gray and blue and black
make up the angles and cheekbones
of you.
you're a painting with a film of dust
and i'm an attic that welcomes rust
broken windows, ripped screens
nests that house the emptiness of centuries,
and dolls that no longer have the mechanics to blink.
i guess you could form the conclusion
that i am a heap of broken things
floating inside a dead room
and you are a picture in a frame
that lives in shadows
etched in the silver starlight
of regrettable shame.

Dear God,

Do you want me to be grateful
for the way the clouds curl around each other
like ringlets falling from a hairband?
Because I will be, if you want.
And if I tell you the truth
I think I’m going to have to be
because I can’t find any other thing so beautiful.
I’m looking at the world through a view-finder
and I can’t find much that’s pretty these days.

My calf is pressed against the calf of a girl
who I considered for years to be a best friend of mine.
She felt empty
and so she inflated herself with
hot air and “banter” with no meaning.
“***** Please” and “Ohmygod” and “*******”
spew from her awkward, Christian mouth
and I wonder whether she scooped her insides out
like pumpkin flesh
and inserted somebody new there in her place
like a candle in a jack'o'lantern.
Somebody who doesn’t have the time for me.
So I give up on our small talk
and decide not to interrupt her mobile phone;
I feel the back of her head like a headache.

“Mum’s sweated off four-hundred-and-seventy-six calories today”
she tells me and I ask her how she knows.
“She’s a got a tag thingy, you know. I have too.”

I can’t bear the sound of calories.
They are nails on all my chalkboards
and they are the wrong-footed *****
that tolls in church.

I lower my gaze to the absent-minded mother
whose fingers climb into her pram
to draw circles on the baby’s scalp.
She stirs my thoughts with them.
I think I’ve come a long way since
I started this prayer,
since my eyes hit the clouds.

Someone once told me that the thing he hated above all else
was greed
because greed is a bonfire that hungers without ever feeling full.
And who reminded me that
power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

We got the greed we hungered for.

And it corrupted us absolutely.

For it is by greed that the ice caps
are sweating off more calories
than the girls in their gym shorts.

It is by greed that they cannot rest
until they have peeled their thighs far enough apart
and by greed that they’ve been lured into the propaganda store
to buy themselves diets.

It is by greed that we cannot look our world in the eye
and greed that necessitates the use of a microscope lens
to distance us from the damage we cause.

It is by greed that we underline the little problems
to cover up the big ones
and it is greed that enables us to find offense in the weather forecast.

It is greed that has shrunk my values into a cage of bitter ribs
and greed that provoked my self-righteous verbal slaughter
of that friend I no longer know.

It is by greed that we started deciding that land belonged to people –
that finders were keepers, as long as they were white –
instead of the earth it consists of.

It is by greed that we doggedly avoid breaking our routines apart
to fit other factors into them.

It is by greed that righteousness
and ******
fall into step
on the path towards a religion that God can’t condone.

It is by greed that fascism and communism
eclipse one another and meld into one.

It is by greed that the old woman opposite
refuses to share her seat or even her smile
with a human under the age of thirty.

It is by greed that kids have bullets in them
and mothers are shot full of infection
and the water runs dry
through the dripping tap we didn’t fix in our bathroom.

It is by greed that I sit on a bus
and shift my problem onto our backs
with my view-finder.

And yeah,
I still see some beauty when I look for it
but I see beauty like a picture postcard
that an angry kid took a hole punch to.
It got so torn up but we refuse to put it under a light
in order to avoid seeing just how many gaps we’ve made.
Recently I’ve noticed this postcard’s
got too many holes in it to be able to see
what the picture once was.
There’s more absent than present
and, sure, we’ve still got our itty-bitty blue-sky-days
between the punctures,
but the grime and the guilt seeps out
like the air we drove our dreams on.

What a mess we inflicted, I think.

There’s a ceiling light in our toilet that attracts flies to it.
They fly in and burn up
and the lamp bowl fills with insect corpses
until you can’t see through them anymore.
We’re like that.
Flies go suicide bombing
and ***** things up
with the clutter they leave behind them.
Meanwhile,
as long as the dead stay in their graves,
they don’t bother the rest.
We look up at the ceiling
and don’t change the lightbulb.

How many people does it take to change a lightbulb?

We like looking at our world from the atmosphere;
we observe it from the internet,
believing that we stand on the moon,
too far away to touch the gashes we’ve torn.
We don’t like looking at the way the blood runs;
we tuck it under our fingernails instead
and hope no one holds us accountable.

When I come home I snap at my mum
because I am so struck by the brokenness of what I’m dealing with
that I cannot have her ask me how my day was.
Because I cannot complain about the weather
but I need to
because our family conversation is not big enough
to grapple with the magnitude of the genuine complaints I have.
Because I cannot simply tell her that I hate America
or feel comfortable praying her this prayer.
So I tell her “OK” and she rolls her eyes at the kettle.

So I’ve got my dish-cloth heart
and the rain starts to spit at us
with tears that are heavy enough to weep the things I can’t shed.

