and although the word RZECZ denotes: things...
rzeka is river... while a small river?
rzeczka...
            i don't think there's the antonym for the diminutive
in ******... it's sort of boring in English:
there are only adjectives... actual nouns
do not incorporate a diminutive tense for something
being described:

KACZKA (duck) kaczuszka (small duck, duckling)
wow! that's actually a good example of
the English ZUNGE applying the diminutive
construct of a word...
young and youngling springs to mind...
but English is altogether a very rigid tongue...
so... i don't understand how these current
grammatical-magicians and their pronoun-hyper-focus
are trying: you can't trick an old dog
into learning new tricks... these aren't tricks:
this is equivalent to: a baboon...
smearing his naked plump pink *** with his
own ****... calling it woad...
raising it up in the air like a Muslim during prayer:
before battle... shaking it...
taunting the opponent... come fight me...
and then...
                       what? of the two kings of ancient
Israel... who would i like to be?
David or Solomon?    hmm... clueless question...
DAVID! he got to fight Goliath and enjoyed the lyre
and wrote pslams into ripe old age...
Solomon? who couldn't compete with
his father... resorted to "wisdom":
writing aphorisms / maxims is the worst genre of
literature... it's untested proofs...
just ask Srinivasa Ramanujan...
                                   he was always neglected by
the establishment for having no proofs...
great idea: 2 + 2 = 5... but how? where's your proof!
the same with Solomon's supposed wisdom:
no proof... the same with Nietzsche's aphorisms
or for that matter la Rochefoucauld...
it's all true... but it's most probably just perhaps true...
i've tasted a sample of both the lives
of Solomon and David...
            each time i return to David...
i just do what the Nazis did to the *******...
i turn it clockwise...
                 tilt it... what do i see?
i see a reading-mat and an open book...
              i peer in: i ignite out...

now i'm thinking: i still need to mop the floors of the house,
i need to shine my shoes and iron a white shirt...
and gear up to waking up at 6am...
as much as i love waking up at 11am
without needing to be awake any hour sooner...
i love waking up at 6am with a necessary:
i'm expected to be at X by the time Y...
algebra simplicity...

esp. since today i fell out of bed: too humid...
i fell out the bed at about 6:30am onto the floor...
how compact the floor feels...
i could feel my strained spine relax on the hard surface...
i even used my folded hand for a pillow
in and out of a coming day-dream...
what i wouldn't give to imitate David...
and scorn Solomon forever more...
no wisdom did i find...
   no man can speak wisdom to men when he has
an abundance of "thirst-quench" of ****...
          
              in a polygamous society... thank god i don't live
in one... but there have always been women that
aspired to the cult / altar of the phallus...
i'm content with the fact that i can bypass any thirst...
that i have hygienic standards in place
that make me disregard any satisfaction in the realm
of a *******... it's equivalent to:
running an 800m race... come the 400m mark...
you're told to change your socks and shoes...
and then run another lap...

                           it's nothing like in *******...
monkey-pox is a real thing...
you need standards... cleanliness is the greatest:
and only standard that must be constantly stressed
from one human to another...

only Michel de Montaigne can surpass both Nietzsche
and la Rochefoucauld:
well, at least by my "under-estimation"...

- now for the caveat... what i was originally to write
about...
two example where Thespians can be adored...

                                   Logan Roy i.e. Brian ***
Peter III i.e. Nicholas Hoult...

even they: themselves have figured out that films
are on the way out...
people have changed...
                               i know i have changed...
i don't have the mental capacity to watch movies:
and i'm not some senile old man...
strange... in ancient times old people
were never this senile...
   they still had intellectual rigour...
they accumulated "****": perhaps it wasn't intellectually
stimulating: but it was intellectually mesmerising...
it was called wisdom: once upon a time...

and when my father criticised me for
reading philosophy books in my youth...
expecting me to regress to the optometric notion
that only old people are wise:
no! nein! old people these days are like
children: there's nothing to learn from them!
that's why i'm thinking about going
into primary school teaching...
i can pour my ever more clear water into that pool...
of clear water...
i don't need to teach them chemistry...
i don't have to teach them the tongue:
i can watch ontology sprout out of seemingly "nothing"...
i adore children:
            like i could never adore women...
i adore children like i adore animals...
i don't know what sort of man one must become
to adore women in order to exploit them
in the way that they are exploited...

