[Hashtag]MeToo
Here it goes again,
trending on Insta and Facebook.
Where real awareness stems.
Mind the sarcasm,
social media’s a powerful tool
not knockin’ that.
I wonder though,
does the mind of the follower
understand the context of the hash?
Do they get it should be a call to action?
Not necessarily at the keyboard.
More like on the couch with their children,
Giving the conversation of consent.  
Most people do not even understand it by definition .
The meaning of yes and no convoluted by scenario.  
Bias boils over like milk and water over full flame.
The posts bubble out and stick to the side of the pan,
quickly drying; leaving their mark.
Until the soap and warm water flows over them,
and the steam evaporates the confessions.
Until they are again whispers we all hear and know.
It’s whispers from the alley ways,
and from married couples bedroom doors.
The woman is the property,  
the man is the proprietor.  
We refuse to address the real problems,
the failures of our up-bringers.
We point fingers and slay names
yet the statistics provide the truth.  
One in four for females, one in sixteen for males.
We all have been violated, slandered, and forced to say
[Hashtag]MeToo
Not going to say I did not share it,
I know the touch of unwanted hands,
the invasive *******.
All for the sake of the insanity,  
in repeating a useless gesture.
The only difference is
My hashtag went to my Senator.

I famigerate without taciturn timidity the straits of a straightened jury-rig of nesiote narrowbacks harping the accordion zest and zeal of the plenilune consuetude of a scrivello infamy sprung into the rows of rip-tide acclaim hamstrung by the decline in fastidious upkeep of the timberlask vesicles that avoid the phenakism of prismatic reformation fundamental to transmogrified simpers of dismal saturnine darkness encroaching on the parallax of realms within the dominion of the Almighty for the omniety of the usucaption of the fruitful prune in the priggish afterglow of a noontide eclipse bereaved of whispering retreat in the hallowed wasms of stiltanimity becoming an entreaty to ecumenical barbs of propriety selected without intimacy to folksy bibliopolists but rugged in sterling tribute to the true vine of the appointed ways of sacerdotal triage among a roughshod vanity of a derelict world marveling at otiose rejoinder rather than true spasms of tragedy flickering in the recessive alleles of a careworn culture. The travesty of Beirut is the bromide of current leapfrogs of sentinel lust and malapert destruction forming an ironclad camaraderie with chocolate-box langlauf disasters wed uxoriously to the penury of the brackish version of the catadromous bailiwick of despotic nescience pregnant with sophrosyne redemption at the cusp of a plaid perfunctory quip of quisling intimations of the sketchy provenance of humdingers of comestion lurking in the plodding prowl of a ribald wiseacre of a beckoned billow of trinkochre welded into a conscientious blarney that awaits the popinjays that sculpt brittle redshort fictions into awakened carapaces of a limacine reduction of impoverished fulmination into the neatly sworn footprints of a geotaxis shuddering with magnetism only in spectacle without the overhailing zeal of vintners who specialize in curtailed wine drawn from Caiaphas and soaked with the muddy turgid Siloam as avenues toward the repentance of asunder becoming marginalized as a whimper of taciturn choleric war receding not even into an audible delope as the masterful chryselephantine assault of cryptic auditions in the theater of effete refuge sink into the pelagic oblivion of a remarkable blister festering into inconsequence as the rebarbative emoluments to tattered travesty hearken a battle-cry yet emanated in the reprehensible bulwark of the gerendum of a poised plastered humility aggrieved with such friction turgid on rollicking magpiety that even the larceny of brutish renegades of triumph sink beneath the brevity of accident rather than the fortitude of globalized turpitude weakened by the improper demarche of fuliginous homeless depredation of innocent bystanders flocking to the harvest of war found in insight rather than the perfunctory bromidrosis of the macroscian enmity of hidden maleficence spawning a credenda that is spayed on arrival in the faineant zoolatry of a spelunkers’ madcap dash to flex the filigrees of turmoil in resentment of the amicable truces of a God who never tempts and a lurking lie that never itches for trigger-happy hapless rebukes because the skittish skirmish of futilitarian repose is a scoundrel of the profligacy of errant weakness blinkered by the humdrum din of deafening semaphores of provocative thornbush on the threshing floor of cowardly imposture president of all affairs of spirit and all renegades of caitiff megalography of forgotten oblivion despite the curglaff of vindictive and never vindicated assaults on the integrity of the birthright of Lebanon to wager a presumptive gamble of trifling retribution for the alacrity of suspicions eloping with forbidden mistresses in the humdingers of flackey rather than the troudasque harbinger of a lunacy impugned by a restive triumphant fallow time seasonable for a litany of pretenses demassified for a liturgy of seances with eldritch commiseration in the saw-toothed serration of selachostomous bravado wielded by likely or unlikely culprits of ravenous ruin shepherded by the guilty cardinal sins of the complicity of explosive vanity marauding on the ruins of a fortress debased by pettifoggery of internal excuse rather than the wrath of provocative ire in the irksome cauterized wounds of the inured to deliver spectacular reticence despite such grievous diacope. Evil gilderoys of maleficence carve the sapwood of the periphery to aimless subversions miscarried by the modern atrocity of glamour memorialized as a sound-byte underminnow of a roaring rhombos rip tide as stocks wavy at the curvature of edgy demarche despoil the denuded wasteland of cultural despondency a wagtail to the impudence of famigerated affronts that deserve a sterling recompense wielded by the onerous and operose burdens of a prone decubitus of aboriginal bread seeded from Heavenly realms dissipating into the roars of blinded conflagration too meek to even exist on the ramshackle hillside of a barnstorm of aggression powerless to encapsulate the nexility of unspoken allegiance to destruction rather than the halidom of consecrated marriages balking at the caulked provisions of a slugabed monolith of craven capers on the recesses of abeyance in the interregnum of a time where famous people communicate with me. How can such a charismatic bravado of lurking presidency stoop to the denizens of usufruct in licentious latitudes on the outskirts of consideration even pretend anymore that the vacuum of effluvium (Gal 6:7) can be mocked and milked into the row of centuries blistering through the calenture of apprisal and heaved awakening as the zephyrs of the Occident meet temporal juncture with the coenesthesia of a hibernating trumpery formed by the turnverein of listless lethargy billowing through fumiducts of siphoned lavaderos of hypogeiody that the underground spasms of cacophony could marvel at the historic emergence of a magnate with the most powerful magnetism of God shepherding the true flock John 10:27 because he is willing to be the good shepherd and potentially die for his sheep John 10:11. Remember, whenever you hear a Queer Studies Radical Feminist bloviate on emasculated sardanapalian posture John 8:44 and even though personified as a masculine titan of bulwarks of immense otiose wilted inkburch shielding the world from true meaning, the maskirovka of the Devil is present in the dark trespasses of personal abandon among the wilderness of many marsupial jackals of martles wagtails to an invictive proclamation of invulnerable sappy sopanaceous filibusters against hefty sinew forged the bony fragments of the charnels lost to brief epitaphs never mourned in threnodies worthy of remembrance that the departed died with us and live again through us whether in Heaven as participant or on Earth as an acting battalion of the skullduggery of the mystique of shimmers of God acting on Man’s behalf 1 Col 1:15-16. That the firstborn of all creation obtains supremacy through the finalisms that I seek as the captain of trailblazing untrammeled roads we are reminded of the narrow and wide gates expanded by the explosion of thought that trespasses into the hidebound ratchet of a reasonable bleat becoming a harsh outcry of justice for Lebanon that they feel so powerless in implosion what could aggrieve potentate civilizations to the precipice of global maleficence in destruction. Swarming for alveolate hominid hominism as an outgrowth of alienation by design polarized spectral dangles at jaundice flamestun by the ordeal of oppositive barnacles to the chryselephantine habituation of a masked menace of Procrustean authority to muzzle the free license of armamentariums of a latent man keen to the kenspeckel visibilia that we might have punctuation in the poised primiparas of a hearkened unprecedented in modern history that the traipse of lapse is no longer the tenure of mindless calculation of authoritarian gabble sentries of a mobilized fleet of embodied human ignorance but a foisted sprite of whangams of apothegm that deserve in their gnomic respite from the phenakisms of a philogeant kumbaya assertive in its treony of radical compassion for those who dwell in tentpoles of revelry bound not to the covenant that sent us into light and sparkling in hidden obsolescence that the fulgurant words of Mount Horeb (Sinai) are both immaculate and without trace of sin because Acts 17:30 declares a powerful truth lost to the twinges of time that issued peremptory governance of my theology but through remission I admit the grievances of septiferous blockades of ponderous plodding nescience haunting the spectral aubades of paeans to a high-flown sun darting through galactic space apace of the velivolant sails of divine wind that come in the spree of recompense authored by the vines to which all roots belong rhizogenic and immutable because the demarches of time forget the marches against the cauterized grime of new-world suspicions of aleatory fickle gubernatorial proclamations that issue reverb more than sprinkle flanged atrocity in the sight of the holy ramparts of an active double-edged God who reminds us of our many witnesses but provides not a single latchkey of escapism resident to many hapless homes of the drunken sing-song rhapsody nullifying the psychotaxis of the motatory miserly Draconian charades of Leviathan grasping the tridents of warp-speed revisionism in a benighted world overrun by mandarist fictions that fumigate a pasteurized control of cultural malcontent in situations of dearth infested by the concentration camps of China that remain unheralded in brumal and brutish indoctrination spared from worldwide outrage by the tribunes that are complicit more in malfeasance than they are celebrated for the herald of heinous bletcherous crimes of abecedarian abligurition anointed in waste rather than refined like unquenched slakes of eternal water so that no man can thirst hungry for the daily bread without returning to the providence of God awakened. Recalcitrant by the impudent quislings of repugnasket flarmeys of advenient flummoxed besieged clairvoyance I bask and beaze on the light that never fades because of the brackish whisk of a barnstorm of allegiance that is contumely to a bromide society listless in inferiority of intellect to my former streaks beyond jejune reiteration of the Jehu mentality against the canine fate of Jezebel and her faltered ministry of ewnastique waged as battalion gore of a trifling musket of an aboriginal swim through the oceanic gaze of peerless eternity squirming because of flagging resolution among the spandrels of incommunicable largesse lolloped extravagantly not just for the spoils of hyped pedigree but also a chamade to Heaven to enlist the purblind vestiges of a crambazzled Earth rejuvenated in adolescent esprit rather than callow eclat against the outrecuidance of whimpered miserly conscientiousness that exists in a shorter frame of reference than the provident dashes through a furlough of time and ancestry to cobble together a lapidary bristling excoriation of the tumescent squabbles of mystique brave enough to rarefy the humid pasteurization of a mannequin kenspeckel still-frame jilt of jostled infamy brusque in its curt envies borne of still-born promenades of a whasper between the youthful ligony and the intrepid soul of a collective warrior debased by the adscititious participant to elegant effronteries of the newfangled intellectual vogue that is the grombang of the tralleyripped hamshackle of ostentation meeting mirrored paralysis in sheepish ewnastique creations meddlesome in their ironic frizz of recursion as I lounge on the habits of creation by intelligent lurches of design that appointed the demarcations of all creatures and the mysterious bridge between the missing links that remain