love-energy swinging toward bitter blows:
a father’s pride becomes a son’s,
he becoming bitter becoming hatred
in the midst of love abused,
a civil fight for freedom failing in the eyes of youth:
these minds of ours turn wildly—
change to the beat of unknown drums
and death knocks us up
pregnant with a new generation of hate,
of goals to love: the obliteration of hate’s mother,
but question on, worship your mind,
build a shrine of doubt and find
darkness emerging as a deeper shade of black
knowledge? knowledge?
myths laid upon us through the perspectival dimming of language
no one’s fault? societal pressures
no cause for blame? survival instincts
no source of evil? history has a gun to their head. . . .
no use for these words? meaningless.
dialogue, yes, for the birds,
the carrion of hope
once the breeding stops
and lets the precious journey start:
down the cesspool of quasi-oblivion,
where we’re all a minority of one,
grasping for meaning in an abyssm of phantasmal foundations.
words, words, the excuse of words;
when father’s left no ground to walk on,
the son sits there digging
ditches for the death of systems
holes in the fabric mother wore,
tears in the existence we thought we knew.

what is this about? question marks
swerving away from sour truth
bleeds the nonsense through the flesh of what we love
and dying, dying, hate becomes a source of love,
guilt projects a softened heart
kneeling down now
outside, but wanting in.
affirmed, dejected.

[OR
are they swerving away from faith
simply a defense against the actions to take
ontic procratstinator! hear me now!
safety is the goal behind every measure
seek danger and you run the dangers of comfort,
seek comfort, and delusion becomes your handmaid.]

for knowledge of past dogma is dogma too
and the heart pumps it anyway;
for existence is. O heart, your sutra
flows nimbly on into eternity,
but you take this life and live it now,
the rhythm born of a mystery,
sacred to the foolish,
sarkin to the wise—
and the dancing wise man
birthing a new enigma
travels on into the depths of the ordinary
with a smile and a bow,
a hop-skip like Nietzschean
melodrama.

I can write it once for fun,
twice for accuracy,
thrice for fame and ten more for shame.
Do you want to know what it’s about
or do you want to figure it out?
the game of pride makes fresh
the fish of mental seas;
but truth is less cozy;
dagger in your existential eye.

no conclusions to be embraced without the whim of faith?
no art show game gripe to win but for the game of taste?

this bout goes on, this Bout goes on! oh how I wish my mind was lacking!
but no! the sacrifice, but the sacrifice,
pigs of Aristotle knew no quarrell,
no such quarrell.

when does such a poem become a forced effort?  when will I stop questioning myself?
where is this urge to destroy originate?
what ******* language am I speaking in when I think?
what and why,
who the but questions, questions
falling spiking holes in teh floor of contentment
or is it laziness: should I tak emy e pick now or wa itf ort he rig htto **** newith mystic alllllllllllll certainty from be yo ndt he fen ceof lan gua ge.

why go back? why try?
the difference between communication and self-indulgent writing is the effort to conform to the extent necessary for the sharingof truth... and so nobility demands conformity, however long it takes and however wonderful it may be in the mean time to simply spill my fingers across the trypesu ritre lia shjkk e a A b B i IG load o f ***... as if the hiddenness of deconstucted language masked my immaturity as a poet, as a person, as a thinker, as a wallower in shame.  as a Man. as a *** machine. as a weak creature. as a creature of potentially great accomplishments but small ***** at the present, as a person hiding from the said for fear of having to live up to it, as one who doesn’t believe his words half the time, even noe, ever noer rht all suiooos  dhjhjh tuof rhty w arbif trya dfyoudng huddkkfkd fmdmf dfdlililhkjga wyeruipok smmm tuhtuth dgfhg dagdh f dhajkdf  fuduudjjd fh d hdhhd bit b not n tno totot t ototot  read read read read read read read read read reda dnrenadkf leadsd fhdus duig hgjhdf dh sdmf sialdihf duf dreioan ign udfin the dh diguicse of hjtkjh heioa never heros heilike hte  e9a 1 1 ih kj n h ogma doifj hedOLvever otitoto the  ososososririrroow ww dance waiting at the librasyer renckjh c concon con iejr a  goodo excucse to t constraint no nt rot th even dfhight hwith th d dear on the all ndklfn eh fh searching thioart worthless buthen I find htheihadf htis hivoih Valid dfkdljhf jhkajh yea it s i kjh Lavlls ishn Vadildld meaning ngon woven into nonesense nd fnidoijifj bJar in Tennessiossdnohf  a freww few deletes and the important words become clear however taxing on an hypothetical reader from the future in which I do hope to become g”reat” half-heartily,  though for show.  .  .and the experience of writing is revealed through the laziness, or tiredness, of a recent graduate trying to write something meaningful after a summer of passion and *** and drugs and resentment toward the family and the sad economic advice given him.

the body wanted hurts
itf
ee
  l
    s like in the morning stretched

hard to creep

too creep it feels hard
amongst a mile of cotton
and the stubble
of a clefted heaving

It's so difficult not to be sentimental when you're writing about something you know little about, but itf you cam grab the idea, in this case - loyalty to a cause - yet the cause is unclear, and in this case also the cause conflicts with loyalty to a family. you can start as I just have. now lets not get building any literary coffins yet because, with the unknown, there's always a chance of a scientific or creative or physical spark. my fingers are still typing, that's the fuel and what's unknown so far in this story. no,, we musn't forget the story line is my cause. The simple answer, is we were to go back to basics, remember all the most insignificant moments of my life, and admit to the reason why i haven't achieved much, except for disillusionment - is because my cause is to take the ****.

