CONFESSIONS OF A DROPOUT: DEAR EDUCATION
I am caught up in the ideal world where I breeze through the fast paced life
I look back and I see no one not even my own shadow
Life dumped me on a rainy day because I wanted to become of this generation
I was everything to pretend friends
Life seemed worth it with everything but you
The drugs, the cars, the money and the alcohol… ****! I even drank methanol
But when push came to shove I had to grow up
By then life had already given me deathly blows that were beyond me
Deathly blows that sent me to a dark pit, a dark pit were life ceases to exist
God himself knows that I am beyond saving grace since I am a different case
Truth be told I dug my own grave
Now I am a slave to this burning rage
I now believe I am going to rot in this cage
Poverty looked and me said when I grow up I want to be like that girl
Pain looked at me and shed tears….. Death visited me and renounced its existence
So dear education if you ever get this letter know that I send my sincere apologies
I wish I could have listened, I wish we could have been friends more
I now live a life of regret were I dream of having a ride on death’s train
I wish you could take me back but furthermore I pray that you lend me a dying wish
Dear education…… please do accept my apologies!

One’s mind will buzz
And your stomach a-boil.
In the time we took to drink
One took the same to reach the sink
And even though your mind did toil
It will always merely come back to a fuzz.

And once set upon disaster,
The body reacting as if it is scared,
You will see it lynch your mind,
Turn you around and cause you to bind.
Act now, teeth are still bared.
One will survive it ever after.

Down the bottle in a devious clear glass.
Time equivocates all that is true.
It was a time to remember that I forgot.
It lasts an era in space spanning a spot.
The curved figure likes waterloo
And there will be nothing apart from the glass.

The time I’m spending brooding
Will be nothing but a bagatelle.
For it amounted to nothing
And I sat hoping for something.
But I am never going to be versatile;
For example: The smudging is from my drooling.

Like a bouncing putty, I can still bounce.
Look at me, I can dance.
I am not drunk,
Just only a bit tipsy,
I am chemically off balance!

From roses to doses,
They did, they do and are done watering roses with alcohol.
Since I was conceived my blood is that much of methanol and that disturbs my devotion.
She had turned her womb, my temporary home into an ocean of *****.
From which i was swimming in whisky,
As much as this is risky, I was sleeping on bedrums.
At times I woul'd feel drums booming such that my heart skips beats,
But still pump methanol, my source of oxygen.

She had turned her womb into a savannah biome,
My life was dry but still i survived.

What a beautiful galaxy within which I existed?
Made of Heineken stars and clip drift ropes,
That keeps on drifting and leaves me tipsy!

Like a bouncing putty, I can still bounce.
Look at me, I can dance.
I am not drunk,
Just only a bit tipsy,
I am chemically off balance!

I wonder if Black labels is the reason i am black?
If my birth in autumn would be ascribed to autumn harvest?
Only lucky Brandy is my name, rather than smin off spin.

Like a stranger in his own element,
For my first foot steps I waddled, twisted and turned.
For my first blood test, mother came back in mascara ***** tears
Not because I was positive neither negative but alcoholic.
my blood is invalid, that is the product of the woman in *****.

Like a bouncing putty, i can still bounce.
Look at me, I can dance.
I am not drunk,
Just only a bit tipsy,
I am chemically off balance!

It's optional
Like the fading of skies
Early, wild, or remorseful.
All the impalpable space in the lights
Scaled in weighty gilt and curls
The locks and gold of sun,
early as it sets on a moiety of moor grey
Brushed by shadows of agonised poplars
on a spiral land of sheer pistachio blanket.

Muffled by lyres played from the trumpets of
convolvuluses, behind spears of the brain-
an imagery commence to carouse
into planet deep.

A promenade atop the tulle of skies,
an optional way to live.
Saunter and fall onto slopes, shudder, meditate
and hit a bee coffin pebble on the temple
Where there are options to live, to bleed.
Like the lurid sunrise sifting on
yellow-green nuts, and dandruffs combed
like granulated sugar
Oh the taste of chemistry
on the shea butter candles.