elusive to the flombricks of the misery of epigenetic rhizogenic imparlance of desuetude cringing at foresight littered with the disaster of ravished hindsight blushing at the limpid degeneration of the vapid varnish of benighted ligony rather than heroic strides of stoic-epicurean compromise in the apolaustic pursuit of the one eternal God present in rebellion but never the temptress of mendacity and mendaciloquence because the tug I have on speed is ratifying a cauterized casualty in the spumid betrothed wicked snuffs of extinguished furor for a time beyond barnstormed racloir rugged origination and faulty phenogenesis that escorts mythos into actionable litanies of the awakened breed scoffing at the inkburch of “Electrolytes”-wernaggle that besets the queer fascinations of a warped generation. The pytherian swank of artrench embodied in the recocted rendevation of hypetrophy in hubris swaddled by the reductive dranger polluting the realm of compliant complicant complaints of the ashowel of albatross astroud in the hibernaculum of langlauf rather than the ultramontane fiduciary tether to the estrockentch rather than the laureates of plevisable courage found in truest shades of vinsky not the subhastation of a gaslighted galvanization of purebred classy swivels of opportunism nor the ravenous incubus appetite for usufruct in subversion belongs to the behest of an insular nesiote flexing the flux of subversion as the candid posies of saccharine immodesty become relegated figments of the everlasting age of promised propriety rather than rigid stultimathy of hackencrude virtues of virtuosos that marvel at troudasque wonders occluded by the girlcott of Team Biden and his militarized soldiers of desiccation of trumpery and the faucets unbounded by swanky concealed epithets of regaled rentgourge by a hapless objection of the runic destruction of apothecary leniency becoming of the betokened emblazonry of scrimshank in every perfuncturation but embodiment of character shouldered by every chasm of power erected in demolition of the warped egintoch radicalism of the submerged wernaggles of the hopeless minority swimming with autodimplage few have to bear but the truest flock of God heeds my voice and has the sapience to spare themselves of contumely and invective to hearsay of invictive triumph beyond radioglare swirk to renege the musical providence of the chamades to the asterongue I often take for granted by immunifacient degrees of the foretold encroaching upon the crux of a pivotal and pivoted destiny not distant from cordial providence. The sweedle of epigones for the risctender of obligation to subvert the coryphaeus with the rigmarole of gentincture borrowed from the Gates’ formulaic effleck of perverse warbles of collectivized contrition for abetted cultural pederasty limpid in its achieved objective of the crudenzy borrowed from a lacking impediment to arentrum belonging to the knowledgeable happenstance of the glorified dengonin is a denostram that forestalls the agelasts behind porsters of culture rather than legitimate mainlined contamination of wellsprings of fliction of paranoiac enthusiasm might swim in kinkativy blinkered blind piebald girouettism but never dauntless in sematic entrenchment of robust dilettantism as the swaddled corrugation of time into centripetal ****** against centrifugal modernism that alienates propriety while estranging by vacuous vacuums the outspoken progeny of the surviving age beyond the Jay and Silent Bob travesty that manifests as a glower of menacing Bushian invention to tarnish with ****** mythos the drapes of a defenestrated realism of the flinkers of sheepish indignation against many drakstings of intonorous sclerotic mandibles of crackjaw chockablock annihilation of core precepts and institutions indelible from the face of a quixotic entreaty of a ragged intrusion of ageotropic monoideism above the secular-clerical fidelity of honest witness borne of triumph and tribulation festooning the nativist hyperbole into a useless effigy of mountebank imposture silly in precision and purblind to gallantry. Yet I must kisswonk rather than truckle under such ponderous pretense because of a sertivine certainty in the thickets of prudence rather than the tomfoolery of humgruffin impudence scaffolds me to a post-modern ****** that shanks through prisons of guilt and burrows an interrogation of reality supreme over all complaint that the virtuosity of the Gifted (the elect flock that comprehends my volcanic diatribes against mandarism and stomachs them without sardonic pastorauling insults of passerby vicissitude) will spare many nations of awakened perjury against human instinct in the fitness of nations to denigrate the populist squalor of lurid and livid ewnastique wernaggles of the listless buttress against my formal modesty encouraged in all affairs even in aggrieved humility belonging to intimidation rather than spawned jostles through the rumpus of shunamitism that might rankle a later age.  Yentrified morality is a personal flapdoon against the promiscuous pederasty of freewheeling ophelimity and the lurking narquiddity of the traindeque of donnist hedonism to hijack my psychedelic tolerance into an unwarranted and inadvisable sanction into the netherworld of the frinterans of cultural modality that curdact religion into a cosmetic cosmogony rather than a soldiered infamy becoming a beacon on a towering hill growing in solidarity with the pleonasm of existence itself which surpasses crude formulas that already abide by the riches of decorum too much to be admired as trigger-happy fools run the asylum of domesticated irony and the librettos to downfall rather than the wassails of “The Man” becoming more masculine in featured charisma rather than defiled against Leviticus among others who preach belonging to nuclear creed without fission but for true rapprochement to the fusion of the treony with legitimate gripes of unsung complaint among the masculine minority. The traindeque of a baseline complaint aggrieved by the kilmarge carapace of stiltanimity for the hackencrude resentment of the inkburch of illiteracy is a profligate degeneracy lurid in hyped enmity that the envied entreaty becomes the despotic shadow masquerading in shadows blossoming into the full wisdom of the mature sophrosyne heart eager to pour out blessings upon a conservation of recycled epitaphs becoming hearsay in a rebarbative convolution of redacted rigmarole incendiary to whittled henpecks of political engineering but never vapid in their flagging insistence upon an ecumenical toleration of the brooks of modernity and compromise upon which much felicity is aggrandized and permuted against the spoilsport frinterans who encage a dodgy moralism in wilted etiolated jaunty pedigree that espouses the maudlin grievous and ghastly ghouls and sprites that haunt the fictional hobgoblins of the Potemkin Village that finds usury convenient and perjury even more facile for the glib facetious engineers of modalities of hatred unsung by the ribald witwanton “I got a Solution...You’re a ****…South Carolina What’s Up” crowd that never marvels at ingenuity or rarely attempts it in the summit of the climacteric jaundice of hidebound whemmles of ridicule sparring against spartan flagitious wiseacres of genocide of ideation for the revelry of armed missives denatured by raw promotion of the questionable ethics of a flavork of needed slakes of unquenchable desire swarming us with daily temptresses not of wayward women but the disarmed pretense of a lapidary rejoinder to a long expatiation or harangue against hackencrude curdles of rowboat injustice masquerading as sentinel savory destruction of the towering edifice of proclamation. There is great menace in the casuistry of sophist philogeant philocubists dicey with destiny for mincemeat puppetry against sciamachy for the gallionic rise of gammadions in the craven lore of baseline pasquinade rallied to the insuperable causes of tribal shibboleth anointed by secular totemisms of fracture and fricative hisses of lineage that amount to pleonasms of brassage rather than mystagogical mystique of the prestige of human fraternity that shatters paradigms of creed and invites an honest vestige of Noble Savages to roam the Earth yet again unencumbered by lugubrious welters of misnomer and malapropism wagered by artifices of guileless supremacy that is cursory prima facie neglect of even the sororal duties not of sophomoric glib facetious cowardice of backbited backlash of venom militarized for the desuetude of entertained visagists sculpting *****-nilly their version or verdict of decisive apartheid when we should all rally behind the united frontier of the chosen flock in the chosen generation to truckle beneath the pews not of ignorance aggravated by the polluted kilmarge egintoch puritan barbs against publicity choices I now regret (as an emolument to an incredibly euphoric track with a poor miserly message to the enchanted flock inoculated from such diversions) because alighted upon the quenched thirst of salvation I will be judged more harshly as a teacher James 3:1 than the rest of my flock but gifted with the gratuitous salvation carved from the chiselers of ribald infamy capering around with dacoitage and ladronism of the bomans of unsuspecting quixotic caprice I must reckon with the burden of ghoulish shadows on the spectral imprint of my eternal soul relishing in vicarious splendor yet bereaved of quintessential love 1 Cor 13:4 that is necessary for the nuclear conclamation of vibrant hues of resplendent and refulgent providence necessary not from a dynastic perspective but from an aimed providence that alerts dynamism rather than chides with mimes of useless schadenfreude carved from the prestidigitation of the wicked condemned in Galatians 6:7 for the mockers of sanctanimity accorded upon me as gratuity that no man can boast my elite ears and my astute wonderworks of imagination qualified me for prophecy and among the most mesmerizing prophecies registered to fulfillment that the world has ever yet witnessed because the watershed isn’t a bridgewater for the chavish of ignoramus hatred congealed into thrombosis but the narrowed gate enlarges to encompass the swath of man amenable to the flocks that escort me into permanence rather than regale the tridents of a hedonism that elected me clairvoyant at a cost of immaculate splendor registered to the holy clergy of the Sacred Catholic Church and the broader Ecumenical Endeavor that tries to be a seamstress and bridge elemental divides inherent to divided approaches to liturgy which flex their strengths in times of robust fortitude rather than become a subhastation to the vestiges of the pilgrimage to false tabernacles erected by people cozened into charlatan endeavors by the pernicious and persnickety whiplash of Least Common Denominator subversion of widely heralded sentience and sapience enriching the lot of human ambition rather than stoking useless conflagrations of refracturism accorded to the swallock of primposition of the hackneyed hackencrude that swivels with the odious ornery pretense of overtures not to apertures and lychgates of the true abiding Heaven felt on Earth by many Christians whether in sobriety or not without the evil maleficence of a misguided donnism of narquiddity for the grambazzles of aged recklessness aborning on vacant responsibility that is rickety in its magnanimity of absolution because of the ulterior chase for bottom-line top-dollar oligochrome foisted by the cartels that blind true spiritual insight from ever reaching the magnitude of ambition required to shape mountains of revolution among the tertiary squabbles of a conversant Earth open to the troudasque gallop into yield and cloveryield for repcrevel reforms the paludism of the swamp remains skittish about conforming to because objectivism is a renegade of perspicuous light blinkering in hubris and gourmandizing the hinderbaggle of cosmetic pollutions aggravated by the plevisable articles of envy and TLDR politics to “Electrolyte” logic that is a sad recursive wernaggle of the useless buffoonery of humgruffins of tatterdemalion spate rollicking in the magpiety of a timid consentient faltering myth of unanimity among the beleaguered rainbows of many lugubrious tears showering bickering blasphemy upon the mockery of God for the pleasantry of self-aware sheepish resignation that professes only that any form of meritocracy is existentially unfounded only because the beehive elected its progeny the scepter of the ironclad kingdom that wages war against idolatry and serenades heaven with luxury simultaneously. We are all shepherds of providence and there is power enough in collective prayer that we don’t fiddle around with bodewash in mistaken identity but riddle the persnickety blemish of the fastidious critiques of biting sarcasm as a tantamount blasphemy and a criminal repartee of sardonic cloys of inanity foisted above truth. The peevish breedbates who scour my evidentiary pillar of chiseled vertebrae of unbroken bones of solidarity with oikonisus will be sorely disappointed in their