"Hey, how are you you doing?"

"I'm doing okay..."

I'm okay because I cannot describe all the different ways I'm feeling apathetic.
And I give you that smile that hides all the hairline fractures in my heart.

Every wonderful longing is swallowed alive,
I'm transcending my emotional capacity to live and love.
All my cheer is shallow and without substance,
Naught more than a cooked marshmallow:
Sweet and crisp without any nourishment.

My wretched self allows me to suffer thus.
Isolated when never alone,
Alone when in true love,
Irreversibly broken,
Choking on my frozen dust.

under dirt
in a box
no voice
     teaching about nutrition
no breath
     exhaling cigarette smoke
a brain
     shrunken
          no more knows
shut down
     irreversibly
          dismantled
in silence
in a box
under dirt

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

A lachrymose ebullition,
unable to be muffled by its producer,
is postulated idiosyncratic,
and erupts behind locked doors of each abode.  

Remembrance trailing each hastily inhaled sob
of each adolescent informed of responsibility,
and of how appearances are more important
than actualities,
but not the stones it chains to their feet,
nor how they must repress sentiment.

If the building blocks of Stonehenge
were to frolic and wriggle voluntarily,
what force would fight the gravity
always pressing downwards on those below,
from collapsing the entire structure?

Without convenience to focus on sentiment
the neglected portion of our humanity
congeals until it can no longer be contained,
until it metastasizes from heart to brain.

Until the bulldozer rolls through you without resistance,
to create a more scenic landscape,
or else,
a multistoried parking garage for others to leave
their possessions they do not require at the moment.

Inaudible to distracted passers-by
wrapped up in their causeries,
of the scores of their preferent Colosseum teams,
or else,
sensational stories relayed by jovial faces
from the teleprompter directly to their subconscious.

This outburst,
anticipated to reverberate only within the confines
of the relative safety of this shelter,
until the sound waves of each echo
slowly
lose
momentum.

Who could be expected to hear each cog,
slowly being worn down,
while hidden within a working machine?

When those that convince the populace
that their lament will be heard and mended
urgently cram currency into their ear canals
when their position has allowed their own
muffled cries to cease.

This begs a question from the masses.
A question, muffled, and without words.
Each raised hand stretched upwards
as the inattentive teacher ignores,
causes another hand to reach skyward.

This populace never intended for their own
whimpers to be heard,
not heard, but heeded.
While the torment of their tear filled convulsions
bulldozes through them,
not heeded, but auscultated.

Yet, these proceedings were never attended.

Not even by those same
that attempt to muffle their own ebullition
within the sound-proofed walls of the shelters
that they conceal themselves in.

Each, alone, quietly succumbs to the pressures
of waiting out
jovial sentiment with uncomfortable contentment.
Waiting,
to not exhale each murmur,
but to consume the promises they are fed
by those same whose ears are plugged with green,
until the protecting walls grow bars
and all are provided with solitary confinement.

Until it is only logic that guides the thought
that each is truly and irreversibly alone.

Until all are singled out in their struggles,
until they are uncomfortable recognizing
that they exist.

Until, separately, each attempts to smooth
their worn edges,
as to not break down the machine.
To hide the nicks that they have endured
lest they should cause,
a momentary lapse,
in productivity.

Each gear is further deformed
by this bending and contorting,
as the fear of protest causes them
to endure the pressure of warping
to try to fit a position
that they were not molded for.

Until they believe that unrepressed sentiment
has been made illegal,
and that unmuffled voices
will only cause more harm.

Yet, there are those that hear,
and heed,
and auscultate,
each muffled cry.
Each weeping convulsion,
and the pressure caused by keeping them in.

For those,
each turn they make within the machine,
is made with the sole purpose
of removing mufflers.

Until each muffled sentiment is uninhibited,
moved by the tsunami of a zeitgeist,
and ascends toward the empyrean.
Until each cultural center covered by a filter
inverts the filter's position
to collect sentiment from the base,
and send the congealed, concentrated,
neglect of humanity to the precipice.

Each syllable combining with the next,
working in unison,
as those that participate in primal dances,
to take a new form.

Not even those that release this unmuffled sentiment
know the form this conglomeration will adopt,
but it will move from one coast to the next.
A tidal wave of tears that will push
from one corner of humanity to the next,
until we again understand that it is acceptable
to feel our pain in unison.

