long drives are good
for counting
short lived
love letters
lasting
laying waste
In some landfill on the border of
Northern Georgia
dreaming of
three four
crushing concrete columns
and shaking out
some of the weight
you may have left
me in the backseat
of my car.

My healing began
Six months into my recovery
When I tattooed a monarch on my arm
And tried to ignore the irony
That what I had chosen to protect myself
Was something so laughably fragile
But what people don't understand
Is that monarchs  are migrational
They may only live six months
But they travel over 3,000 miles
All the way from Canada to Mexico
And back again
They see more in those six months of life
Then most humans do in a lifetime
They live

So maybe my butterfly
Wasn't about protection at all
Maybe it was just my decision to live.

we resort to cussing  when the only repercussion

is our own fault from what we sin   but we feel within

that life would be too much   for us to change our touch

ask what we have on this earth   to better our worth

when it is our choice   how we use our voice

minimal thoughts make noise    serious ones cause poise

because we never chose to think   of why the ribbon is pink

the red cross resembles the sick   or why us humans were picked

to be the most knowledgeable in the world   we paint our life as a mural

when that thought alone is irrational;  we fail tests that are passable

we get confrontational   simple business operational

"I love you" feels sensational   but the words are migrational

Life was right here and you moved right passed her

and we wonder why in the hell that we have no answers

now i'm breathing cigarette smoke
into fog....
it's local and it's bypassing
the global narrative...
i'm sitting perched on
a windowsill
debating whether
d.n.a. predates the other curses:
i love music more
than women,
i'll say it again: i came to love
music more than the Tehran's worth
of women, the music over-powered them,
i wash shaking at the knees
of ac / dc, and i asked for d.n.a.
inclusion... because i was
bothered to read it as otherwise...
and i know there's a woman out there for
me.... and i known there's
  a lesser comic book hero to guide
the matter into a mortgage...
but i know where they gas the liberals,
i know know where Switzerland is...
   i'm bound to a boredom already
hijacked...
      ai'd gas a few liberals had i been given
a chance, like my gradfather likes to
recount: herr! bite bonbon!
         i don't mind writing about extinction
i'm quiete dodo about it,
       if the music plays, the women can shut up.
i heard my grandfather whisper into
me a chinese whisper about ensuring
your heart remained small...
             behalten herz, klein herz...
           herz uber alles.
i don't mind being an extinct specimen
akin to the dodo,
        that might sound insane around here,
but i am vague about the argument
to pro the alternative....
given the culture i find no worth to scatter
the proof...
      music overcame my want for women...
and i what comes next is a stamping,
i just want to fear the end of gravity
but instead i'll probably hear a harnass flinging
Amazonian bridge between compensator and
instigator... and i hope
   i'm wrong...
                              all this dyslexia
and anti-Rousseau sentiment... had i not read Voltaire...
but i have no one to cite...
              apart from them, so it really does seem
like all other clubs: slightly selective...
                       after a while not getting any
makes your forget that dating sites exist,
    you start to learn the proper narration of the world:
so close: yet so far away...
                           i can't state the last bet i made on
the roulette of passion, i decided to feel nothing
concerning it...
                    it got a bit worth a right of a bollocking...
all i needed was a club, and a barbwire wrapped
around a club for a signature, to turn
the debate with the right ink...
                i said n'ah, i prefer music more than
a woman's nagging... women married always
tend to make other males more useful than their own
partners...if there's a love: it will tear us apart...
otherwise we'll congregate with the accomplishment
of jealousy...
                 and if we feed the little heart:
there's no great love to be had...
                                    i can't expect this to sound
as a guiding principle, as Athos said:
  the best advice: is to give no advice at all...
                      i just love watching what
darwinism did away with the historical narrative,
we'll all be dead within the next year...
                            we're all counter to what could be
taken as worth keeping...
            i mean... we already said that fame was pointless
given there was no competition left to
usurp us... having congested the edges of the world,
becoming prime in Siberia... and lavished
in Arabia...
                      but i know that this is really
an anglophone reality, talk this talk in germany
or france and the reaction is different...
                   the more i realise that i do speak english,
the more i wish to not speak it it...
i get tired of it...
                   i sorta lose the plot, wishing that
there actually was a plot to care about...
                                          i can't see the plot,
i can't see the plot because there isn't one to begin with...
   it's architecture kept by invoking a care for
superglue... i can't see it as migrational,
   i can't see it as eastern european economic migration
or the african stampede, or the eternal-judeo
   dispersion...
            if the western people are bewildered by their culture,
then i'm doubly bewildered by the export of all
body-works to china, leaving earopean man with
menial, but rather mental works...
                  and i'm drinking, so that's a +,
but i just can't see the end as related to d.n.a.
being upkept... i can't see that narrative...
                          my concept of eternity can't really
transgress your lack of it...