truthful audits of my true perception because in every single case it exonerates me from the pulpit of menacing idiots who scrawl random gabble in attempts to sound smart while reeking of iniquity wrought by the gavels of predevoted inferiority of complexion and attitude that gravitates them to an insensate benumbed transmogrified bailiwick of an appalling atrocity of mythomaniacal myths spurned by consensus among those who prize my grandeur above the superstitions of the illiteracy of the rancid rankle of otiose stupidity writhing its own sheepish envy of arbitrary dislike motivated by feminist aggressors waging warfare on turf I already conquered by swaying the intelligentsia to beckon my cause rather than pillory me on a false scaffold of frinteran abuses of the nyejays of bernacle that junediggle in the taradiddle of the nanciful excoriation of my leaden corpse weighed down by the witchcraft of connivance trayning its own delicate myths while avoiding scrutiny for appalling contumely that deserves an audience more suited for fracklings of treony belonging to the trinkochre of the rising alienation and suicides among perverted gay indoctrination that is a scourge on the planet because it willfully denies with its portentous hibbles the regaled wisdom of the culminated age against renegades of apostasy and for the behemoths of true monumental change that sizzles in savory circles among the vanguard only to alarm the Status Quo hijack of my entire endeavors as a covert crusade to use wrecking-ball fashion tactics to cosmetically incisively and insidiously perform a harprick of surgery upon a blameless countenance only for being a thorn to wragatek wragapole slavery which wages war against universal salvation because it gripes with inkburch and circular pleonasms about the most obvious glaring lies and feasts upon the serrated edge of the capers of hatred that frolic in meadows too skittish to enter the barbarian fortress of my forested residence robust in fortitude and glowering with a menacing contempt for runaround psychobabble that obganiates the obelisk of the moribund crusade to make normative ethics effeminate and to enthrone inviolable women’s speech as supreme to any male objections like the Cristiano Ronaldo accuser that came forth 8 months after #MeToo one of the most dishonest campaigns in modern history enthroned by Hollywood elites in gammerstang insurrection against pay-gap ethics done manipulatively with the sapwood of mendaciloquence like Blasey Ford whose physiognomy reeked of maudlin pretense that was so ornery in how obvious of a maleficence the intrepid Abortion Agenda has over the minds of selfish women who prefer ecbolic second-term abortions to the servile gripes of primiparas building new life rather than tearing down the scaffolds of new generations. Hominism deserves its rise because-in increasing numbers-men are derelicted by society and coerced into vapid tallespin enslavement that ridicules itself with the perjury of soul to the soulless vanity of recursive cycles of benumbed narquiddity found in “****** Hero” among other atrocities littering the human fascination with the hinderbaggle of our polluted age verging on totemic blistering hegemony of a few rotten apples corrupting the vagrant ingenuity of the forgotten champion who ushered in a new era of candor in the attempted interregnum of the United States government because I Am Hollywood got the name correct considering how many memorials there are to me in the movie industry. The junediggles of sc-ha-den-freud-e which is as deliberate of a German pun as JUDEn JuDEN which shows the German language is as farsighted as you can get and why many of my neologisms have a German tinge to them. German is an elegant language with botched syntax but a peerless repertoire of vocabulary and even though I love French, the Germans are smart because their language is smart not just because of petty arguments of pedigree which are specious at best. Being dontolesque with  the zenkidu of rengall nauclatic mythos is an artful degree which accords nominal prestige to licentiates while excorifying the obvious metaphors of sunblind logic that scours the scorched Earth of internet diatribes of sophistry and dethrones the Marcie Biancos of the world “Heterosexuality is officially OVER...K Bye” with her 145 IQ and a Stanford Degree in Queer Studies (A professed atheist by her own Twitter admission) with the warped logic to equate a heterosexual relationship for a woman as ******* to patriarchy. For someone that well-studied in literature she sure is a dumb-*** and I will demolish the syntagma of those that root against me for Status Quo preservation in the official interregnum of Saturdays during the Trump Presidency. We need an official referendum on the ideas of termagant illogical anti-egalitarian poison that derives from a deracinated worldview that doesn’t contextualize how powerful language is at shaping thought because if the entire world were Anglophonic every single country on Earth virtually would see immediate dividends in terms of intellectual creativity and limber with concepts and percepts because it is no accident the most successful empire in History the United Kingdom, was favored because of its shibboleths of Shakespearean creativity draped with flairs of the irreverent while gilded by God to be a majestic commonwealth. England and France monopolized a huge majority of history by no accident because although English might be a slightly keener language the French culture of salons of freewheeling intellectual enlightenment gilded the 17th and 18th centuries into absolution despite the Panglossian epithets of Voltaire who was ironically dissuaded from religion because of the All Saints Day 1755 Lisbon Earthquake and Tsunami. We need to be vigilant against encroachments of perceived shibboleths and more keen on an affirmative meritocracy that favors the poor and blesses the meek in their poverty and inspire ambition among them to join the coteries of refinement in thought sometimes harder to achieve with crackjaw lollops in pleonasmic languages that fail to articulate with nexility or forceful wit the true abstractions that govern the pataphysics of the unknown. Language is so decisive over human thought that it is incumbent upon every language to refine its vocabulary to trayne compendious verbiage and trim the hedges of global reform to invite the curiosity of the age to favor all creeds and languages of Abraham and the diverse progeny of a variegated panoply of majestic feats common to all parlance and capacity beyond just the Anglophonic snare because the world needs not a chicanery of blustering churlish buffoonery but an Almighty respect for the consanguinity of all to God’s blessed creation that he inseminated by his deliberate hands to enrich the world with diversity rather than cleave the world with piecemeal skeumorphs of radical propaganda that opposes the modern and post-modern egalitarian streak. One wrong must be corrected, however, the underrepresentation of Hispanics in the media and in film because this grave error is much more pervasive than the ******* LGBT inclusion narrative because these days the lollygags of fashionista odalisques with Obelisks to Baal get more say over the common decorum than the marginalized bronteum of the  rich and vibrant Latino culture which is squelched by the poverty of media and Hollywood representation. Synectics showcases how a henpecked aim at the synaesthesis of culture congregated around our Almighty Father blessed among the nations who adhere to the progeny of Abraham can be more blessed when working together rather than tribal with nepotism and aristocratic in sustained affronts to the elevation of affirmative meritocracy to the forefront of discussion rather than the froward backlash of benumbed narquiddity because the synallagamatic nature of complexity needs to be devolved with industrious ambition to all cultures and the savory flair of the vogue needs not merely a wednongue fascination with an eventual terminus of crudenzy but a sustained intellectual reformation on all fronts to standardize the English language through Hollywood and the Music Industry so that the dragnets of appeal etch a permanent trace into the engraved souls of the true flock John 10:27 are consecrated in divine purpose to reverse the Babylonian Diaspora of confused and conflated purpose that stunts the raltention of humane course and the proper pataphysical syncrisis of an evolved mundane temperament that transcends the circular traps of circumlocution common to the milquetoast industrial titans who winsomely charm with toady gestures the elitism of a moribund philosophy of intellectual thought delegation to elevate the common rhetoric to reach new pinnacles in both tribune and political gamesmanship because higher standards are required even when they surpass some common understanding so that every ambition becomes a conclave for the goal of human unity solidified by the truth of the kerygma and proclaimed to all creation as the culminated synclastic reformation of the idea of indulgence and the propriety of regaled moderation that appeases the common decorum with a shared vested interest in Latin America especially which is besieged by the cultural tenets of obrogated specialization and denigrated by the common myths of warped phenogenesis which should be debunked as a wasm of hypocrisy limited because its callous tentacles lack the charismatic fulgurant equipment of future generations to bear the operose burdens of a quintessential time of harmony united by the hymns for God by God to appease the sentries in Heaven and the celestial realms that exist for our merriment more than our detriment. The sprauncy have the  frikmag to recognize the spuria of apocryphal heresies that encourage kinship above matriotism and shared fortitude for intellectual valor rather than “*** talk TLDR” hashtags abounding on the turf of the insensate wernaggle of clueless charlatans wiggling through life not because they were borne into slavery but because they choose to be Helicopter Parents of “Baby Shark” rather than token mantelpieces of enlivened culture shimmering with radiation of Gods glory as cemented in Colossians 1:15-16 because the firstborn of all creation lives in some form in the ligature of Christ 1 Cor 12:12 because there are so many talents that exist in our variegated world that the mastery of expertise in dominions of conversant fluency will abet the variegated crops of a draped humanity corrugated on its own ironies for the delicate sizzle of beatific felicity multiplying itself in centupled design over centuries to overcome hinderbaggle while realizing the fictions of some drawflark. The strigine world concedes to this upstart rooster maybe considered a parvenu of dearth but luxuriant in riches boundless to all that draw near to the kerygma of Christ and feast on his daily bread found throughout liturgy because we should listen to people like Cardinal Timothy Dolan who is exceptionally astute (perhaps an understatement) to guide us on a regenerative rather than degenerative pathway towards universal attempts at salvation that broach a new decorum bridged by aliens to select chosen emissaries to bridle the fissions of repartee reserved for the forlorn that balk at ambition rather than relish a new era of seditious determination against the determinist fallacy and for the mental health of those coping with autodimplage and sheepish regrets and persnickety articles of remorse because all the world deserves our consolation and desperate attention rather than the trumpery of the circus masquerade of marauding agitprop which congeals into thrombosis of toxicity as the vast majority of Democrats refuse to even hear Trump speak when he is discussing discursive solutions to enigmatic quagmires,for, if more people listened to Trump they would be disabused by the specious claims of his misogyny and white allegiances because his candor is brilliant and despite the prominent advocacy of Biden who has considerable prestige in my memory, we deserve a bipartisan syncretism that unites the world and unifies the country away from the swerve of salacious mythos and towards a rambunctious magpiety of solidarity against the secular humanism of a defunct piety to Marxist feminism which is a crudenzy among the awakened men around the world increasingly alienated by the hackencrude of wednongue illiteracy even trumpeted by the vanguard as panacea when it is a comestible form of poison. We need visionary unity where there was once toxic divisive balkanization of exclaves of limited foresight clashing with new wave awakening to the persecution of illumination itself for not a rigid hierarchy but a flexible structure of inclusion that adjusts to cultural expectancy and modifies the traindeque that strands many in institutionalized poverty especially in Latin America and India and obviously Africa too. The stegophilists of language should herald the aubade of the chavish of redintegration over the squawk of din of squabbles of internecine redacted revisionism beleaguering