It's sanguine and optional,
your farewells on laden calendars of poems
A promenade- back into sea of spears and flames
A cadaver veined in pink,
bearing plethora of methanol
down pulverising bone.

Prohibition came, but not to Whiskey Hill.
A man has got to eat; a drunk must have his fill.

Old Abner dug a basement before fall
Beneath the milking barn at night;
Dug down and mortared up a wall;
Bought copper sheets and hammer-fit 'em tight,
Disguised his vent holes in the stall
By countersinking posts to keep them out of sight.
Set down a trapdoor and a sturdy stair,
Strawed the lot and penned up his old mare.

In all he did, he didn't tell his wife a thing;
He reasoned there was money to be made...
More than the crops would ever bring,
More than the eggs the chickens laid,
He'd be enriched by moonshine in the spring.

He learned to ferment mash from an old book,
Soaked down a bag of corn and let it sprout,
Waited twelve full days before he took a look,
Cracked kernels, poured on water, boiling hot,
Then pitched the yeast and left his hidden nook,
And all the while kept his mouth shut;

Seven days and Sunday passing by,
Old Ab could wait no more;
Ate supper quick and told his wife
He'd one more feeding chore...
Stole to the barn and shoo'ed the mare aside,
Pulled up the vent posts from the floor,
Climbed down and lit a fire inside
Beneath the still to let the vapors soar.

A thrill began as drops began to fill the jug;
The fore-shot blended in as Ab forgot
That methanol would poison off the slug,
So when a shot he took, his breathing stopped.

Above, impatient Molly stamped, then paced
Hungrily in her pen, shoved to reach her hay
And dropped the standards in their place,
Plugged tight the vents, above where Abner lay.

When Hildy woke, her husband still was out;
She walked down to the barn, no sign to see;
And thought it odd the horse was out...
The cattle lowing hungrily for feed.

The sheriff came to have a look;
No luck had he,
Old Hildy sold the place and moved away.
Where she went and how remains a mystery.
A cousin bought the place: house and barn and still (unseen).
His sons, exploring, found old Abner in the spring
Beneath the horse's paddock where he lay.

Methanol*

I was a bandage
which you ripped off
as soon as your wounds
were healed,
because I was loyal
and what a mistake that was
because I can't be anything else,
except what lies on
the opposite end of the spectrum;
completely detached and indifferent.

Maddening methanol,
blinding me with your impurity,
but now I see
what a fraud you were.

"Losing" you didn't injure me,
your absence didn't sink
its teeth into me;
you were sour as
sudden abandonment,
I was more than glad
to be rid of *you.

Methanol

You were two-faced
like most people,
and that hasn't changed,
but I have...
You will be disappointed to learn
I am not wasteful with
my loyalty anymore.

Despaired, impaired, scared of my past ways, can't seem to get away from crime, sorry to say mamma, even though I know you pray for me each and every single day. Gun shots, drugs, ***** money flowing through the streets, crime is the only way a family like mine can stay on their feet. If only life could be like Neverland but it seems like the creator had different plans for us; man. Brother apart of the gang called the crip, sitter prostitutes on 5th avenue, cops payed off by the higher ups, don't have no safety kit. Getting so jaded by the land that I have been based in, feel caved in, no place to be saved in, because this is the land of demons. City of sin, where no wins, we submit to the higher powers whim.  Puppets we all must fall in line, no hope in the city of crime, are we out of time? No time at all for us dusty broken porcelain dolls, as long as we high on the methanol, steal that million dollar car make sure it filled with petrol. Sell it on the black market because some one will buy it, and if we get caught we deny it.

