Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,
I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences.
I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern,
Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,
So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.
And though I am sequestered now,
Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),
I remain oddly puerile,
Remarkably refreshed and unfettered.  
My institutionalization self-imposed,
Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.
Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.
I may not have found the peace I seek,
But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.
I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,
More of intervention divine than census data.
Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.
Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.
The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,
Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,
By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.
The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves,
Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,
Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:
A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,
Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,
A veritable swindle concocted back when the USA
Had Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,
A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and      
Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,
Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.
According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,
A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,
A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,
By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,
Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.
All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.
The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,
Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,
Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******,
And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma,
Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")
Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.
The language center of my brain,
My sub-cortical Broca’s region,
So fraught with such semantic misfires,
And autonomic linguistic seizures,
Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,
To both the gene pool and the genocide.
Columbus Day:  a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.
No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.
No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella.
No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.
Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,
A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11,
October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me,
Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--
Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.
The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.
Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.
But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,
Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.
For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept,
Not a commandment or law,
Not really a treaty or a compact,
Or even a business deal.  Let’s get real:
It was not even much in the way of a guideline.
Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,
Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?
Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies,
Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,
Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,
Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,
Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;
Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****,
Kreplach and kishka,
Polenta and risotto.
Our cantaloupe and squash patch,
Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,
In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs:
“These white devils are not going to,
Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,
Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.
I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.
So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,
Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.
My warpath is personal but not historical.
It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.
Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—
Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,
My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis;
Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.
The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!
Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . .
Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,
Even that Euro-*****,  Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,
Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?
To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.
My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.
A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,
Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready,
Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,
Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.”
My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.
Any memory or image, lyric or construct,
Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.
Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.
Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;
Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.
Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.
Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:
Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.
People, countless, places and things cataloged.
Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,
Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices.
The random access memory of a lifetime,
Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults,
All the while the entire greedy process overseen,
Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man,
Rummaging through the data in batches small and large,
Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation,
Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped.
“Cogito ergo sum."
Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:
Thinking about thinking.
A curse and minefield for the cerebral:  metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,
Or even the thoughts themselves.
But the information technology of thought that baffles me,
As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,
Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.
My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.
Machines are connecting the two.
It’s what I am and what I am becoming.
Once more for emphasis:
It is the information technology of who I am.
It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.
It is the machinery connecting the two.
This is the central point of this narrative:
Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,
Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN:  The machines are taking over, taking you over.
Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,
Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,
Only marginally connected or not at all.
(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)
Reminding me again that most in my audience,
Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.
John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,
Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.
Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,
Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,
Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;
The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;
Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.



And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”
Consoling me:  “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”
The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.
Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,
Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion.
Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls,
Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,
And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it:
“Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”  

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

Once more, I digress.
The Rabble:  an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality.
The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.
Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;
Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.
The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.
Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,
With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi,
One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,
Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.
For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,
Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,
Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyester
For Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,
Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:
A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,
The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:
“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic,
And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.
Sure, we were citizens of Rome,
But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,
Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,
Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,
The original three monuments in the old stadium,
Standing out in fair territory out in center field,
Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.
Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?
Any Joe Josephus knows:  Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,
Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.
For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.
We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.
Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,
High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.
Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.
Remember Crassus?
Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with,
Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?
We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,
A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,
Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.
Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn.
Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****,
Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheads
Bought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.
Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments.  
We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—
(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit:  mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.
How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?
In short, somewhere, anywhere else,
Anywhere other than down along the Thames,
At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit,
Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,
In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns.
Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,
An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—
Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,
Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.
Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,
But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience,
Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,
Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,
His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.
Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?
A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,
A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,
An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom,
Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,
I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11,
Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

An entirely innocent falafel maker from Steinway Street, Astoria, Queens.
Shock the Monkey: it’s what we do. GOTO:
Peter Gabriel - Shock the Monkey/
(HQ music video) - YouTube//
www.youtube.com/
Poor, pathetic, ******-on Henslowe.


