apologies, but i will not be abstracting people
as mere pronoun users,
i know i should, but i kinda like "painting"
and giving peoeple race, and differences,
i can't really establish what pronoun-bleaching
would do to, oh i don't know,
perhaps i'd be writing this...

back when i still worked as a roofer and was doing
a project in Greenwich,
  nice try, construction industry men don't
go to the gym... what a joy to remember my roots...
anyway...
    what was i saying?
   so i commuted from north east london
this this little village...
and it really has a feel about it that it is a village...
i went into the Greenwich waterstones
bookshop and spotted something interesting...
    a j. k. huysmans trilogy (beginning with la bas)
and ending with *cathedral, or something like that,
if i knew what the internet was saying,
i'd buy all three books...
     but i did the dumb thing of buying
the first book of the trilogy, that's always in print...
anyway, no small loss...
   and there stood sideways joseph roth's
the antichrist...
              i can't compare it to nietzsche work,
even though i should, given roth was jewish...
and i figured: if the concept is not originally
jewish and greek, and anti- is a prefix much
more easily understood these days with
the existence of anti-matter...
            than say... armilus...
    well... so i was commuting day to day,
and over the course of the project probably read
two of three books, roth's was one of them,
alongside nikos kazantzakis' blockbuster...
but something weird happened when i read roth
for the first time...
     sitting in this dockland train heading south
of the thames, a group of muslim "women"
spotted that i was literate,
     they sat, about 10 metres away from me...
but the word antichrist must have prompted them,
one just said out-loud: you're satan's *****...
huh?
   there i am, reading my own book not raving
mad reading it aloud, and there she has the prank
of associating a book to a very mysterious person
who riddles the bible being completed...
      mein gott: two world wars ever since nietzsche
wrote he was the person with the title kept
sorta on a whim for nearly 2000 years...
     and then two days ago my father has a car accident
and this hijab clad woman is driving,
  but she does a Pilate and doesn't take responsibility,
the passenger that's with her jumps out
   and gives my father his details
and the woman is pristine...
     a *******, what do you call it: sacred cow?
most pedestrians in england are treated as such...
  so she phones her son and gives the phone to my father
and her son says to my father: it's against
the law to phone the police, you can't phone them...
well... hey presto! we're in Saudi Arabia!
and this is what's worrying me...
no... nope... this is what pains me...
    i had to take my ego for a walk tonight...
i had to think a lot of ******* out,
how the ego would whimper and whine like a dog...
there's your "janus" / "contronym"...
ego... dog...
   the leash? i'm thinking with it...
and suddenly, clarifty, i can pierce it's *******
narrative and think about it... as any id might...
what i experienced was an ego-dispossesion...
   i lost it, it turned into an automaton,
robotic misery... hardly the angry Frankenstein monster...
i lost the care for an ego-embodiment...
i was dispossessed by it, robbed, thief! thief!
i needed to come back home and read
heidegger's aphorisms 174 through to 178 from
the ponderings (it would help that you read the
ponderings... after reading being & time)...
the pain i felt was very much akin to being British,
even though it's something i assimilated into...
which could mean that's it's the odd bit...
should i, shouldn't i feel some sentiment for my host
culture?
word are flying around the place,
they're calling it cultural marxism...
well... i come from a culture that had stated
marxism, period, i.e. supported by an economic model,
that worked, and would have worked,
had capitalism not done what capitalism does
naturally: compete!
   i'm watching these cultural marxists and, i think,
i'm watching penguins in a zoo...
  i don't know what to make of these marxists,
who aren't even leninists...
            where's the economic model?!
  
that's the problem of going to a catholic school
in england, attempting to stress multi-culturalism,
i even ojected to being confirmed ritually,
with a bishop from Brentwood,
sorry, too much Irish around the place....
i too thought i was about to say something in Gaelic...
outer-east london: a complete ******* jungle
of biodiversity...
     so did i misplace my allegiences?
to the tongue? to faking an ethnicity?
    of course i'm pisssed off, i spent the past 2 hours
walking the most mundane of walks,
bewildered why this woman in a hijab wouldn't
own up to causing a traffic accident...
i helped him will out the police forms,
and there she is, on paper, smug like some ****** mary
because i'm the one that really doesn't think
that Islam got Project Hair wrong,
me? personally? i think that woman's hands ought to
be covered,
     in thinking terms, a woman's hands could
get me more excited than a woman's foot...
but sure... hell... why not hair?!
              the last time i checked, normal people
have an aversion toward hair...
ever see that person almost vomiting when they found
a stranger's hair in their soup?
  that **** that grows on your hair is the only silk
you've got... how about a few toenail clippings
to boot? first thing a sane would think: ****! ****!
oh, we're going to get on... just fine, just fine...
   the next time i think about encouraging
an **** ******* position's worth of prayer
i'll be a ******* cardinal.
   what's wrong with taking responsibility?
why are Islamic women so immune to the tractātus
of law? where's the jurisprudence?
   i'd call it something more than diabolical...
you can really become a vampire when you're told
the lesson: those that thirst for justice...
  lesser leech...
            who gives a **** whether it was: "but a scratch"?
woman! take responsibility!
  pampered little coconut jugglers...
   now to think of it... leave those curtains,
and this one time: she was walking with a buggy
and a small child and she unveiled herself from
a niqab before me...
           the perfect arabian nightmare i could
have ever witnessed...
             i had long hair back then...
what she revealed from under that niqab?
wait... am i writing this in the times
when the French occupied the Holy Land and had
the first thirst / idea of a colony?
  
this is me, imitating punching a brick wall...
this is me... in a boxing ring...
bashing myself...
            this is me thinking about how man
has no capacity to usher in karma,
how man's concept of law is hardly cosmic,
how man is a kniving ******* that
deserves something beyond a heaven and a hell:
rather: a return to his self...
that's what i keep telling myself:
i don't want heaven, i don't want hell...
i, just, want, to, return, to, my, self...
    yes, that's a reflection,
hence the pronoun has no compound, i.e. isn't
a reflexive understanding for the fluidity of language
expressed by the concerning compound: myself.
perhaps that's just the beginning of understanding
the noumenon / thing in itself, or rather to counter
the fluidity of the word itself, since, evidently
it self makes no sense that could ever produce
a concept akin to the noumenon...