Wash me clean, rain… heaven… God,
because most people put ***** dishcloths in the bin
not the washing machine.

Somewhere between the pillow and
the motivation of a Sunday brunch lies
relative stillness and steady
progression of time like a
lightbulb, growing
brighter each second

honey on a lightbulb
in the hopes
for shiny bees

and itsy bitsy blankets
for the bed bugs
just trying to sleep

i feel bad for planets
galaxies and milkshakes
unable to receive

pick up my phone call
sun
pick up the moon
dreams

i am sorry for the things
i don't understand
the soap bubbles and the seams

“It was so quiet, one of the killers would later say, you could almost hear the sound of ice rattling in cocktail shakers in the homes way down the canyon.”

William Garretson was the gardener of 10050 Cielo Drive, in Los Angeles, a summer house rented by Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate. He lived in the guest house on the property. On August 9th, 1969, members of the Manson family visited the residence and brutally murdered all the inhabitants, as well as Garretson’s friend Steve Parent. Garretson claims he had no knowledge of the murders that night. He is the only survivor of the Tate Murders.

your screams sounded
like fiberglass breaking
an almost impossible noise
like a hemorrhage at midnight
i was walking through the garden
and i swear
i heard the neat click
when he severed the phone line
if only i had known

i have thought up one hundred scenarios
in which i saved your life
but there is only one
when i don't
and every night i try to justify this reality
because i could have sworn
the sound of their boots
on the steel fence
was the telephone
ringing

when they saw the headlights
swerve over the lawn
steve was as good as dead
shattered like a lightbulb
under pressure
four shots pressed into his forehead
a candid bullet kissed him faceless
his absence was
a tell tale piquancy of slaughter
i lay in bed that night
and turned my face to the wall
when i heard the screams

tell me i reek coward
say the raw red skin of my knuckles
shaved away from the foundation of my raised veins
as i sat through another police interrogation
are nothing compared to the red poppy
that blossomed in the center of his chest
call me callous
but i will never forgive myself
for trimming the flowers
that sat innocent on the coffee table
in the middle of a mass grave
all i can say is
i was just the gardener

i found her
blooming on the living room floor
the baby cut
weeping from her umbilical cord
still attached to mother and father
by a rope traveling from neck to neck
thorny slices of fetal skin
peppering the carpet
blood sprays still wet
were soaking into the wooden door
sadism comes in many
limp limbed contortions
but only one color
and i saw *HIS smile
carved in the cavity
of her stomach
i swear to god
i wish i could say
i didn't see it coming

i found the severed tendons
of his fingers
suspended in the eerie light
of the swimming pool
pruned like overripe plums
the remnants of his face
scattered across the driveway
like taraxacum seeds
their bodies all
hanging like wilted stems
broken xylems hinged to sepals
by threads of sap
running down uprooted ligaments
there is not enough therapy in this world
to cure the silence in the garden
upon the aftermath of execution

the shapes of murders' footprints
left raised beds in my shoulder blades
manure smeared ***** across my lips
every flower i have ever planted since
has languished in the smell of your corpses
melded into the callouses
of my finger tips
i am just the gardener
and i am all broken anthers
petals shriveled, toxic
call me a survivor
but there is blood inside my filaments

the moon is as longing
as I am to be the brightest
in an ocean of darkness
speckled with billions
of smudges of light
but does the moon get tired?
is that why its in love with the ocean, drowning itself
in the water every night?

do you think someone
paints your mirror?
that the color of your reflection
isn't you?
do your conversations seem
one sided?
do you realize the only
person talking
is you?

isn't there something brighter
some type of tranquil light
better than the moon at night
that can wake the dark parts
of the sidewalk to light
so I don't step into them
so I sleep right at night

everyone knows
I have a fear of the dark
It reminds me of tar
It reminds me of my mind
It reminds me of my sinking
It reminds me of your drinking
It reminds me of the *******
It reminds me
of the empty
spaces
in my chest
that are not empty,
they are somehow filled
with nothingness

It reminds me of
the feeling
when I reach out  
to grab you
and my hand
cant grasp you
can't make you understand
can't make you see what's
happening to me
how I am drowning

In something invisible

There's a stream,
splashing and gurgling,
sending up in the air a single bead of water,
sun beams giving a lightbulb's twinkle
  and inside lying fragments of it's history,
 I wonder if it has a tomorrow
As I daydream about it's mysteries;

The path down the stream,
taken within the flow
with other waters,
weaves,
in and out of the gills of a baby minnow,
over and through smoothed rocks,
Seeping from a canal
racing through locks,
drifting down straights with no bends
Left from the **** of a stag weekend,
And before that a can of cider,
and before that a tube in a mechanical assembly line,
from a water tap,
that came from a reservoir,
Which fell from clouds above it's perimeter,
and before that splashed from ocean froth,
lifted up in a collision of waves like a table cloth
after being taken on the hull of a speed boat
carrying ******* from a river,
where it had once briefly been on a paddle
from a man fishing to make his living.
And further up the river where it divides into streams and then nothing,
and then famine,
moist ground from tears,
It had been someone suffering.