Fennyman :  (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script)  "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"
Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster:  “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,
My editor, a singed smoking madman now,
Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more:
“Lighten things up, you know . . .
Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.”
I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,
That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.
At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,
Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The BIA:  representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,
Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.
Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,
Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,
Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.
Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to:   "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print?  Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you,
It would ALL belong to you.
To you and The People.
But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.
If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,
Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,
King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,
Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.
La Belgique mission civilisatrice—
That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,
Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.
Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.
“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,
Allotted by Providence for the free development,
Of our yearly multiplying millions.”  John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:
Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;
Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:
The Pacification of the West; Pacification?
Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.
Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,
To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).
Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.
They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?
Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.
Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .
Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:
“Get a load of the unit on that guy.”
Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,
That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?
It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.
Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,
Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,
Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,
To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,
Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,
Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,
While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.
Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:
A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,
Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,
Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,
Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,
And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,
Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,
High above, looking down from the adobe wall.
Surveying the entire circular kiva,
I had the best seat in the house.
Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,
Did not want me looking around at things,
Discovering what made me special.
Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?
Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,
Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,
Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,
Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I liked IKE. Who didn’t?
What was not to like?
He won the ******* war, didn’t he?
And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,
Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,
Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,
That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,
When the extreme right wing of the Republican Party
Was viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)
Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,
Had little ideological baggage,
But a great appetite for secrets,
The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.
Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:
He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.
Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.
Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,
Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade.
Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,
Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,
Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.
The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,
And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—
Negroes.  To play the chronic fools of--
Negroes.  To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—
Negroes.  To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—
Negroes.  Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.



Meadowlark Lemon:  “Yeah, Charlie, we ***** that grease-ball Dominic; we shagged his guinea mouth and culo rotten.”  

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)
                                                        
  ­                                                                 ­                 
IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.
The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,
Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,
For one reason and one reason only:
To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,
That the minstrel show be perpetuated,
A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.
Case in point:  Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.
Cha-cha-cha changing again:  I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,
A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,
Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave,
Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,
Yom Kippur Passover Seder:  Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

I take ownership of all my autonomic and conditioned reflexes;
Each personal neural arc and pathway,
All shenanigans & shellackings,
Or blunt force cognitive traumas.
It’s all percolating nicely now, thank you,
In kitchen counter earthen crockery:
Random access memory: a slow-cook crockpot,
Bubbling through my psychic sieve.
My memories seem only remotely familiar,
Distant and vague, at times unreal:
An alien hybrid databank accessed accidently on purpose;
Flaky science sustains and monitors my nervous system.
And leads us to an overwhelming question:
Is it true that John Dillinger’s ******* is in the Smithsonian Museum?
Enquiring minds want to know, Kemosabe!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.
Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;
Last words, so singular and simple,
Across the universal great divide,
Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,
Tossed randomly into space,
Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.
Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,
Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;
Who, I didn’t know from Adam.
But we tripped the light fantastic,
We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,
To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite,
Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature
& Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),
One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:
Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism,
The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism.
Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,
A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?
A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.
Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,
Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten.
And don’t think the irony escapes me now,
A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,
What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.
Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:
“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

  Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell  

The Hippies were right, of course.
The Hollies had it all figured out.
With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics.
But you were lucky if you were listening.
There was a time before I embraced,
The other “legendary” economists:
The inexorable Marx,
The savage society of Veblen,
The heresies we know so well of Keynes.
I was a child.
And when I was a child, I spake as a child—
Grazie mille, King James—
I understood as a child; I thought as a child.
But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,
Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith:  “Any last words, *******?”
Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.
Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment,
An intellectual movement driven by,
An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,
Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.
Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:
Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo,
Another Jew boy born in London, England,
Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,
Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic.
******* Jews!
Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,
WE also invented the concept:  FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:
Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy,
Just breathing free can be a full-time job,
Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,
One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.
Now that I am gainfully superannuated,
Pensioned off the employment radar screen.
Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder,
Wandering the brain cloud at will.
My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.
I free range the sticky wicket,
I have no particular place to go.
Snagging some random fact or factoid,
A stop & go rural postal route,
Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,
But every now and then, gorging myself,
At some information super smorgasbord,
At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,
I ponder my own frazzled neurology,
When I was a child—
Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,
Before I learned Hebrew,
Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,
Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--
I knew what every clever child knows about life:
The surfing itself is the destination.
Accessing RAM--random access memory—
On a strictly need to know basis.
RAM:  a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke,
I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs.
But this is truth not science fiction.
Nevertheless, someone had better,
Come up with another name for cyborg.
Some other name for a critter,
Composed of both biological and artificial parts?
Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.
But after a lifetime of science fiction media,
After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,
Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg?
Since I always give credit where credit is due,
I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,
By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,
Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,
Featured an introduction, which spoke of:  “… a new frontier, that was not,
Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,
And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”
So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,
Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,
Replacing what was once sentient and human.
My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions,
Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.
I am biomechanical and gluttonous.
Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,
My Baby Boom experience of six decades,
Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,
Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,
Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.
I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.
And though we share common traits,
My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his.
Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect.
Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.
Have I not seen many stages of growth?
Each a painful metamorphic cycle,
From exquisite first egg,
Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.
To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,
I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,
Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight.
My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,
My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;
For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.
I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being.
Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram.
I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,
I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,
Have reared up and turned around on me.
My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.
Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.
The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,
Have turned unpredictable and rabid,
Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors,
Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,
Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.
And the rest of us: the so-called 99%?
No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--