why wouldn't this woman care to give an inkling into
her concept of right and wrong...
she's driving the ******* car, she makes a doo doo...
pauper... **** up!
            i still don't know why it was about hair...
you like a stranger's **** in a soup?
   what's with this middle eastern fetish for covering it?
hey! beginning from 1986, am i sorta automatically
involved in a cult that has a vintage of ageing from
a **** of a camel a long time ago?
  no wonder the knighthood ceremony was initiated
by slapping a newly initiated knight across the cheek,
like i said, a woman's hand is more ******
than her hair...
      i'd say: take up ye care to don gloves!
and that, i'm sure, will never happen.

it's probably the most delicate thing a woman can possess...
a hand...
the rest is what darwinism cared to provide us with:
a black widow, a mantis;
and that's talking pure earnest about the matter...

listen, i spent the past two hours having the ordeal of
an ego... which i had to anti-narrate into theory...
yes, the id was helpful, is actually told me, or rather,
interrupted the ego from the narrative
to give me this *******'s worth of profanity
(and yes, with due reason; ever fill out a police form
concerning some accident? do that, then you'll be equipped
to read Tolstoy)...

so it was ego-possessiveness,
      the ego already thinks its eternally subject...
that's one of the implants...
eternity and god are inherent in ego,
   your heart means absolutely nothing when the ego
has been given certainity that it can't shake off...
what the ego isn't given is a unit of reason
that sees past it... the id...
in relation to dualism and the much active dichotomy
as alternative to an equilibrium of dualism
i will outrightly exclude the superego
  as nothing but antithesis to the ubermann theory
of overcoming man...
  and on their shoulder they once had
the epitomes of cartoon conscience, an angel and a demon...
but thanks to the superego: they had mama
on their left shoulder, and papa on their right shoulder...

just the mere act of shutting that thing up
was enough, and it was apparent,
that writing fiction could be to blame,
   writing fiction can be rightly guessed at
for levitating a condition of medical proportion
into the realm of mythology,
    we have already depersonalised the unit
of ego to the extent that it has become polarised,
bipolar, e.g., comes from a depersonalised
gravity of ego,
we're no longer in need to write books,
we're in a dire need to write our own psyches...
and it all stems from making the basic human unit,
bound to the privacy of thought,
as needing a system that outweighs the moral
stratum,
           what can a person actually be or become
to even dream about asserting that there is
a da-sein (i.e. something, somethingness)
          "happening"?
i feel that there's something worse than a second
nakedness emerging,
         it's this incapacity to move on,
it's a mental nakedness, i am more easily prone
to dress my body in clothes
than i am able to dress my ego in thoughts,
than can correlate adequately, and peacefully...
toward something akin to a symbiosis
that can reach a = status, rather than an
   ≠ or an ≈ status... ****! Aquarius!
isn't the ≈ symbol the basis for it?
oh hell, back into the zodiac...
              
     i know my ego can be a downer,
but at least that's who i am talking about...
aphorisms no. 174 through to 178?
i do odd experiments with books,
     this is the first of its kind,
i'm actually going to rattle-******* this book out
till it feels like having wanked it 20 times
in a single day... i'll write what i "feel",
funny word, that word feel...
you never get to use it these days,
man is more about hammering in nails than
saying: ooh... that hurts...
and we all know what happened to Jesus'
teaching... forgive strangers...
     make sure your former friends are
crucified up-side down...
                 that really went far...
                      i can just see him...
an oasis of bullet-proof clauses...
              about how to handle people...
give them l.s.d. unconsciously!
         then wait for actual l.s.d. to arrive
and then worry...
when they took to their Swiss bicycles...
and writing poetry... and eating a soft-boiled
egg... given the concern for cholesterol:
a hard concept to fathom: that runny yoke...
     never ate mine with salt, i always like
that idea of legalised abortion...
                and we can be just that...
so imaginative to consolidate being mammal
that we can fathom eating chicken eggs
as easily as abortions... runny yokes have no basis
for a morality, or a compass...
they just are... runny... yummy...
             i call yokes the male version of
a woman's fascination with chocolate...
  i think egg yokes are the equivalent of cholocate
for men as chocolate is for women...
or so the advert said...

aphorism 174: as language...

          aphorism 175:
              philosophy catching up to science,
akin to theology catching up to philosophy,
both condescending extracts
that end up with both of the extreme parties
dressing up funny.

aphorism 176: such that newspapers are
the natural preservers? i.e. the idea of historical
escapism.

      (toilet paper does, much much more,
than a newspaper actually provides,
   press freedom is a bit boring to be honest,
beginning with the need for a moral agent
that's less and less moral, and more prone to
darwinism, i.e. selective, which is also said via:
what's natural, in a more and more techno-savvy culture?)

aphorism 177: only as, a rural thinker unto
a rural thinker... a case of describing a perfume
of those thinking about a day after tomorrow,
   but more precisely:
  the day before yesterday that didn't involve them...
say, on the ethnicity basis,
  the talk of being inheriting from the form
of ancestry... how we cultivate cucumbers,
tomatoes, prejudices...
   which is why i'm a slav happily talking a tongue
that's germanic, an off-shoot saxon,
and hopefuly defending it.

