You left earlier,
And now I'm left with the worst of it all
And that is the silence
You leave in your wake
And the whisper of I love you
As you walk through your apartment door
And I smile through the bitterness

Goodbyes seem permanent,
So I always go with a "see you later"
After you agree, you walk away
And I hear you sigh
Because we both know that
Neither of us want to leave

When I get home, I lay in bed alone
and think about the time we've shared
It's been eight months today

I'm mising the feeling
Of you playing with my fingers
Until you fall asleep
And I miss the inconvenient locks of hair in my face
That I try to breathe through and ignore

I want to bury my face in your neck
And hold you through the night
Keeping you safe from any danger
That may lurk in the shadows

But I'm in bed by myself
Without you to hold on to
Those "see you later"'s
Only get harder every time

I sleep, restlessly

invigorating punctuation marks via diacritical appellation of c# / ć comparison... how the ( ) can act as a semi-colon (;) - or how the colon (:) can act as both italic text, and a cascading postponement (cliffhanger). - musica est omnis - music is all. - as does the hyphen predate the paragraph... linearly, a paragraph within a paragraph... among other uses, notably in Irish or Polish texts, looks more like an authenticity of an author, who didn't say: he / she said, i.e.:
- i thought you were talking (boris)
- let me assure you, i wasn't (dalton)...
in english it would have been read
                   "i thought you..." boris said,
       "let me assure you..." dalton said.
and i know i shouldn't begin a sentence with
a conjunction but i must add:
              what's with words being isolated
   in inverted commas?
is this some ****** of idea
                    keeping thinking open to
speaking, or speaking open to thinking,
  in an ambiguous sense of tasting the freedom
and leisure of an aristocratic demand?
                      please, tell me,
                             you farting... or sneezing?

there's only one cure to jerking,
you actually reach a point
that you're simply "exhausted"
tugging a limp, ******* of a "glorified"
marble effigy of a *****,
that always seems to be mising
in greco-roman statues...
    an effigy of a ******* amputee...
****** don't help either...
       i can only imagine
Michelangelo sculpting a *****
like he might an urn...
         probably the best hand-job
in the world, ever...
              jokes are cheap,
keep the tap water running...
ever notice how men without ******
hair produce the most
  female offspring?
             just a wild guess that's
also a question that's also
in the wilderness of preferential
questions being asked
      of could possibly un-domesticate
a man,
   and find him re-emerging
                  from 100 years into: now...
and run amok in a frenzy
of ******* pride, and testosterone
     hummah hummah hummah -
boobbie boobbie clone wars...
                         me? as a man?
i retired from the ******* arguments
of english existentialism...
             i can't stomach it simply
because i find the french finding it
easier to **** in a cafe than an englishman
having a date...
                    but of course some people
will continue the legacy...
   but it's still going to be:
your genes... my ideas...
           i simply can't conjunction
a fathomable take on the necessity of
passing genes via conjecture...
                 gene what?
                            **** geneous?
             men are devalued for a reason
that a tissue exists, and the toilet...
      it really doesn't take scented
candles to march off into the sexless
wilderness as equating
  taking a **** with the "pleasurable"
rascal...
                   the english version
of existentialism has simply turned
into a feat of desperation...
               if you've read some german
or french existentialism you'd notice
that: the whole ******* universe needs
saving...
                i'll endure profane not
for reasons of respecting "etiquette" -
but because i like it...
           been sold **** all day,
might as well spree on ushering some **** out...
nonsense belongs to the youngster
brigade...
                   i'm a 31 year old
no-nonsense granny... trapped...
                  transgender being involved!
- i love, because i hate with a passion...
only because love is no *sorry,
anemic apologists, take a breather...
          - and what better revenge than leaving
a woman impregnated with
your spawn, after she did you ill?
                 then again,
i was always going to play an imitation
role of some, family member...
namely my father's mother,
who is less of a ghost in the memory
i have of my mother's grandfather,
who's a shade to me,
   in that one afternoon i spent with him,
he playing the piano, me playing
a mini-piano...
                    like **** i'm playing
a piano no...
             i graduated to play past
the diatonic alphabet...
i'll far and you'll whistle, ******...
   A B C D E F G...
seven! seven ******* letters to write me
some prokofiev!
              it's almost unbelievable that it
has to be enjoyed so much.
- ever read that one about
the beast of: lust, gluttony,
               greed, sloth, wrath,
           envy and pride?
  that hydra?
              my my,
                    the beautiful: parallel.