our lyceums with toxic agitprop even at the highest institutions of learning who balk often at the recycled auditorium of useful thought because their venal tilt is complicit in squelching freedom of thought and our schools should open early so that zig-zag-zoom politics around feldtrounds who are eagerly outnumbered by the patrons who police thought become agentic not with outspoken treacheries but inseminations of intimation to hint at the spectral mystagogical reality we are all members of despite hurdles that beset the hemiteries of odalisques who seek inertia rather than mobilization. The ribald underminnow of transparency is a carcinogen of the rampant siege of Status Quo coarse hypocrisy for tentative flings with cadged cloyed saturnine professions of the landmines of atrocious miscarriage as I soldier on in the causes of the poor and the forlorn to become enriched by the glory that God delivers with munificence so that all might be enriched by the emanations of the true vine and in distaste of error I rebuke the armada of belittled armamentariums of the cantonment of deep-state breedbates boiling over potboiler frikmag that exists as a transcendent obscurantism flowering in decisive times to warp the contextual footprint of a life served in the service of all the oppressed people as a kind of Moses figure raised by the elite and fighting for the criminally oppressed and the ****** of mediagenic hyperbole is dissatisfied by my glowering spectacles because they dismount from the equipoise of the righteous gallop towards ecumenical solidarity at untimely punctuations of juncture superseding the flictions of frikmag dethroning my righteous valor and provident sanctanimity to prowl like predatory wolves the fathers of the casuistry of mendaciloquence to accentuate the stridor of inopportune squalor of the selachostomous regimes of teetotaler totalitarian freebooters who prevent bootstraps from manufacture as they gradgrind the world into ergonomic insufficiency while I provide a Kamacho-like galvanization to the broader world that favors the consanguinity of all animate sentience to the aboriginal vine of the universe that plays with the toyed cadge of oppositive support but lends credence to a more evolved view than the crudity of encapsulated travesties inserted with jaundice against the lyceum of freedom of thought and the celerity of headless horseman galloping in partial interregnum to crown the strobic stridor of the stiver of the steven of contarianism engineered for walloped ringleaders of the renegades of heresiarch sedition in their odalisque oaths to Pagan dieties carved from the sapwood of gullible Illuminati naivety that professes allegiance to the worst whangam ever invented Baphomet and his faked cronies of ewnastique free-for-all diminutive crags in the renown of dawning light becoming cagey struthious structuralism embedded in sclerotic wasms of the wanhope of a nullified message becoming a sacred creed to the attentive while the lilt of the otiose drawl in serpentine convolution a ribald pleonasm of circular circumlocution that provides locomotive linearity rather than leapfrogged slogmarches into the province of the territorial alignment of kinship against the partisan hollertrap and the stigmatophilia of obsessive persnickety popinjay beadledom the last stronghold of the rickety resistence to this Saturday interregnum which presides over the better part of the intelligentsia if not the common pedestrian parlance because hortatory weights cannot be described in any other way than metagnostic flickers of Yellow Submarine vandalism of a pristine living animation of the humane spirit that prizes the plight of the poor and the blarney and blench of unjust opprobrium faced by the institutionalized bailiwick of flictions of gammadion gallionic posture when in fact they register as seismic entities engraved upon my Christian conscience that strictly welcomes the emigrants to truth from whatever consecrated virtue they originate from because all are capable of the same light and the same compassion of a beatified humanity rather than the relish of deep-state castophrenia which belies its own ribald gay mockery on live TV as not a single twinge of ****** attraction overtakes me in matriotic sardanapalian effrontery of a hollow but sadly hallowed vainglory of the hierodules that bury the coffers of patriotism in a sad LGBTQ graveyard of landmines that demonstrate a complete disregard of the nuclear family and should be decried as an outcry against redefined Christianity bolted to unshakable irrefragable beliefs in the constitution of man and women wed together in one monogamous flesh with the occasional cuddle of close tithes to the ******* of friendship as the slavery of sin in Leviticus 20:13 falls to the wayside because this patriotic lewdness is a vapid fatuous derangement that is a new low for the United States attempt to inoculate China from religious accord with the broader world and should be seen as a Chinese maskirovka worthy of the heaviest disdain and I will disavow America if it continues to bandy the tripwires of Chinese boondoggles under the American banner and pretend its pretense isn’t lagging under its own bletcherous abecedarian elementary fallacy of psychobabble oblivion of dark saturnine brusque termagants of tatterdemalion cloaks of the selfsame illusion of a desperation of China to wreck the United States economy and inseminate Florida, Arizona and Texas especially with the Coronavirus to swing the election in Biden’s favor with or without US Complicity to expedite the course of a virus which sees no resurgence in any other civilized country in the world while the heroic Russians, Germans, Israelis, French, British and true American Christians banish the barristers of bad taste as an acerbic poison on the wellsprings of a flagitious flag I would kneel for in the knells of disgrace if the pompous and completely inoculated missives of Buttigieg ******* continue to roam shepherded by deep state elitism to wreck the opportune moment of religious revival for petty reasons of chryselephantine gambit and gimcrack for institutionalized poverty which my ambition is to heal completely by sacerdotal deeds and consecrated prayers in the Lord whose peace surpasses the temporal despair of senectitude and comforts the grievances of the aggrieved because Galatians 6:7 is no more true than the fatuous display of muscular idiots waving American flags for turpitude rather than flogging very perverse Gay men in the streets which might be a more fitting outcome even though I must remove the plank in my own eyes first to see the irony of the detested. The doytin is no longer misguided by the nanciful derision of the vociferous clangor of the venal Gates mafia militia wrecking ball vaccination Bezos crew in Medina which is a mettle I can’t match when you own every citizen in the world in a few square miles of nesiote territory the denizens of conquest besieging religious sanctity with profane outbursts of corruptible linchpins on the public lynch of the strepsis of periblebsis that vitiates commonwealths of supreme sputtering regimented clairvoyant superlative alabaster wealth of the isangelous protectorate of the supreme God that supervises his careworn flock into the storge against the scourge of prosodemic stigma stained in bleeding heart liberal bathed tears of pseudoautochiria of Jim Morrison glaring in the face of the triads that Killed Him in the French Connection ******* of 71’ that outnumbered his hobohemia of loyal jewish bohemians livid in the rhapsody of nurture rather than enfeebled by the unfurled destiny of the Soul Kitchen he foresaw to his own pitiable demise at probably the hands of strangulation because no autopsy was performed. Although repetitive Transparent is a real anthem for oracular mystagogical transcendence a mandatory hymn for the ryseolagnus of the poetic verve of a new wave swooning the cordial progressive of atmospheric oneness with the primordial vine and the vintners that congregate on populated soil to feed a desolate destitution of synoecy or synaesthesis in the syncretic rhapsody of the subfocal ageotropic plenilune yet saturnine lugubrious toil of those that shovel through the albatross of ewnastique recapitulation to the same tired “Its got what plants crave, it’s got electrolytes” wernaggle of the hopelessly dismal inkburch of illiteracy crawling like a Hyacinth House on a vacant graveyard turf guarding the legionaires of rapid-fire zig-zags through a serpentine curvature of the ligaments of fabricated space warped through prismatic lenses of aperspectival time aspiring for ventriloquial enamored rapture upon Earthly parallax with tapestries of refulgent cascading wandering wonder that meditates its own lucubration with careworn tutelage against the wasms of dying oleaginous swelters of redshort opportunistic vultures swooping with Raven’s claws against the odometer of viewership surpassing records in unspeakable wisdom that crowds out the crambazzle toonardical wreffelaxity of the tiresome nuisance of ornery brawn muscled into a formidable triage in vengeance for Jim Morrison’s scripted eviction from Earth either by poisoned ****** or by  Asphyxiation by the French Connection avenging RFK and the cultural revolutions of 67’ in Haight Ashbury and the widespread percolation of treacheries fathomed to the most obvious degree in showmanship that it bristled as an affront so severe that even the patronage of Paris wasn’t immune to infiltration. His threnodies will always be sung with Triumph that the hallowed day of a monumental soul eluding the darkness of purgatory into the welcoming aborning light of the noontide progeny of eternal ataraxia awaited him in the stagecraft tub of blasphemy bellowing ratcheted warnings that not even the palatine grasp of a potentially divine being was inoculated from the deep dark chasm of nefarious skullduggery for boasting so widely and openly of his professed foresight to glamorous to be hidden as the beacon of virtuosity that galvanized a generation to flout the  futtocks of a keelhauled vision of sanitized purblind mortality that the fear of death rarely crossed the mind of the greatest fearless poet of an entire epoch that we may pray that Jim Morrison feasts in Heaven atoned for his sins and is at peace with God now. The substratose congeniality of marginalia on the outskirts of pederasty in cultural miscarriage owned by hierodules boundless in their lurid debaucheries that they might be remanded for being custodians of hostage to a prolific nescience  reaffirming their dying posture in the extinction of sardanapalian coverthrow of repcrevel camorras of ladronism and dacoitage always cauponate in imbibed throes of lewd AstroTurf outrecuidance glowering at sanctity with a bereaved psychobabble divorced from the purebred empiricism of true giants of industry that are almost insuperable in their extortion that their darkness in deeds of Kobe Bryants assassination do not go unpunished at least in Los Angeles. His untimely death as with many others registered on the Richter Scale because Come Clean perverts from Kansas City wanted San Francisco to win to clean the mops of janitorial revenge of the subturbary rickety foundations of a flailing moral compass so wicked in arbitrage that no subreption undetected would flourish among capernoited vigilantes of poached titanism and illuminism scarring the vestiges of enigmatic encroachment upon untouchables daring the frights of the Living Daylights of scurrilous rebukes so scathing in their menacing depiction of negligent bromides of token sacrilege and scarred sacrifice of a scarecrow example of how the prosodemic scourge of befuddled turgid pristine transmogrified heralds scampered away with pseudoautochiria that afflicted Jimi Hendrix suspiciously as well. My support is behind the justice warriors aggrieved by the Beirut explosion because they deserve a vindictive outcome that quells the quislings of atrocity of the popinjay beadledom of the unspeakable tremors of seismotic popples of unrest warranted in Lebanon the homeland of Keanu Reeves a saint among men for his peerless grace and agraceries of the smog of myth evanescence becoming perdurable swings of the humdingers of berated jaundice becoming the prerogative of the revenge of a city leveled to the ground by suspicious skullduggery and I am surprised they lay dormant for this long in their protracted grievance over the ghoulish frights of one of the most unheralded major events in recent memory. We need to highlight the plight of Lebanon so that world leaders are frightened even of intimidated people tranquilized by terror rather than enlivened by the propriety of redacted rejoinders that serve the ulterior mission of a Titanic bravery that never sinks beneath the sumptuary treacle of grombang grambazzle and supercherie of the supercalendar of poignant repined repose derailing an emolument to ecumenical solidarity. Lets highlight Lebanon as an inexcusable trespass worthy of some mighty reckoning if not a riveted war but at the very least a devastated twinge of outrage.