So that we can begin to make progress
on the alterations that are necessary to the machine.
So that we are once again able to produce something,
besides awkward struggle.
So that we can stand on the highest precipice
of every unmuffled sentiment,
with unimpeded hope that one day we may relearn how
to hear, and heed, and auscultate,
happiness in unison.

You are not lost.
You are not irreversibly damaged.
You are not irreparably broken.
You are not bound by fear.
And as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to live!

Quit letting your counselor try to dig up reasons from your childhood to justify why you're damaged.
Maybe we are damaged, but maybe blaming the people who ****** us over will only lead to a life of bitterness and revenge seeking.
Yes, we are hurt!
Yes, we are young and yes, we are lonely but as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to live!

Quit letting your church make you feel broken.
Maybe we are a little cracked in places, but those pieces are still glued together by the blood that beats in our hearts.
We are whole!
We are a living art with flaws and chips in our armor and scars that line our arms  but as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to live!

Quit letting your parents tell you that you've lost your way.
No, we haven't lost our way!
We are still here!
We are drunk on hope but as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to be live!

Quit letting your society make you feel like you can't do the things you want to because of the fear that it has places on you.
Maybe we are a little scared, but maybe that terror is only there to remind us that there are things more important than fear.
Be scared!
Be horrified on the days when you feel your disorder is stronger than you,
and gawk at how your hands shake when you kiss your lover even though you'd break your mother's heart if she knew you were gay;
because as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to be live!

Keep getting drunk!
Keep kissing the wrong person!
Keep cursing under your breath when you're forced to sit through a 2 hour church service!
Keep rolling your eyes at that teacher that you know is secretly a racist!
Keep making the same mistakes over and over and over again,
but as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to live!

So what if you really, really hate pets?
So what if you just can't seem to take the public school education system seriously?
So what if you can't seem to wrap your mind around a God who is supposed to love us, but is cruel enough to put us through all of the world's awful antics?
So what you secretly cannot stand spending time with your grandparents?
So what that Christmas is the worst time of the year for you?
So what if you have trouble getting out of bed or looking people in the eye?
So what if your hands shake when there isn't a cigarette between your fingers?
So what if you just can't quit watching gay **** even though you swear you're straight?

What does any of that mean to you, anyway?
What does how you choose to live your life mean?
What do the little quirks and the bad habits and the curses that have been cast upon you mean?

It means that you are living.
It means that there are billions of coffins buried six feet under piles of dirt and bugs, with crumbling tombstones that do not have your name engraved on them.
It means there are billions of breathing humans that are buried under society's rules and expectations and standards, that have their names engraved on office cubicles and restaurant name tags.
It means there are billions of dead people in cemetery's and there are billions of dead men walking, but you are not one of them.
And as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to live!


You are not bound by fear.
You are not irreparably broken.
You are not irreversibly damaged.
You are not lost** -
you have found yourself here, in this poem.
And as long as we are alive, we will not be afraid to live!

Every day when I wake it’s that daze that gives me
The choice to be lost or rejoice in the moment
That begins and convinces the rest of the day
To be irreversibly  just as he was

Hex Birthright in Hellenika

The Celestial Spirit of Vernarth began to walk through the Castellum del Horcodising, after the parapsychological regression in the conclusive auction and purge of him. He was looming at the Horcondising Keep; here all toilet modules, food, and medicines were well equipped, except for the inks and writing papers that were totally exhausted. Here you can see his mother Luccica, who was in a position to scribble and write on an upstairs deck, and in the other hand, she had a rosary of liberation, which anonymously appears before her purging in the presence of the protervative spellings that still wander through the cells and bedrooms of the Castellum del Horcondising. Her mother is seen twisted over the voices that polished the eight moons that she had designed for her son Vernarth from the very machicolations of the Castellum, but now with a rosary of liberation. It was clearly seen in the leaves written by her, which said that “My son abandoned his weapons, now in fluids of holy water, symbolizing real chimeras by the projections, to those who read his life verses in our Castellum, in Gaugamela and Patmos ”. Vernarth, mostly Hellenic, awaits to manifest healings for all creation, dumping water from moon storms on Rhodes, and lighting Matacan wall light at the door of the Messiah stand.