aphorism 178:
         "everything great wavers and wobbles,
stands in a storm. the beautiful is difficult."
   Ezra too, with the last, alas.
     but it's true... what happened in england in the second
part of the 20th century was great,
  and it did indeed wobble past the storm into
a desert of retirement...
            a peaceful coming toward terms of
a natural agreement...
   the generation preceding mine enshrined in their
psyche an england they heard over the radio...
king crimson... all such artistic expressions
found a case to take root...
     how parasites never attack a feeble creature
and only take roost in a strong symbiotic partner...
once it was said england could resemble ancient greece,
and it did, from the second part of the 20th century...
but that ended...
               it's gone, i have inherited a communist
past, a marxism with a concept of money,
and economic policy that wasn't inherently competitive,
but it also wasn't a welfare policy of the Marshall Plan,
and all i get is this freakish counter-movement
known as marxism in culture...
   that's worse than marxism in economy!

it should be heartbreaking to say this,
but coming from a monochromatic society,
watching the death of communism...
     i could say it was perfect... but then i can't
given my grandparents have a secure pension plan
that the state provides... i like that joke,
i just said it, and it makes perfect sense...
there is much more of Pilate in the history
of the peoples than there is of Jesus...
washing my hands clean, the companies said,
meaning self-employment...
     unless you have a really hungry libido
you actually do start worrying about keeping up
the numbers...
  companies don't...
      it's a bit of a bollocking...
i come from what could be imagined as a safety
economics of marxism into a marxism of culture
that i simply can't comprehend...
              well: it did give "us" a sense of pride,
and a will to rebuild warsaw without any american
money...
        the russians just said: where's your pride?
do you want to take their money and have it easy?
and when i ask that question:
i just start thinking about arabs without their oily diapers...
oil diaper... not exactly black gold:
oil diapers...
             Ahmed gonna poo poo?
              &nbsp

Guess Life hasn’t been life in a minute
Heart’s weighing heavy, hardly have the strength to lift it
So I Hang my head lower than my eyes when I’m too lit
Should probably change my ways but if the shoe fits
Please excuse my past excuse and indiscretions
Know you know I don’t have a clue I’m misdirected
Misguided misjudgment, mask my mistakes with mixed drinks
Sorry that I lost you I often tend to misplace things
Misplace blame, misplace trust, Misplace hate, misplace love
Far too many if’s and maybe’s maybe that’s what I’m afraid of
Cause you're the only one who kept me grounded like a parent
And as time goes by its becoming more apparent
You're my only constant, constantly betting that I'll get through it
And I wanna prove you right because I know your love's the truest

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Colourful and soft
Hearts, stars and polka dot
Pull me on when it turns cold
Entangle me, don’t fold

Woollen, netted or cotton
Worn at the bottom
Warm, cosy and neat
That’s how I keep your feet

I am always in two’s
You can wear me with shoes
Wear me wherever you like to
But take me off when you enter the loo

Please don’t get me wet
Even I stink when I sweat
Don’t misplace my twin
It will break my heart and that’s a sin

I won't  let your feet turn cold
I will be there when you are old
I am comfort, I am the best
Used in north, south, east and west.

I am stretchy, I am a sock
I ease your feet for a run or walk
If I take the back seat
Numb, tanned and torn feet.

So pay my parents well
Don’t let your feet swell
I promise to serve you
I know you need me too.

-Zainab Attari

A moonlit dance beneathe constellations
      not Taurus or Gemini, Delphinus or Orion
                 but stars we named together
                   linking lines from star to star
       hands pointing in air so cold
a tear falls and
                           another
  leaving a roadmap on my cheeks
            that you
                            chase
                           ­            chase
                                                  chase
   ­         lifting the palm of your hand
                 so cold to the touch I shiver
            feeling the beauty of my tears
         that glisten like Venus in the midnight sky
             of this cold Parisian night
  you smile in jest and
     I misplace the space
  between you and I and that sky
  whispering "do you love me?"
    how could I resist the beauty of
                 our second to last kiss.

© Sia Jane

child-like thoughts run through my mind in between the thoughts of adulthood coming at me
and all i can think about is the children's code
an infinite amount of everything out of anything
substituting words to mean something else

tongue we would only know
i'm feeling my youth tonight
so sit back while i speak to you in code:

the thought of complete bliss will always be the year of 2008
filled with sunny summer days
vampire weekend
and not a care in the world
adulthood so far away
the whole WORLD in our hands and all the ambition at our fingertips
memories tap into my brain constantly
tap tap tap
dot dot dash
.. / -- .. ... ... / -.-- --- ..-
repeat.
repeat.
repeat.

weekends filled with computer games
because that's what all the cool kids do right?
days of portal and nights of runescape

the sun is shining
we close the blinds to keep the glare away
we are chell

night time falls
creative gamertags emerge
we take on lumbridge together
mouthoil and lavenderbrwnie making their way

all on one screen of a complex calculator
binary running through it's circuits
01110111 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100100 01101001 01100100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101001 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100111 01101111 00111111


symbols with a key
the easiest way to communicate on school grounds
passing notes
only we would understand

^(&$# RQH%QW%*D
E(H% R($T#% *%

I've seem to misplace the key
along with our time

almost 20
and our new method is a great one
poetry
so i'll give you something you're very good at breaking down:

it's raining harder in the backyard than the front
We both have that same feel
I don't even have to ask to know
but one day
the sun will come out
it'll be high noon
there will be sun and warmth all around the property
and we'll jump on the trampoline
tie dye some shirts
and talk in code once again

olive juice.

repeat.
repeat.
repeat.