A million lives
entwined in a drop of water,
each one a coincidence,
coinciding just by chance
the spectrum of it's experience of us is wide,
and with each and every drop the water empathised,


Tears at a wedding,
At a funeral,
Christmas spirit in mulled wine,
A plume of sea water from the belly of a jellyfish,
Pushed forward through it's life,

A trillion drops of water helping to make gravity decide
How high or low to go to make the tide,
Unified in direction
helped by the sun's and the moon's light,
Does it take the love of one direction (not the band)
to be unified?

doubly toasted rye bread...
anything on it...
of course i'm not going to treat it
as a bagel: although i should...
some smoked salmon...
the mayo and cucumber and dill...
come to think of it...
toasted rye bread would work
better than a bagel...

        we're not having some brick lane
salted beef, and bagel...
salted beef... good that you asked...
what makes it so... cosmopolitan, i.e. pink?
himalayan salt... i was thinking of
prague salt... don't ask me why...
how? i heard it down the line...

again: larry tesler died a few weeks ago...
well "weeks"... 20th of feb of this year he
passed away... as reported...
larry tesler... it's not an everyday
name... but under the umbrella of darwin that
becomes darwinism:
a group-fire, a get-together, a come-together...
larry tesler is a bit like
a michael faraday...  

           somewhat of a "mystery"...
like... never... i was daring to confess:
those revisions of the cursor...
the phantom hand... of a 2D object in a 3D
object... those 2D ferns in the original
tom raider... moving rapidly when approached...

i can hear the bemoaning...
no new scientific "theory" has resounded true
in the past decade...
unless it's that Higgs': hiccup or... boson...
that only happened a few years ago...

don't... agitate... the... beehive!
i've finished one whiskey and ms. coca
ms. venezuela - ms. novella...
             but i'm still pretending to drink from
an empty glass -
perhaps agitating the whiffs of scotch
perfumes to come...

       how often do i use the larry tesler
method?
well... if i want some... braille...
some glagolitic... some runes...
pretty much all the time...

        toasted rye bread... i'm thinking of eating
some roasted rye bread...
the english being bewildered...
and that's because the former raj
brought with them the cinnamon the cardamom...
ever eaten a curry that listed
rosemary or thyme as a prime ingredient?
can i please just eat this
dogshit, then?

    sourdough bread... not pop enough...
  beside the zeppelins... rye bread galore...
pumpernickel bread... a german thing...
   the name changes... but...
there's only so much toasted white and brown
bread you can eat... before having
an ancient hunger become arise in you...
the baltic cuisine of piquant herrings...
plenty of dill... and rye bread...

- i asked the swabian about this windsor affair
concerning the saxon: the ants-in-his-pants
little brother saxon...
the german who needed to go outside of saxony...
burgundy wouldn't suffice....
had to see the world: become a semite...
a wandering "plague"...
the postman... the dove of "repose"...

this is still about larry tesler by the way...
               ⠓⠑⠗⠑ - larry tesler...
     ⰕⰖⰕⰀⰣ:             "       "
              ᚺᛖᚱ:              "       "        (ditto, as above)...

woman: a human female being -
          because she's not: woo man...
and she is not: woe, man...

               she's a human female being -
that's what everyone might had said...
when being stripped...
to the basics of grammar:
i, pronoun - definite article: the -
noun of nouns -
                        the in between cardinal nouns...
table, fox, wool...
in between cardinal nouns...
box, moon, whiskey and (conjunction)...
the royal pronoun: one would expect...
the other royal pronoun: we would agree to such
claim... given our entourage...
louis XIV very much liked such
pronouns...
             they are the disembodied courting
presence of ghost: where we should be...
to posit...
and what if i want to be known as: there?
can't a they become a there -
i know that's asking too much...
after all... there is an adverb -
perhaps i feel like... being an: ad- -verb
rather than a pro- -noun...

                          there said: it's a cul de sac
and the peoples are gagging for
lessons in grammar... this is still about larry tesler!
well... it's become more of a toasted
rye bread "analogy"...

to be less denoted by noun -
more associated with verbs -
               does that even matter what pronoun?
what if i want to be an adverb: base?
there is an adverb... here is an adverb...
why is BEING a noun...
and not an adverb?
               become is a verb...
   becoming an adjective: although it could
be stressed as a noun: could...
           i think of being... on the lines
of a "here" and a "there"...
nothing is a pronoun...
                          while nowhere is an adverb...
being is a noun but in all fairness it could
be treated as an adverb...
                                   being alone...
           if only it was as simple as...
turning on a lightbulb while at the same time
expenting falling pirouettes of snow...

all this words deserved to be archived
in trash...
     i'm not a betting man and none of these
grammatical arguments really probe me...
i have invested in them a pet-peeve...
and they're nothing more...
but whenever i hear about them being
stressed... i wonder why the counter
argumentation doesn't fall for talking about
this logic on a purely grammatical level...