Vernart says: “my adolescent look, she has to be reborn with that of my father Bernardolipo; a whole Chamberlain, making himself free and a supporter of the baronies that were part of the servants of my servants…! Although now to climb his cabinet I have to raise my knees higher before his amplified step, calling us all and trying to be closer to a new bell to call us to dinner, as an entity of pride of architecture defined by his pen, ink, and white sheet that I mention. The mother I have to mention; My mother Luccica, rests not condemned or corrupted before her flesh, rather perfectly united to her spirit that envelops her free of sin, so that her company would be of complete solitude in our Castellum, we will continue to be in conformity with the spirit because our mansion is a beautiful spirit of vicissitudes, life, and peace, that our esplanade holds hunger and coldly indifferent to loneliness, cooling and pleasing the company of its own cold, rising from the first rays of the day, as well as rising from the first pinches of graduated ink, agreeing in the corrals where my father already lived according to his life among debtors, mortifying what he has not been able to mount on his steeds that inhabit his senses, leaving not so far to greet them in the mornings free of errors of not greeting, even When the minimum space is left to think of him as a joint-heir. Because the laments sob and others are born in the virginity of the light of the world with other lines Luccica can scarcely write, writing her co-age spirit, manifesting itself foolishly in suffering perfection; manifesting itself as everyone's delight, although ringing with anger at not freeing itself from glorious freedom. Not all sing to the tune of the disability of putting the strength of the grapheme of posterity, rather we blind ourselves by putting hope, but of patience that we arm ourselves by losing our courage to have it. Our will is of the magnitude of saints when doubt and fear entertain us, according to all the things and purposes that irreversibly will surprise us. I do not know where I have to walk here in this tower ?, because I know that myths of the unknown will fall according to the fact that I am his son, being the first-born of all men in the world, speaking of who among many intercede before tribulation or anguish, that strips me of all spirit still asking for it and justifying that I keep talking about them, but that I have been gone for a long time. For this reason, venerated mother, wake up from this frozen cell of the courtesy tower, because I am jealous and I believe that neither death nor life will fill the dead suspended in your room, which support more lives with their angels adorning their bindings and paragraphs, with principalities that are increasingly so distant more than imminent to come to please you. When your name is tried in real vices to increase, they are being stripped of the sons of the principality in which they shine from afar, but with our feet dancing on despotic brilliance, and not of the hollow that still does not fill my heart for you”

Emerging from the last lights of the Castellum del Horcondising, Vernarth bids farewell to his reign, leaving his mother Luccica in the company of three Angels who mined him with the amber mistletoe, of sallow light. However, she will remain frosted on her desk with ink at night and by day, so that when the day ceases, she will draw ink from the darkest night to continue writing that she can already be without Him! Near the Halleniká Necropolis in Rhodes, a statue of Peltasts stood, shielding the site where the “Vas Auric” Auric Medallion would sporadically rest, which came between the bilges, now inside the Eurydice. It came predestined with sacred amber garments alloyed, to make up for the between Peltast mediators who guarded them, to deliver it to its Commander Vernarth.

The Apostle Saint John says: “The Sephardim like us in exile did not see reasons restored in our union and tradition, we resembled a diaspora that did not derive voluntarily, according to events that occurred in my case in Judah at the hands of the Romans. The Alexandrian Jews form on my part certain Israelites dispersed in my prayers, leaving us where the radiance of our faith makes sense and dispensed power to us. My economy is to create the furniture that will inhabit laborious houses in the Staurós histos, even among those Jews and mercenary soldiers, freeing themselves from prejudices and clothing that represented them alone and fragile, being sensible by the diaspora. The world separates itself from the matter cell, clinging to the consciousness of the unity of dispersed Mosaicism as a sacrificial cult, to cater to those who write history more distant than a synagogue without a Rabbi. When bad winds blew there, they often made the situation worse for those scattered in a foreign land. At the end of the Hellenistic era, we had Jews in Persia, Mesopotamia, Syria, Phenicia, Pontus, north of the Black Sea, Cappadocia, the rest of Asia Minor, Egypt, and Cyrenaica, Carthage, Greece, Macedonia, and Italy. Now I in Rhodes with the Vas Auric, to trace the true effigy of Judas Thaddeus, my co-religious in pursuit of an intellectual and theological religious activity of edifying centers of prayer and universal unification, here in the Necropolis of Hallenikka, where some Davidian Psalm will be in more regions of here documented in precession, and as a reciprocal religion to Hellenic situationism. Its religiosity is felt, it even remains open in proselytism that causes the indefiniteness of the half-convert and that implies a risk for the identity of the Jewish religion as the support of a people with not a little original conscience "