.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.

I do not write this poem to attack men
Rather to make them understand the world in which we live
Has been turned against us woman and left us in the dark
Where ads, magazines, video games all make us out to be ****** objects with no brains
And when that dark comes he will see us no more than a ****** object

When we speak of #MeToo it is questioned
What were you wearing
What were you drinking
Did you kiss him
Did you go to his house
Did you take any drugs

The ****** assault hurts less than the accusations
When principles, parents, friends all victim blame you
The sense of wanting revenge is replaced with wanting it to disappear.

2 of 3 ****** assaults go unreported because woman don’t feel like we’re being heard.
We are victim blamed and we are tired of being treated like ****
When health education and the media are more open with consent
And rapists actually get jail time
Is when I will live in a world where I am okay with having a girl as my child
But as of right now I am scared shitless that I will not be able to protect her from the ugly
That is why I stand with the #MeToo movement

I’m the most complicated person when it comes to saying what I want. But I know exactly what I want. Although getting that is beside the point what I want is to move at my own pace. There is so much pressure in there needing to be a decision and rushing into a commitment before there's even a true connection. I'm looking for any excuse to not fall for someone because deep down I'm not ready and the loneliness will never be as strong as the respect I have for myself. A body next to me at night will never fill the void. There's something bigger than a chance at love that is holding me back. It could be that my heart was broken enough to break me, my body used like a lifeless blow up doll without a choice time and time again by too many, by giving myself to only one and be taken by one, two, three, four, five. To be beaten for half of my young life and held down, degraded, ashamed of the skin I lived in and voice I spoke. The numbers are too much to fathom but I am worthy of love but not before I let go and love myself… #MeToo

The worst part is
I loved you back
Adulterous affair,
Absolutely abominable!

Maybe you didn’t mean to love
Me, the girl inside
the young woman’s body,
you only thought you knew

Flirtatious banter
once hinted at thoughts

Unsayable;
Intelligible abyss once linked
unsuspecting minds;
Understanding so
Deep, so
Accidental.

Praise me, praise me.

Be careful,
Time is taking over,
How could you, you fool
You can't beat the clock!
You're in love now.
Did you intend for this?

But was it Me you sought to love?
Or was it just my body?
The thrill of the ilicit,
The power
Over a child?

Origins unknown

Grown out of your control.
Say goodbye to reason
I’m your master now.

What’s happening to you?
You’re afraid and I, well
I am the child
who will destroy you

Words, your last weapon
Escalating, no wait, stop
You’re killing yourself.

It's too late
I tried to warn you
You failed me, embarrassed
Me.

I egged you on.

I loved you back.

I’m sorry.
#MeToo

TW: r#pe culture

anxiety-riddled,
my head is a constant battle of sounds
and feelings crashing
like waves into each other;
interference scares me.
as does being out of rhythm,
missing too many beats — i am
conflict-averse but i am also
realistic:

i know that
sound travels faster
through solids and liquids
than through the air,
can be distorted
and interfered
into oblivion—
that when
push comes to shove,
whisper networks
can only reach so far.

scores of screaming matches
between metoo advocates and r#pist apologists
crescendos of nails
scraped across a board
feel a bit too familiar
like listening to white noise and broken records on repeat
while scrolling through toiletpaperworthy nonapologies
witnessing victims collectively crying in an orchestra of agony
and then be blamed for attention-seeking at best,
of causing their own suffering at worst.

although it pains me to listen to these tragic tunes,
it is amusing how so many mishear this collective choir as
survivors celebrating with silly receipts in cancel parties
serving blistering hot tea sweetened by revenge - no

all this is anything but
cathartic.

it’s to make people aware
that the same melodies are sung or screamed
  by those who suffered similar pains
and so that those of a similar frequency know
there are those who listen
that their voice matters
and we are not alone.

- 20210315

Today I accidentally saw a preview of; The News;
a disabled sixteen-year-old girl, a victim of abuse
god
The accused is a priest. A round man in a long black cassock
And a snip view from mass of another priest plays shortly
My face turns green as my mood turns blue
He says he has a holy feeling, that the accusations aren’t true.

A cult; /kʌlt/ noun
‘a system of religious veneration and devotion directed towards a particular figure or object.’
We show our devotion, we kneel and give thanks
He applies lotion, looks at a child and wanks.
god
Everyone is entitled to their beliefs, and to the respect of those beliefs.
My belief is that no human is superior to another human.
A priest is only a man.
And this man in the long black cassock had a plan.
And this child will remain terrorized forever.

People should be held accountable for their actions.
Women’s lives are not to be of similar value to male satisfactions.

An article on ‘The year of ‘Times Up’ and ‘Me Too’ movements has been a dangerous year for men.’
Every year from the beginning of time has been a dangerous year for a woman.
Innocent men are not in danger.

I was sexualized and assaulted at the age of eleven. #MeToo
I wasn’t wearing a short skirt. I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t provocative.
I was playing chase.
For years after that game of chase
I had nightmares featuring his face

This is not your place to say this year is dangerous, for men.
Times Up

One day I will muster all my courage
One day I will not care for the judges
One day I will clear all my grime
One day I will vent out all my anger
One day I will open up fearlessly
'Coz then I couldn't speak
When it all happened once
With me too!

And yes, I will find a caravan
Which is moving on
It may be late
But definitely in this lifetime
To live once again,
Forgetting all that happened once
With me too!

Not for the name or fame
Not for a revenge or blame
Just to sleep with peace
Once again in my innocence
Forgetting all those memories
That still haunts me
Those moments of shivering
When it happened once
with me too!

Yes it happened
With me too!

I was at home.
My dad was just across the hall.
My brother was home his music blasting through my wall.
My thighs were cemented closed.
He used his hands as pry bars.
I said no.
I pushed him off me over and over again.
I said no.
He pinned me down.
I SAID NO.
I cried.
He choked me to silence my screams.
I tried to kick.
I tried to get away.
I eventually stopped fighting.
I let him finish.
I cried in the bathroom.
I said no.
I said no.
I said no...

No, no, no, Dirtbreath. I say we call the big one an elephant,
and the small one a mouse.
                                             Eve

I'm sure red's a better color for me.
                                              M. Monroe

She has a face that could sink a thousand ships.
                                              Ulysses

N­ow that Hawking's dead, I'm the smartest
guy on Earth.
                                             D. Trump

You're too Jung to understand the Superego.
                                              S. Freud

No. You keep it. I have enough.
                                              B. Graham

Are you sure that's the Delaware?
                                              G. Washington

E=Mc Donalds.
                                              A. Einstein

Go pound salt.
                                              Gandhi

Wha­t day is it?
                                               Roosevelt

T­hat's one small.... oops!
                                               N. Armstrong

I don't remember any of my dreams.
                                               M.L. King, Jr.

Hey, John, I can see your house from up here.
                                                Jesus

Beaches, fields, streets, hills. Did I leave anything out?
                                                W. Churchill

Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course I wrote 'em all.
                                                 R. Starr

It's just too big to wrap your brain around.
                                                 S. Hawking

Don't lose your head. This won't change a thing.
                                                  Robespierre

Before I was fined, I walked the line.
                                                   J. Cash

Could you lengthen the title and shorten the book?
                                                  Tolstoy'­s editor

What if we put the workers on conveyor belts?
                                                   H. Ford

I have a splitting headache... hmmm, interesting.
                                                   ­Oppenheimer

I've never liked orange juice.
                                                    N. Brown

Really? You want to blame me?
                                                    ******

He stings like a butterfly.
                                                     S. Liston

#timesup #metoo
                                                     A. Boleyn

Mr. Watson. Come here. Spare me a dime?
                                                      Bell­

Roebuck said he'd be back in ten minutes.
                                                      R­.W. Sears

To be or to do be do be do.
                                                      Shakes­peare/Sinatra

When you call me Whitey, I get cotton pickin *******.
                                                      E. Whitney

We're the team to beat!
                                                      Toro­nto Maple Leafs

Don't call me a Mother!
                                                      Mo­ther Theresa

Is that a Cuban*?
                                                      M. Lewinsky

I wonder what he thought of me
When I was 9 years old.
My two sisters and I running around
Excited to meet someone Mom brought home

I wonder if he knew then
What he would take from my family,
From me.
I wonder if he knew then
The wedges he would place when he tried
To make we.