To be buried due to old age
Is a dream I take for granted
Allow children time to assuage
Not to join blanketed by the planet

Age, a privilege not given to all
Genocide before nightfall
Malnutrition at the mess hall
Drugs calling souls to awol
Avarice causes many to fall
From buildings so so tall
methanol,
                cannon *****,
                                        alcohol
Death dealers always on the call

But to be buried due to old age
Is a dream I take for granite
tonight
and tomorrow
and tomorrow and tomorrow

Methanol*

You were my first secret handshake
but handshakes are history,
why should I befriend a snake,
when I could avoid the misery?

I'm not imploding from the pain
of having no real closure,
no need for guilt to
build my heart a terrain
over your lack of composure.

The smiles you saw
after I pulled the trigger,
after my deed,
were a symptom of no remorse,
no blister
for plucking power out of a ****.

never rub another man's rhubarb.

so this article comes along
about aya-huskie,
****... what was it?
                              ayahuasca
and i'm reading it,
and i'm reading into it,
and i'm like:
     it's not unusual for 100+
ceremonies ingesting
this drug happen in new york
on a daily basis...
****'s more potent that
corresponding a war...
   the female enegry *madre:
hocus pokus
          harry houdini
       eating a pear as a magic
            trick *******...
nope...
   i'm fine my beer, my love
of home-cooked food,
my music...
       what am i implying?
   the ****'s contaminated -
just like the beatnik poets
contaminated peyote...
contaminated, how?
  they wrote about it...
who the **** is going to moan
and complain about me
writing about drinking?
                           um... no one?
the brew is so abused that
when sometimes comes
along and writes about its
effects, in a positive way:
you don't really start moaning...
all those soppy:
  papa was an alcoholic type
stories...
   mama drank a bottle
of wine before putting me to bed:
too bad *******!
    live with the fact,
that somewhere, somehow,
there's a drunk who could
juggle a monkey, a tambourine
and banana:
  and call it a musical instrument!
you ingest something
for a sense of humour -
or you ingest something for
a sense of wonder...
aya-hoo-haha-caska
   is of the latter category...
alcohol?
            ugh: the former!

and to be honest?
    the only and at the same
time the most spiritual experience
i ever had or will have:
will remain:
          hearing myself laughing.
that's it!

the sort of laugh imitating a fox,
the sort of laugh imitating muttley,
and the laugh that feels
like easing a **** of crunching
the stomach...
      the visionaries can keep their
discontent with dreams,
and experience them wide-awake...

but reading this article is numbing...
always the ******* westerners,
the white "bad boys",
what they'll do with ayahuasca
is what they did with cows, pigs,
dogs and cats...
   they'll domesticate the drug...
oh look... already domesticated
being categorised as a drug, rather
than the original of: medicine...

and that's what western society does...
find me a shaman using
alcohol and i'll find you a pair
of scissors in an ayahuasca experience...
but i just hate the idea
of domesticating something so
spiritually governed...

people really think that taking this
drug, in the centre of new york
will somehow create an actual
organic potency of the drug?
          in new york the experience
will be inorganic -
        and most probably horrific -

well **** me: jump off a roof and
hallucinate a pair torn off icarus!
    up here, in the hinterlands,
in catholic schools,
   they still told us what the ukrainians
used to do: sniff glue
   (can i recommend a film?
    lilya 4-ever) -
       or don't get me strated with poles
drinking purple denaturat,
     (denatonium, methanol -
                         in short? toxins!) -

personall i don't like the idea where
this ahaya ahooya, whatever thing is going...
to me it has a scent of a process
of domestication...
        but i suppose if you're going
to deforest the amazon,
    you also have to attack the spirit -

now that i've read about the experience,
i'm rather keen on trying to
unravel the problem of antidepressants:
also in the same newspaper...
   namely escitalopram (lexarpo)
  & sertraline & clonazepam
  & paroxetine (seroxat) - all of them being
anti-depressants; so no:

i wouldn't disturb the amazonian shamans
for some "bogus" life-changing
experiences, i'd look at the situation where
drugs have moved beyond the stage
of being domesticated from their natural
environment... and... therefore?
                                    industrialised!

talk to random schizophrenic in the middle
of a night over a kalimotxo (basque drink,
red wine and coca-cola - kali kali kali
m'oh ch'oh) -
and he'll tell you: yeah, knew a guy,
was on antipsychotic medication:
                                 grew a pair of ****!

oh yeah, tobacco & alcohol are baaah!
baaah! bad! (please invoke a sheepish
stutter within the confines of the italics).