He sings The Delphic Sibyl: “He bears the crown of thorns of the Coronation of Jesus, which also happened in the Praetorium, and as in previous cases to the scene represented in the corresponding neutral. In Eritrea Stauros, rather Herophile, if chaste and Delphic clairvoyant and apologetic, her vernacular artery made her a native of Marpeso, Troyana-Troade. As in fantasies of being the daughter of a Nymph and a Shepherd. Her elegy was escorting her to the Duodecim Evangelii, from Samos she is docking towards Patmos at the foundations of the Megaron. With the same polygon of the Sistine Chapel, in the quattrocento, where Vernarth had assistance in the parapsychological Regression of the Quattrocento Duodecim Evangelii, announcing that Vernolatry would be part of his Apologetic life, inspiring prophecies with the Iaspis Parables, commending scholarship after the grave that He was in the forest of Apollo Smintheus, returning to his origins in a sinkhole in Mount Coric. The idiomatic cross was its interlaced fractal, with threads and kashmar pole, surrounding the crossed palisades with linen threads, and Koiné to display the cross in the hestion or towards the Staurós or cross, in the capital event of the material instrument of execution for the man who falls into no man's land "

only today i learned ø denotes
        an encoding of diameter,
and it's Scandinavian,
                     or how the globe is
past the equator,
         and the lob-sided earth,
winters in Australia in the Summer months
in Europe.

    high philosophy begins with Beijing
dialectical highs,
    but take the route of lower philosophy
and encounter diacritics rather than dialectics,
because that matters, too,
        θought, a moral ought,
   and φilosoφy - and missing ought -
          and the two being irreversibly twins
in said... or θought an immoral ought,
                 sure, tubes, mistook ø74 for something
akin to φ...
    high philosophy never acquires a diacritical
dilemma...
                  or why local don't do anything
but actuate automatic application
   and those immigrant, or bilingual troops question...
    ø = diameter, not to be confused with the θ;
             higher philosophy begins with dialectical
beginnings,
               "lower" philosophy also begins with
dialectics, but it ends with diacritical application,
rather than utopian: nowhere from nothing.

what am i going to say next? *machado de assis's
philosopher or dog? introduction.

          ........................................­..................................
..............................­......................................................
..........­.................................................................­.........
.......................................................­.............................
...................................­.................................................
...............­.................................................................­....
............................................................­...........
(or a paragraph on the pleasure of drinking,
    or how to save you an optometrist appointment,
or how to take an interlude,
   to do the opposite of the Andy Warhol stipend
for making enough buggers hearing your
opinion, unchallenged,
                    but never having a diacritic concern).
hence the pending, or what everyone seems to
desire these days, circa 100 years later,
     how to provoke an interlude, how to hunger
for interludes rather than fame,
           i also drew a sketch before starting,
       shat -
                  and hey presto!
           ****!
                   yuck in orange in florescent.
yellow (florescent), F, pretty pretty pretty,
          in pink the bit about diameters and phi,
           again in yuck orange: swigs and the wiggle...
a paged concern for graffiti.
                  again, pending, yet to be hottie
and poster boy of a poem,
        again the impromptu break worth of fame that
actually isn't fame, but a chance to compare
                   how much whiskey makes up for the
Niagara continuum.
        again, (pending):
............................................... (how the hell do you
write pending ~15 minutes later?!)