Help me understand what I mean to you...
Help me clarify that I am something, cause im tired too..
Tired of the games and blues, filled with exhaustion from my heart buying in to your lies soo much its costin me,happiness...
I wanna know for sure!'show me an exact image! of reason, why be with him, if I known you longer than you been breathin?
All this teasin is misleading, do you want me? tell me! dont leave me hangin..
Im madden and sadden by the though he has your lips, what happens to me  if it last long, and  I just come around like a bad caugh.
I've lost...
What we had is old news, but i guess time shared holds no meaning in helping you choose.
Don't come to me if your confused, i refuse to help you and your trouble, for now on do you...
Cause i been doin me, never had a problem I couldn't solved em easily with alil alcohol and **** cause you cared less about me and more about him..
I was a friend the best there was, the best there is, the best there ever will be, one you'll probably will not miss.
Or even noticed, if I disappeared, Im just a ghost, a shadowed memory,  still wanna be wanted but its hopeless...truly hopeless, why I wrote this? It won't change a **** thing about her, why Am  I still hopin? Why I care? Why I dare to even mention your name know you wont come to my aid, your never there...
Always with another or him, not knowing who you want, i was wish i was in your option, I can do much more, but never gained a chance to prove, and you wonder why I feel summertime  blues....
Im the best, One you'll never loose..
Ima alot of things but theres a side I never get to show, a side you will love, but you always say no, not givin me a chance as if I was bronze not worth your Gold,
but listen baby im silver, way out there but a good catch, ima outfielder,
something you can be near uhh never shed a tear soo why you always out me?
Always doubt me, never wanna like me, knowing im the right piece,
always misplace me baby, i can clean up mess like a wipee, 
whipe your tears on my white T,
i wanna be your  lycan whose fightin for what he likes see? but I feel there's no time for me...so again  why am I writing????
I am just helpless, a romantic put on the shelf like an old novel,
these say stomach the pain, but I put these dead butterflies in a bottle...
alone in my household, holding close what I call ghost hopes...Dead long ago, now it just cold like the snow, could build a snow man, But I just say no,
Why bother like Stone Sour...it will never happen, I blacken with thoughts, cryin in shower.
Stressin myself because my heart feels like its in a cyclical orbit,
of doubt and hopes, a limbo that continues to lower my esteem
and stings with pain like hornets..

BY: Emmanuel Jv Hernandez
5/23/14
(might add and edit later depending if i doesnt flow the way i want or needs more insight to get across what im feeling)


comment what you think!!!!!

Emotion
inside out
eternal light
and passion
Bursting through
pouring
from my eyes
as if I've never
cried before
Sweet nectar
touch my lips
as I drink your essence
from my tears
Naught ever
to misplace
the taste
of you

Because he was the robin, see
I built him a birdhouse made of the fingernails I chipped from every time I was forced to button up my own flannel shirt
It was quite silly and awkward-looking
So it didn't bother me when he didn't want to live there
It would take a lot of fake smiles and wooden blinds to tolerate a habitation such as the one I constructed for him
So it didn't bother me when he didn't want to live there

When he told me he was making a nest I took a paring knife from the kitchen drawer
When he told me he was making a nest I gave him 10 inches of weave to (through) the twigs
When he told me there were lots of split ends and varied shades
I wasn't too hurt because it was true

And I knew he would use twisty ties from bread bags instead
Which were much more practical than 10 inches of lover's hair
I just couldn't understand why he didn't give it back

He misplaced it, he said
How can you misplace something I had (longed) for him

a light at the end of the tunnel
is the freedom
in the words I type
Where would I be
without the steady click
of my mind laying into the soft
caress of a screen, as for paper
it's insolent and my pen it ran out of ink
The lines I draw, are only in my mind
as I've seemed to have misplace the valley where the dead rest
The tangible object where many of writers have left their soul
The pages where have they gone ?
The smell, and the history, all here in this screen
A bird sits at my window sill as if waiting for me
to deliver some sort of message
she will fly and soar and anyone who lays on her will know
that I couldn't deliver the message I was told to write
I couldn't jump over to the other side
I couldn't make it through the forest without becoming more lost
I didn't try hard enough, I let fear take hold.
I wanted so badly to become
The one,
the one you all need,
but the tree's they laid witness
to trial after trail of failure
laid between the click of a keyboard a new generation
of the vessel that we use to pour our souls into
my thoughts captured before my eyes and
just one click and you will all see
and maybe you will feel the failure I  carry
the failure i've never confronted myself with
a perfectly honest revelation
of how I failed you all,
of how I couldn't jump,
of how I let the fear of the pain
get in the way of the success of a champion.
Now I'm in my room feet firmly planted in reality and i still
feel the fear
I still feel the self doubt
the feeling that no matter how many times I jump
i'll always fall short
I'll never make it to the other side
I'll never be a person solidified in a vessel
whose soul was felt
whose soul was known
I'll never bring the world together, or sacrifice
I'll most likely be average
I'll mostly likely die without hearing
the sound of my giant crowd.

When I think about the future with you I smile about the little things
I think about the late nights on the couch, eating leftover Chinese food and laughing until we cry
I think about the days at the pool, putting sunscreen on your back, and finding your sunglasses for you because you misplace everything
I think about the sunny afternoons, exhausted from the work day, and you're pouring me a drink and telling me you're so ******* proud of me

I've spent a life creating fortune for those who've either never seen nor deserved it

Decimated by wanton want for more, or decaying senses wrought with desolation and desire to simply be known, I've caused strife within myself for the sake of others being fulfilled

I've spent so much time creating, ready to give myself to a world that's only seemed to cause destruction to my own soul, and take from me the things I needed most, even if merely conceived through empty wishing

I crave to bestow this strength and wisdom to one who would call my heart home; to be equal and stand as one, through synergy and servitude toward every sense of well being, respect, and care

I do not ask for more, I request nothing but trust and honesty; my affection, admiration, and loyalty lies upon the eyes that see me true

I do not expect love, nor frivolous diligence, I simply wish to no longer misplace my purpose, my admiration, or my faith unto anyone that would never see me, or never care to desire such staunch resolve within their heart as well

One
What’s your ethnicity, or your race?
Are you
Mexican, Filipino, Hawaiian, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese, Alaskan, English, Irish, Polish, Scottish, British, Brazilian, Cuban, Spaniard, Australian, Canadian, or Jamaican?
Are you something I have not listed?
Are you a combination of multiple ethnicities?
Do you not know who you are?
Still not sure what you identify with?
Or do you not consider your ethnic culture?
Do you prefer to leave behind your roots, only sticking to one true race?
Is your race
Human, Robotic, Alien, Animalia, Plante, Fungi, Bacteria, Futuristic, Untamed, Unreal, Tideborn, Winged-Elf, Elf, Earthbound, Soul, Ghost, Zombie, Magician, Wizard, Troll, Vampire, Dragon, Unicorn, Werewolf, Mysterious, or even too epic to be identified?
Though, this question itself shouldn’t really matter
For, I do not care what the color of your skin,
The identification of where your ancestors have been
Or even who you were then
I’d treat you the same