But i know one thing, there should be a law dictating seriousness outdoes itself everytime and is therefore to be suspected. Like, the truth behind a masked ball is really just reality tv. And the yellow stones that come out in some mans *** are no longer alien because I just wrote about it in a pleasant  way. So good things can come from the unknown then.

Once I was parading down Oxford street and all my plans were coming into fruition, but it was still like, as if, the lights there were hiding something. Sometimes I think, it's make believe, society, that it's all dressed up in pale moon like glory, where it's eclipse is the click of a camera, it's circumspection is the way only aliens (or nerds) know about the true identity about its status and the stars engagement with it.

The way the moon hides behind symbol sounding clouds makes me question myself. They seem always to be antagonising each other, and yet so many myths, scientific theories and even reality tv shows have been constructed about the moon... it could easily be misconstrued as a political pawn, used to create padding around the prowess of many a great mind, keep the soldiers out the way who wont snitch, (not because they're kept out of the way but the other way around) steady out the different and various dimensions the population is living in to throw everything else away.

My life has been half kisses, aggressive pity aimed at any one who interacted with the plasmic moving force inside of me, maltreatment, blessings of attention in tough times, having quirky mannerisms, dreaming, arguing, healing, drug dealing, drug taking, smooth sailing, and an unnatural acceptance of change.

I suppose all these things, you would think would come with an acceptance of change but it's actually a dissociative disorder specified dissociative 'fugue'.Where you make an effort to start new lives all the time. So although when I choose to start afresh, that's technically change, I don't like change I have no control over. Partly because it could stop me investing in another new life I want to make for myself in the future.


I've thought about becoming a mother a normal amount really. but there's noone I really want to have them with. Pottery classes and sage are two tear some, lonely examples based on my instincts about what parenthood would be like for me... pragmatically boring for me on a pragmatic level and an excellent form of spiritual wellbeing that could possibly be selfish because my forever non existent child my not like sage.
and i liked pottery as a child,, and sage as an adult, anyway.


There's so much time for therapy, but it's a rare occurrence tht it's not converted from productivity in the first instance or place. It's like a big globe the psyche, and however long you can hang on for, the smoother it gets. like waking up at a festival or ina  tent in the woods. Safety isn't really a a vision to have, although many law makers etc portray it as such. I would go as far to say it's not even a case of not feeling safe but more, having a coat to wear in winter, a decent amount of money, so noone has to trench about the Streets all day making themselves recognisable faces, and love thy strangers; in the same context as love thy neighbour.

But then I think, why or how does it mean anything anyway? do we deserve to be safe when we can't comprehend the emotional consequences of our own peadophilia? Wealth? Specific responsibility?

When we talk about terrible things happening as if it's safe once more. oh, oh, for now it's safe. Well, no it's not. And rioting isn't safe either. Why cultures involved in safety I don't know for a start... people follow culture - everywhere everyone, different cultures - and we all know the police force are a force outside culture... so all culture either leads in the right direction. Or it's bad for safety.

It's so difficult not to be sentimental when you're writing about something you know ittle about, but itf you cam grab the idea, in this caseloyalty to a cause yet the cause is unclear, and in this case also the cause conflicts with loyalty to a family. you can start as I just have. now lets not get bulding any literary coffins yet because, with the unknown, there's always a chance of a scientific or creative or physical spark. my fingers are still typing, that's the fuel and what's unknown so far in this story. no,, we musn't forget the story line is my cause. The simple answer, is we were to go back to basics, remember all the most insignificant moments of my life, and admit to the reason why i haven't achieved much, except for disillusionment - is because my cause is to take the ****.

But i know one thing, there should be a law dictating seriousness outdoes itself everytime and is therefore to be suspected. Like, the truth behind a masked ball is really just reality tv. And the yellow stones that come out in some mans *** are no longer alien because I just wrote about it in a pleasant  way. So good things can come from the unknown then.

Once I was parading down Oxford street and all my plans were coming into fruition, but it was still like, as if, the lights there were hiding something. Sometimes I think, it's make believe, society, that it's all dressed up in pale moon like glory, where it's eclipse is the click of a camera, it's circumspection is the way only aliens (or nerds) know about the true identity about its status and the stars engagement with it.

The way the moon hides behind symbol sounding clouds makes me question myself. They seem always to be antagonising each other, and yet so many myths, scientific theories and even reality tv shows have been constructed about the moon... it could easily be misconstrued as a political pawn, used to create padding around the prowess of many a great mind, keep the soldiers out the way who wont snitch, (not because they're kept out of the way but the other way around) steady out the different and various dimensions the population is living in to throw everything else away.

My life has been half kisses, aggressive pity aimed at any one who interacted with the plasmic moving force inside of me, maltreatment, blessings of attention in tough times, having quirky mannerisms, dreaming, arguing, healing, drug dealing, drug taking, smooth sailing, and an unnatural acceptance of change.

I suppose all these things, you would think would come with an acceptance of change but it's actually a dissociative disorder specified dissociative 'fugue'.Where you make an effort to start new lives all the time. So although when I choose to start afresh, that's technically change, I don't like change I have no control over. Partly because it could stop me investing in another new life I want to make for myself in the future.


I've thought about becoming a mother a normal amount really. but there's noone I really want to have them with. Pottery classes and sage are two tear some, lonely examples based on my instincts about what parenthood would be like for me... pragmatically boring for me on a pragmatic level and an excellent form of spiritual wellbeing that could possibly be selfish because my forever non existent child my not like sage.
and i liked pottery as a child,, and sage as an adult, anyway.