the concept of Monday is greatly undermined
by Darwinism,
    as is Tuesday through to Sunday,
generally the function-able week desists the idea
of an Iron Age, as does the pantomime
of all that's worth celebrating -
generally speaking Darwinism is anti-history,
theology has nothing to ask of Darwinism
to argue against,
                             theology isn't a history,
but Darwinism is the purest variation
of history, variance of how we define logic
and its applicability, whether it's
i + think            /             1 + 1
    and have the moral attraction toward a 2
         or variate a moral action into a 3:
cos Radiohead simply sang 2 + 2 = 5 in a song:
cheat! matchstick principle regarding counting!
machado de assis? Darwinism is peppered with
overt imagery than salted with:
you get to sneeze a lot...
             a writer's voice: irony, mockery,
         consolidating the lessened counter-productiveness...
Flaubert, Dickens, Zola, Balzac, etc.,
                    homie, rap that **** out, condense it,
i thought Brazil was half the way America should have
endeared you? i had problems with Prussia
Austria and Russia... guess i was wrong how thuggish
i had to be with the Orpheus *******...
       cos the lyre was dumbo blunt deaf and therefore
cacka...
     higher philosophy begins with dialectics,
"lower" philosophy begins with diacritics -
     a return to the source, a debate with Ivory scales
concerning the Rosetta - a neo-formatting of
what's quiete
                           right: Sophia: hence anew: Rosetta.
and all for the pear that's woman and whether Satan
chose the fruit prudently according to Milton.
or the progress of a drunk:
centipedes and Fitzgeralds, Hemingways,
lust and last said...
                           the cf. of every apparent transitory
made to provoke the quasi and quack,
              ducking the Donald and the *****,
in agreement,
                     a happiness toward the tiresome
encrusting of what's worth being stated,
and then the deviatory,
                              as marketed a deviation
from a Louis Napoleon -
                                    because no Belarus was
to be chequered by an impeding force...
                      hence the cha cha cha...
                                    and hence the stanzas of
Argentinian tango...
              juicy and later the cruelty choking
of what some might make of Macbeath's habitual thinking
                                       worthy of a classroom
                audience; and that too is
exposable in return for being disposable.
higher philosophy is regarded as such with
dialectics,
                        but "lower" philosophy is
yet to be regarded as such with diacritics -
     not a case of what's to be said, and thus bedded,
but a case of how's something said,
                                and thus given a freedom
of: bedded, wedded, pimped, or whimpered into
                                     surviving writing a poem about;
also achieved by Humphrey and that chuckle of
revising Casablanca for an unnecessary quote dynamic /
diatribe when Hiroshima said
                 much more than the above certified:
boom! 1 million ******* dead.
       that's an overt-quote that gropes the many
amens among the citations of Marilyn, and still gets away
with                     a memory of J.F.K.,
           because that ****-honing masterpiece
was needing my memory rather
                                   than a b. b. q.    scewing.
          i find people rather forgetting:
jeopardy battered boundless gym orientational
                     thoughtless two shots of tequilas
            and three paraphrases of sours in biting a lemon
to upkeep a trough of a suntan with the H-He:
boom boom, higher tier laughter,
             ingesting that inflation of prop
                    boom boom, v bomber,
                     squeeze...
                    lob-side lo & behold,
                                       'n'        - squiggly extra thus born.

The dirt yawned
And swallowed the weather
While we sat patiently
Waiting for dawn.
The clouds were a landslide
That dragged us both down
Like synthetic feathers
In a hurricane.
We did not find OZ,
There was no other dimension,
Just cold, abusive soil,
And four billion years
Of built up tension
That unleashed upon us
A prehistoric frustration
With the lack of chaos,
And the predetermination
That replaced it.
We clutched at roots,
And ripped off our fingernails
Scratching at sandstone,
We lost our skin,
And inhaled the souls
Of a trillion decomposed
organisms.
Our bodies split
Like light through
A million prisms,
But our spirits
Kept up their plummets.
Into a chasm we fell,
Like grains of sand into
An expanding universe,
So inconceivably small,
So irreversibly without control,
So peacefully.
Our energies squirmed
In imperfect circles
Around each other
As the fall
Turned stationary
By perspective.
Other pairs joined us,
Attracted to our spin,
Until we formed
A new world,
To god's chagrin.

Consistency is thinning with the sun
Our minds crawl-
Yet  race on overdrive inside our homes and out in the damp streets.
Simple static,
A mental block of conscious
spread by word of mouth from one disaster to the ****** birth of another.
Another bag of bones,
Clanking over our shoulders-
With heavey arms to bare with
Another gust of wind full of ashes and crowds all dressed in black with their throats in knots.
The words inside our mouths burn as they leave
There is a kid with a guitar on the outskirts of it all.
Watching in as the faces drain from the bodies in the streets.

So he began to sing.
He sang about shades of grey
He sang about the spaces in between
And he sang about the heart that’s been thrown among one person’s beliefs to another’s lack of.
He strummed until the sky turned a shade of blue which resembled his mothers eyes on the night he learned what strength and will was.
As the wind hushed,
The crowd began a melancholy motion,
with their backs turned to all that was
Some with new sight and others in disbelieving disgust.
But one thing held constant-
though time had been tampered and irreversibly changed
They all hurt the same
Each mind had been scrambled like eggs

(C) Tiffanie Doro

I imagine you to be a quiet person.
The socially awkward one, the one who likes the thought of being thought of as a thoughtful person, but one who ends up blurting out something irreversibly stupid.
I imagine you to be romantic, believer of true love. One who dreams of kisses under pink skies.
I imagine you to be intriguing and somehow delicate; like a cute little bird that needs to be observed from far.
I imagine you to be private, one who locks up not only his words, but emotions inside pages that are shoved and buried inside the depths of your heart.
I imagine you to be wearied by life, thinking about the future while you stir coffee.