Two,
What’s the weather like in your mind?
Is it cloudy and unsafe?
Can you bear to let another thought fill up the cloud in your mind?
Or are you still intertwined,
With the thoughts you’ve let yourself get so lost in?
Is it filled with happiness, sunshines and rainbows?
Are bunnies hopping around a sea of flowers?
Can you see the sunset in the horizon and are you capable of clearing away the sad blue skies
Is it safe for me to live in there?
Because, I want to be your thoughts,
I want to show you the sun
So,
Would you mind me living in your mind?

Three,
Are you lost?
Do you wander?
Because being lost is recreation
When we continue to lose ourselves
We tend to recreate the person we are.
We tend to go near and far
We are lost wanderers in this world we call home
So if you’re lost in your thoughts,
And if you’re lost in your world
Let me guide you to a recreation of yourself
And maybe you’ll love being lost as much as I do.

Four,
What’s your world like?
Is it like the world we live on?
The world we take shelter upon?
Is it filled with misery and mayhem?
Or is it filled with peace and tranquility?

Five,
What do you see?
Can you see the darkness that surrounds our hearts?
Can you use it to strengthen the reason to basket in the light?
Do you see the destruction humanity hath brought upon the world?
Can you see it?
Or are you too blind to realize that tranquility and peace no longer exist?
That those are just delusions your mind hath made up.
That the word of the Lord has been bent and now is broken by the people you rented your beliefs to.
That the world is now in turmoil,
And soon,
Oh so soon
It’ll be destroyed by the greed you were to blind to stop

Six,
Do you regret something?
An action you have committed,
An action you have done.
Did you let all the chances slip away?
Did you let her get away?
Because I have done that
So many times I’ve stopped counting.
For if I had kept track
It would have filled up a novel entitled How to Lose Someone (and How to Repeat it)
And so many times,
I have wished I could take it all back.

Seven,
How many wished did you make?
And how many of those wishes came true?
How many falling stars, 11:11’s, eyelashes, and fountains did it take to get it through your mind that wishes don’t come true?
That without a little bit of effort,
Wishes are just meaningless words you’ve wasted your breath on.
Because for every wish I made
Reality slapped me in the back of the head,
And told me it wasn’t going to be true.

Eight,
Have you fallen in and out of love?
Did you regret falling in love in order to fall out of it again?
Did you count the ways you can tell your lover how much you loved them?
Or did you cower in the corner?
Too afraid of something, like rejection, that never existed.
Did you misplace you love?
Are you single but your heart belongs to another?
Someone in which you cannot have?
Isn’t that just how the love life works for the wicked?
We love so much
And our hearts give away,
Yet no one is there to give us theirs
So we end up the heartless
Or even the broken hearted.

Nine,
Have you cried yourself to sleep at night?
Allowing the tears to rock you to sleep
The gentle sirens of the sorrow really do know how to sing a saddened lullaby
And sometimes,
You do not awaken feeling happy,
You may just feel even more ******
But the days you fall asleep with tears in your eyes
You may find that the day has only begun
When the morning sun
Shines on

Ten,
Would you like to tell me a story?
For I have already told you mine
I would like to hear yours.

I am of human race with ethnic culture of the Philippines and Mexico
The weather in my mind is a bit bi-polar but I believe it’s a liveable one.
The world I live in causes me to get lost that I believe I’m just a wanderer
What I see are my regrets
And boy do I have a lot
I’ve made so many wishes that I have lost any hope in having it come true
And dear sir,
I believe that it is true
That falling in love, I continued to fall out of.
But I’ve lived my life like this that I do not know how to get out of it.
I’ve cried myself to sleep at night
But mostly tears awakened me.
Sunshines have come and gone
But I still a wait for the morning sun
So will you tell me a story?
Start with the beginning and end to some where
I just want to know
How much our lives can click into one.

Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
  it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.

Slow begins the dance of tongues and hard news.
I learn a thing I never wished to learn.
Afterwards,
a dance of tongues in the ensuite
begins a sudden rapture of claiming.

Nails mine, skin mine
to make a pink impression on.
Bile in the back of the throat, mine.
Fear of death, mine. Oaths and oaths,
mine, too. An exchange of humility,
knee for a knee. The rigid wall at your back.
The wall at your back.
The night which enriches
bluer out of the blue air,
not the action of
the world moving at all.

The particles of water in a birdbath divide,
decide among themselves
to marry each to each, to reproduce.
They become an ocean.
They drown the birds.
My mouth fills with feathers,
teeth itch with the tiny mites
running between the shafts.

I am a bell, and you are a country.
I am a bell and sound from far away.

Hands touch the broken vase in her parts, the toes,
the eyelash, the sunken wreck, the crowd of dead,
the treasure.
They say
  all this
as if the map was drawn
and burned
and came again
in char from the tablecloth
to all our wonder.

A single miracle can last for weeks in the mouth. Sometimes centuries.

I will spend eighteen days in the void of grace.
What begins as a pain in my shoulders
will grow into a tree and bury me.
I will want promises, promises, promises.
(water, water, water)
I will never be satisfied.

Looking always for permanent loss it becomes easy to simply
misplace.
Your caution leads to strange decisions.
You put your keys in the fridge.

I would like to say I knew the words:
I cut the lock of hair, I drew the blood.
The hex was removed by faith and chaste reflection
but everywhere I look, there is a confusion
of hungry birds and beggars
and I forget the spell,
or what chaste reflection even is.