Humanoid.

Investors need to stop treating stocks as a ‘beauty contest’ and follow the difficult investment style of Keynes, global pension expert Keith Ambachtsheer said.

Data produced in a working paper from the Harvard Business Schoolshowed that portfolios built on firms with a good material sustainability rating outperformed those that had a poor rating, an aspect not considered enough by investors who were caught up with quarterly returns, Ambachtsheer said at a Chartered Financial Analyst seminar in Sydney on Monday.

“What I see happening out there is largely speculation – what Keynes called ‘beauty contest investing’, where everybody tries to figure out what the most popular stocks are going to be in six months, buys them and when they become really popular sells them,” Ambachtsheer said.

He added the implications of this investment style as an aggregate was a zero sum game, whereas investing should be taking savings and turning them into wealth producing capital.

“The key thing is you need to look beyond the next quarter; you look at the long-term sustainability of the business model of the corporation, as well as the people behind it in terms of how it is being managed.”

The Harvard Business School (HBS) working paper superimposed the Sustainability Accounting Standards Board materiality map (which identifies likely material sustainability issues on an industry-by-industry basis) onto 400 common US stocks identified through sustainability metrics from Kinder, Lydenberg, Domini Research & Analytics.

They examined what effect materiality would have over the long-term (starting from the 1980s) and found the top 10 per cent of firms that scored strongly on material sustainability outperformed the bottom 10 per cent, by nine per cent over a rolling twenty-year period.

“The practical question is, can you actually manage money this way in the real world? And the answer is yes, but it’s very hard, because you are doing unconventional things,” Ambachtsheer said.

Real-world Keynesianism investors – such as Warren Buffett and the Ontario Teachers’ Pension Plan – are in a minority despite outperforming over the long-term. In chapter 12 of his seminal workThe General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money, Keynes explained the reason for this was the essence of long-term investors meant their behaviour would be eccentric, unconventional and rash in the eyes of average opinion.

“Most organisations can’t function like this,” Ambachtsheer said, as they were too focused on the present.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses

Prometheus ignites to spark this
Molotov to make his Marxist
On swine Fuhrer's Faux News tweet
Hashtag it #GorbachevWallStreet
'Cuz Putin's puppet Pinochet's
Whipped Creme de Kremlin's CIA  
From JFK to Allende
Like Russian roulette ricochet
I'll Trotsky through McCarthy's brains
Leave slain these ****** sugar Keynes   
Discred' the Fed’s six-figureheads
With strikes at dawn more red than Debs  
Still breakin' breads with Mulan Bouges
Makin' men of Khmer Stooges
Seein’ Rouge when Al Spans Greens
Potemkin loan wolf ponzi schemes
Who count the sheep like Philippines
Then Black Pearl Harbor GRANMA’s dreams...

Of Marilyn Monroes in store
Just off-shore ****** who **** the poor
A Glass of Steagall's broken trust
Half emptier than bowls of dust
In rust beltways still spewin’ fumes
As factories become Khartoums
No carbon footprint tax the hint
Of Amazon decays in Flint
Just pop the caps and drown in debt
Like Kent State drinkin' to forget
That cuttin’ class engenders race
Leaves glory, gold and God's disgrace
To slaughter Moor than Reconquista  
From Marti to Sandinista     
With Zapata sharin’ crops  
Till my Mexica heartbeat stops

