“I've realized,” I write, “the Groucho Marx of the mind is chaos personified. The Groucho Marx of *my mind *was chaos, I revise and already think I should revise again – “you never know where you'll end up,” I think, of me and of Groucho. Either way, Groucho Marx came to me in a thought when I was thinking about a poem I will not finish, that would have been about him. “We were just four jews looking for a laugh,” Groucho says at least twice – once when he was alive and once now as I invoke him – the heavy glasses, the synonymous greasepaint lip, the cigar – lit, with smoke that surrounds and engulfs me, threads tangibly through the air, through my eyes, and through the insides of my sinus densely, like mossy Eldritch Horrors and old movies somehow without stopping my vision. He has a mouth but it doesn't move, he is not alive – instead he is a ghost, instead he is dead but standing there, with me, in space lighted from within – space that's white like the smoke – thickly. Among all this, a ghost in a black suit. At least, I think the suit is black, or bluing black. It is tinged with 50 years of rotting celluloid, and paired with a white button up underneath – no tie.
         Growing up all five of them were poor, very poor – so poor they were Jewish-in-New-York-in-the-early-1900s poor. Forced outside of the world, into their world from birth, while their mother, Big Duck, put them up to instruments and got them begging early – vaudeville was their daddy after all (“after all” being a refrain in the poem I'll never finish, repeated like a mantra – after all! after all! after all! after all!– in that text, and used like a drug – afterall – and always driving deathward to an end that never came and can't, after all is written down) – with the jokes they told and sang and played, on their piano, harp, and banjo, all the time – and here is how she learnt how well Chico could play the piano, and how well Harpo could play the harp. And how poorly little Groucho played the banjo. The shame she felt, the shame she must have felt – but here my poem consumes them, because I am already sure that childhood is wrought with fear of birth order, sure as I am that middle children lack something, and maybe have something for that lack, but It's me, not Groucho, that takes over, saying Groucho was the obvious middle child, and of course lacked Big Duck's approval – Big Duck hated the banjo strumming and myriad puns he threw, I say – puns being a part of the poem, the poem which would have (but never) ended on Groucho ducking soup. I wanted it all as a joke and still do, but who will disappoint? Who could? There are options – Groucho, myself, the poem, etc. all working poorly. It is hard to imagine the lack that would culminate in a poet – maybe this gap is wider than a middle child – writing three brothers into a brawl, cartoonish in the streets. May be even harder to imagine the discontent and fear at work inside a child of five – birthing chaos. Maybe I misspoke – I can't know,  I'm not a child of five.
                  Groucho is dead, is still standing in front of me expectantly, not moving. Right in front of me when again I hear his voice – reanimate and filtered through a phonograph – weakly rising above it's own eroded texture – “I was misquoted, I was misquoted... Quote me as saying, 'I was misquoted.'” I wanted his life entropically spinning this place, spinning throughout this place, a ghost – to live forever is to die forever in every gaunt lie, misquote after misquote re-shaping our dead selves until grotesqueries we never intended are held comfortably under our name. Groucho, aimless, escapes because he pre-empts – he uses his whole self to decimate his cultural body, to save the self he's sacrificed. Groucho means to become a void, or Groucho becomes a void more correctly – Groucho means nothing, can only mean nothing, because he's focused his words – his self – around his lack – the words' lack. Because the words always lack, and Groucho is all words. I see him take out the greasepaint container, which is in a shoe-polish-looking canister, and then I lose Groucho again to facts – he was the outsider using words to one up them. I see his wit like a weapon. His being in Hollywood was a stress on Hollywood's peace of mind. I see him tearing balsa wood from up under the street and chucking it into styrofoam towers, which crumble. I see the SUVs that swerved to pass him run into walls, deflating the cars and the walls while the drivers run screaming with ketchup pulsing from the real wounds in their necks. This is where my poem was – more or less. My poem had Groucho gleeful – “Groucho skips, Groucho skips, Groucho skips,” it said, “down the streets throwing rocks at cars...” – the melodies of my naive poem's schoolboy nihilisms never broke enough – “In Groucho's perfect world every day would be spent disrupting traffic, smashing bugs and ******* everywhere,” it said because it was too young to understand, because it had no void, and could offer no revolt from meaning – revolution being radical agency expressed through violence against every order, hatred for every structure including itself – in Groucho's perfect world really there is no language and no one knows what happens after all.
            Lingering is the thought that Groucho means something – lingering is the vaguest, most insistent and warlike imprint of a metaphor on Groucho's face, ineffably moving me to continue but Groucho is no friend, and Groucho is not with me, because the Groucho of the mind is not Groucho, Groucho hates the mind, and Groucho negates all possible Groucho's so the imprint is not Groucho's. The ghost is a misquote, the poem is a misquote, the letters are a misquote, I am a misquote – and this is a misquote too. His cigar (growing bigger) is puffing out that white cloud smoke but still I can see him – the smoke just goes into the space around us, the space that redacts and recreates itself every time I consider it – a copy of an 18th copy, with only Groucho remaining in all iterations, like the borders of a decomposed jpeg quietly losing logic. Groucho the lie, Groucho the memory – a man shaped around the falsity of metaphor and language – floats, as subject, through my memory – punctum with no point, void. Here he is – naked, a stark black silhouette I'd never claim. He's staring, but he's not staring at me because I'm not there. What's left is overstated nothing – the ghost of a man who negated logic, left in the mind of a poet who has long since given up on the man, and soon will give up on the poem.”
There is nothing left here. I am alone, I am dizzy – overcome with boredom.  I want to say, “Groucho is not here, was not, cannot be here” – I know instead I need to end on a mute point.

Still must I hear?—shall hoarse FITZGERALD bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse?
Prepare for rhyme—I’ll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.

  Oh! Nature’s noblest gift—my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose;
Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride,
The Lover’s solace, and the Author’s pride.
What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemned at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which ’twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet’s shall be free;
Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
No Eastern vision, no distempered dream
Inspires—our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

  When Vice triumphant holds her sov’reign sway,
Obey’d by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime;
When knaves and fools combined o’er all prevail,
And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale;
E’en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.

  Such is the force of Wit! I but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
Still there are follies, e’en for me to chase,
And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:
Speed, Pegasus!—ye strains of great and small,
Ode! Epic! Elegy!—have at you all!
I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
I printed—older children do the same.
’Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print;
A Book’s a Book, altho’ there’s nothing in’t.
Not that a Title’s sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This LAMB must own, since his patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame.
No matter, GEORGE continues still to write,
Tho’ now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own review:
Not seek great JEFFREY’S, yet like him will be
Self-constituted Judge of Poesy.

  A man must serve his time to every trade
Save Censure—Critics all are ready made.
Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault;
A turn for punning—call it Attic salt;
To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie,’twill seem a sharper hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy, ’twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling—pass your proper jest,
And stand a Critic, hated yet caress’d.