I wonder how long it took him
to choose.
My older sister never liked him.
My younger sister was 4.
I guess it could have been worse.
It could've been her he had coerced.

When he coached my volleyball team
And insisted it was indecent
For underage girls to wear
spandex uniforms I thought
"how nice it is for him to care."
I wonder, was he concerned for me
Or protecting my delicious modesty?

When he followed me up to my room
After my showers
Was he waiting outside the door
Like he said,
or was he waiting
for the day he would waltz right in?

When he stayed up
Talking to me at night
We weren't good friends,
Best friends.
We were predator and prey.
He was trying to make me see
That him and me would be okay.

That my mother didn't care.
That my sisters weren't worthy.
That my friends could never understand.
He wanted me to know
that I was alone,
And he understood.
We were the same.

In the same breath
He would call me his kid
Then tell me how grown I'd gotten.
How smart, beautiful, honest.
My mother apparently forgotten.

Then there were hands.
And cameras.
Then silence.

When words are not enough,
and the world won’t get off her back,
she dances the Devils way,
She’s a princess,
wait she’s a queen,
wait she’s an angel,
wait she’s everything,
a Goddess,
the hottest performing artist I’ve ever seen,

and she’s dancing,
dancing is her therapy,

I mean,
I’m not James Brown,
but it’s a man’s world,
even if Rihanna runs this town,

See,
she’s been suppressed all her life,
and I’m not just talking about Rihanna,
I’m talking about every girl that was ever forced to be a wife,
just to survive in this life,

she was touched by her father,
or brother or cousin,
when she was just a little girl,
I know we all wish it wasn’t,
but it is true,
so what’s a girl to do,
when she’s a clean 13 messing with The ***** Dozen,

this isn’t battle of the sexes,
this is war of the worlds,
wants to be a woman but she’s just a girl,
no No Doubt just burnt out nerves taken turns,

she never asked to be born,
with the burden of being beautiful,
but she refuses to conform,
she is attractable irrational and radical,
so when it’s all too much,
the stares and the catcalls,
the aggressive forceful touch,
the nails across her back like a blackboard,
and the moans become just white noise,
she takes it all in,
she forgives the man because he’s just a boy,
he is an angel even if he has fallen,
she takes it all in,
and she uses all of those abuses,
as the fuel with the tools which induces,
an allusive state of truth which,
allows her to move with intuitive smoothness,
and lose herself in the music morphing into what a centrifuge is,
separating fluids transforming what was otherwise useless abuses,
into a truth that cruises and confuses the stupid stooges,

she dances,
in a statement of glorious refusal to submit to their ideals,
she is more than a princess queen angel goddess,
she is fire burning up all preconceived notions of *** appeal,
the real deal,
dancing sweating cleansing her soul and her pores,
moving faster in progression refuting repression,
overcoming an obsession of oppression and knocking down all doors,
she is not a possession,
though she is possessed when,
she’s a dancing expression of how we all feel and more,

no words are enough,
she shows what we all feel,
she reveals what,
was before thinly concealed,

she is the perfect expression,
of imperfect circumstances,
she is poetic stanzas,
she is the paint on the canvas,
there is no question that she is the answer,
and all of this is made clear when she takes it all in,
let’s go of everything and dances…

∆aron L∆ Lux ∆

#strength #metoo #dancer #ballet #blackswan

I'll paint my skin black
In every spot, in every crack
When a happy moment
Was tainted by a touch that lingered far too long.
All those days under a burning sun,
Running, hiding, from eyes that incessantly follow
Looking over my shoulder, with feet that fumble,
Praying not to fall,
Quickly dashing down a hallway,
Hoping four walls of a home will keep me secure.
As my breathless body is reduced
To a mere statue made of stone,
You run your gnarly fingers over my decaying flesh and bones.
“Smile a little more”, “Here,see what I've got”-
I cower in fear, powerless,
And they wonder why I don't speak out soon.
So instead, I'll pen this down
To stop myself from counting,
Every memory seared into my brain,
Every time I've felt less human,
Every time I've felt disgraced.
Maybe tomorrow, I won't wake up screaming.

I don't want to be taken for granted
I don't want to be taken
I want to give

When the intermission bell rang
A bunch of boys grinning widely
With shrewd, calculative looks
Fumbled one at front
Inquired, " Hey what's #metoo??..

******!
I also want to be able to grow a greyish beard and appear more good-looking than I ever was in my early 20s.

Time’s up

Times up!
Hollywood says,
glad for sordid Weinstein
for setting up the stage..,
but, please do explain
that there’s a sitting President
who publicly claimed
to grabbing women’s *****..
all because he can!

Times up!
but, the script has not been reversed,
the discourse dies a little
every time a women’s story
is subjected to shame.

Time’s up, for who, I ask?
When only the story of the powerful
is being told!
Who will play the little girl
who’s innocence got taken away?
When Barbie is still playing doctor with Ken,
yet no one says, Ken is a grown up man!

Who’s playing the story of the women
who can’t report her husband for ****?
How can he **** her? She belongs to him!

Time’s up, I wonder when!
When time is a concept we don’t understand...
and ****** someone gives you
five months in the can?

Time’s up, but who will play the story?
When our original sin starts with parents
who had *** with their offspring’s!!
Shiit, Adam and Eve...
you really are dammed,
damming us to perpetual violence
to the very ones we give birth!!

Time’s up! It’s really inspiring.
I hope that legislatively
it creates an impact.
I hope parents all over the earth
begin to openly talk to their children
about molestation and ****.
We all know the math...
90% of all **** is perpetuated by someone
you’ve already met!

Time’s up!
The phone’s ringing....
in the time I wrote this script,
someone else was already *****!




LeydisProse
1/7/2018
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
#timesup #**** #metoo #notonemore

I want to erase the figment of my imagination that I’ve allowed you to becomeYou are so opportunistic having used every moment we ever had as a time of spawningYou left traces of yourself that would grow beyond what my mind could containand with your absencethose pieces of you have enlargedThey’ve progressed into long thick arms having my thoughts in choke holds that the top wrestlers have yet to discoverThanks for showing me who you really areYour name is Monsterand I want to remove your electromagnetic tentacles from the nerves of my brainsever your suction cups coat them in a batter flavored with lemon pepper seasoningand deep fry them turn your manipulative tactics into a fine cuisine for the hungered palettes of innocent bystanders that will chew you upswallow youand digest you as the waste of time this aspect of youhas been to meToo bad I’m not bulimicAfter the binge of these false memories I’d gladly shove my finger down my throat and ***** you into filthy toilet bowlsflushing you ‘til you reach your destinationwelcomed by a sea of sewageWhen it comes to the likes of youamnesia has never been so desired.

So, here we are?
In a world of secrecy and selected memories.

We have a world leader admitting his wickedness for grabbing and paying.
Stupid that you can't offend the word "dumb".

Here we stand, with a judge heading toward the Supreme Court with a past shocking to some.

But a famous comedian convicted of something that happens thirty years ago.
And many pondering why it took so long?
Or why he in jail/prison at all?
Nothing stopping these women from coming forth.

Judge none by this "MeToo" movement cause not all men completely guilty cause in many cases it takes two to party.

Have we heard "****" alleged in all these "sue the man" complaints?

Now of course, what many failing to admit?
In all our youth we have a secret we not admitting too.

Many cheaters that hadn't gotten caught hadn't come out.
Many ladies with kids by married men not coming out.
Some not trying to ruin theirs or his happy house.

Finally, more men have secrets to expose the females.

Then you pay attention to the excuses we hear.
This what makes many not come forth?

Sounds good.
But when under attack many these guys MUST fight back.
Ok, this a matter of opinion.

I undressed for my shower,
And noticed something queer;
Something I've used all my days,
Suddenly disappeared.

I had it with me yesterday,
And used it several times;
I always put it in its place,
And took care of what was mine.

I really can't explain it;
Now what's a fella do;
I'm not to blame,
I refuse the shame
Of the hashtag framed MeToo.

Strange but true.
Many afraid to address the matter.
Strange but odd that many ladies that sued Bill Cosby for this or that.
Suddenly has a great memory after accusing him of drugging them.

Some probably chased the star.
It was the seventies and some do chase actors.
Not all allegations is false.
Then many simply can't be real.

It great to have this Metoo rage.
But not all guys are guilty cause a few complains.
But many hates to speak it.

When Gloria Allred involved?
It's more about money than about right.
But something about this Cosby pursuit.

In times, when the air clear.
We might find truth.

It rumbles and roars
The rage I harbor in my bones
Unsung song of contention
Bitter and bilious in my mouth
Because when I tried to speak,
nobody was listening

Boundries of consent are drawn at home
And maintained before being extended
To a world where Xanthippe is a slur
Between giving up a career and giving in to a creep
There isn't much of an option

Shame is the best weapon after fear
In the arsenal of patriarchy
Ammo of choice for its sari draped agents
To keep young women in line lest they
Sprout a tongue or mind of their own

Decades of silence has fed the fire of rage
Licking and moulding my contours
Till I turn into Jael yielding pen
Refusing to be a collateral any longer, ready
To nail Sisera, with or without a Barak to celebrate

We sit in waiting rooms
In leafy suburbs and council estates and amongst the urban hubbub
Of life continuing without us
Around us
On NHS waiting lists and in clinics
Waiting for a swab and a stick and a booklet with a few telephone numbers
For you to call and fix yourself, if you wish

Sitting
across from our familiar stranger this week because of the new news that is our
history, Herstory
painful reality
Fresh on our twitter feeds
Souls laid out bare for everyone to see
Our hurt. And still you'll never understand what it means.