I'm Pancho infiltratin’ villas
The Magilla of guerillas
In the midst of Congolese  
Same colonies, just different thieves
To me, my breed’s of landless deeds
So how you like ‘dem Appleseeds?
FReeducatin’ caves of youth
Fed Citizen’s United Fruit
‘Cuz now my open eye of Horus
Battle cries Grito de Lares
Che is centered in these veins
So my Ashoka takes the reigns
These Iron paci-Fists pack hits
Like Jimi on some Malcolm ****
Still Hajj mirages I barrage
The Raj with sheer Cong camouflage

Deployin' Sepoys on viceroys
And pol desPots’ in the employs
Of Tweedledums who run the slums
With country clubs of loaded guns
These Betsy Deez bear arms to school
Till no kids fly kites in Kabul
So gas-mask your Sharia flaw
I'll Genghis Khan Sheikoun it raw  
'Cuz refugees are rising
And we're anti-socializing
Subsidizing private party plans
Who take commands from ***** hands
These grand old klans coup klux control
Your diamond minds with mines of coal
An oil Standardized existence
Solar powers my resistance

******* sun of Liberty  
My fear itself is history  
Rewriting wrongs of Leo’s creed
In culture’s blood and vulture’s greed
An alt-right/all-white cockpile   
Stockpilin' human capital
In tricklin’ contests over spoils
Of the cotton-ceded soils
Jingos chained to Cruci-fictions
Swallowin' good Christian dictions
I spit Spanish Inquisition
Trippin' Socrates sedition
Droppin' Oppen's fission quest
For "now I am become death"
'Cuz G-bay pigs in-Fidel's sites
Flew U-2's into my last rites

These Saddamites, I smite Assad
Then spread 'em like Islamabad
Convert for-profit prison tsars
From Escobars to Bolivars 
Like currency in Venezuela
Current police-state favela
Where 9/10th's of your possession's
Worth less than your Great Depression’s
Upscale bail ‘em outs of jail
With Dodd-Frank banks too big to fail
Your FDA-approved psychosis
From Campos’ daily dose of
More defense? Here’s my two cents
These slave wages ain’t excrements
So just say no to Reaganomics    
Got us hooked, but not on phonics

Just that Noriega strain
Of Contras stackin' crack contain
Like MAD dogs who trade weapons-grades  
For Ayatollah hate tirades
On “don’t ask, don’t tell” plague ebonics
Drug crusAID Jim Crow narcotics     
Warsaw rats injected, tested,
Quarantined, and then arrested
Guess the J. Arbenz' lens
Still Tet offends their ethnic cleanse
Still Wounding Knees of Standing Sioux
Till Crazy Horses stampede you   
For Mother Nature’s common ground
My Martin Luther’s gather ‘round
Is hellbound sounds of Nero’s crown  
Let's burn this Third World Reichstag down

Vox populyin’ to remove ‘ya
Like Lumumba then Nkrumah
So some Pumbaa kleptocrat
Declares himself the next Sadat
To hide supply-side Apartheid
Increase demand for genocide
So check your factions in Uganda  
Tune into Hotel Rwanda
Come play pirates with Somalis
Then desert ‘em like Benghazis
Thirst for blood so French Algiers  
It boils mine in Trails of Tears  
My destiny unManifest-
Oppressive Adam-Smitten West
So pay your overdues to Mao
I’ll Mussolini Chairman Dow

Then flood this 9th ward Watergate
With killing fields of glyphosate
I'll redistribute IMF’s
With leftist depth so deft it’s theft
I’ll My Lai massacre these lines
With sweet Satsuma samurhymes
I'll make these Madoff Hitlers squeal
With that Bastille New Deal cold steel
Now feel that Shining Pathos wrath
Drop Nagasaki aftermath
On Nanjing kings and dragon’s Diems
With ****** bodhisattva zens
To show you how I pledge allegiance
With razed flags still rapt in Jesus  
Laosy liars pogrom psalms
Can’t Uncle Phnom my Penh’s truth bombs

On heroes shootin' ******
My fix is un-American
Tiananmen democracies
To Syngman Rhee hypocrisies  
Theocracies drive me Hussein
With Bush league’s mass destruction claim
So I dig laissez pharaohs graves
With pyramids of Abu Ghraibs
Then nail their coffers closed like Vlad
I AM THE GHOST OF STALINGRAD
My hammer forged in winters past
My sickle reaps the shadows caste
By pantheons of penta-cons
Whose Exxons lead to autobahns
When liberal Arts of War and Peace in
Free speech teach my voice of treason

They say marriage is all about compromise. If that's the case, newlyweds Kia Parsons and Billy Bunning are off to an excellent start.