Or maybe how I imagine you just reflects me.

today
while smoking a cigarette
   I saw a butterfly
dead on the sidewalk

it was neither gruesome or disturbing
    in fact
it was almost peaceful in a way
   just nature at its end

I wish I was a butterfly
    transformed
from wretchedness
into something beautiful

    to you:to me

the attraction is anything but
      physical

it eats like hell
for a solid week
   sleeps for the next three
emerges
   arrives
evolved
   into the sky

life is now at its most poignant pinnacle
beautiful
    tende
        vulnerable
    utterly free
no longer even bound by gravity
     I bet that’s a ******* trip
but
      there’s always a but
irreversibly limited to a handful of days

I wish I was a butterfly
alive for a month of this ****
and then beautifully
    quietly
lie down on a sidewalk
and die.

The gray cloudy sky scream(ing)s
Only icy clouds throw down their hail-on the earth-
To **** the green (belt) with their viole(n)t dance-
And (to )red(d) ( the) shadowy earth- still cries-we are alive-
Throwing up all  its war(ren) shadows to the sky
To reach the per(im)manent heaven with their painful sacrifice.
The heaven strenuously may (h)eat the pain (through)
In silence- we are existent-we feel the pain-
The last remnants of the green may rustle in the leaves
Trying to soak into the rotten yellow.
The blue may (stage) whisper in the breeze,
Holding the memories of the past.
Voices from extra dimensions
(I live adding new dimensions to my life)
And psychedelic visions
May irreversibly modify the ( sixth) sense of the reality.

Dear __,

I really miss....
The way that your green eye's sparkle still gives me chills
How your brown curls cover your head in a blanket of beauty
Yes I love you. I will never stop loving you.
I'm basically throwing myself out to the wolves by falling for you
I gave my heart to you unconditionally, irreversibly,
You see the truth is love, I can't get you out of my head
At night I see you with the eyes of my mind;
Your perfect white teeth smile,
How your dimples show when you're honestly happy,
I love how you wrinkle your forehead when you are thinking
And cross your ankles back and forth if you sit down for a long time.
I can still hear you speaking to me, how we used to message in the early morning, rolling over and seeing you're sparkling orbs in the darkness, wanting you so badly to be actually here

Incomprehensibly inebriated, I stood up
Whether I walked, stumbled, fumbled or
Even crawled; I need not know or care
I struck you my friend, my best one too
Never did I deserve such company anyway
Pity, six of the best and hardest years spent
Mostly with you by my side and I by yours
Knowing what's best for someone is hard
A two way curse I say, whilst it may be best
It mightn't be what is wanted or needed
For arguments sake, we'd squabble
In the name of fun and youth we'd dabble
To be cast aside and know you deserve it
Friend, it hurts but the damage is done

Incomprehensibly inebriated, I threw
Six of the best, hardest years away
They say boys don't cry but we did,
When they said we couldn't attend our
High school prom because we didn't
Behave or act in a way that proved we
Wanted and deserved to go, although it
Wasn't for lack of trying, I remember
Those phone calls, Those late nights
I remember the successful appeal we made
How we both attended the prom, delightful
How your date was drop dead gorgeous
How mine kind of, wasn't?
You laughed Because she wanted to sleep with me and
You could tell I wasn't keen, funny times

Now we're 20 and we don't really speak
I know it's only been three to four weeks
Since I irreversibly ****** up, it's just
It feels like a long time now, I think a lot
About how I'm not friend material because
I hurt people, emotionally and physically
I'm a lousy drunk and cynical too
I've been this way a long time, nothing new
I have problems buried down deep
Even demons too, but I fought them
With others, I fought them with you

I approached you
And the flash light
Of your voice embraced me.
It was somewhere, near the divine idea.

I hadn't met you before, but
When we united our voices
To be together in this way,
I felt the eternity floating in the air,
That kind of white eternity
In which, everyone wants to stay.

So many people crowded in between us
That we seemed to be two points on a world map.
So long was the distance in between us
That we seemed to live

One at the North Pole
And the other one at the South Pole.