Our dreams alive, in three songs
You looking to get ******, in the arms of what's going on
Touch about the reality, of the great good of the hearts of the nosegay I took a nosedive, or the opened up fire of the circle's curlicue
Hells burning and sings, and burns the throat of supernatural sordid affairs of the singed dresses, lips quiver and nape the murmurs, closer to your party girl
Listening to the parallelogram lights of nadirs on the cream drop, on the trap, ******* stint rest are we
Sleeping with the nocturne-blonde, wheelchair on the cannibal dynamo of the change looking in product elitism, sold out before they knew they were buying war
You're a bit inside, further into my ferried heart on the wheels of fire of the crossroads of the good,
The hoods out, the special affair sounds like a girl, the number of the pocket
Of the ashcans on Wednesday, so smart about your Hakagaw bows, open doors to my cellar in speakeasies and tensions
On the phone calls, in the terse rhyme sin, the sails determination of confessing our love, in the strong live in the heart of years that do not have any limitation and have no learned lessons,
See tomorrow's is the night that's alive, it's the midsummer's daydream and the midnight cauterized midriff
How do we sell it, and the trench warfare in the solidarity of the streams of dresses in steaming stowaway, maybe we good we have mister magic selling the war in a handful of stardust
Shadow rises in that pass as years go by
Shadow is a pejorative term for copies of running on hurt looks in open books of minds, we have our own wars in piled plasticine in methanol, hydrogen prologue of the helium
Time throws us into the year in the complete word that completes me, and I'm a bit nicer
I'm so lost, I'm a bit nicer
Deep sarcasm in the classroom
The winners have become bad, and no one cares about the losers
What does it mean? I'm not telling you my stories

I was walking in uniform motion
When I found a potion
The bottle says drink me and you'll change
Everyone will pay from whom you want revenge.
I was happy cause I wanted to crush somebody
I drank the potion and became nobody.
There was methanol in that bottle of potion
I died and my soul was floating in uniform motion .
I got that never to change
Just in order to take revenge.

I've been stuck in a haze
Between taking drugs and alcohol
and burning methanol

The fun
the sun
now means none

Repellent to being sober
I'll be so high man, **** the moon
During the day; 'till it's over
I'll be so drunk man, ******* soon

I'll take more and more and more
To **** this negative seed
More, More, More this haze I will adore
Till my nose and eyes bleed

Next day I wake
Ready to bake
New memories to make
New memories to take

Drown back, drown pain!
Before that seed comes back
To force me to repeat; again
Never-ending, until I crack

December, nineteen sixty three
the frost collects in the beards of the homeless
who weep tears of defeat; life seems hopeless
Philadelphia
bundled under blankets of snow
shivering and miserable they line the streets
few of them sleep, with nowhere to go
they borrow time to live, three starve for every one who eats
poverty and frail bones, behind their eyes they are hollow

Venture to their jungles, see their thin and decaying forms
shuffling as if their ankles are in chains, food slow enough for the worms
before they die their wretched lives waste away, compassion transforms
they chip at this glacier to reach the hearts and minds inside, yet the blizzard never warms
you strangers never warm; they were never warned
wringing a cheesecloth over an old mug
a belly full of fire to liven up the poor man
ours was just fifteen when he caught the bug
strained through a sock straight from a tin can

Oh no, look who came back with the Sterno-Inferno
give me a swig, give me sight, bring on the Canned Heat
knock you through the brig, won't even put up no fight, swept right off of my feet
loopy and sappy, it'll make you feel happy
it's quicker, hotter, and easier too
if you was where we was, what would you do?