Anyways, something breaks. Not my doing.
Suddenly, I am just noticing sky again.
I am transcribed back into English.
My first decision is to wash my car,
and next,
to learn what faith meant to anyone.

Charmed, is it?
Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
  it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.
It has nothing, really, to say.
It only rattles.

More than the combination
Of Math and English,
More than the uncertainty
Of sour bitterness

Don’t I deserve better?

Then the hours upon hours
Of monotonous words
Then the blaring and the whistling
Of simultaneous noise


Don’t I deserve better?

More than the giggling
Flock of girls
More than the chants of
Your irritating name

Don’t I deserve better

To compete arrogance
With compassion
To argue utmost uncertainty
With obvious honesty

Don’t I deserve better?

Than the continuous
Anxiety
Than the pressure to
Ignore

Don’t I deserve better?

To choose what should
Be chosen
To love for uncertainty
One who does

Don’t I deserve better?
To love those who love me
To ignore those who misplace me
To finally be with someone of my choosing
But it rarely works that way,

Will I ever deserve better?

Finding What Was Lost                          1/12/19

I’m searching for something I’ve lost. You can’t help me look for it.
I can’t quite remember what I did with it. This thing that seems to elude me.
How could I misplace something so important?

I became complacent, that’s what happened.
What was an intrinsic part of me, not nurtured, left me abandoned.
If I call to it, it does not come like a puppy who has escaped the yard with its tail tucked in between his legs.
I have to show what I’ve lost, that it is of value to me.

“Hello?” please come back. I swear I’ll do better, and work harder than I ever have.
I know now that my existence is meaningless without this part of me.

Realizing this, I reach into the dark places of my mind for the light switch to flip on.
Recalling every detail about what I love to do, nurturing what gives me purpose.

Because, in the end, only I can fulfill this need.  
Reinventing, transforming, and evolving. Finding myself along to way.
Becoming a better version of what I was and, in doing that, embrace me.
Hello soul.

By.
Randy McPeek

Its a beautiful lie
A perfect lie to believe in
Its time to let go of the truth
Its time to forget
I cant do this
I need someone to set me free
Lay awake at nite missing you
The perfect denial
With
Misplace love
In a beautiful lie
I need the one
To make me happy
To make me smile
Be the one i trust
Be the one i want to be with until i die
Be the one to make me feel better about myself
And
Think about our life
The perfect denial
With
Misplace Love
A beautiful lie
Love is a game

Glitters and red meters
givers and received perceivers
usher the gift of illusionary display
vision all the aspects of reality

Signal the surreal posts on trees
yank and spotlight my dreams
walk and split the glass panels
wagon us from societal ice

Glitters and red masks
course every vein of our being
pour the red wine and misplace
protrude every nautical sense

Read my palm, contact the wizard
grab my sight, take me to the moon
contactless,eventful and tasteful
contactless, easy and resourceful

I'm extremely disorganized
I don't know what belongs where
Take my eyes for example
I can't find a place to rest them
I tried setting them on you
But everyone agreed that **** wasn't working
They explained that an organized man
Adheres to categories
And you and I
Are not of a kind
I attempted to argue that you organized me
My heart
My mind
You folded me neatly
When you beat me
You always made sure to set me aside when you were done with me
You'd place me in a bin
Or release me to the wind
Yet there was a burdensome fault in my littered logic
They explained that an organized man
Is clean
I must use eyes that are sanitized
To see how we're not categorized
And avoid your matador eyes
Because things will get messy
When the bull in your fists
Sees the roses in my heart
My humanity starts to part
And my wishes I begin to opine
For the nature of a bovine
So I wouldn't misplace my eyes
And be what I'm classified
But that nature eludes me
As do most things
On account of me being disorganized and all
But I'm a quick learner order burner page turner
I may not know what belongs where
But I know I belong neither here nor there
Making my eyes not belong anywhere
This is what develops my entropy stare

You make my body burn slow,
like a stricken match in a film noir;
our legs intertwine
like muscular vine,
chests pressed so close
we can synchronize
our heartbeats, every artery
and vein pumping
like speed-of-light projectors.

You bend my senses, make them
forfeit heir coherences, force
my limbs to misplace
their native tongue
within a simmering puddle
of submissive bliss.

Your tongue sliding up my back?
Fosse was never so graceful.

I want to play back your moans
on speakers the size
of monoliths.

I need to pleasure you
until the wave
becomes a tsunami,
one ready to swallow all doubt
and shame and apprehension
until all that septic negativity
is trapped within our jaws,
drowning in our slithering tongues
until it dissolves as quickly
as sugar in a boiling cauldron
and there is nothing left
but our sweat and our panting
and the excitement
that these dunes of ecstasy
will repeat themselves indefinitely.

A single pane of glass and half-drawn shades separated me from my maker tonight.
I know I should have called sooner but it's late and I knew you’d be asleep.
I was upset because you ate all the bread and I was left with the two end pieces that are really only saved to crumble and throw at the ducks in the pond.
It’s a little past two and I was just in the kitchen making grilled cheese.

I don’t even look up when
The shouts rise and settle in the dark, foolish night.
This has become commonplace for insomniacs like us.
We bear these yawning horrors,
the exploding blunderbuss, to spare your sweet, dreaming slumber.

This can't be different from a movie scene, but I can barely hear the first gunshot
(much less the second) above the sizzle and snarl of the butter in the pan.
Between two cars, I watch the paramedic
pound the barrier between flesh and what lay beneath,
what simply refuses to answer that forceful beckoning of breath.

Lord, please just let his heart beat.

I hope that helicopters are lifting this kid on the gurney
Up into the unforgiving night that sits heavy above us all.
The scoop and swirl and tuck and twirl of the fleeting, unnoticed smoke fills the kitchen.
I’m still clutching these cold slices of cheese in my hand.
I take a few bites but seemingly misplace my appetite for ****** cooking.

I can only think of the “Horses of Achilles” by Cavafy as I let the cheese drizzle and smear over my chin and cheeks,
I think of their tears for young Patroclus.
I think of their mourning of the woebegone of humanity
In spite of their immortality.