to update the tabernacle of holiest of the holy
"pronoun" with...
something akin to... by adverb standards...
etc. -
          this is still about larry tesler, though...
and about toasting some rye bread...
nonetheless -
i'm not that old but i'm already tired...
i imagine eating custard as being...
somewhat alleviating...

                but not actually eating any custard...
just imagining eating it
and pretending to drown - gurgling it...
once more: this is still concerning larry tesler...
mind you... larry tesler doesn't exist
on wattpad...

            but all these other would be publishers...
allow larry tesler to exist...
along with that little gremlin that doesn't work...
i.e. ©... not even new york times has
obstructed larry tesler ctrp + c / ctrl + p...
© - yeah.... "copyright"... my ****** ***...
wattpad has actually made actual © "progress"...
you can't use a larry tesler "heimlich" on:
those most scared of texts...
poems by 16 year olds!

              just saying...
you don't need a bagel to enjoy smoked salmon
with a dollop of mayo some cucumber
and dill... rye bread works just as well...
**** i'm hungry!

- again... what (a pronoun) - sorty of © "copyright"
logo is that... when you can larry tesler that
with... export it via highlight and ctrl c / ctrl p?
wattpad doesn't allow you to ctrl c / ctrl p...
at its height it was publishing that
goldmine of one direction fan fiction by
14 year old cherries...
    
                       i guess you can larry tesler
wikileaks: back in the day...

                        so if not larry tesler... who was behind
ctrl a? does it matter - if there's no toasted
rye bread in my gob... just these words
congesting and subsequently constipating my head?
good thing i have earned myself
a bad back - the golgotha "wisening" /
humbling... of digging up roots in the garden
where trees and shrubs once stood...

these words are... hardly a compensation's
worth of balm... but before i gorge on some toasted
rye... they just have to do.

MY LIGHTBULB MOMENT (Spiritual Awakening) BY KRISTIE TOWNSEND
5 July 2012 at 21:38

MY LIGHTBULB MOMENT BY KRISTIE TOWNSEND

Be careful what you wish for
for one day it may come true
I used to jest about my wishes
in a time before I discovered, just what Magick can do

Karma, I didn't really think that much of
and I'd never even heard of 'The Threefold Law'
didn't pay any attention to spirits
and I'd never considered that I may have been here before!

What the heck's 'The Wiccan Rede"?
Is it something I want or need??!!
So what if I should harm someone
Has this not before, to me, been done??

Why would anyone believe in what can't be touched nor seen?
In Perfect Love? And In Perfect Trust??
What's That supposed to mean??
And why should I read some poetry Written by a woman called Doreen??

Then In my light bulb moment, as quick as a flash!
I thought 'Now I see what the fuss is all about'
and at that very second, for Magick I fell hard and fast!
Saddened for a minute, thinking of what Joy so far I'd lived with out!

My only regret is that I didn't discover sooner, universal energy,
I should have walked this path long before now
For Magick and its power, have opened my eyes - OH and How??!! WOW

Some people think I'm weird,
Others think i'm mad
I came out of my spiritual broom closet
and for that I'm so very glad!

I'm looking forward to my future
with wide and enthusiastic eyes
long gone are empty days all alone
no more sleepless nights, filled with self-pitying cries

I'm the happiest that I have ever been
Thanks to energies that remain untouched, unseen
IN PERFECT LOVE & IN PERFECT TRUST
I will follow My Destiny, My Heart, My Dreams - I MUST!


by Kristie Townsend 12.11.08

my first wedding will be a seance because
there is always destruction in my wake
and my words only make sense in your mouth -
i put a ******* hurricane behind your lips
and went silent when you ripped apart
i slit my throat over your coffee and i
think i understand now
why you didn't flinch
(someone is using you and i told you not to be so ******* gullible
and you said -better to be wrung dry,
better to be used to death
that to leave anyone
alone-)
lypophrenia lypemania lyssophobia i find it fitting that lysis means both
recovery
and the destruction of cells
because you said i saved you every day while i watched you
erode
slowly
i gave you love and told you it was armor i'm
so sorry for all the holes in your chest cause i
set you against yourself you tore out your heart you cut off
your left arm
to make more room for me
(you said to me
-i'm not as masochistic
as you think
and i don't pretend to be some sort of *******
martyr
but everyone has a purpose and mine is to be used-)
i've got mouth full of blood and fading anesthetic i need a distraction i hate
thinking about myself because
(i am caught between conflicting states
of lies
and nonexistence)
burn my fingers on a lightbulb and think of you,
trade numb limbs for phantom pain and try to learn to walk slow
to let your ghost catch up to me,
let anxiety pool in my calves so you don't feel so alone
let panic return to my diaphragm so i don't leave you behind
(you asked why i walk like i'm running from
ex friends ex memories ex selves
as long as i move i don't have to think i'll sweat out one more lie and never think of it again
i'll keep my teeth clenched so my diaphragm is a prison)
oh treachery! fraud!
i say so many words and don't know what any mean,
i take an oath for a god whose face i've never seen whose hand i've never held and whose scent
could not compare to
the smell of you in my bed the
smell of your shampoo in the rooms you haunt,
you lie limp on the floor and tell me stories of
jesus,
love and life
who fed himself to the hungry until he was nothing
-my body, my blood- you say
-my body,
my blood,
sustenance for the weak,
nourishment for the starved-
your hipbones through your skin (maybe you should feed yourself) i say
and you laugh
(someone is using you don't make me say it just don't be so naive
someone is using you i am using you you are the vessel for my violence and
emotional death is less apparent than physical and sometimes
you don't
realize
that you've been dead since october)
my first wedding will be a seance.
we will say our vows through an oracle
i dont need anything but proof that this ghost
will haunt me.
this ghost will remain and their scent will fill the room.
this ghost
won't believe when i lie
when i bleed into your coffee,
do not drink.
watch the ph rise like floods.
wait for my apology.
when the haruspex tells you the future is bleak,
believe them.
leave me.
make armor from discarded wedding bands.
do not be used again.