And shall we own such judgment? no—as soon
Seek roses in December—ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that’s false, before
You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By JEFFREY’S heart, or LAMB’S Boeotian head.
To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste;
To these, when Authors bend in humble awe,
And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law;
While these are Censors, ’twould be sin to spare;
While such are Critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
’Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun;
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.
Then should you ask me, why I venture o’er
The path which POPE and GIFFORD trod before;
If not yet sickened, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
“But hold!” exclaims a friend,—”here’s some neglect:
This—that—and t’other line seem incorrect.”
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,
And careless Dryden—”Aye, but Pye has not:”—
Indeed!—’tis granted, faith!—but what care I?
Better to err with POPE, than shine with PYE.

  Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days
Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise,
When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied,
No fabled Graces, flourished side by side,
From the same fount their inspiration drew,
And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew.
Then, in this happy Isle, a POPE’S pure strain
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain;
A polished nation’s praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people’s, as the poet’s fame.
Like him great DRYDEN poured the tide of song,
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong.
Then CONGREVE’S scenes could cheer, or OTWAY’S melt;
For Nature then an English audience felt—
But why these names, or greater still, retrace,
When all to feebler Bards resign their place?
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast,
When taste and reason with those times are past.
Now look around, and turn each trifling page,
Survey the precious works that please the age;
This truth at least let Satire’s self allow,
No dearth of Bards can be complained of now.
The loaded Press beneath her labour groans,
And Printers’ devils shake their weary bones;
While SOUTHEY’S Epics cram the creaking shelves,
And LITTLE’S Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves.
Thus saith the Preacher: “Nought beneath the sun
Is new,” yet still from change to change we run.
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!
The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas,
In turns appear, to make the ****** stare,
Till the swoln bubble bursts—and all is air!
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise,
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize:
O’er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail;
Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal,
And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne,
Erects a shrine and idol of its own;
Some leaden calf—but whom it matters not,
From soaring SOUTHEY, down to groveling STOTT.

  Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,
For notice eager, pass in long review:
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,
And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race;
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;
And Tales of Terror jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along;
For simpering Folly loves a varied song,
To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend,
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels—may they be the last!—
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast.
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites,
That dames may listen to the sound at nights;
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner’s brood
Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood,
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why;
While high-born ladies in their magic cell,
Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell,
Despatch a courier to a wizard’s grave,
And fight with honest men to shield a knave.

  Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan,
The golden-crested haughty Marmion,
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,
Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight.
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace;
A mighty mixture of the great and base.
And think’st thou, SCOTT! by vain conceit perchance,
On public taste to foist thy stale romance,
Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combine
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line?
No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade,
Let such forego the poet’s sacred name,
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame:
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain!
And sadly gaze on Gold they cannot gain!
Such be their meed, such still the just reward
Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard!
For this we spurn Apollo’s venal son,
And bid a long “good night to Marmion.”

  These are the themes that claim our plaudits now;
These are the Bards to whom the Muse must bow;
While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot,
Resign their hallowed Bays to WALTER SCOTT.

  The time has been, when yet the Muse was young,
When HOMER swept the lyre, and MARO sung,
An Epic scarce ten centuries could claim,
While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name:
The work of each immortal Bard appears
The single wonder of a thousand years.
Empires have mouldered from the face of earth,
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth,
Without the glory such a strain can give,
As even in ruin bids the language live.
Not so with us, though minor Bards, content,
On one great work a life of labour spent:
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies,
Behold the Ballad-monger SOUTHEY rise!
To him let CAMOËNS, MILTON, TASSO yield,
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field.
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance,
The scourge of England and the boast of France!
Though burnt by wicked BEDFORD for a witch,
Behold her statue placed in Glory’s niche;
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison,
A ****** Phoenix from her ashes risen.
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,
Arabia’s monstrous, wild, and wond’rous son;
Domdaniel’s dread destroyer, who o’erthrew
More mad magicians than the world e’er knew.
Immortal Hero! all thy foes o’ercome,
For ever reign—the rival of Tom Thumb!
Since startled Metre fled before thy face,
Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race!
Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence,
Illustrious conqueror of common sense!
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails,
Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales;
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do,
More old than Mandeville’s, and not so true.
Oh, SOUTHEY! SOUTHEY! cease thy varied song!
A bard may chaunt too often and too long:
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare!
A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear.
But if, in spite of all the world can say,
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way;
If still in Berkeley-Ballads most uncivil,
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue:
“God help thee,” SOUTHEY, and thy readers too.

  Next comes the dull disciple of thy school,
That mild apostate from poetic rule,
The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay
As soft as evening in his favourite May,
Who warns his friend “to shake off toil and trouble,
And quit his books, for fear of growing double;”
Who, both by precept and example, shows
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose;
Convincing all, by demonstration plain,
Poetic souls delight in prose insane;
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme
Contain the essence of the true sublime.
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,
The idiot mother of “an idiot Boy;”
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way,
And, like his bard, confounded night with day
So close on each pathetic part he dwells,
And each adventure so sublimely tells,
That all who view the “idiot in his glory”
Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.

  Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here,
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear?
Though themes of innocence amuse him best,
Yet still Obscurity’s a welcome guest.
If Inspiration should her aid refuse
To him who takes a Pixy for a muse,
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass
The bard who soars to elegize an ***:
So well the subject suits his noble mind,
He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind.

Oh! wonder-working LEWIS! Monk, or Bard,
Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard!
Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow,
Thy Muse a Sprite, Apollo’s sexton thou!
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak’st thy stand,
By gibb’ring spectres hailed, thy kindred band;
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page,
To please the females of our modest age;
All hail, M.P.! from whose infernal brain
Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train;
At whose command “grim women” throng in crowds,
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds,
With “small grey men,”—”wild yagers,” and what not,
To crown with honour thee and WALTER SCOTT:
Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please,
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease:
Even Satan’s self with thee might dread to dwell,
And in thy skull discern a deeper Hell.

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta’s fire,
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushed
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed?
’Tis LITTLE! young Catullus of his day,
As sweet, but as immoral, in his Lay!
Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.
Pure is the flame which o’er her altar burns;
From grosser incense with disgust she turns
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o’er,
She bids thee “mend thy line, and sin no more.”

For thee, translator of the tinsel song,
To whom such glittering ornaments belong,
Hibernian STRANGFORD! with thine eyes of blue,
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue,
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires,
And o’er harmonious fustian half expires,
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author’s sense,
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence.
Think’st thou to gain thy verse a higher place,
By dressing Camoëns in a suit of lace?
Mend, STRANGFORD! mend thy morals and thy taste;
Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste:
Cease to deceive; thy pilfered harp restore,
Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy MOORE.