I’m not really sure why I’m telling you all of this.
I guess I just realized that I have never really known Fear.
Never felt It pound at the barrier between flesh and fate.
Despite that beckoning of breath,
I watch the never ending calamity of death and cower behind youth’s half-drawn shades.

Oh God, it's been 20 minutes. Let his heart beat just once!
Just twice?
Just until the morning light?
Because what else is youth for if not to have and to hold,
Right?

I’ll feel foolish when you find that nothing about this message makes any real sense.
Thankfully, it's about that time for the sun to rise,
But there is a cruel fog settling between what has passed and the dawn.
It leaves a thin layer of moisture on the glistening DO NOT ENTER tape that tangles between the trees, on the grass, and on the roofs of the houses that sit heavy above us all.

But above all,
I wanted to tell you that the birds are chirping already.
So I’ll just talk to you later in the morning, maybe?
I guess my point is,
I guess what I really called to say is,

I’m glad you’re still breathing.
And,
I’m glad I am too.
But,
when the inevitable arrives and we must really know Fear,

I hope we pound against the beckoning of beat and breath,
until the paramedic announces our time of death.
I hope the immortal horses shed their tears for fleeting youth and for burnt bread,
I hope they mourn the return from Life to the great Nothing night that awakens to the chirping birds of another sunrise.

I hope it didn’t wake you.

I have found a season which exists
between New England's winter and spring,
in late March or early April.

You will know it by the bleeding of colors
in the sky at dusk (the orange cream,
the flush of pink, the blue-powdered
lavender) when all the clouds
misplace their edges.

You will ease your body down
into grass damp with what remains
of winter's moisture. Let your eyes
become a mirror for what lies above you:
the ethereal atmosphere.

The trees will reach up with a thousand
grasping fingers, all craving the silk
of the sky, and you will stretch out
your own limbs, unable to resist
the desperate urge to touch.

I like things
That do not belong
Mislaid, lost
Dropped, thrown
How do they end up in my frame
How come I keep on noticing.

I am attracted to things
That do not quite seem to fit
Subtly ruining it;
A smudge, a note
A love
Unwritten in the stars.

A weakness
For displaced happiness
Somewhere I never intended;
Maybe,
My love,
I misplace my heart in the right spot.

i) up the stairs
red scarves and tight skirts
loose slacks and grey shirts
my how the landscape has changed
I can’t say that I love to be dipped into this *** of pretty
where the lipstick liner queens supreme
and the coffee is brewed to mitigate the colostomy retch
so I try a yellowed paper backed beat
but it held nothing to the shoebox diorama
of national care
where the alphabetised gates of ingress
more or less double as departure lounge
for the broken and spent where their god
might sit them on fashionably backed chairs
for the percentile of misplace repairs
or is it me that smells of warm ****?

ii) down the travelator
a troll lives under the MRI,
moved on from the bridge by the gruffest of beards,
now working externally of the fable
beneath the table of the magnetic eye

you left another shirt in my room
and soon after you left
i wept into the fiber like a liar
and the wires in the walls
made my skin crawl
and fall out of place
in any case, i saw your face
my saving grace when i misplace
the space in my mind
bobby pin left behind
underneath two grinding spines
still reminds me of the sky
your eyes and why
you said goodbye
that night

I wonder if you even notice
The way I completely lose focus
Whenever you bring up her name.

Any life I had in my eyes drains
Automatic smile
Fake laugh
At all the right pauses
Racking my brains for what I'll reply
And I bet you don't even notice.

I know we've talked about it
And she's just a friend now,
But that doesn't keep my stomach
from dropping,
And that doesn't keep my heart
from stopping,
Whenever you bring up her name.

It's not that I want you to erase her
And I'm not trying to replace her,
But how will I ever face her
When I'm wondering if every time
You're holding me, you wish to embrace her.
I'm not expecting you to misplace her,
Misplace a chunk of your life,
But I know she's the one you
Pictured as your wife.

At what point will memories of me
supersede memories of her,
bringing you nearer.
At what point will we proceed
and will she recede
into the rear view mirror.

How do I compare to perfection?
With her flawless complexion
and your everlasting connection.
Maybe I'm just blowing this out of proportion
But this distortion isn't far from the truth,
I can become that perfection through all types of contortion
And still she'd be the love of your youth.

The first cut is the deepest,
And the first hurtle is the steepest.
I'd love to be the force to push you over,
But even after that
I think you'd still love her.

Carefully I lay me down,
in a world so hectic,
and yet it matters.
It matters we were all placed gently.
In a world so hectic.
Born to breathe,
an air of fresh chemicals,
in a world so hectic.
I can't say why,
since I'm no god,
but in this world it matters.
In this world so hectic,
it matters
that we have lips and eyes.
It matters
that there is little hair on our heads that give life to buggies if we don't keep it clean.
It matters
that we have money in our pockets,
and shoes on our feet.
It matters,
and that isn't always the softest inside.
There may be holes in those pockets;
holes in those shoes,
but it matters.
Those holes are representing something new.
Something fresh.
Something before and not so bad, because
before humans touched this world did earth seem so sad?
Was earth dripping color?
Were raindrops filled with gas?
What about those cans you see,
scattered in the bay?
Do you think the world would still be sad,
if all it went away?
Not to say, we are to blame.
In fact, that's not my point.
I'm saying we are carefully placed in this loving,
small,
and hopeful place,
yet this hectic,
crazy,
brain-numbing place,
so carefully,
we can't misplace that this
this matters,
in some kind of way.
It must matter we were placed
in the world, though we wrecked it.
It matters we were placed
in a world so hectic

thoughts once so clear
now flee en mass like
small birds scattering in the wind...
try to capture one
and it fades to dust in my
trembling hand
my eyes teared up by the loss...
what was her name...
when was it I smiled like the
sun bursting through the clouds on that day...
where did I misplace that long-sought device...
where have all my yesterdays gone...
all escapes along the shifting winds of age
small beautiful birds
plumage so bright and beautiful to behold
loves and laughter, days of wonder and joy
crumble into dust as my forgetful fingers
pry at their edges, trying to recall...
her yesterday was my forever
do you think she remembers me? ...
as I slip into forgetfulness
I hope that I will no longer remember
to mourn my forgotten yesterdays...
age is coming for me
and iv forgotten how to tame that ugly beast

It's vicious.
He spits honey-coated excuses
Just as I misplace forgiveness
Sliding under him,
Rising over me
As snowflakes fall outside this Brooklyn brownstone of mistakes.