Underlit by a candle
             Lightbulb reflections

Warming frozen hands
Lips smattering

Intettwining destinies

            Hands wrapped round
            No sound

Insipid darkness
is no better womb for
thoughts.
Decent thoughts, maybe good
GREAT thoughts.
Thoughts that will flow
like the lava of imported electricity
not-but-should-be circulating in Gaborone's veiny grid.

But who cares?
Well, okay, your mother, now swearing
at the singed-black TV screen
(she's missed her daily soap).

Mother Darkness breeds thinkers.
Tell me, in the scramble for your cellphone flashlight,
did you find your inner Plato?
Ah, no, you surely became
a lightbulb,
humming with the shocks of unwritten words.

It is these minutes of lightless inertia when
it's best to tap your swollen top instead
of lighting a candle.
See, sun rays and tube lights dull the finish of ideas;
corporation-induced darkness provides more suitable conditions.
So you must tap the glass globe on your shoulders
and feel, yes,
feel the grey filament
within, buzzzzzzzz

Electricity.

Edison's 'Eureka!' finally
happening, as all 'Eurekas!' do, in
(literally) colourless mundane.

(Note to self: Write a thank-you email to that pathetic power corporation for your rebirth as a glow)

Thoughts.
Thoughts and thoughts, thoughts,
thoughts.
                 thoughts,
   thoughts,
thoughts and  
                            thoughts,
coming in viscous gallops,
extra voltage baby, thoughts!
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts,

IDEA.

You are no longer living!
You exist as shards of yes, one GREAT whole,
one...brace-taste the word now...
idea.

You are glimmers of something greater.
You are hot charges of energy your country failed to harness.

Sparked at the flick
of a lazy corporation's switch:
they

cut the power which
cut the flow in the varicose veins of Gaborone which
cut your bedroom's plastic brightness which
cut the bored-contented moment you were wallowing in which
cut your breath (still-half-scared of the dark, you) which
cut the blood flow to your grey matter which
cut the oxygen supply, replaced the fuel with electricity

and then you could think.

Thoughts
and  
thoughts
and

what will you do with them? If
you dare the sun's brilliance,
you might land up as some poor Icarus;
if you wait a half-volt longer,
I'm afraid the fuse will blow, madam and
your mother cannot comprehend these blue-light shocks,
please find a paper and a pen
immediately.

Ah.
So the electricity must, after all,
power something.
And in the crackling dash
to eke out your blow-blaze-brim-burn words
onto something that will last longer
than today's ration of blackness,

the power comes back.

Mind chars into itself.
Snuffed too soon, you pathetic power corporation,
why did you put me out like that?

Your mother turns to you and mutters
'Thank God.'

they only wanted to rule the world
with a cast ironed fist
"one more, one more"
until we inevitably kiss

oh, i'm talking about hiking now
thinking about paints
doing much less
whilst lifting my weight;

"can we talk about Marx yet?"
"sure - i never finished though;
i get bored"
"why do they call you james?"
"ask my dad"
"i'd like that - now?"
"not now"
"how come?"
"i need to do the gardening - the grass is too long"
"have you read Marx yet?"
"nearly"
"nearly?"
"yes - nearly;
i'm planning on voting first"
"a light bulb needs changing"
"yeah -
do we have any framed pictures of us yet?"
"no - the lightbulb?"
"yeah - the lightbulb"
"what do we do when finished?"
"nothing - leave. smoke"
"i get you - thank you"

never read Marx. never smoked. paid her. left.
car broke down. called her. stayed. married.
went into the garden.
smoked. read Marx.
bought a lightbulb.
framed pictures. paid her again.
my name is her

Now you see, just hold on a minute there
I can’t- for the sake of hearing people- say I love
shooting my ears out, bleeding myself deaf.
I don’t but I am deaf.
I can’t- for the sake of heterosexuality norms- say I love
feelings boiling to the surface for girls and boys.
I don’t but I am queer.
I can’t- for the sake of masculinity- say I love
good eye for fashion, rather than football.
I don’t but I am genderless.
Did the lightbulb flash above your head,
******* therapist