Behold—Ye Tarts!—one moment spare the text!—
HAYLEY’S last work, and worst—until his next;
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays,
Or **** the dead with purgatorial praise,
His style in youth or age is still the same,
For ever feeble and for ever tame.
Triumphant first see “Temper’s Triumphs” shine!
At least I’m sure they triumphed over mine.
Of “Music’s Triumphs,” all who read may swear
That luckless Music never triumph’d there.

Moravians, rise! bestow some meet reward
On dull devotion—Lo! the Sabbath Bard,
Sepulchral GRAHAME, pours his notes sublime
In mangled prose, nor e’en aspires to rhyme;
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke,
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch;
And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms,
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.

  Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings”
A thousand visions of a thousand things,
And shows, still whimpering thro’ threescore of years,
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers.
And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles!
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls?
Whether them sing’st with equal ease, and grief,
The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf;
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells,
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend
In every chime that jingled from Ostend;
Ah! how much juster were thy Muse’s hap,
If to thy bells thou would’st but add a cap!
Delightful BOWLES! still blessing and still blest,
All love thy strain, but children like it best.
’Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE’S moral song,
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng!
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears,
Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years:
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain;
She quits poor BOWLES for LITTLE’S purer strain.
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine;
“Awake a louder and a loftier strain,”
Such as none heard before, or will again!
Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood,
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud,
By more or less, are sung in every book,
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook.
Nor this alone—but, pausing on the road,
The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode,
And gravely tells—attend, each beauteous Miss!—
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss.
Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell,
Stick to thy Sonnets, Man!—at least they sell.
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe,
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe:
If ‘chance some bard, though once by dunces feared,
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered;
If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first,
Have foiled the best of critics, needs the worst,
Do thou essay: each fault, each failing scan;
The first of poets

the boy tugs your arm in public.  his panic so local his gut could be yours.  verbatim you confront the misquote children from abusive studio apartments inherit warehouse jobs from problem immigrants. a bruise of ***** darkens the front of your jeans.

Dear Whiny Fat *****,

Stop whining you fat *****.

I don't find your curve(s) beautiful as it falls short of feminine,
breast and hip bring forth lust like a tray of holiday cookies,
helpful internet sayings are fatty ***-deurves
you devour them,
greedy mouths pointed teeth digging in to every bit of it because why work hard when you can talk loud?
Why go for a jog when you can misquote Marilyn?
Why choose the salad when the big mac's just as beautiful?

It's not
I do not envy gluttony,
I do not envy sloth,
I do not lust for them.

double zero may not be attractive but throwing a 2 in front of it is fatty-icing on the cake,
so talk about "oppression" while you scoff down more than Ebo and his family have had in a week,
starvation and desperation dancing intertwined tip-toeing around his house,
he wakes up one morning to his sons tears because all he's had is a slice of bread
while you decide to treat yourself to an ice cream ***' you didn't supersize today

You can call me an *******,
let molten words flick from your tongue,
lace'm with lava and let them fly
but at the end of the day you only have yourself to blame

you wrote the book on being an *******.
i read it twice.
and i find myself alluding to it
all the time.

you told me the definition of high art was broke.
if i wanted to succeed,
i needed to trash my collection of huxley
and memorize
every action sequence
in every jerry bruckheimer film.

you based the last six years of your life
on a ghandi misquote,
you ripped from wikipedia.

you told me love was just mankind kidding himself.
only trust in what you can feel,
"like *******."

i wrote an article about you,
i asked  if you believed in god.
your reply,
"god is a concept
by which we measure our pain."
i thought that was clever.

it took me 3 months to remember
that's off lennon's Plastic Ono Band.

I suckled my mother's Bluetooth breast
while my father built me a bassinet
of series circuits with high, motherboard
bars.
I've got that artificial baby glow.
But Mom put my ****** on Facebook
at four weeks and I still haven't re-friended
(forgiven) her. My upgrade's in nine months,
but I want my downgrade now
'cause all I get are social invite excuses
from Facebook fuckfaces. We pack
our lives into little boxes that we're
not even allowed to open.
We drink to technology, keep our lazy
eyes on our news feeds, and recycle
ideas like their owners would even
want to see what we've done to them.
We misquote Confucius and credit ourselves
with mangled Robert Frost stanzas.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I think
it's awesome that Pepsi used to be blue."

Reblog, revine,
retweet, FaceTime.
Folding chair fold-out on someone's lawn.
White-out Yeats, Keats, Byron, and Auden,
and write John ******* or Tom Whatever.
We're caught in the chicken wire of an LCD
fruit basket so neat, orderly, and brushed
aluminum. How can people write in Starbucks?
S
   B  
       U  
            X
B  
     S
The cooler's too ******, music's too shy,
and the sugar, no, not just the sugar.
THE PEOPLE are too artificial.
The carpet-suit inlay I'm standing
on has pencil lead, sock lint,
and receipt shred lapel pins.
Even corporations play dress-up.

But what happens when Y2K kicks
in tomorrow?
Lives will be lost even before
the missiles **** us.
And the planes that drop
from the sky won't even come close
to when the bough breaks your little
girl's heart, baby, because your phone
can't raise her anymore, so you have to.

And based on your search history,
tweets, and recorded dreams,
she's better off in the warm
embrace of a hard drive.

Beer is my bottle of sleep,
and I drink enough sleep to forget,
that I'm all alone
I don't have a home,
and my soul will just die when im dead.

Just another scared boy waiting in his casket
or acting a part
its either action or nothing
the mind is divorced

bodies are useless
why accumulate them
in a sack of skin, the cage created
by a skull cap glass brains are wrapped in

transparent and thin
a sleep sheet sewn
by rapid eye movement

encased in bones
the alcohol is sediment settling in the bottom bodies brave colony, of other owners that forage for a loners last remnants of his ostomy.
cavity.
Bags of excretion excrete his thoughts, like lead does to mass graves of forties gulags.

Hes lost all compassion, extinguished all hope, hopes a disease the defectors misquote, cause cadavers decay, minds atrophy as muscle, senescence affects all and with age we buckle, the pressures too great, mans heart is too weak, the blood is no longer pumped to his feet, as he falls to his knees, the earth says “we are one”, as the worms eat the flesh of the casket they've dug.

listen and look,
honey,
dear,
sweetie,
baby,
won't you shut the hell up,
you're driving me crazy.
I'd survive if you'd save me
but

love hasn't saved anyone I've ever met.
maybe someone who wants to know what to expect
like
home before dark and promises never kept,
and secrets in the park with naked words

frozen
on the lips of an adulterous misstep.