This week
Thousands of women in their weekly meet
Our stories told and untold, forgotten and remembered,
memories always a feather's distance away. Whispered
And carried through the storm.

But still you won't hear how deep
The trauma sits
But what matters is

We survive
And we are together, now.

En France, a cause de
leur system métrique , a
Bakers Dozen does not
exist, so, in order to get
around this dilemma, I
had no choice but title the
poem, a bakers cousin or
else it would have been
called Le Boulanger's Dix
which has a ******* sound
to it and the #MeToo lot
are already complaining
about the ****** innuendo
of what some see as a blatant
symbiotic patriarchal profession
that has created both the Baguette
and the Croissant as some form of
visual representation of the phallus
and ****** with yeast being the
common denominator of them both,
therefore by introducing his cousin
and keeping the relationship within
the confines of an incestuous family
affair, the poem in theory should not
need to be censored by the readers,
unless of course you are a Coeliac
in which case I strongly advise that
all of what you have read here is best
erased from your memory immediately.

I’ve been debating about writing this all down since hearing about the Aziz Ansari situation. Somehow writing it down makes it feel more like an assault. Like somehow if I never verbalized what happened that night, it didn’t really happen. But it did.

My moment came when I went home with a guy I knew from school (let’s call him Mike). Mike and I had been hooking up for a couple months but I broke it off when I learned that he either had an ex he was still involved with or had a girlfriend. He never gave me the full story and I guess I didn’t really care. It had been about a month since I had seen him and a bunch of people from school were out at a bar. We started talking because, despite how it had ended between us, I didn’t want to not be friends with him. I wanted to prove that I could be a Cool Girl and complete divorce feelings from ***. At one point during the evening I remember I was taking a drink of my beer and he put his hand on the bottom of the cup to make it so that I had to chug the entire thing or risk it spilling all over me. He was trying to get me drunk. After that he continued to ply me with alcohol as we talked. We started talking about classes and professors but then he changed the topic. He started talking, in very explicit terms, about what he wanted to do to my body. He put his hand on my **** and leaned in to kiss me. I offered an excuse that our classmates were around and would see. He said he didn’t care. I said that I did care. He tried again. I allowed him to kiss me but turned my head so he only got the side of my face/neck. I did so not because I wanted to kiss him but because I didn’t want to make a scene in a crowded bar. I was wearing a dress and at several points during the night his hand went under my dress and grabbed my ****. Each time I squirmed out of his grasp. He continued to do it. I told him to stop and he thought I was being coy. I wasn’t. I just didn’t want his hand under my dress. Throughout the night he continued to talk about everything he wanted to do to me. He repeatedly asked me to go home with him. I repeatedly said no. When he asked why I brought up the ex or not so ex girlfriend. He dismissed that. He continued to ask why I wouldn’t go home with him. I told him I was on my period (which wasn’t a lie, but what woman hasn’t used that as an excuse when a man won’t leave her alone about ***?). He said he didn’t care. He wanted me. He wasn’t leaving without me. I agreed to leave with him because I wanted people to stop staring and honestly, because I was drunk. When we got back to his place I asked if his roommates were home. He said it didn’t matter. I responded that if they were I didn’t want to disturb them and would leave. He repeated that it didn’t matter. He said “you’re not going anywhere.” He undressed me and we were hooking up and he kept trying to have *** with me despite my insistence that we couldn’t. He did not stop trying. When I told him I had a ****** in, he told me to take it out. When I told him it would be messy, he said he didn’t care. When I told him I should go home, he said no. Every excuse I offered in an obvious attempt to get out of the situation he ignored. He insisted to the point where I became so uncomfortable my body literally shut down. I had a panic attack because a man that I should have been able to trust and a time that should have been fun caused me so much anxiety that I started hyperventilating and crying. That stopped him. My repeated objections and excuses didn’t. But my body literally shutting down and ceasing to respond to stimuli did. He drove me home and calmed me down but that doesn’t forgive what he did. I wouldn’t have needed him to calm me down if he hadn’t caused the panic attack in the first place. I told my roommate what happened as soon as I got home. While she was indignant that he was so persistent, it wasn’t seen as an assault. I didn’t see it as such then either.

I haven’t really spoken to him since. But I did speak to his girlfriend—well now ex-girlfriend—and told her everything. I still go to school with him. We have a year and a half left and I have to see him every day. The truth is I’m not okay with what happened that night. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been but that shouldn’t be the standard that I have to live by. Women shouldn’t have to be thankful that at least it could have been worse. I read an article once that said that men will always say that they don’t understand women’s way of speaking, but they do. Men understand the different ways women say no—whether body language, offering excuses, or outright saying no—but will choose to ignore it because it is simply easier for their purposes. This is not ok. Before that night I hadn’t had a full on panic attack in years. Since then I’ve had 6 panic attacks in as many months. Men don’t get to do this and get away with it. Men don’t get to pretend that they didn’t understand the situation. Because they do understand; they just don’t care. I don’t know how many times I actually said “no” that night, but I do know that I said it and he ignored me. And now every time I have to see him all of those ugly emotions are brought back to the surface. How he didn’t care enough about me to listen. How he clearly had one objective and didn’t care what he had to do to accomplish that. How I let myself be psychologically manipulated by this man for five months before I finally saw him for what he is. He is a monster. He is a predator. The worst part is, is that he is a self-professed feminist. If that is his brand of feminism, count me out. Recently I saw that he liked me on tinder. Because apparently disrupting my life as much as he already did wasn’t enough for him. He had to twist the knife just a little further in. Because all I ever was to him was a wet place to put his ****. He never cared about me. He used me. He used me until he couldn’t anymore and then he tried to come back for seconds. I will no longer allow myself to be under his thumb. I will no longer allow this man to control me and bend me to his will. I will resist. I will survive. And I will thrive. I will show him that I am not his. But I will not do this for his sake. It is for myself and for every other woman in my life that I will rise and fight and persist. It is for every woman who has come before me who fought so that I could fight. It is for every woman who will come after me so that she has one fewer man in her life intent on dragging her down.

calm down: calm down... put on some Faun on...
yes, some neo-paganism ought to sooth me...
ahh... Wind & Geige...
     a great calming music...

no... did what happen last night actually happen?
let me check my account...
****... it did...

        my hands are still sort of shaky...
i woke up and there was still half a bottle of whiskey
left... that's the first time i got a headache
while drinking...

that's the first time i got a headache while drinking
whiskey...

and all i hear is that we live in a patriarchal unfair
society blah blah...
                well... all i see a society guided
by meritocracy... honestly... oh... and that guys
are weird... creepy... perverted...
sure... even i was sent a phallus photograph by
some Arab guy...
and i was like: dude... i'm a dude!
             not homophobic of anything...
    i must have kissed at least two guys in my life...
one... very memorable...
2005... Hogmanay... Prince's Street party...
Tristan's friend from Bristol...
     one handsome *******....
a proper decent snog...
    but i forgot his name but not his face...
                                another time i let this guy
put his tongue in my mouth...
another time my cousin took me to a gay
bar and i started snogging like mad...
this Brazilian treat...
                                 but a ****-pick? seriously?
i did add: show me it limp...
                         that's the "bros'" secret...
they take a picture of their "tackle" right after
having ****** off... and as it's limping...
    it looks double the initial size... anyway...
a guy seeing a ****-pick is nothing...

                    insert gulping sound and shaking hands...
yeah... men all are in creepy... the dogs...
yeah... it's not like i'm a ******...
obviously... it's not like i haven't had a *******...
it's not like i haven't paid for ***...
obviously... but i didn't pay for an expensive
date... i'm a *****-cheap-***...
                               well no... courtship on the quick...
no *******-around just wholesome *******...
the 1960s generation had their frisk and frivolity?
sure thing... i'm going to have mine to...
             oh come: share the love... share the love...

****** liberation 2.0
                                          oh and the much bigger O...
that's 2 prostitutes i managed to bring to the altar
of the big O...
    second time? unexpected... slobbering on the oyster
and using Herr Index and Herr Mitte...
   and i've had a ****** oyster too...
let me tell you: the one that has had plenty of
other... ahem... cucumbers... always taste better...
mind you... prostitutes these days are ultra-hygienic...
they're sort of compulsive about it...
then again: so am i...

    but this July heat wave is killing me...
        i want to get some but i can't: and i don't care
what the stereotype is in the animal kingdom:
hot weather puts me off... my libido goes into hibernation...
i need the cold... winter! come! come!
mein gott... when my parents die i'm selling
the house and ******* off to Greenland or the Faroe Islands...

who else will i live for in England?
no one... might as well have no one to live for
in a climate that better suits me...
Norway is too civilised...
                            i need to go somewhere basic:
with a bad internet connection and plenty of herring...

- now i'm going to have a little joke concerning
anyone abusing the post-traumatic stress disorder,
i've heard it countless times...
sure... like this one girl who i had to fulfill
the role of the Advocate personality type:
"personality types"... for me that's a pet-peeve...
i treat all this psychological-quacking
a bit like astrology: for me it's a hyper-zodiac
model: people trying to mystify themselves
without actually internalising themselves:
absolutely no introspection... laziness...
    they just follow what other people thought of:
as long as it's a schematic A + B = C sort of *******...

anyway... yeah... men are dogs... barbaric creatures
that need to be steralised... or something...
ah... pleasure...
                set... simple... gasp...
i'm no German... but i can see an example where
an ß could be introduced into English...
pleaßure... that's a pristine example of an es-zett...
the S morphs into a Z...
    it's "invisible" unlike in seizure... no... wait...
unlike in steralised steralized...
html! which is... ah...

          sterilized...  LISARD ZALAD...
                                        then again... i have Caucasian
origins... and the Cow-Cass
    is somewhere between Europe and what's the big-buttocks
of Asia's landmass...
no wonder i'm more inclined to Turkic women...
Turkic... a certain Ms. Patel...
                  i'm always drawn to something nomadic...
perhaps because i'm also somehow nomadic...

and all the *** in the most shady of places...
didn't prepare me for this...
that's the first time i got a headache when drinking...
yeah... only the men are freaky... creepy...
just take your average Muslim or Hindu girl...
expose her to western culture and... they too lose
their minds...
so i'm chatting: blah blah this... blah blah that...

she send me a picture of herself clothed...
fair enough... nice sari... nice carpets...
not a selfie... another girl took a picture of her...
and then the ******* N-BOMB...
eh?! that's how the headache started...