How many day ones
Does it take to change a lightbulb?

as i once wrote... and i’m not about to change my mind
as to how i managed to spot the two major tools
in language, but for added SHOCK value,
ich kampf... the pronoun takes on an indefinite nature,
as does the complete expression,
it expresses future struggles more than past struggles,
and thus with future struggles there is a process of becoming
rather than being, hence there is no possessiveness
in relation to the past, for a translation into the future;
utilising the definite and indefinite articles within the pronoun
category is my keenest of all observations - the struggle in itself
is as indefinite due to the coupling with the pronoun that allows
dis-possessiveness of concepts, whether they be being at ease
or struggling... as such i know this is incoherent
because the meanings of certain words are so tightly knit that
it is bound to happen, a bit like red and crimson / blue and azure,
but that is as much due to schizoid conditioning of a symptom,
whereby a schizoid conditioning is a complex splintering of
what was once wholly unified, and upon dis-unification the unified is trapped
in a trans-grammatical state of symptom, without any categorical
orientation, whether that’s with nouns, verbs etc.,
primarily stressed by what i can only fathom as pre-nouns
(you know, the vocabulary unit
before new words enter our vocabulary, mostly nouns -
since the quality of things rarely changes -
like sodium and lady gaga, the pre-noun is almost
like a pronoun, although the pre-noun is kept
in a dark room and the pronoun is kept in
a room with a lightbulb),
that which could be uttered and is unnecessarily “thought.”
so through this medley i was only crafting a revision as to whether
call the compound ich kampf within the orientation of:
ich is a definite pronoun or an indefinite pronoun?
and if so... which pronoun orientation in terms of articulation makes
the second aspect of the compound definite or indefinite
for the overall persuasion?
well... anyway... it will make me think rather than read knausgård,
i already read kierkegård - søren
(ø = cut open o for a u, and angstrom = aa, i.e. roll over beethoven):
this is why english is problematic compared
with all the other latinised languages of europe...
due to its diacritical ****** / lack of accent stressors,
ø = u and oo: ***** / luck / pull -
the second use of u is less stressed in the sense that it's short,
a short / dwarfed u (ù), rather than the third example of u,
which is a long / pronounced u (ú)...
or as in the first example the elongated u (ū)
by god,
this is like forging a new linguistic system
in english from all the other languages of europe...
avoiding the linguistic notative system,
characteristic with: /ˈæŋstrʌm; -strəm/;
but obviously that would make spelling words in english
look pretty ugly... but not as ugly as LOL *** ***?!
i never got the hang of the teenage acronym alphabet,
even though i lived as a teenager, and the acronyms were already
in use.

i don't know if this is any secret at all,
    but i find this to be quiet encouraging to state,
in that what i will state is:
   (a) when i write i'm hunched in my chair like a crow,
but (b) - i write, and then sit up-right on the windowsill,
one foot folded so i'm sitting on it, and one foot
touching the floor;
                 but it's not about that...
                              it's the screen time you receive
that pulverises your eyes...
        some news from london: the piccadilly circus
advert lights have been turned off, it's a time-period
for refurbishment.
                     well... computer screens are like the glare
of those advert lights...
                   stand under them long enough,
and you're like a moth attracted to a lightbulb...
            insects have senses equivalent to amphetamines,
they're junkies toward certain stimuli...
     the dumb moth will not bash into a lightbulb once,
it will repeatedly bash into it... i appreciate not learning
the lesson after the first encounter,
      so that a rational a priori         followed by an a posteriori
dynamic can engage... pavlov's dogs didn't learn
it the first time... but that's beside the point...
      you want to keep your eye-sight for longer,
and feel less insomnia prone?        computer screens
can be dimmed, so that the glare can disappear,
    but there's a piece of apparatus that's more forthcoming when
it boils down to the glare effect...
                     an electric lamp in a corner of the room...
and you'd be surprised as to how your eyes "bleed" (watery
ache... tears are cleansing and due to their salty nature,
can ease the eyes' stare - but these wartery eyes,
from watching a computer screen for too long? what's that?
myopia?) - added to the fact that you're not sitting
by a computer at a distance of 2 metres...
               the single most important apparatus when using
a computer, and staring into the eye of beelzebub (pixels,
flies have pixelated eyes) - and if you're into
      the myth, akin to prometheus - well he was punished
for what he did, and humanity prospered...
      the beelzebub effect? and that is a metaphorical question:
we received a double edged-sword... beelzebub is doing
a pontius pilate moment, of washing his hands clean...
  and yes, all the great access to information, and all the other
great benefits of the computer...
         but prolonged use? the problem of sitting down for too
long and back aches... and then the deterioation of eye-sight,
from the glare of the eye...
        one solution... just one tiny little suggestion when
sitting in-front of a computer screen... one little accessory...
      SUNGLASSES!            the light coming from the computer
screen is more harmful that solar light of the sun...
       on a myopic scale that is...
           obviously solar light is dangerous in traffic,
in the guise of hyperopia...
                which is to say: this is not some sort of "black magic"
because i made a ref. to beelzebub... i made it quiet plane:
pixels.       it's that it's not that ****** ridiculous wearing sunglasses
in the night... when you're hunched over a computer screen.