this is useless to those who crave the subtle bliss,
who enumerate ridges of skin dedicated with a kiss
and
catalog nerve endings that shiver and resist . and . just . (quiver to exist)
so promises never need be made,
so we can fall apart and it won't matter, none of this

we never needed a place in a poem or a dictionary,
just a dial tone or a few letters to arrange
to call home and portray the strange
and… try… to find a word…
that rhymes with… dictionary

never trying to deny
our eyes cannot lie,
they will fade from glory.
like the dead,
like you and I

like we needed to fake these scrawling notes
that claw for understanding of mistakes we once wrote,
inky sketches that wax polemical over a misquote
and crying starry eyes over favorite chemicals,
the elements we conjure with, so verbose and so broke,
over coffee and cigarettes and mostly ***** jokes

I am science, I am fiction,
Victorian youth, ***** addiction,
I am addicted, no rest for the wicked,
I am not what these glorious stories depicted,
I prayed for my mother, I asked for a saviour,
But scarlet’s a varlet and I couldn’t save her,
Faith laughed at my pleading but science was pliable,
Boundaries were broken, I made fact unreliable,
Doctor! Doctor! Blood’s beginning to boil,
As you work by the light of the Tesla coil,
You’re polite, once contrite, not particularly odd,
Now you’re trapped in your lab and you’re playing at God,
You were robbed of a woman, held hands with her breath,
Your disillusion excluded you, so you made life out of death,
And the blood and the ****** and the bruises on throats,
And the ghost of a sibling that grasps at my coat,
And I strived for ‘it’s alive’ but that’s a misquote,
It was never alive, that was not what I wrote!
It was pale and abhorrent, thread unraveled it’s head,
It’s lips moved but I knew it was made from parts of the dead,
Graves invaded, made empty, just so it could rise,
My shovels were broken, decriminalised,
My secrets unspoken were hard to ignore,
And it was only myself, since there was no Igor,
And my brother was gone, my father, my wife,
So if you seek to threaten me, be it with life,
Nothing left, I fear no death, in fact I seek it with vigour,
But I am no mad scientist B-List horror movie figure,
I am bigger, I am bloodless, I am the lightening’s whine,
I am all that befalls the name of Frankenstein,
I’m disturbed, I’m depraved, afflicted with my plan,
But above all I am only a conflicted young man,
And I cannot compete with tainted world’s so dark and neat,
So call me Victor as I retreat,
I am the monster I must complete.

Heart attacks in the living room,
I don't know where to go
but sit in the tub, lights off

I work out ideas of ideas

Some muse in hand
I don't believe in, I have
Wants, "go to the hills"-I'm there-
and grasslands I haven't seen
                [More work]
Like some words I'm not fit to wear
                [Fill in]
And the people who are interesting
Are dying, or shown in true light.

"I'll be like you someday"
but I actually hope not
I hope I may render my darkness
from some true light.

Lying in the tub.

I'm not so active
I may not know how to live
and I don't exercise but I exercise my right
to keep this in my line of sight
at all times
and somehow my muscles are as sore as when they tear away
but only from the shivering
I've gotten done these past few days
I shake and shake
and my racing heart keeps pace
with the chattering of my teeth
as my entire being vibrates
from the inside out all except for my vocal chords
whom long to move with the rest of me
to let you know that you could leave here with the best of me
build your lifeboat and life vest in me
and we can sail together to the east
ignore reason
commit treason
while they're sinking,
we hold on tighter to this fleeting feeling
run around
until I burn myself to the ground
because it feels so good to burn
when you're always left this cold
and no exercise
can repair these severed ties
or even make me want to try
to find a stillness in my soul
to find my niche
to find a home
to focus on a mastery
when being fluent in one language
won't ever land you on the front page
no matter what it is you have to say
but I only know the language of the sleepless nights
in the dialect of "the fear of another wasted day"
and when I overhear comments
on my "newfound" accent
all I really hear is
"her words never mattered anyway"
but they'll remember with the Frost
that "Nothing gold can stay"
and misquote me
on my final day.

Seconds away for yet another day,
And too far now to know,
If what I say will matter anyway,
If distance helps us grow.

Just another night, another bed,
I drank to stay awake,
Left my name, you took my heart instead,
A trophy, something to break.

Fell in love with eyes, that cheap disguise,
Left knives inside my throat,
I felt twice as wise when fed those lies,
And “I love yous” you misquote.

Tonight, I watched you disappear,
And drank to fall apart,
Seconds away for yet another year,
And no clue where to start.

never quiet the proper arrangement,
watching a cat miscarry his strengths of
perfect balance on a fence
deciding to structure his escapism further
from fence to the safety of gravity’s plateau,
and i know this is not a crowd pleaser,
no gladiator blood sewn onto a caesar’s face for a smile,
but as amusements go:
choose the simpler ones and watch them multiply
exponentially... choose the complex ones and watch them
mutilate you with anticipatory nostalgia once they pass
and have fed you.
so unless you think it’s cheap to state
that william burroughs would have a lot in common with bukowski...
you’re probably right... but once you embark on the alcoholic metabolism
parabola there’s no going back... you can have
irritable bowel syndrome in the morning...
diarrhoea x4 before the seas just below the hydrochloric sea settle
and the sailors are spared another barnett newman smear
into the toilet.... quarter of bottled whiskey usually does the trick
for the calmed metabolism...
i know burroughs and bukowski used different mediums...
but it’s better than staging a ghost fight between vegans and vegetarians...
same **** different cover story all over again...
and it sounds less sinister, doesn’t it? let’s repeat:
metabolism & alcoholism;
and in all serious soberness i put my efforts in taking interest in philosophy...
like observing from spinoza’s ethics... well spinoza drank...
heavily... which explains why he put it into his ethics,
that explanatory ref. i will definitely mishandle (misquote):
never come between a drinker and a newspaper
or a blank page, even if it's a pixelated blank.

Someone, anyone?
Are you out there? Are you near?
I have lost so much and I behold so much fear.

Even though I have found a beautiful hope and I have been shown true love,
There is still so much I fall short of...
...and still doubt thereof.

Have I not forgotten and given up all the bad and all the evil?
Or is there still something within me that intrigues the Devil?
Why is it still so that I mourn and suffer from the fangs and claws of the wolves and the mock of the crows?
Why is it so that I haven’t found my repose?
Wouldst one be freed from the wicked and far from all those whom have opposed?

Please; someone, anyone, please tell me why the "Prophet" and his "Acolyte" still look to attract, take, and keep me for himself?
Please, please, tell me why the false one never gives up, and why he never tires!
Is it because of his endless and conspiring desires?
Or is there something deeper that I have yet to transpire?

Can anyone hear me? Or have I been silenced by this wicked man long enough for those to forget that I am here?
Is anyone out there, can you hear my plea?
Or has he taken them all away from me?
Is there someone out there who still holds the love and sympathy I once known? Or has he deceived them too to leave me on my own?

Whichever it may be, please give me answers, please let me see. I want the truth and not a seducing lie, I no longer want to live crying, I no longer want to fear, all I want is someone to hear.
Not the voice of demons, not the sight of spirits. I don’t want the company of a single man, and I don’t want to live anymore under his commands.  