He's drinking, and drinking, but it's not going away
in one month they lost a person for every day
thirty one deaths
thirty one deaths!
Thirty one deaths
it seems sometimes like he's the only one who can't forget
and as he exhales into his interlaced fingers
he can't see the blood on his hands, but the scent of iron lingers
young and alone, he staggers through winter like wet cement
with a pain pushing on his kidney like a broken bone that won't relent
his needs come back and haunt him, yet
direction is the one thing in life he could never find
now his hands guide him through a picture in his mind
swearing, crying, I am blind!

It was the perfect irony
when the sidewalks cleared of ice
and the sun shone down, now they could see
they wanted to go outside when it was nice,
but for the loss of many,
when they found his body
struck by a shovel clearing a path
on his side curled in a ball,
they became numbers to his statistic, indifferent and evil math
more witnesses than family, all their eyes would fall
that's the cruel nature, he died by a stoop and no one saw or heard his call
when he was discovered, he was made an example to them all
on the dangers of drinking methanol.

if i am to become an American citizen... i'll requote: don't, you... *******... tread... on... me... savvy?! now that i've stirred the ghosts of dogs with sighs and they stopped barking... i imagine... i dream, i remember... i might think: but if thinking is 1 and being is 1 and am is 2... mouth agape... monkey laughing: who the carrot the stick and the donkey?! said the monkey? maybe us northerners are more inclined to believe: we devolved from bears... some say we evolved from apes... but i think we devolved from bears... and who is to prove me wrong? the prowess... of the English anti-racial intellectual elitism?! maybe in America... in the extent of the English language having influence on Polynesia... maybe there i can find my heart and grave and peace... they do look Taiwan'ease sinister... though... these Polynesian hulk and proper bone foundations... half baked Asiatics exposed to the sea like the Mongols to grass, fields and horse *****... hey presto... i also live to get to a junction of faults, ambitions, defaults and failures... how... about... you?

Cartesian arithmetic and algebra combined:
who said: who... who... i'll ask calmly once:
*******! more... who said?
i think therefore i am
is equivalent to 1 + 1 = 2... who?
what about... not thinking:
by not thinking "i think" of...
i imagine... therefore? i conflate...
i remember... therefore... i become melancholic:
i: deflate... myself (reflexive):
my self (reflective)...
                               who for the God's pardon
of owning a word
sticks and pointers... i counted 16 of those
from Y (3 = 3):
unless that's a curve, and a curse...
atop a pine growrth of iota: no diacritical markers
i believe: exist: either of i or j:
disappearing when lodged in the lower-case:
you ******* ***** you think you
think you will get to behavioural psychology
with me?! with me?!
agony:
Y = 3
H = 3, but also 4...
W: 1, 2, 3, 4...
or... 5...
H... mirror mirror on the wall:
who is creature of posits and frames
and dimensions...
and who is in orbit:
i ****** well know that behind the Tetragrammaton
there are two... *******...
two: ******* deities!
you wed phallus **** you wed yourself
and that's why you can't love:
or only love via the crucifix:
you diabolical wrench! you ******* cognitive
tool: i standardized to away with you
i think doesn't precipitate into being
a study of ontology...
i also imagine:
i ******* dream:
but there is no strict Cartesian definition
of faculties and how all of them merge:
converge...
        now i'm at god well ******:
because i gave 20 quid to a beggar woman
and in that i know that i'm not my father
and that bothers me in the slightest of
featherweight: ooh ooh... tickles:
tickles my hopes to being a blond bombshell
tourist via La Chong Ching: Laos Methanol:
apparently it's the new quested
Axua-Ask-Ah: ask Ah first: then Allia...
by the time "we've" finished:
you'll be having this freed Philistines of Palestine
debates: for... for...             as long...
as you... ******* like...
                that's X for H: like ha ha... ha...
let me get my ******* boiling violin out
and play you a sad tune...