… A moth whispering confessions high towards the ceiling… worshiping a false god and its dooming light… as the moth wings are burning with unrequited love… flapping self-fulfilling prophecies...
My wings are growing and I wonder… are you to be my lightbulb...

Emptiness.

On the floor in the dark room,
Paralysed.
The occasional lightbulb flicker
Brings some hope back to my blue-glazed eyes,
But it's a mere distraction.

I imagine that the lightbulb can see;
Awake when it's shining,
Otherwise asleep.
In the light I seem free,
My body moves. My voice, it speaks,
Speaks like the one it once belonged to,
Before the locked room lost its key.

The bulb will never see
The ******* the ground,
Or the shelves that collapse
Silently, as tears tie her down.

So why am I surprised,
That the lightbulb never stays?
Through its eyes, the room is a palace
With a princess, troubles seemingly erased.
How would it know of the dungeon
That is formed where she lays?

Darkness, once more.

Any man can
Turn a woman on
Like some lightbulb in
The heat.
But I don't want turned on
I want full
Loving
Satisfaction.
Another thing
I'm not a lightbulb,
Stop trying
To turn me on.

It's here with me now
I can soak up the universe
Into the needle
With a plunger
It's satanic charmers are going to the bowling alley
They are smoking cigarettes and talking about being human
****
If I am not the moth
slamming my full
weight against the lightbulb
at the bottom of your soul
I want to kiss you
and tell you that the universe is not a secret
It is right here in front of you

Words are sure strange hunh?
Ever think about it dipping its finger into the energy river
and it dripping off into black nothingness
The black universe
like an eyelid
like shadow
it becomes needle
and I am dead
Everything I am
bashed against the wall like a lightbulb

I wake in the morning to a singe question:
Can I use your computer?

Immediately, my heart races...
I'm sweating from parts of my body I didn't know existed,
I swallow,
I panic
I answer
Yes, but
But... It is slow...
But... It is small...
But... It is weak...
...I am weak

The 1st question was simple, do I own that device?
The answer, however, is more questions
Is it enough
Are you enough
Why use it when you could use something better?
Why know me, when you could know someone better?

I am the broken lightbulb
That lightbulb designed not quite as bright,
Staring at brighter bulbs and not content to be dim.
Blinded by their light
Unable to notice the beauty of my own.

Finding something on the road
And serving it for dinner
Buying dresses far too small
And thinking you look thinner
Solar powered submarines
Broken ribs or ruptured spleens
Driving cars and drinking beers
Lightbulb licking, bad ideas

Knowing where you shouldn't be
And being there despite
Going out in thunderstorms
To fly your iron kite
Sharing needles with a shark
Going to Mansfield after dark
Setting fire to someone's ears
Telemarketing, bad ideas

Not deploying gaffer-tape
When doing D.I.Y.
Believing the implausible
While branding truth a lie
Replying to Nigerian Princes
**** bleach and ******* rinses
Tabloid papers touting fears
Voting UKIP, bad ideas

Impersonating ******
Before nineteen forty-five
Catching a train on Sunday
And assuming you'll arrive
Turning lights on with your nose
Eating food that moves or glows
Listening to Britney Spears
Marmite Pringles, bad ideas

**

The lightbulb on the roof
Is flickering with proof
That the mind is dangerous
It's a poison in our youth

Our thoughts are hazardous
There's war inside of us
How are we still alive?
The abyss is cavernous

That to which we strive
We know will never thrive
We're told we should surrender
We weren't destined to survive

Our wounds are feeling tender
Our hopes are getting slender
We're buying what we're told
From the catastrophe vendor

Our brains fill with mould
Our bodies grow cold
We'll die before we get old.

there's a hidden, empty place
between the conscious and unconscious mind,
it's a wallowing feeling -
a standstill, a little uphill
looking down on yourself
realizing the battle is nearly over,
ready for change
and you say
take me to be whole, entirely me
enlighten me

The bottles were scattred monuments to beaten livers and bad decisions.
I awoke like any other morning okay afternoon hungover and to void of ***** to deal with
hampsters or flying monkeys .

The agony was what I was used to but the ringing in my head was altogather a diffrent matter.
it grew louder that constant annoying ring and to my suprize much like the voices in my head after my
usal sixpack and half pint of Wild Turkey it was still there.

It rang and rang and caused such a clatter I had to finally get up off my **** and see what the **** was the matter.
I opened the door to the pub to be met by a bright light jesus christ it was the rapture or one of thoose other
big hippie rock festivals dam you  lalapalooza!