Please hear me; please understand, he can take away everything with even the slightest motion of his hand.
Dear ones, friends and yes, you! The reader in whom I may never know, please do not mistake a ''shadow show'' for the dances of the angels. I warn you, yes please be smart, that this form of trickery this unlawful act is no beautiful art.

I am a slave to my fear, and I am imprisoned by things left unsaid, because I was careless and gullible and in time misled.
I wanted something out of greed so I let my heart decide, I let it blind me and let it misguide.
I fell for the wrong person, and I awakened the wrong intentions, and now I know what many speak of “sweet impressions.”

So you see and so you have been told, do not be deceived and do not fall for the unknown, for it will be something worth a large bemoan.
Beware the man who dresses as a Shepard but behind him falls the shadow of a wolf, take caution of he that hides his hands covered in blood.
He is no sheep, and he is no goat, but a ravenous wolf that loves to misquote. This ravenous wolf he will not hesitate to throw you to his pack and the rest of the black ravens, for in looking to find something wondrous and grand, you will find no such relations.

I am guilty and I am regretful for the mark on my hand, which leaves me to believe I will forever be banned. I live in my own mistakes day after day, all just because I wanted to hear what he had to say. The scars and the wounds placed upon me from this tormentor have made me no one special anymore.
The only thing I have known is to find what I need through him, and that is it, for he says: “Where else where there be a place that truly cares for you to fit? I am here and I love you, this is the truth not those whom you have looked to!”

It’s ever so painful, ever so hard to depart from the prophet who stabbed me in my heart.
Why does it hurt so much?
Why do I still bleed at such a thought?

I will be free and I will be happy! Yes I will finally be able to see.

Yet, he knows me and what I want to do, he knows just about everything and what I have been through.
He can read anything and he can see it all, but the one thing he does not want is any wailing call.
He fears he will be defeated and he fears one day I will win, so he will do everything he can to make me fall back down in his arms again.

Someone, anyone?

Oh if you please, won’t you help me?
Help me to be more at ease?
Won’t you show to me the light and not that of the dark?
Will you help me to be freed from him and make him depart?

Please oh please, I will not forget you, I promise to do the same, the same that you do. By this promise I swear that I can repay you with good things, ones filled with benefit, love and blessings!

I can teach to you what I know, and I will help you to understand, all because you were there for me to help me take a stand.
I just need to know that there is someone out there, other than the "Prophet" with unreasonable care.

❥

What kind of Sin dares Usher in
A devious man to lick his lips, gutteral gasping beneath his Breath
The Wonton Musing oozes a delicious Decay,
The Poured Out drooling, his Power Pulsing, A Foaming Fantasy Power Tripping
~to Control the Spiritual World
at his Will & Command?

Here's what he imagined:
Biblical Bribery.
Blasphemous Forgery
Who ever has the money or an Unbridled hand can piecemeal a Story for premeditated Zeal,
To make for a more attractive Appeal
Why need such profiled Idoltry?

To be Present
at the Moment of such a Powerful Man's Revelation, Spoken for and too You
To be blessed
with ears to hear Him
To worship
At the Alter of Salt
A pillar miraculous,
To Worship Within, in Him, beside Him.
A Scribe Sweats
To write furiously away
for later reference, Thus
Attention is spared and the Sermon Deemed for Organic Lackluster
"Scratch That
Oops
Edit
Kindly Repeat
Didn't quite catch That
Delete
Revise
Rephrase
Two or One spaced per Sheet?
The strain hurts my Eyes
When can We Break for Feast?
Are We Done for the Day?"

Can this be a possiblity
Can a misdirected, Unsupervised
Scrupulous Individual
Not quietly Misquote
The Word trianguled from Mouth to Pen to Paper?
The Words We have come to Believe In??
You Tell Me.....

Dear students Examinations denote
That you and teachers clearly emote
Their feelings out and try to devote
Their time and energy for this rowboat.
Mind that nurtures it will surely vote
Their success to teacher to roam afloat.
Let be a doctor, teacher or student tote
Examinations did need a nice quote.
Whether you be known or remote
Is decided by many reports wrote.
Evil or bad about exams is misquote
By all as it leads us to get more groat.
Ravana like teachers do connote:
Exams are tiny tot like just a mote.
The only tool which writes footnote
For children and save them from a dote.
Lastly, it is just like Gita a good keynote.

guilty until proven innocent...
tomaš (sh) komenda...
   25 years and hardly...
a shawshank redemption story...

but...
   that... the anglo-saxon
pre-:   ordained... supposition...
      assumption...

    innocent: until proven guilty...
last time i checked...
it's nearly impossible...
man is no architect of gravity...
as a law...
   a killing is a ******
with a thought invoked...
   but by chance: it's a homicide...

innocent: until proven guilty vs.
guilty until proven innocent...
protestants vs. catholics...
otherwise...
       some injustice happens...
but it's like a ***** lottery...
then the whole system: kneels...

at least there's a story of redemption...
beside: death the sole redeemer...
given some magnitude
of the golgotha crucifix...
dear mother death...
         i pray to you...
   because... i see a puppet of
a crucifix... even though...
        
              innocent until proven guilty...
how much of wording
is...        would you ever posit
behaviourism against ontology?
                       a meat-grinder of ψ-ops...

it's not unfailable, this motto anglo-saxon
motto: innocent until proven guilty...
driving on the left side of the road...
whereby... coming to a roundabout
you experience... clockwise "gravity"...
well! pitch-perfect!

innocent until proven guilty
will make you dream and dare...
               there's the capacity to break /
if not merely to strain the law...
                   because? isn't it obvious?
i abhor the nuance sensation
of the presumption of innocence...
a lie is so cheap: an unbearable lightness
of being (to borrow from miland kundera)...

innocent until proven guilty...
a filter: for not of all transgressions...
but the obvious ones...
        innocent until proven guilty...
  the act itself is proof...
             witness...
    but the reverse...
guilty until proven innocent...
is it as primitive thinking as:
protestantism is the dawn...
catholicism is an auburn sunset...
and orthodoxy is... a prized china set piece:
touch at one's peril!

wouldn't: guilty until proven innocent...
work as a deterrent
         that... somehow...
                    the transgression of law
will always be proven...
        to be: aligned to the shackles of
original sin...
              it's not like: having the stomach to...
digest: innocent until proven guilty...
you could play the gamble...
and hope for the thrill of: getting away with
it...

jack the ripper... the zodiac killer...
the man who discovered beer (ref. plato)...
                            and... albert hofmann...
i sometimes wish for the experience
of the latter's "igloo"...

                      couldn't it be a deterrent:
guilty until proven innocent...
perhaps... given the serial killer's glee of
compounding a series of events...
running with the grand pillar of thought
made concrete and non-experimental...
hell! let's line them up!
count to: neun­und­neunzigluftballons...