                        it's get boring after a while talking
with atheists... i'd prefer talking with ahumanists...
        i'd love to pair an atheist with an
ahumanist... because i don't actually see a lot of
human in what's god's own...
                    a- (indefinite article), meaning without
god, or the kaleidoscope finger to the eye
suits the noun right... thetheism is also a very
ugly noun that could exist.... before god has no
parameters, i'd prefer to look at the words that can exist
but don't, given our care for lubricants...
     the- (definite article), meaning with god....
    well the alternatives are islam... christianity...
or the argument by populist secular commuters:
we actually do believe in the same god...
question is: what's there to question in your spare time?
        after that it becomes a hellish enterprise...
  or a dictatorial reality... or the democratic basis for:
i don't eat with you, i won't sleep with you,
and i'll certainly not turn the central heating for you.
   the least thing accessible for me, is to
watch television with you,
                 because that's how it works.
given we've moved into a.i. and robotics,
i'd like us to play god, beyond definition, by simply
not being there... just so we can perfect creating the robot...
so atheism must come with ahomo...
                          best prescribed via ****...
   or the *****...
                         well, if we are to forsake the existance
of god, and fully embrace creating the robot,
we shouldn't technically be here...
                                which makes Heidegger's
dasein really useful... given that popular culture
made fun of germans as not really human but
merely robotic, until the human peeped through
the veil of Auschwitz and everyone was like:
um... revision? just like they thought the Jews
were stupid clinging to the tetragrammaton...
  they did... in the past 2000 years of "judeo-christian"
interaction, you'de get more crucifixes than
talks about the tetragrammaton...
                well, if we're serious about building
the ******* robot, why not do away with god
but also humanity? i don't see the point of disposing one
and keeping the other...
           in our ambition to create a.i.
we didn't forsake god, we forsoke ourselves...
    i don't care whether god is dead...
                     given we have youtube
                  stars that act as clogs in the advert machinery
i find no care to find a deus mort, or a **** viv!
i find, no concern, in finding a dead god,
  or a man, alive... non deus mort, vel **** viv!
  counter:
    numne deus mort: **** est non viv,
             **** contra viv... contra deus...
                 strange to think,
a non-existent thing: to be so obstructive,
and later construct one's life around him
being so beneficial, as to make a life from
orating atheism... a tad bit funny...
        how can i perfect this vulgate?!
numne deus mort, **** emortus...
                evidently, given our preoccupation
with robotics and a.i., the death of god
came with the baggage of becoming gods
and asking to spark a secondary case of the Edenic
charring...
               again the Latin... it's a fetish, my apologies...
deus mort (god dead, est, yeah), or
                        **** viv (man, life bound) -
   it appears the two aren't as explicit as it would appear...
it seems there's a natural basis for a god,
whether satan's clause does actually involve
being paid in toy-structures and cleaning the conscience...
          and i do speak worse Latin than
most English people speak modern English...
luck of the draw... the long straw.... i win a tumble dryer...
you win a voltswagen beetle engine...
   we both end up hearing a midnight song of
mechanical burps and fake stomach maracas...
       i just thought i'd say:
either god is dead, and man has died with him,
or god is really dead, and man fakes living a
posthumous life, encouraged to create a robot...
which he has done, alternative to prayer,
  creating something a god might occupy himself
with then man has abandoned god...
                    i sometimes think:
of all the anglophone writers, i use the word
god as shamelessly as most anglophone writers
use pronouns... i use the word shamelessly...
  because most anglophone writers use pronouns
so freely... i know this doesn't give the fat
of the argument... but i use it freely...
       i'm starting to wonder wether
            god is dead gave us anything more than
people paying for a grave before they get
shovelled into it...
                  as it stands: quiet the opposite...
long before the epitaphs or the dates are
              enshrined, they have already bought
the parody of owning a home...
they are already waiting for the marble space
beneath the maple trees...
                 which is why i ask by restating
the end of metaphysics, if gott ist mort,
            what mann ist viv?
     last time i checked, i found more human warmth
of my own voice asking a refrigerator about
the weather, than my neighbour about
    last Sunday. i'd sooner punch my neighbour
dead than ask him about his feelings.
6ft1, 115kg... i guess i could put a sock in
the right case of gob.

Keep your lips tight, 
Thus, you will remain pure.
Thus, you will remain white. 
Thus you will remain honest,
Thus you will remain alight.

Silence is golden;
Words are wooden.

“The less the merits of a man,
The more he will feel urged to proclaim
Them to the public.”

My friends and I,
We have not too much to offer:
Either to ourselves, 
Or to another.

We are a grounded albatross.
We are a tracked hare.
We are a poisoned well. Let our waters be still with no shimmering, thirst-quelling buckets fetched.
Swim wordlessly in the whirlpool of my eyes --ye deep, poisoned well... 
Until...-- ye deep well...art drained perfect and wise.


Think not anyone will come to save ye, my friend --
With loving sustenance, warm nourishment, 
And soothing First Aid Kit;
If ye should happen to send out flares.
“When the Ox is down,
Many are the butchers.”