The UK couple had different visions when it came to their wedding cake; the bride wanted an all-white tiered cake with cascading sugar flowers. The groom, on the other hand, wanted to incorporate his love of comic book superheroes into the confection. So they met somewhere in the middle:

Julia Baker of Tier by Tier cake design created the cake for the couple's August 14 wedding in Milton Keynes, England. One side is the traditional-looking cake the bride wanted. On the other side, icing curtains reveal the logos of Marvel characters Captain America, Spider-Man and Iron Man, as well as Batman from the DC Comics camp.

"I loved every minute making this cake, as I knew it would be something that people would be surprised at and appeal to all the Marvel fans!" Julia told The Huffington Post.

In all, she spent 40 hours on the cake. It took 12 hours to make the sugar flowers, and the cake-baking and building took about 28 hours.

Needless to say, Kia and Billy were thrilled with the finished product.

"Julia did such a fantastic job and we were completely overwhelmed by how brilliant it looked!" the bride told HuffPost. "From most angles of the room, the cake looked like a traditional wedding cake -- just what we had wanted. It wasn't until the cake was moved for us to cut that our guests realized there was a hidden extra. Some didn't even realize until the photos went online after the wedding!"

On Tuesday, a photo of the cake began going viral when it was shared by the Life Of Dad Facebook page.

"I was surprised at how popular it was and how quickly the pictures circulated on social media," Julia said. "I have plenty more ideas to work on and I am calling these 'double-take cakes.'"

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

www.marieaustralia.com/white-formal-dresses

Inflation is just another form of taxation
on the poor.
Was it Keynes who coined that phrase
back in those Bloomsbury days?
when the world was younger than now
when the when and the why and the who and the how
didn't matter
but now
it's appropriate
because of the awful state
we find ourselves in.
Was it him
Was it Keynes?
It seems that he was right
and if so,
then we must fight against poverty
fight against penury
we
could find insolvency
in our own back yard
Life is hard and they make it harder
raiding the larder
taking the food from your mouth.
The South
bleeds us dry
from the Tyne
to the Wye.
We really ought to get wise
and get rid of those guys
in grey suits.

There is no driver - go anywhere for a fiver
Pod - cars troll Milton Keynes by no means
seen piloted in four years time - where's mine?
Then they come together in the land of never - never

The sat-nav tells us where we're going
ready to alight when it's finally slowing
what will they think of next? Send a text
with your suggestion - normality's in regression

No one is to blame when there's an accident
nothing is seen to describe an incident
however, at least no one can go on strike
and I won't be reduced to travel by bike

The atmosphere is electric, technology hectic
it was bad enough when we decided to go metric!

My ear, still wet and ringing from beer-breath secrets
where I leaned to hear the tin-can submarine story -
then had to leave.  The constant tick inside my head

louder and louder since our call,
me: somewhere in the South Atlantic
you: in Milton Keynes.

Inside the black wells between the orange hiss
of sodium lights
my firework nerves crackle -

the splutter of a coffee machine
hides the arrival of the 10:43.
The scent of your lips deafen me.

Wind slices the platform like the shrill pain
of The Surgeon when he hacked at my toe-nail.
(It was one of those nights.)