come to think of it...
can man pass... not... man cannot attain
the capacity to pass a universal law:
to create a universal law...
   he can find a universal law...
but he can never write one...

the knowledge of good: and - evil...
       because it's subjectivity...
            always will be...
there can be an objective law concerning theft...
an objective law concerning killing...
but... just because it's objectively refined...
and escapes the perils of fiasco subjectivity...
it's still not a universal delight...
it's not: water boils at 100°C!
                                 gravity etc.

i can't comprehend the notion:
to drink one's sorrows away;
whenever i drink... i invite my sorrows...
and whenever i have an inkling
of being alone - there's the seance
of shadow clinging...

otherwise the go to painting;
     a drab cold nearing autumn evening...
and... rain droplets on a glass...
imitation of a george seurat...
or it's not necessarily music...
but it's a polyphony of rain teasing
leaves and a wish for tin roofs...
always that wish for tin roofs...

            will pedagogy some day...
address the need to...
      manifest itself in... a study of...
psychopathy?
    it's not somehow desirable to
know the capital of mongolia...
or whether or not albania was
incorporated into the mini-soviet
project of yugoslavia...
      but somehow knowing
whether your friend is a psychopath...
i.e. whether he has a body...
most probably thought parameters...
but... he fakes the nuisance of
a god and therefore...
is incapable of a constraint of a soul...
i was naive too many a times...
but the last time i was naive:
i became exceptional in my reaction
to it... this debilitating aura
of a robinson crusoe "syndrome"...

       just please ask for a pretty face
with an explanation of:
"stop living in the past"...
   well... so much so...
that it is in the past...
therefore: i see no future barraging
in with a me... and the same mistake...
it's not nostalgia...
it's a debilitating learning tool...
         the damage has been to grevious
that... at knife-point...
licking metal...
is enough to stun me into a freeze...
but at the same time...
conjure up a mythological serpent
ordeal... loss of eyelids...
perpetual brain-frying insomnia...
  
          the psychopath the lizard
some poor schmuck a variant of petty mammal...
it's almost like mammalian predatory
feasibility doesn't exist...
                     but when it does:

this grand celebration of the strong
preying on the weak in herds...
the grandiosity of the lion
the lean chop of diatribe herd...
unlike a feasted upon...
domestication privy...
               quote: misquote...
islam is an ideology that abhors
the concept of pork...

but... is quiet willing to pursue
passing a white flag of bite when it's
served a... caron-nibbler...
a pristine choice of protein via
a crab...
           or a lobster...
             "we" have yet to make
concessions of staging our coincidental
loot of time...

mine is... from the backward prime of
eastern "europe"...
               is romania a "south"?
       is greece not... western?
                  innocent until proven guilty
vs. guilty until proven innocent...

i am not... going to argue...
i'm not convinced by either side...
it's not like i can be: unconvinced by
a technicality of thorough greasing and
pristine fail-safe mechanisation
of replica example of a gravity churn...

but there can: if there isn't anything
concerning a must... of a debate...
that the maximus prime stage of putting
theory into practice can be...
somehow... upstaged...
      
       that drinking with others has become near
impossible... red wine aids my digestion
of facets...

            it has to be some welcome:
a fragrancy of innocence...
peppered with a lineage of redemption...
but that's hardly enough...
nor / or is... creasing paper...
before the grand oration of the kite
and a democracy of the wind...

gulf wind zero! zephyr guiding a dozen
zeppelins! my stomach churns...
a prospect of butter and -y....
lame... hand at the -shake....
               all details are somehow...
a becoming of the intra-personal...
              the devil becomes:
leftover detail.... some variation comes
to mind: deus ex machina "contra"
**** in machina...

that man is always a contest
between gods...
                 and the... man an architect...
the bridge than swallows
the canyons, whole...
with a passing that's... a nonchalance...
the pristine effort lined up
beside... a jurisprudence...
to guide a bridge across a canyon
or over a river...
but to somehow...
           grease an objectivity vs. subjectivity
quality, demand....
and express it in a quantity of
the universal...
              
thesaurus rex:
objectivity is quantitative...
subjectivity is qualitative...
                  
    a... rather than the: pursuit of "happiness"...
**** out the sun-worshippers...
   arab-cake and kale party...
           bishopric of lost nuance...
this fake before the amnesia
and some variation of the viking invasion...
    my happy-sorrow...
  my sorrowful-glad...
                             the double-thread
of hugging silver birch trees
for ulterior concepts of: the welcome project!

come 1am of a today...
and what's coming to a tow with
a tomorrow...
i must be hindering the nocturnal
markets of fresh fish of Billingsgate
from a 5am prized banquet of a yawn.

Why is it easy to put on the pounds
But so **** hard to lose?
It's always a breeze to pass on the peas,
But ice cream is hard to refuse.

Often we catch ourselves driving too fast;
Are we ever driving too slow?
Our brains are less like a Rafael
And more like a Vincent van Gogh.

Time plods along when we're waiting in line
But races when we're having fun.
As hard as we try to stick to a budget,
There's usually cost overrun!

Medical costs are so Brobdingnagian;
Why can't they be Lilliputian?
It's easy to make but tough to keep
A New Year's resolution.

Doesn't it also seem easy to sink
Yet hard to stay afloat?
Finding the exact words is a challenge;
It's a cinch to misquote.

Love--it seems--should be so simple.
Why is there so much hate?
Being early is usually good,
But sometimes you want to be late.

Life's little inconsistencies:
Always a daily test…
All we can do is go with the flow
And try to do our best.

- by Bob B

If you love a poet
Let me give you a word of warning:
We trust slowly,
But love swiftly
And fiercely
And with all that we are.

If you love a poet,
She will forget chores
And things on the grocery list
But she will be able to recite
Her favorite quote
And stanza from
T.S. Eliot's the Hollowmen
As though she wrote them herself.

If you love a poet,
She will stumble over words when confessing feelings
And reciting poorly timed jokes (making them all the more unfunny),
But be able to write ten pages at least a day
On how you light up the null void she thought her heart was.

If you love a poet,
She will get choked up
When thinking of all the pain you've endured
And wipe at streaming eyes,
Because her empathy runs too deep and
Too wide.

If you love a poet,
Nothing will be organized
But that receipt you were looking for
Will have some extra ink on the back,
Something-something about birds
Another something about finally being heard.

If you love a poet,
She won't be able to be impressed with her own cooking,
And she'll misplace everything all the time
And it will send her into a panic.
She won't remember where her cellphone went,
And whether or not it was on vibrate or just low,
But she'll remember exact dates and times that music
Came on that made her think of you,
And whether or not you were with her
Or if you were holding her hand.

If you love a poet,
She won't remember names or faces,
Or movie titles of flicks she likes,
But she'll be able to tell you the feel of your lips
Pressed against her skin
In detail that makes her shiver,
And how the feeling of you hand on her knee
Makes her heart skip enough beats
To make her head spin.