It was the time when
The sun was declining beneath the blue horizon
In a ring of fire
And the moon was rising in the same sky,
And the coming night was embracing
The leaving day.
It was our twilight.

It was the time when
The stars began to
Appear on a new dark sky.
I began to be afraid of losing you.


I took the elapsed seconds
To hang them on the 'Lyre' constellation.
The existent seconds flowed into there
With a terrible rapidity,
Letting those, which were new to come to life.
A new time was born,
In which, we became existent one for each other.


I felt that you wanted to touch me.

I heard a tenderness in your voice.
Our feelings flowed into
The 'Bird of Paradise' constellation.

Suddenly, a rain of stars began to fall down.
I didn't know if it was a real rain of stars
Or a firework, I didn't know
Whether we could really embrace each other,

But I felt
That I was irreversibly transformed
Into another new woman.

We would mark our places-

Our flower shop,
Our cheesecake,
Our café,
Our frozen yogurt,
Our secret spot,

We would, without a thought,
Childishly decorate,
Build landmarks; but now
When it's time to separate,

I realize, as we stare
Ruefully at one another,
That we marked not only places,
But ended up coloring each other-

~ Irreversibly ~

Well *******, Mr. High and Mighty ******* Man
Don't give me that ugly face, squashed into a most vile shape, a pitying look
I'm not your concern, and I'd never wish to be for one so emptied
I haven't forgotten how to stand guardian over my space or grounds
I'm liquid in movement, effortlessly able to ****** from the air every stone my enemies throw
Breaking down their walls, their homes with their own weapons, dancing and singing while they run and weep
I can find laughter in their crushed despairs and mangled hopes
So how is it that ignorance gave you the courage to dare allow me to see that face?
Your disgusted pity bright as day and glaring in the sweltering heat
I can clearly tell how you play, imagining me as someone you could victimize; someone weak...
I won't deliver a verbal warning, but regardless still, if you haven't removed yourself promptly from my sight -
I'll show you just how mistaken your judgments passed in blind idiocy have been
You'll fall face first in the mud with all of the rest of these, my victims
For now time is out, and mercy is all but extinct
And anyway, what's one more self-righteous ****** going to change?
As so many pigs are now to be lead to their slaughter house curtain close
I'm too bitter, a irreversibly jaded executioner, lacking the patience to mind God or grace...
Well ******* again, lingering unaware of my rage, you've earned my vengeance as your fate

I don't love you
not completely
at least not yet
but I can feel my soul
reaching to entwine with yours
it's tied in a nice neat knot
I love your smile
I love your laugh
I love your stubborness
and everything in between
I don't love you
not completely
at least not yet
not until the knot becomes a tangle
and I love you to the point of stupidity
to the total loss of sanity
to sacrificial limitations
past where I could never forget you
irreversibly wicked
I don't love you
not completely
at least not yet

You drained my soul
Killed the light that shined in my eyes
Took away my happiness, my innocence, my entire essence
You stole the world I had in my hands
You put the weight that I now carry on my shoulders
You are the one to blame for all my slips and falls
Making me hide like a snail in it's shell
I am pushed up against a wall
Hands around my neck
Confined to something I once had an ounce of respect
You contorted me like clay in your hands
Doing with me what you wanted
My dignity replaced by and infinity of empty space
You show as much admiration you would show to a fly on the wall
Like nothing at all
You've made me wilted
In a field of thriving flowers
Damaged goods some might say
Emotional baggage is all the rage
You've got me locked up in your sickening cage
Blocked off from society is what you made me
Unable to connect -You've made me irreversibly inept
Turned me so cold, that even the devil's hot touch can't reverse the effect
All I want you to know
Is how you changed me for the worst, not the best
You are the wicked witch of the west
Good riddance, I owe you no pittance
Seeing your face peering down to my grave
Will inspire me to spit in it
The fact will be preserved that you will not be saved.
You drain my soul.

There is a hole inside my chest.
I didn‘t ask it to be there
I don‘t know where it came from
But it doesn‘t seem to care.

Everytime I see a glimpse of serenity
it taints me again:
A corrupting presence
strangling my spine
choking my soul.

What has changed?
Where is the cause?
I‘ve lost ascendancy
over the demons I thought
to have slain long ago.

Again I‘m afraid.
Afraid to speak too much,
afraid to be silent for too long.
Afraid to be me
and afraid to disguise myself.