.this is a very good night for drinking, i can feel it... and i don't want to "think" about why something is right, and not wrong, at a particular moment in time: the sea of time and i, being merely a drop... how did rock evolve? well, it borrowed heavily from jazz... the anti-lyrical principle, matched with equal engagement of all the five instruments... the genius of jazz... it wasn't a thorough Bach polyphony from beginning to end, the genius marker with jazz comes when all the instruments get a chance to solo, break away from the general rhythm section... what rock relearned? the exact point, of the antithesis of lyricism... rhythm became more important, lyrics became too claustrophobic... rarely can you feel & think at the same time, rarely can you make a simultaneous statement, akin to my sleeping karma - satya... that, that **** is rare... the current rock vibe? borrows from jazz and borrows from reggae... imagine if no slave trade took place... if some nigerian didn't find a guitar... or a saxophone... something good, evidently, came out of it... that's hard to admit to, but... without exposing the western africans to european instruments? we'd still be left with songs of clarinets shoved up our ***** playing songs of irritable bowel syndrome... like: playing a clarinet shoved up your ***, pretending to not cackle marrying a crow's croaking... in situ: a lightbulb that served me well, 10+ years... now i'm too lazy to replace it, so i have five candles burning, and i'm sitting in between them, still trying to find the name of the demigod who brought down the rod of zeus from olympus, or the hammer of thor from asgard... since... sure as ****... the light imminent from a candle, is not the sort of light derived from the fifth element that's electricity... ugh... light from electricity... it's so insomniac... no wonder i ventured to call it... Insomnius... the miracle child of Thanatos and Hypnos... the ****** riddled **** affair... who wanted to crawl back to his origin, the womb of Nyx, saying: i want to be born, the proper way, unlike an unwanted **** pulled from either of your son's *****... like a shepherd pie leaving the oven... mind you... all women should be given birth via a caesarean section... i'm pretty sure we can leave the old biblical bias behind... let's have some common sense decency, no woman should be giving birth like a cow or a mule... ***** envy... oh yeah... plenty of that... when the poor ******'s head gets pushed through a ******!


the reason why dialectics died,
is because a mediator
was introduced,
and that one of the dialogue
instigators could not
play a mediator with
a joker hand...
               there's the mising
game of the joker card....
     and people say poetry is
in demise...
       poetry was born from a platonic
dialogue, rather than
an aristotelian monologue;
after all, people these days talk
about an "opinionated" man...
they never dare to mention
the dialectical man...
        everyone is entitled to their opinions,
is pressured to keep them,
like the men entrenched
in the poppy fields of belgium:
one side didn't want to hear
what the other side was talking...
sure: this whole: "but it's my opinion",
so, why not put it against
my want to exercise dialectics?
ultimately a "freedom" of speech
is worth nothing,
      when opinions remain,
akin to shovels and trench digging...

and when h'americans talk about the superficiality
of their culture, deeming 'how are you?'
questions,
   to someone like a supermarket cashier,
as deeply rooted in existential cruxes...
i just want to laugh...
   what's either deep, or superficial
about that sort of question?
   only yesterday the same...
****, that was two days ago...
fay fever...
      she looked bloated and rotten in terms
of being self-contained i.e. content...
that's why i'm so bewildered about
how h'americans see themselves,
and, notably, how their cultural norm
export is appropriated and made
the new norm, esp. in england...
me? i was being superficial asking
a "deep existential" question
of a supermarket cashier as to how
she was?
   two days ago she looked life ****
because of her hay fever,
today, i told her: you look, radiant...
that the thing, i'll respect any
occupation, but it's about time i receive
some of that respect back...
i even told my father:
  you know the happiest summer
of my life?
   it was working with you,
on the scottish widows h.q. building
near st. paul's...
          this? this is nothing...
but i don't think that owning a chemistry
degree would translate into
an ambition of working in a supermarket...
so then she told me,
  she figured out a way to get to know
this guy who owns two ambulances
just up the road...
   she wants to quit this supermarket
job, and learn to become a paramedic...
she'll go to university
and on the side, get free training
from the guy who lives up
the road and owns two ambulances...
and that's when it dawned on me...
however many times i walked
past that house,
  i thought there was a sick child
stashed in there...
   something akin to Sophia Weaver,
with rett syndrome...
  sorry, god or no god,
  pro life or pro choice...
        does anyone need to see
any more horror movies?
        i'm not even going to troll joke or
whatever...
                 what does pin-head
say in the end?
   welcome, to, your, worst, nightmare...
re-ah-lí-tȳ.
               mind you,
i once had a vision...
          of someone... who had their lips
cut-off...
and were persistently... "grinning"...
          i called this person:
                          todlächelnkopf...
death-smile-h­ead...
                           i'm still not laughing...
but... i managed to find out
what a selfless person looks like,
a supermarket cashier,
who wants to become a paramedic...
  i still don't know what the h'americans
are talking about,
when they equate: how are you doing(?)
to be, some, "grand" existential question...
perhaps h'american society is
superficial... while english society
is only "superficial" in it also being polite?
sure, faking politeness...
that's pretty "bad"...
           but there comes a problem,
when you get caught...
faking superficiality...
       for the per se sake of superficiality
per se...
                        h'americans are weird,
weirded than the english...
    "personal space"...   talking to strangers...
whatever the **** comes out
from these morphed former englishmen...
don't get me wrong: great music...
great culture...
                 but social norms
bound to something akin to a down syndrome
orangutan... funny enough...
don't orangutans resemble down syndrome
peeps?
             i mean the resembling factors
are, either funny, or frightening.
well...
   i was just talking to a cashier...
i told her she looked radiant...
            and then she opened up and told me
her ambitions...
like my english teacher said...
who gives a **** whether the whole:
an apple a day...                   keeps the doctor away...
thomas, you're a legend...
                 one, just one compliment...
and... you'll see a second sunrise in
a person's eye, even if it's turning 10pm.

p.s. it's not like mona lisa was ever smiling,
to me? if she's not showing her
teeth, and her mouth isn't agape,
she's merely, smirking...
can't exactly call it a smile,
when her chee-bones aren't raised;
crafting the doughnut full-moons
and squirming eyes.