If you love a poet
She'll write your rise to the sky a thousand times,
And never once fathom writing your fall.

If you love a poet
She'll misquote things that make her laugh,
Sending her into a spiral of embarrassed giggles.
She'll be clear enough and pay enough attention
To correct those that are misinformed on a position or stance.
But she'll be zoned out to new inspiration
And writing your praises
Too much
To remember that food is necessary
And that water is helpful.

If you love a poet
She won't be in your world
When writing,
But all her work
Will involve her care for you.

If you love a poet,
She'll go on and on about your colors,
Your bravery,
Your smile
Your laugh
And expect nothing back.

If you love a poet,
You will be there for the darkest nights,
Where she had never let light in before.
For the nightmares
Where her voice is meaningless,
As it had been for the majority of her life.

If you love a poet,
You will see the shadows
Of her fear
Overwhelm her
And feel her nails in your skin
Too hard,
And her fingers squeezing yours
Too tight
Too hot
For someone always so cold.
You will see the fear in her eyes
When things are too loud
Too angry.

If you choose to love a poet,
You will see her lash out at her own devices,
And feel the scars her ire
And poor coping skills
Left her with.

If you choose to love a poet,
You will see
Parts of a troubled mind
No one has ever seen.
You will hear her confession
That imagery doesn't fit
The painting she wishes to make for you
With words
To describe her love for you and all that you are.

If you choose to love a poet,
Know that she is a  fragile thing,
With shaking hands
And quivering knees.
Know that she is brave and strong
Only in the conditions that are familiar.
And she has a "I'll do it myself," mentality,
For that's all she's ever known.
And when she's left injured with fractures all around,
Her first thought is "That didn't go as planned."

If you choose to love a poet,
You will have to deal with metaphors
And similes
And her staring at you in awe.
If you choose to love a poet,
She will scoff at those who have hurt you,
And know that it is because she hates that she cannot protect you.

If a poet loves you,
It was not a choice,
Rather a result of circumstances
That were beautiful and meant to be.

If a poet loves you,
She intends to inform you,
And she intends on staying.

If a poet loves you,
It will be wholly and entirely and until
The end of days.

1/25/2017

the sky melted, sweating glass
for three days straight-
once, we marveled at the inexorable and eventual

at
the drop that makes the bough
bow.

i remember the ache
of the sunlight on my
crooked nape

one May day . We sit in a January cafe
"It is springtime," she announces
except these days, it's no emotional pantomime, not a hopeless mantra

"and why?" I beg a question
"oh, because something's starting"
she mixes milk into her honey

it is too sweet for me
the umbrella opens in the shop
"put that away, it's a bad omen" oh, as if I care

imagine me so treacly?
she talks about pregnancy and politics
about marriage

and something in me,
i realize
wants to be, is disgusted by my far future maternity

at the supermarket
there's a jingle
hey, mom, what's for dinner?

"Uh, hey, I feel like Plath... marriage is oppression and all that"
"Well, join the club. Oh, domesticity-"
"O'Hara said : There is only one man I like to kiss,"

I misquote, intentionally.
"Heterosexuality!
you are inexorably approaching!"

perhaps we can't wait
to be thirty and bored
with three kids

watching them play at the Minetta
wondering where the hell our time went
and there they'll sit

polish- to her irish, italian- to my puerto rican
new jersey mutts
i laugh

thinking of drunk days down on
53rd and Lex
we're not ready to live like it's 1953

*oh, johnny promised me
and i wear his
ring

I feel the anger as he yells
I feel it pulsing through my veins
I am ready to rebel
This feeling can’t be contained
His words are like a ****** sword
Shoved in my throat
Don’t he know what he’s pushing toward?
I wish it was a misquote
I am going to walk out the door
I am not coming back
Maybe this time I won’t be ignored
This is my attack
We have nothing to gain
I am done wasting my life with you
You act like you’re insane
I guess I am having a break through

Dear readers, Reader’s Digests denote
That readers read and clearly emote
Their feelings out and try to devote
Their money and time for this rowboat.
The mind that reads it will surely vote
Their success that is sure to roam afloat.
Let be a doctor, teacher or student tote
This is a boon that always does quote
Famous personalities known or remote;
Ideas or thinking or reports wrote
Jokes, humour or news or misquote
All are fitted in just a little groat.
Unlike Narada, RD does connote:
Little price, high yields in a mote.
The only book with a lot of footnote,
This will save us from being a dote.
Lastly, it is like Gita a good keynote.

My brothers are no gentlemen,
But they are nothing if not gentle,
See, if you love us  we will be
The rains you’re calling suns,
But if you preach we will misquote you mental.

drape the silk over my eyes
tie the blindfold tight
take away my eyesight, i’m not one to see what lies inevitable anyway

whisper distractions in my ear
buzzing around like a misquote
constant ring of you know how much i love you
carry on buzzing, make my sanity dissipate

watch as my arms begin to try and swat you away
see the vulnerability, perfect time to tell the truth
the love buzz changes into let me *******
four months four months buzzing in my ears
the constant sound of pleading to end your self diagnosed suffering

the swatting becomes a rapid fire attempt to shut the buzzing up
you only get faster, little bug
the buzzing becomes a permanent ring in my ears
even long after it’s gone, i still hear it loud and clear

so tie the silk tight
buzz in my ear
until my sanity breaks and your sexless suffering is all i hear