It seems my fortune has vanished
from my control.
And in dark moments
the only thing that‘s left
is the fear that
something has changed
irreversibly.

What once got close
seems to drift apart again
before it could begin to coalesce.
And I stand weak
before my inner chaos.

My mind is a maze
and I have lost the map.
How am I supposed to find my way back
with this chasm in my head?

~

My confidence is torn.

~

There is a hole in the sky
and it slowly pulls me in.
Will it erase me or cleanse me?
And will the scourge inside of me
finally die?

When you asked me how I had done it
I stared at you blankly.

Were you trying to be funny,
somehow stuffing your face right in front
of mine and his at the same time?

I don't know how you even managed that
from halfway across the room,
but my skin was instantly
and irreversibly crimson,
as if you had just slapped me,
or if the faces of our friends
who were now choking on the laughter in their throats
had the visages of six suns
somehow packed into one dingy college dorm room.

Of course, they couldn't have been suns,
or else the whole **** building would have caught on fire
between the beer soaked beds and butane lighters
and desk drawers crammed with cannabis.

In one blunt
sentence, you managed
to push me outside in the cold
with just the burning coals of my flesh
and my fists clenched, ready to challenge you
to a fight that only I could win.

I could not help being angry -
anyone would be with such a mirror
placed so closely to them, my ego
crisply clarified, sharply dissected.

Finally, you let me back in,
feeling sorry for my cold fingers
and my colder heart.

For the record, I let you back in too,
since we'll both mess up again,
probably.

This sense
Is forever changed for me
Forever changed,
Inside of me

It has been
Utterly wrecked
Completely stolen
Thoroughly clawed
Ripped
Out of my body

My whole life
I have been confused by
Touch
I have been misled by
Touch
I have been deceived by
Touch
I have been violated by
Touch
I have been irreversibly
Hurt
By
Touch

So I don't let
Anyone
Touch
Me

But,
For some inexplicable reason,
Your
Touch
Is different.

When you hug me
When you lay close
And pull me in
And put your head on my shoulder
And wrap your arms around me
I feel
Incredibly,
Indescribably,
Safe.

In the past
I have pushed myself
And forced myself to
Touch
To hug
To show my love
But the whole time
It's painful
The whole time
I am fighting
My mind is

Screaming

Stop.
Run.
Get out.
But my body stays
Because I so desperately
Desire
For it to feel normal
And right
To enjoy it
To be like everyone else
For
Once

But with you
I don't have to fight
I don't feel like I am going to
Explode
If I don't run
If I don't escape
Opening up to you
It's easy
It's comfortable
I say things
I've never said
And I'm not afraid
It feels good
I've known you for a sliver of this life
But I trust you
Like you've always been here
When I'm talking to you
When you're holding me
I feel
So safe
So protected
So secure
So content
So loved

And it scares the **** out of me.

Because never,
Never has
Touch
Felt this way

I do not understand.

And that's why I ask you
To leave
That's why sometimes
I distance myself
Because after awhile
I can't handle it
I need a break
From your

Unsettling safety

He maps out his explosive past

A rich colourful story

He flew among stars

Crashed in the dirt

Covering his eyes and blinding his sight

Sentiment covered by years of sediment

He can no longer see life

His vision and mind alike blurred and murky

He refuses to acknowledge

If he could recall the feeling

He'd know life is worth living

But I fear he's gone

Lost in the nights stars

Holding on tightly to all he's lost

He sits frozen to his chair

Unmoving and staring into another universe

The only thing he feels is

The bleak of nothing

Always present

Emanating cold fractals of sadness and despair

The weak feeling of better years blunted and dissipating as I write this

Poetry will preserve it

But he's lost in his past life

Irretrievably

Irreparably

Irreversibly

k.g.

i have heard of many sane people
who become isolated somehow
trapped
captured
imprisoned
stranded
who spend too much time
in solitude and go completely
and irreversibly
mad
Ive spent too much thinking lately
and have realized that maybe
its not the alone that kills you
steals your mind
its all the words
we all have so much to say
too many words
trapped in our heads
and with no way to release them
to pass them along to others
they pile up in our minds
like water filling a balloon
but a balloon can only take so
much water
before it bursts into
a million
tiny
pieces
leaving behind
useless scraps
of rubber
unsalvageable
maybe thats why lonely people
sad people
mad people
who don’t talk enough
who have no one to listen
have slashes across their wrists
and bang their heads against the walls
to try to
relieve
the pressure