Sully not the world, dear Mary, with thine brazen, importunate weeping;
Spreading your woes, like a ****** famished, bony legs, far and wide...
Sooner, fall into bed to mildest, most chaste of sleeping...


Being is but a magic mountain,
Viewed through mists,
soundlessly in the distance.


O, see how I bark & bleat unblest...
Ah, give thy nagging tongue a rest --
Thy poor, incessant, small, 
Senseless pest !
Sooner keep thy trap shut --
Until ye are at thine best -- !


Where did the Resurrection occur:
Upon the loudspeaker, public avenue? 
Or under the hidden coffin's most inward, SILENTEST of pall ?


I too am 35, 
And its not until we have been DUMB with dead...
That we finally become, most alive!
-- Gushing waters, flowing forth anew!.--
-- Rivers Of Eternity, perpetual youth! --

*
Nurse thyself now instead, 
Not with a desperate, Shrieking Call 
For Sirening Ambulance,
But with thine prayers:
Repeat them, with mute, motioning lips,
In the serene sanctuary of thine head, 
Yet inviolate and undisturbed.
(Ah, even your prayers also are far too loud!)
Rather save yourself,
And be quiet.
And finally, let this wan din of a hymn oblate itself entirely,
Like the Winter and its frozen lake, 
Giving way to crystal thoughts and Nothingness,
Negating all wild life...
In perfect, idyllic stillness and silence, 
Thine powers shall at last Return, my Self, my friend...
(Thine senseless, clamoring, noisy days be at an end!)
Becoming like a flower popping up thru' the cold soil....
(Flowers too are silent. Even our Spring must remain dumb on our lips!)
Let this Silent Spring -- this SIlentWellSpring! --
The Silent Spring Of Wellness! --
Outdo the birds for migrational majesty,
(Whose airswept flight to us is itself soundless. 
While the air reverberates loudly and brashly to your lips, my dove; 
But your eyes, your eyes are stagnant!)
Let this SilentWellSpring outdo the Birds Of The Morning
with its Silent Spiritual Secret Song,
Magnifying in praise and glory, my sweet thrush, 
With at last peaceful hush,
777x
...
(((Peace & Love, M. J. L.... quotations from the Jewish Holy book, The Talmud)))

Arctic Skuas, fish wives beware,
       steal from birds, without a care
Blackbirds, fond of hedgerows hewn,
           known to whistle occasional tunes
Cuckoos. heralding spring sing loud,
            beware the cuckoo land cloud!
Doves, duck with a divers ease,
            traditionally symbolise beautiful peace
Eagles, immortal, courageous and bold,
            eagle-eyed, with a plumage of gold
Flycatchers, search flies in flight,
            swoop from perches, feeding mid-flight
Geese, possessing little wit,
            occasionally upon golden eggs do sit!
Herons, gangly and vexed,
             also known for having s-shaped necks
Insects, many a good feed,
             airborne fast food, eaten at speed
Jackdaws, inquisitive, kindred of Crow,
             steals through the skies, taking all aglow
Kingfishers, sapphire, red, and green,
             beautiful colours to be seen
Lapwings, loud shrills, and insincere,
             fly with egg-shell attached very near
Magpies, possessing magical mystique,
             sometimes portent of coming times bleak
Nightingales, mythologically Philomel,
             melodious midnight serenades, sang so well
Owls, emblems of Athens past,
              symbolic of wisdoms, of the stars
Partridges, particularly partial to pear trees,
              when braced, huntsmen to please
Quails, eggs delicacies held dear,
              causes Quails to tremble with fear
Robins, red-breasted, (with leaves they cover the dead), not Puckish, but good,
              loved like the folk hero Robin Hood
Starlings, amiable, keen for friendship,
              travel afar on migrational trips
Thrush also Throstle, fluent of tongues,
              mistle-toe food and christmassy songs
Uplands, Utopia for magical Merlins,
               loves high ground, gently unfurling
Vermian, for most birds, a succulent delight,
               eating worms, as part of their diet
Woodpeckers, like climbing trees,
               picking out insects, with utmost ease
X is for extinction, of various birds,
               preventative action, louder than words
Yellowhammers, cursed eggs destroyed,
               taken by men, collecting like boys
Zoos, offering sanctuary for endangered species,
               unfortunately caused by the human disease

MIGRATION

out over the horizon's touch
far beyond any reasonable land-
where the sun meets the sky
is a place that -never had a name
found in the  glistening waters of
the north atlantic sea; ready to shimmer
like mirrored glass; reflecting on the
bodies of the artic tern and the swallow
as they swoop in their migrational
journey back, looking homeward- not
stopping until- as  a pod of humpback whales
follow along- diving and flapping their tails
being the giant masters of hereditary- who
come  back year after year to the place
they've always known- in their constant search
for a shoal of krill-there till, as the sun sets pink
on a month of transitions-soon to be fully realized

by Michael Perry