Two express trains pass and we are caught in a vortex
of crisp packets and *** butts.
A tissue hat, green and damaged, floats onto the track.

https://www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/da-Daryll

Smith’s

The aftermath

Of
A
Suicidal

parent




written
Mr Daryll Smith



introduction

so as  you may or may not have guessed I am MR Daryll smith I grew up in Milton Keynes I was in and out of the care system then eventually  I reached the age of 14 then I was admitted to a low secure hospital in oxford with my mental health I am a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic with ptsd I later was moved to a medium secure hospital in Stevenage where I spent a number of years due to becoming so unwell

then at 19 I had my first born daughter

then  at 22 my late father mr neil micheal smith was wanted by the local police due to a few thefts
I was in the property with my late father and boosted him in to the loft where here was later found by the police to be hung I was told by the police that he had done this but I did not believe so I guess my worst nightmares had been answered as a child I would always get scared that my late father would go out and die well I guess that happened and that was the end of his life


Me now 23 years old have achieved so much in a year and 5 months I now am working drug and crime free now slowly being reduced of my anti-psychotic medication I now also have another daughter on the way and I’ve never been more stable in my life and it feels so good and I know he would be proud   and my only goal is to now make my children proud

I run a support group of about 320 people of how to cope with suicide so I hope you find peace of whatever you may need from reading this

God bless

Yours


Daryll smith & family










Know who  I am  before I Leaf


so as it stood wind flowing though it's hair blankly staring out to the mist covered view it just thinks to itself I wish I could move so the seasons change as does it's appearance he can all but see what's stands in front of him or within mere distance oh how I wish I could move but the it all changes a van pulls up preside he's happy and rustles with glee the coming there coming it's autumn and all my baby's had to leave they must be here to move me with my baby's I’ve noticed a small sign wrapped around but I can't read another van arrives this carrying a traitor behind so the worker gets out and starts to cut me I beg stop stop! this is ****** was I but now I'm furniture



These strings you left me
As you hang from these
String that you hung from i let it all sink in
You where my dad my best friend
My king i think of you
But soon my emotion’s turns to hiding
As i lurk though this lonely
Life only thoughts of you reminding
Me on once that was
I would cry but the tears but they sting only thinking
How can i now be a prince but no longer have my king  














Hopefulness in death


his emptiness inside leaves me behind
as i start my climb not thinking of who iv left behind
my minds bleeding my hearts swelling but its approaching my time
i cant
help but my mind is the leader and my thoughts are the rebellion full of
the half a billion
   each day gets harder
to bring forth this laughter
but i can climb without the easy
getting harder
I am dead inside now you've  left me behind
now I am over thinking my life
thinking of taking mine
I am sick  of faking this smile of mine
maybe its all worthwhile then
please lord let me rebuild my mind tile by tile
















You lied you lied



As you spun these lies
all I now seem to do is cry
they say wasn't my fault but I can see the lies,
still every day n night I cry
why oh why oh why I'm now empty
inside this gaping hole I can hide
but these emotions that co inside make me question this life
and why u had to leave I'm Praying to the sky looking for hindsight
but my arms are cut from beneath sleeve you promised you would never
leave so now I'm lonely my whole family's pretend they don’t know me
just me myself and
my one and only










Missing granddad


its sad when a girl misses
her granddad
its sad when her dad misses his dad
its sad when they both miss that person
that stopped them being sad and its a shame
shell never meet again her dear granddad
now that's what i call sad















Doomsday



I ask myself am I dreaming is this real
Am I real I pinch myself you fall to my knees
only To surprise -myself. Comforting is all I need
My necks bleeding and my wrist slit on the hope I may
Forget this life that I regret I see my -self stand forcing
my -self to show emotion I am trying I am trying
but not thing yet
I turned to drugs to forget but found my –self
always feeling low self-worth  so to quote ub40 the world will die screaming
I hate this way that im feeling always appealing to my self -pleading that I don’t
Have the same fate as the earth and for what its worth
I more than think I have been blessed with the smith curse
I guess ill next see you when I reach the destination via this flower draped - Hurst






Homelessness
&
Fat cats

I can feel the bitter breeze of the winter’s air
My body covered with goose bumps that layer my skin
I have no money to eat so I search the bins
People walk past and laugh but their so quick to judge but they
Don’t know the life I’ve lived and the days with my children I’ve missed
I walk with ***** soaked clothes this is the summer of the homeless and there sun kissed
Skin please sir can you spare some change he looks straight through me and reply’s get a job
I fill with fire and rage from within I politely smile back say I am hungry and shake my tin
You all wonder why I look ill and why I am so thin


I am banging on the councils door please please let
Me in 15 was the age I last slept in a bed since I am now  35 I live a ***** life 35 no goal no
Achievement’s   accomplished in my life so I overdose on drugs just to get off the street’s  for the night
Surly morally this can’t be right enjoy your bed tonight why I sleep in needle filled bushes till these
Shakes subside it a huge possibility that drunks could attack me tonight
What happen to the world’s leaders putting the wrongs to rights I have to keep on the move so I
don’t get moved on from the best spots for me to make the money for what I am so desperate for
so I remain out of sight as I said enjoy your comfy bed tonight  I guess I’ll just sit outside salvation army being
Kept awake by my hunger pains that eat me from inside as I close my eyes just for a minute just  Until I die.