N-BOMB? ****! ****... these anti-racists and their
deifying of racial slur words...
there are more important words that ought
to not be uttered... me? i have...
the Name... i.e. Ha-Shem...
                                i can't say The Name:
hence? i say the name...
                          which is Ha-Shem... i'm sort of weird
like that...
   and no... i will never submit to circumcision...
enough is enough... double standards:
calling it FGM while not calling it MGM... come on...
these guys don't know the pleasure
of ******* with a *******!

it has become so bad that even the less experienced
prostitutes don't know what to do with it...
the more experienced ones know that you "half-peel" it...
yeah... it works like a jaw... it's "mandible":
you can work around it...
no... the "head" will not become starved...
the more you do it... the more flexible it becomes...
stretchy... pull-e...
            plus i need it to *******.... esp.
when i'm constipated and sitting on the throne of thrones:
i figured that it eases any tension in the ****
when constipation knocks on my door...

i didn't invest all that time and effort to complete
my William Burroughs' oeuvre for no ****** reason:
i love ****-****** literature...
but that's old school homosexuality...
the covert... subversive sexuality...
the adventurous: the torturous sexuality...
the whole aspect of the deviant taboo...
the best sort of literature...
now? with all the "pride"... eh... stalemate...
stale-bread... boring: yawn... new kinks don't really
cover the original allure...
"pride": yeah yeah... just get in line... get on with it...
YAwn...
  
                       it's a return to basics... paying for ***...
that's the rekindled new-old taboo...
i don't see the point of paying for a date...
well... the very first date i ever paid for
made sense... college-sweethearts sort of memorandum...
but i made a date into a day...
first we went and walked around an Edward Hopper
exhibition at that Tate Modern...
then... we went to the cinema to see the movie
Troy... then we drank sake and ate sushi...
we were just friends prior...
i was 6ft2 she was 6ft... so i was the only good
suitor at the school... she just came from Australia...
she complained about her father exploiting
her as a child being a performer for some
green-globalist agenda... since then
she has had 5 glorious girls... and i...
planted about 8 trees in my garden...

i'm suspicious though: of two women "in my life":
her... she married a guy 20 years older than her...
hmm...
and the neighbour across my street...
the noise is still a deafness to me... the noise
of renovation... surely she didn't move
two doors down from me: from across the street
to be close to her mother... then again:
hands in the air... flapping like a seagull
pretending to takeoff: but rather, more, agitated...
mein gott...
i caught myself being a ******...
hung-over... peeping Tom from behind the blinds...
watching her clean the patio with a jet-stream
of water...
a... "mediocre" beauty... no...
a wholesome beauty... oats... pears...
autumn... not a beauty based on a number scale...
an associative-dissociative attraction scale...

i.e. it's a moon one minute... it's a sun the next...
a river-esque sort of beauty...
the initial attraction was there...
i think i was watching the Silence of the Lambs
trying to nod off and get some sleep...
BAM!
   the mother walks into the bedroom naked...
she did that a few times after...
BAM! the older sister walks in naked...
BAM... she walks in naked...
   **** me... and at her tender age back then...
what must she bee? 14?! well... it has been years
since... she's put on more weight but
at the black guys says: more cushion for the pushin'...

i agree... i "abhor" athletic women...
more cushion... i think i have a fat face...
i can't stop thinking that i have a fat face...
and? if i think that i have a fat face?
i need some more: "bubble"... blubber...

hmm... the truest love i have ever found is always bound
to not understanding women...
the truest love i have ever found has always been
bound to forgiving women...
that's the simplest sort of love there is...
whether in the right or whether in the wrong:
a woman can only be loved if she's
to be: a priori: forgiven... rather than a priori:
understand...

like that common proverb states:
you can't live with them,
but you also can't live without them...

some medical soap opera and i'm sitting watching it...
cringing...
i could think of myself as a vetenarian...
****... vetinarian...
                       VEH-TEH-RI-NAH-RIAN...
           veterinarian... ugh... H-surd sometimes helps
when writing in English...
and i could imagine myself as a butcher...
aha... problem being...
i wouldn't mind saving the life... or rather not saving
a life of something i could also eat...

career path... surgeon?! i'd have cannibalistic
fetishes... and i don't want them...
          it's just not my "thing"...

SNAP!

so it's ****** harassment when a guy does it to a girl...
but when a girl does it to a guy?
i'm supposed to be this: READY-ON-THE-GO...
libido insomnia
SWITCH-ON SWITCH-OFF
   ******* ***-toy robot: no mood... no emotions?!
**** it up Bucko...
             that's the new ******* normal?
a girl... from an obviously ultra-conservative
culture sends me a picture of herself showering:
OBVIOUSLY she's ******* naked...
and i'm like what? Jihadi Aisha sends her thanks...
i don't even think not jerking off will help...
i tried it... it does: **** all...

oh sure... first she send me a picture of her fully dressed...
pretty as a picture... then?
head-chopped off... **** the size of elephant's ears...
i'm telling you: the deity of the Wendols...
the death eaters from the 13th warrior...
my shadow is stirring...
             i feel my face becoming detached...
from the concept of both face and head
and therefore skeleton...
                   my face is becoming a representation
of the concept of what's hidden within
an exoskeleton of an insect: it's becoming
a mush or mirror, smoke, squidge... squid...
i don't know what else...
   i'm not even reacting like an autistic person...
i'm reacting like any normal person should:
you're not supposed to be complimented
by a girl sending you a photo of herself in the shower...
****'s sake...
even the ******* that became fond of me
went as far as sending me a photograph of herself
in her bra and underwear...
but you know what she also did?
she covered her belly-button with a kiss emoticon...

**** me... we're living in times when
prostitutes replaced the priests!
concerning?! ****** aesthetics! aesthetics!
people! the idea of "free" *** is an abomination!
i don't want any set-backs...
i'm not doing this for any set-backs...
to hell with all the sort of corrupt *******
most associated with the culture thus represented:
thus... unsustainable...

i always wondered: profiling: is it a tool to sell?
or is it a tool to explore?
poet or diarist? certainly not a novelist...
i abhor complete works...
novels are complete works...
      but they're certainly not adhering
to the principle of エンソー
                    
   and with エンソー i will revive my origin interest in
Taoism...

yes... but it's the power of consent...
i didn't ask her to send me a picture of her ****
torso...
now i'm thinking: i'm thinking:
i need to milk at least 20 imaginary cows
before i get the idea of pretending to be an
anti-infanct
******* off her ******* till they're numb
out of my head...
Hades! bring me 20 cows that need to be milked!

i'm being visually *****!
i know what **** feels like...
this South African chick...
  i think she spiked my drink...
we watched the Machinist... she... and i cooked
dinner... she was a teacher at a private prep school...
but i was *****...
this was our second encounter...
first time my "Jolly Roger" felt like drift-wood...
she uttered the words: you're not going to deny me...

well... **** me... seems like a Ricky G. joke
about to drop...
true... i wasn't in the mood the first time round...
second time round...
oh... **** me... cuckoon ***...
in absolute darkness... with the bed-sheets on...
i'm naked but i'm also suffocating...
she spiked my drink...
even in the brothel i don't get aroused by
these uncomfortable situations...
          o.k.... fair enough "Pistorius"... hop hop...
you ******* dry Dutch ****!

i ought to know when: ******* dry-**** "ballerina"...
i ought to know when a ******* oils herself
up and when she doesn't...
sure... #metoo... i also ****** girls
i wasn't really into...
but this one broke the norm!
she didn't send me the Mechanist DVD i brought
with me to the date back! *****!

all that Christian Bale effort to play this
tormented anorexic: why no Oscar?
a role definitely more informative than whatever
the **** the Joker: Whack-Lean Fix-Fin won his
Ocar for... whatever... from now on in
i'm going to call them: Woo-Scars...

dry-****? oh... right... i wasn't asking a question...
that's how you get ***** by a woman...
she's dry... she's bitter...
she's probably a teacher in a private all-boys school...
you haven't been circumcised:
lucky you...
at least you were laying slabs on one of the roofs
of the Battersea Dogs & Cats shelter...

one was yesterday...
another was tomorrow...
   **** happens... Newton "happened"...
i don't even think you can think as either being
or not being... or born or dead...
since... well... Newton happened...
and by happening: he's recurring...
    which implies: the utmost of the Tao doctrine
of "not doing"... eh... excesses of para-mortality.

you don't want to be sent a photograph
of a woman's naked torso:
so casually... while she's having a shower...
for my ******* ******* libido to function
it requires respite...
unless... i've been promised all the things
these modern Jihadi Johns...
what about the Ummah and the Chinese Muslims
currently in concentration camps?
sub-humans?! the Uyghurs?!
where's the war for them?!
            ******* *******...

                         no Arab fight for them?! just...
the same old same old boring attack:
post-colonial weaknesses to the fore...
                                       the Uyghurs! they're part
of the UMMAH!
                      i see the modern Arab world
and you know what i see? the Medieval Byzantine world.

Crawl on, soldier.

Crawl in the name of liberty,
Justice for all.

March on, sister.
With your shoulders slumped and spirit downtrodden,
March for your life.

Drain the swamp, fellow sewage workers of the republic.

Flee to the ballots,
To that last bastion,
The last remaining bulwark of our republic. 

Cast your votes.

Cast them in steel and forge them in hot coals
Let your anger rage,  
Break, blow, burn,
And make us new.

Run through the dogs,
Through the fire hoses,
And tear gas. 

Cry, and salt the America of old.
Run through the deniers,
And **** sympathizers
Cast and cut them down

With your voices,
Loud and clear.

Let the peal of truth ring out,
Let freedom ring! 

Invite Langston Hughes to the table,
As company,
For he, too, is America.

Choose the ballot or the bullet,
In the words of Malcolm X
Who, too, is America.

Just as surely as #MeToo
Is American
As American as apple pie,
As American as you or I.

March to the ballots,
March for your America.

Because
Despite the words of our current senators,
And those who would question your experiences,
And deny you were *****,
Deny you were shot down,
By lawmakers and police and agents of oppression—

Despite all their yelling and bravado,
They are scared of you.

Because, you, too, are America.

So march on, brother, sister, countrywoman—
Friend.

March to the ballot.