But it was just then I remebred to put on my sunglasses.
That huge annoying lightbulb was a cruel ***** indeed.
Now in the realm of what most called the outdoors the noise was clear and to my suprize it was some
strangley dressed ****** slash recruiter for the Forein Legion or Salvation Army really whats the diffrence
ya see one fashion cult ya seen em all ohh snap!


The woman kept ringing the bell as if in some weird trance and like some strange witch she stood by a kettle
dear Lord! what if she was putting a curse on us all.

Hello sir care to make a donation?
It seems I could pay to keep the witch at bay why hadnt i thought of this scheme myself.
In a slurred voice i spoke to the witch in her native tongue most people call it english.
For ?
I said in a naughty school girl way inwhich a ***** ses to the teacher when she wants good grades
or a ride home with a happy ending.

It's to help the needy on Christmas.  
It seesm the pagan was raising funds for one of her bizzar rituals.
being the reporter with the heart of gold and not grain of sense I asked her to speak of this
strange custom.

It seems as though her good had had one to many and made another little hampster
so far this God sounded like someone I could enjoy a drink with.
Then he called on his homeboys to vist the little dude and give him some totally useless
gifts hope they kept the reciets cause ***** that crap give me a gallon of Turkey and a Xbox

She rambled on with her fairy tale and how now people seem to all give things to one another
On this strange holiday .
Boy like that will ever catch on sister .

She jingled her bell as i jumped and screamed like a little girl a very manly little girl may i add
dear lord woman !
That noise you may use your magic to scare other's into paying you but when I pay
a woman it usally ends in *** okay almost always.

She looked at me deepley she must have been undersing me with her eyes i felt so ***** in the right kinda way.
But enough with the foreplay children.
Are you insane?

The witch asked in a angry voice her grip on her bell tighten she spoke again.
get outta here  you ******.
Yeah i know she was totally into me.

Witch I know you've cast a spell on me so why toil with your silly made up holiday scheme.
Of all the pubs you could have decided to hook in front of you picked the home of
Hello's favorite guilty pleasure .
I say we cut through this silly spell  **** and go into the bar and i give you the most forgetable experience of your life.
Hey as long as im happy thats all that counts kids.

She paused caught deep in the moment then asked whats Hello?
Oh that was a site that used to be really fun and now really isnt.
She paused yet again pulling in her magic purse often used by witches
and candy **** singers like Justin Bieber!

She pulled from it some magic spray that blinded me.
the pain was terrible i herd her blow a whistle  lucky whistle.
Calling her warlocks who I feared were powerful and *****.

Soon I  found myself locked in a dungeon with other strange people all under spells.
there was a man dressed as a pagan God calling himself Santa
Seems he liked to play with his candy cane in public.
Yeah who doesnt?

The days passed and i was put through a horrible torture worse than having
to watch the O network or listening to Justin Beiber that musiacal ****.
I went days without  my ***** i was put into a strange state called sober.

Finally the curse was lifted as the guard showed me out he informed me
it was cause it was Christmas .
Dear lord !
The witch had  cast her spell over the world.

So as I sit in the confines of my Pub whiskey flowing like water.
I've learned beware of this bell ringing witch and her tales of strange Gods
and give or fall victem to her charms as did I.

Untill next time stay crazy hampsters.

I just got home from work and driving through the sun rise after stopping at the gas station for cigarettes.
The pink lightbulb guides me up the steps to my apartment and I'm greeted by Sophie the pitbull,
she wiggles and runs happy to see me.
She's the first one into the bedroom when I open the door and as I change out of my work clothes I pet her and kiss her head, complimenting on how cute she is the whole time.
Then I light a candle, pack a bowl and go to Netflix in search of Bob Ross, The Joys of Painting.
On this episode he is painting a night scene in the forest.

There is a lightbulb
In my brain
That is cracked
Not working
And is barely not shattering.

There is an idea factory
In my brain
That is shut down
Rusted
And barely standing up.

I am out of ideas
My brain is not working
My mind has become catatonic.

My ideas have called sick
My good words have taken a day off
And my rhyme quit its job.

My rythym is on vacation
My inspiration failed the interview,
And my structure decided to collapse.

I don’t know what to write
So I write nothing
Unless nothing turns into something
And my sick tree bears fruit.

It's all for a laugh
Why the long face horse's ****,
Put a lightbulb where the sun don't shine
And lighten the **** up
This is a roller coaster, baby
I don't know where it stops
But it's all for the crack
You can stumble as much as you want
Fall if you need to
My hysteria will see the funny
Sunny side of the street
Make a dance for happy feet
So don't be sad
Come laugh it up with the lads
You're one of the boys
Toys that is
We can play all night
But I,
Not so nicely with the other kids.

A single lightbulb is held captured by the ceiling,
a lone switch to determine its fate.
Oh, how I bracket with that bulb,
and what it means to illuminate.

The sun has no off,
but the means to have it all.
I, however, am full of levers,
and choosing to let my light fall.

A single lightbulb is captured by the ceiling,
and unable to flip the switch.
Try though I might,
There's not enough light
for me to see you.