Ligature marks



I am all choked up as I nail with ligature marks From this rope from where I
Climb it heart my heart from deep inside can't help but
feel I have no time I love you I love you is a waste of time He can no
longer talk he finished his climb
bye bye farther we will reunite in just due time











Contemplating life

i don't wanna live this life
so i sit contemplating
this knife its cut just feel
to nice it hurts like the holding of ice
but it feels so nice have you ever tried to take your life
only to wake up on section the same night
my life's alright i'm grateful i'm living and alive i rather die
than live this life it gets so good but then so bad but i cant moan
i don't get mad just upset due to the suicide of my dad
  i think about all the times i spent with my old man the good then the bad
the happy the sad he's happy now for that im glad
but i turn to drink and **** to make me feel better
but you sir i miss like mad











As you tug on each heart string



As you tug on my heart string
Ligature marks from blue ribbon string
why would i sing the lords praise but I cry why i sing his that name
Now I find myself just wondering pondering
How can I be a prince without being a king I guess
I take the thrown and my life begin two seconds is al
I ask let me be 3-4 minute just let me think ......okay just a second till
it all sinks in
Hmmm














I am moving on…. well I am trying

i am moving on but why i still haven’t
cried,
"what’s the point".
it don’t hurt enough
"why oh why".
its still hurt just not enough
"yes oh yes I am crying but,
no more
"am i trying".
There’s no point in tell
myself to start crying
what’s the point in that,
"i guess i would be lying ".











Late at night tears pour from each eye.


late and night i sit there and cry
questioning life what it about why must
i carry on when i cant scream nor shout
why must i fight why can't i leave with out
thinking about why I’d leave behind it or was it your time
that’s why late at night i cry I’d rather live than die than live this lie
my would could have meaning but no my earth dies screaming just just
that’s the way my life  was meant to die.
















Dedicated to tony

tony where do i start you won’t be the first
and you won't be the only
i so glad i me you meet   and you will always know me
i wish i could have been thee so you
didn't feel as lonely  held your hand
and shown you i cared i would never
have left you no matter how scared I was for the moment  
i have for the moments and the laughs
we shared now rest you head there dear pal in till the day
i am there..















Just left to stare

You all look but no one cares see me stood
here alone just left to stare
so many time I could have shared but you just leave me
left to stare
I feel so broken as you convers with you peers
But I am just here left stare
You think I am strange because I have no hair
The chemotherapy leaves me ill lifeless my mum cries every night
She closes the door in fits of tears I know
I feel the same were both just scared
But here I am just left to stare
Will you be my friend and not leave me there
But here I am AGAIN alone
JUST LEFT TO STARE



Death would be my claim to fame

Broken heart revenge apart Bumpy start Empty mind as they say Left behind
without my dads heart Left behind with no dad nor friend o want to cry but
where do I begin never mind there's no problem as I stand out in this rain
I'm okay as I claim but my death will be my claim to fame so I take all my
pills and slit my vein's just to help me on my way




so you are the people


so you are the people that rule the world
locking  up young boys and girls  claiming they ain't well
even though they can see the realness of the  world
empty mind and broken shells
  the evil in this world hides in boys and girl the making of the world
stays in the shells
of the hurt and pain another bullet in another brain
but no one's appealing to their self-worth
because one more person cannot endure the pain of this earth
we all smile but we all bleed the same god speed to you all
another boy another girl every three seconds a life claimed
the government should be appalled let alone ashamed.





Scarecrow three!!