hypocrite? because i place my silver on the table
and expect what's expected by the meaning
of transaction, or...
rather... place the silver on the table...
receive a shared meal and then expect something
in return? such backward ways
of the American culture...
i hope that England will never become infested
with these practices... freakish: ghoulish...
of the four-eyed beast...
a desecration of Shiva: one winking eye on
the forehead... one blinking eye attached to the ****...
with the two eyes that are supposed to see:
stapled shut...

how marvelous to wake up...
with a want to make mint and dark-chocolate chip
ice-cream... surely the best ice-cream i have
ever made! to hell with chocolate ice-cream!
i hate chocolate... turning it into ice-cream is even worse!
mint! oh... that marvelous invention of
the gods... almost equivalent to ferns...
almost equivalent to nettles...
how the ancient Roman centurions used to cure
an itch... they would run and jump into
a bed of nettles ****-*******-naked...
i.e. fight fire with fire... fight an itch with an even
bigger itch... second to the nettle? the thistle...
i'd love to see those guys jump into a patch
of nettles...

Rome will never die... even with the crucifixion
of its supposed surrogate son of man...
nope...
    the alphabet it still here...
the coliseum has morphed into a raised
meteor crater of a football stadium...
               Rome is, Rome was, Rome will be...
even with the Arab "invasion" of Europe...;
Rome is, Rome was, Rome will be:
we'll just be soul-chasers... soul-thieves...
they'll enter the arena of this tongue...
neglect their heritage... and they will learn our ways...
somewhat... not always...
mind you: on a racial-bias...
skin-colouring dilutes during *******
with a 2nd generation...
  
you asked for a Latin man... a Latin man came...
what now?
you asked for a Latin man...
i'm forever employing myself to date a single
mom with a boy or a girl...
i'm not a Darwinist... genes are like atoms...
i don't care much for them...
but... i wouldn't date a single mother
for the ***... i'd be sneaking out
to the brothel on a whim...
i'd be there for the child...
                    i'd love to make him or her ingest
my psychology:
i'd make them ingest my soul...
i'd pass on my ontology...
     he or she would have to be bilingual
in the least... i'd learn Deutsche with him...
he would be a miracle of a Switzerland outside
of Switzerland!

i'm still bewildered why America is not a bilingual
quest (of a nation)...
  WASP pride? or ignorance?
the worst of the English went to America:
while the supposed "worst" of the English went
to Australia...
                 funny... really funny...

to wake up and have: i need to make mint &
chocolate ice-cream on one's mind...
that's how one wakes up to celebrate life!   LIFE!
LAíF!

Liberty is the highest decree.
Independence and opportunity -
the finest, paramount glee.

Certainly indeed!

But are we really
moving towards being free?
Or is it brazen entitlement
that we blatantly feed?

#

You ask of the next catastrophe.

Mass irresponsibility:
that is sadly what
it will be
...smh
That is sadly what it will be.

I never intended to lose you that night.
I was wasted out of my mind--
Treating my young irresponsibilities
With more irresponsibility.
They said you left crying and in a daze.
In a certain sense,
I'm glad I didn't see you.
Not like that.
It would have broken me.
I just can't help but think,
That if I had,
Would I instead have held you through the night,
Before I let you become a victim of the night?

I'm so sorry.

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.

the barren and empty room's  now a stage
set up by idiots and those who'd steal

everything....if they only could..........they can!
that's why we're here!!!.......wanting to be the fool

safe  in .... our ... irresponsibility!
and set free...........inconsequential.....at last!

babbling incoherently....poetry
to the winds and the waves but not to me!

okay!...to each his own...to each his "he"
"we" , "god" "her" or "lover" or "whatever"

today is only a today, some say
the oil in the gulf killing us all

~
Dressed for purgatory
But early to the party
So many bodies in the house next door
A living dance upon dead minds

A grocery store sunset
Thru the windshield of an SUV
Gets you distorted colors in
Gasoline rainbows
From those precise lines
Of the turning lane
Love ends at a traffic light

We do this to ourselves
All in the pursuit of happiness

Church of questionable things
Descending like vultures
Where idols once stood
For individual suffering

A pageantry of jackals
Quiet like sirens
Picking at parts of bad contestants
Playing a game called 'poisoned trees'
Fallen soldiers in strange negotiations
With meantime brides
Riding on the train of irresponsibility
For no apparent reason

We do this to ourselves
All in the pursuit of happiness
~