But these pebbled streets
and long-forgotten sidewalks,
crossed daily by hundreds
...they soften everything.

It's beautiful and tragic
as I remember nothing and everything
If only for some time,
if only in this place.

This crack in the sidewalk, his hand in mine
That tree with the branch that hangs too low...
his eyes
a smile
true love.

This is where I come to forget.

I often misplace myself,
The wrong place and the wrong time,
The repeated search of a lightning
That, in an effort to not strike
The same spot twice,
Hits the exact same coordinates.

To place yourself is to create a label.
It is written in my packing:
Person, curious, kind, perfectionist, independent.
But the course of happenings is organic.
Rules are only a posteriori things.
I can't be a person because
There is no such thing as a person.
Curiosity is a movement,
Kindness, liquid.
Perfectionism, illusion.
Independence, a vague concept,
Lacking definition and sense,
Useless to be argued.

To be correctly placed
Is to be sole,
A desirable, painful choice.

I left a trail of breadcrumbs for your lips to find
but they were hungry for something I couldn’t create.
I was hiding in a place that wasn’t hard to find
and I just,
I just wanted someone to take the bait.
But when the time came that you caught me there wasn’t champagne, there wasn't bouquets- no.
I looked behind to tag you back but you were already ten steps in the other way.
And to me this was play
but to you it was probably just a game.
We were a picture that couldn’t fit into any frame
or a fire that couldn’t be contained, it was all the same.
Just like the very place you called pleasure became the same room I called pain.

I spent my entire life chasing shooting stars
thinking that I could make all my wishes come true,
stopping my feet here and there just to then try and
catch my breath.
I was always chasing but never very good at pacing.
I got battles with my mind erasing while my heart keeps retracing
and in that time
on the assembly line
they smacked me with a sticker that said, “Replacing”.

You see I was born with fingers that were small and stubby,
stretching out trying to grab the answers I would always come up short on.
My heart’s been known to skip beats but sometimes as it skips,
it gets caught on something and trips
head over heals down a black hole that swallows then spits
me into another time and place where you are stripped;
from sight misplace, but I still chase
because no one ever taught me how to land in space.

And if you took my legs I would crawl through wet concrete,
and if you took my arms I would roll to a mountain peak,
and if my body is taken this heart would still beat
because when you left that home
you forgot to turn off the radio
so all of our songs still play on repeat,
you can hear them through the walls and down my streets
where everyone else still hears it too
but I,
I was the idiot for giving my only set of keys to you.

I’ve spent my entire life trying to close gaps
that I probably had no business closing in the first place.
But even if I’m not the one who wins the race,
or finds the foot this glass slipper longs to embrace,
or catches a shooting star flying in cold space
I know that being here is better than being there,
that living today is better than dying tomorrow,
and even if,
even if these tiny talking hands never get a reply
that it sure beat the hell out of never giving it a try.

There are still bad days.

Days where it’s easy to forget that a world exists outside my bedroom.

Days where the moments in-between each breath feel like an unmapped ocean and no one’s really sure if there’s land on the other side.

Days where I’m not sure if there will be other days.

Days where the calendar smiles coldly and says, “yeah, you wish.”

Days where I’m not always able to keep the fire inside.

Days where I burn.
And get burned.

There are still bad days. And I’ve seen better days. But I’ve also seen days a hell of a lot worst.

So I’ll limp my way through the bad days with a bucket of water for my burning heart and an extra roll of duck tape for my tattered appendages

Because at least now there can be good days.

Days where I can look gravity in the face and stand up straight.

Days where I remember my name. Sometimes I even say it out loud.

Days where I can let the dust settle on the noose.

Days where I remember why I didn’t go quietly.

Days where I can see it.

Days where my eyes wander upwards and the sky almost looks like it did before it fell down on my head.

Days where I pick up the needle and find another part of myself to sew back on.

Days where I think about other days, and what they’ll be like when they get here.

Days that I love.
And am loved.

So yeah, I’ve seen better days, but I’m getting better in the face of the bad days.

Because I don’t lack the vision, it’s the method that I always seem to misplace.

But I think I’ll be able to hold onto it...
one of these days…

Call it prolific
Monoliths
Monolithic
Amnesia
And pill popping

I like words
I like how they taste as they flow
From my mouth,
From my fingers,
Into your ears
Your eyes
I'm inside you.

I've never really understood that
****** conquest
(I changed pages on you)
Like, we should be proud, as men
That we've been inside someone

"I put my **** in that"
Congratulations, Charlie!
You came!
Honorary meetings
Magna *** Laude
(Did I change pages again?)

Vulgarity
Shame on you Catholic boy!
Shouldn't you be whining about *** scandal?
Talking about pro-life?
Hating the gays?

Misconceptions
Misnomers
Misconstrue my meanings
Misplace the common denominator
Math is always interesting.

i have inherited pandora's careless melancholy, her tiny box of regrets, her white-washed, quiet horrors and terrible decisions — staining like a memory passed down from her reckless hands to my old, ***** claws, digging for something raw, something parasitic, something miserable, something always goes wrong beneath my ribs. it wants out, like a beast, a misplace fragment, an aphid. and these days turn their heads away — blur themselves blind before my many blunders.

before the wrath of a false god, will my bones ever learn the art of being unapologetic?