I have no body I could show what I know
I’ve had a few visitors but they would come and go
I have holes in my clothes
No fingers or toes
I just stand here doing the best that I know
The rain would come the leaves would fall then followed by snow
I guess as I just stand here if these seed that were once sown
I guess that me that is me I am just a lonely forgotten propped up
Scarecrow next to a tree.


Warm snow
Let it go
Let it
Go


So rain is but what nothing but warm snow
I look back on the emotions I would not
Show later I guess I would not know how my life could
Change I stood up and took my plate ate what I had a removed
These people that were fake I knew It was my time within mind for the changes  
I would make I so I sit here a different guy no long behind these feeling that I hide
Yeah now I feel I could cry and if the inevitable happened tonight I could smile
And say well you know I tried so long my hidden cries I bid you good night  


Societies anger
so as Tories took control the balance of the debts went up wards on most hospitals shut mental health funds and benefits cut stopped EMA like it was cool now our country’s run by a load of over educated fools what happen to going to school oh yeah you raised the fees like a fool so les education less jobs more immigration why our county’s leaders are a bunch of tools see now the working class suffer and go red with frustration i thought equalities was the foundation of our great nation




So this is England’s story
Run by fat cats that call themselves the Tories
So where do I start probably with the N.H.S cuts so
If you cough or get cut 40 % of wards on the hospitals shut
better hope you don’t need  benefits cause there cut too
unless you have half a head or a knife in the gut
even still the job centres doors are shut
so next its housing soon mud huts the poverty line is more than above
the average so they can eat caviar with their imported cabbage
see I am not activist nor am I a protester but
there using your tax money to sit under as coasters
I don’t mean there all the same but Corbin was ready to change the game
them Mrs may stood up and half the Country’s debt blew up
see I am just the working class guy as a nation
must not suffer in silence for such frustration’s
we need to demand we put our government right
so as I look straight in to my children’s eyes
I’d rather these Tories stood down and hand it to the right guys
you call you selves a party the Tories you made our county look more of a joke than your politic story’s
well done smarty’s
story’s sorry guy I wish you good bye I guess I’ll see you in the job centre line
then you wish you had forgot those cuts when you rely
on tax payers to wipe your butts
let’s see you political education get you out of such ruts.





Suicidal mind

Let me let you in on a thought of mine left out here to stand alone I am empty lonely
Only to be shed no empathy I here you still and I remain empty no way of shedding tears
Because weakness is my enemy I would get out of bed
but the accelerated thoughts in my head
leave   me with no energy I wake up just  feel dead
to go to sleep I sleep just to hear you speak
I remain in a dream alone empty low self-esteem
why do I wake up praying praying pinching it was all but a dream.



Suicide suicide and left behind

suicide is when two world collide
crying eyes bottled up on the inside
lock in a prison of inside your mind
have you ever just sat the for hours and cried
and not know why so you try to hide
wondering for ever pondering on what you would really
leave behind so do not hide do not be shy as
now when i look up my eyes bleed tears from either side so i crying to the
moon
tonight i always said ill e here to wipe your tears from eyes now I am sat
here feeling all left behind


Others that sin

so here’s my candle in the wind
would call god’s name sing his hymns
if i could sing worship if i could believe
there's nothing to say that we cannot achieve
just because we were let down by Adam and eve
i would prey if i could see and did not live in reality
so as i wipe my tears with my sleeve well will see whose
better me you Gary Dave and Steve I am begging do not take me
but it’s my sure invertible time to pack my dreams and leave


The anger inside



I cannot help but to wonder why every time something seems
To right another million things that angry me inside
Rise to the surface and leave me wondering why my mental -state has
Never been right cuts on my body arms left and legs right
I have a scar on my throat that will never turn white
Other people stare and gaze like them never seen a mentally ill person
In such a state people look at you with such anger dislike and hate just because
My body is a state I hope there’s not so many prejudice at the pearly gates.

The mirror in his eyes

see the mirror in your
eyes could hide what has left me feeling left behind
turns out your no protection
of mine still i cry every day i die very day i cannot hide this
awful feeling of being left behind


as I swing from my twisted rope


as i swing from my twisted rope
i can longer grasp upon hope
i hang here no sign of rescue
no sign of hope i hang here
i can hear my self -gasping
as this rope its vice my neck its marking  themes valle