בעל יתושים

i've found him! hiding in plain sight! right there on the crucifix! the lord of mosquitos! the greatest troll that our pandemonium has ever known! look at him, in his glorious blood-thirst, it's not enough to merely drink blood, he had to metaphor wine as blood! our greatest asset so far! you can call him Jesus Christ if you want... fellow of the Milton & Co., didn't he call for a blood-lust, didn't he spawn myths of vampires, didn't Elizabeth Bathory bath in ****** blood of peasant girls? weren't the two world wars staged under his stewardship... wisdom?! what about the wisdom bound to / associated with the Milton & Co.: i.e. better to rule in hell than be a servant in heaven? son of god my ***... b'ah al' ya'tuś / ya'tuš (depends how you want to interpret the Hebrew shin: שׁ, שׂ, ס) - but that's only an approximate for the name of Jesus Christ from where i come from, or rather, where i am going, after all... the above name refers to Lord Mosquito, not the Lord of Mosquitos, but we all know that Lord of Mosquitos is implied... the great troll - by the modern definition of the word - that ever existed... come to think of it, what the hell happened to the archangels, Michael, for example? didn't the archangel Michael become a St. Michael... to begin to contemplate... angels being demoted, degraded to the status of saints, standing on equal footing with plumbers, with fishermen... being elevated to the shared status of... sainthood? right... well... if we're going down this route... Lucifer... ought to be known as a transgender queer anti-social... "thing"... Lucifer can become Lucy... Satan can become Samantha... Beelzebub can be known as Beatrice... Behemoth can be known as... Bohemia: i don't know, some people have decided to call their children Peaches... not Peach... but the plural... sure, "something" died on the cross on the mount of Golgotha, for me what died was the entry point for hell to reclaim its reign... to usurp the construct of nature... that the weak might control the strong, how easily this foundation might be willing to crumble... the strong just play along, they just, play along... all, played out on the event horizon of Damocles' Sword hanging from a single horse's hair... violins?! since i see past what Christianity is, not even Nietzsche can entertain me... the Hebrews know all too well what power this little gnat of a whinging philosopher proselyte, "philosopher" - whatever... among the elders it has been agreed upon: no more of this bloodlust... we are done with wanting to purposively strain people down the wrong path... we have become... quiet simply... BORED of these zombies entering our domains that we'd rather recycle via the Hindu deities than give them a fixed point of consciousness that would allow them to stretch it toward eternity... no, sorry, these people need to be recycled: i wish we could allow them entry into the eternal domain, but then they'd just be... sort of... static... sort of... *******... sort of: 'my mind is made up and i acknowledge no higher authority!' sure, sure... i guess zombies would be more entertaining than such people... regurgitating mantras, prayers... they need to be recycled, i personally don't know whether worthwhile people are reincarnated... but recycling is a common theme in this realm... might as well... it's not like anything will get through to these people, we're talking quotas... people need to attend football matches, just like some exceptional individuals need to become football players... Islam? ha... what... that religion born from the son of Abraham's concubine? by lineage, of course... among the monotheistic religions... the ******* brat of the lot... drop them this and... they ought to shut up... eh... good old Nietzsche... once you take up my perspective, there's no going back... literally... who instigated the blood-baths of the past 2000 years, the Reformation, the World Wars... wasn't it... Ba'al Ya'tuś'ēm? you can literally **** around with whatever diacritical markers you want, to drop the apostrophes... let your mind wander... like the wandering mind of a Hebrew... last time i heard this little brat of ours was making new progress in Africa, having solidified his place in South America... even hell requires a hierarchy, but this... "lord" is like a virus that needs to be stamped out... or rather... controlled... or rather: he needs to learn to know when to stop... he's almost like a grown woman... i mean: children - regardless of their *** are not given the same freedoms as some grown women entertain... notably with regards to public officials, staff in venues, hospitals, shops... he's sort of like a "Karen": in spirit... sure... great... if his crucifixion happened in a culture akin to the Aztecs?! YAWN... blame the Hebrews... for what?! the elders back then knew that he was suspect... as to why or how he became incarnated in flesh is beyond me... for me: he was forever a festering wound in our arsenal, in our prospect of bringing forth all that arts that Prometheus began with... alchemy, medicine, engineering, the prospect of man's better future... "hey-zeus" etc. was always going to bring stagnation... since? at least in a time when the strong were strong and the weak were weak: the strong could defend the weak... now? hey presto! i do my ****, you do yours... let's see who the preditors single out.

i've just spent a day filling out the form for a module 3 of an NVQ for crowd management... brain-numbing...
literally brain-numbing...
skull-itching doesn't even cover it...
do most people exist: within this framework
of language: they never find an escape plotline?!
they must do... since so many comply to rigidity and
ridicule...
it's not even boring... it's painfully-obvious...
i've already proven myself in practice before
having to scribble down some "theoretical" details...
oh... but wait... i can't actually use examples by
experience in a theory-based test...
what... a... load... of... *******...
you walk up the gangway with 20+ odd Yorkshire
beefcakes from Leeds?! oi... mate... ******* from
this route... i'll be coming up here every 10 minutes...
into your seat...
not said like that... but... the reply...
ANYTHING FOR YOUR MATE...
even i'm getting a hard-on for my ego...
but where did this come from?
i was supposed to be this solitary creature trapped
in an ivory tower... yet here i am...
bothering myself about crowd control...
readying myself for a second Hillsborough Disaster
or another Manchester Arena bombing...
i'm pumped... i do 100 press-ups before an event...
lift some weights... and prescribe myself
the Ramadan manifesto of fasting before an event...
drink plenty of black coffees though...
smoke like a choo-choo train straight
to Auschwitz... ha ha... what?!
i seriously have to be somewhat drunk to fill out
these NVQ forms... i've already had some practice...
most of the drunks i've encountered were more
than willing to talk to me,
everyone seemed to friendly...
maybe i just have one of those face...
but... but i'm not going to be doing the job
for the worth of two people... esp. with some colt
Somali **** of a boyo!
that's what's ******* me off the most...
at least among the Yorkshire beefcake lads
i can be... associated with them...
why do they comply?
it's not a racist thing, they just feel comfortable
when dealing with someone who looks like
them: in-group preferences...
        when you learn that you're dealing with,
ahem, racial... "minorities" that **** your daughters
and want to enter paradise strapped with
suicide vests... that you live with these sort
of people, who are you going to prefer?
like last time at the London Stadium...
i was surrounded by the away fans... all from Leeds...
friendly *******... i had no trouble...
do i look so imposing?
yet... oh my god... i was paired up with
this Somali ****... kept watching the football
match instead of the crowd...
i'm done... **** me: *******...
i was grinding my teeth in the 9th circle
of Dante's circle of hell... come to think of it...
i must have been biting at Brutus' teeth!
while making an oyster feast from Cain's tongue!
i don't exactly require racial quotas, "quotas" to know
what's coming next...
lazy-***: one more ******* "oops" up in Manchester...
because it shouldn't have happened...
yeah... it shouldn't have... but guess who
you employed: YA ******* KANTS!
sympathisers!       *****... the whole and the rest
of 'em!
grr... grind that: ***** grind than grr...
the fire is not yet ready to be raised...
to a crescendo of an inferno.... it's coming...
it will come... it will be more spectacular than world war I
and world war II put together!

this be the interlude period... this be the period of...
spiders weaving...
there's no mention of the Lord of Mosquitos,
there's no mention of the Lord of Spiders...
but there is... a Lord of Flies... ha...
why weren't these two Lords accounted for:
with my own fall?!
who will ever account for, their presence?!
i, do, very, wearily, wonder... who might?!

i have started to hear whispers...
no, oh, no...  i won't disclose them... until i'm readied
to marry a rich girl with a daddy that owns a yacht....
i rather enjoy my semi-poverty & the company of my cats...

NUMB-SKULLS...
   two Lords are missing from the narrative...
the Lord of Mosquitos... my best estimate is that of Hey-Zeus!
Krist?! you sure? oh... right... blood... wine...
vampire invention... i love how hell loves to troll
humanity... ha ha! o.k. so Lord "Misquote" had his 2000 years of
fun... more people equating wine with blood...
more... ahem... "vampires"?

the lord of spiders... i'm waiting for him:
to show his ******* ugly face! up! please don't tell me he's
busy with his somewhat, already flimsy architecture!
imagine the shock... people didn't think that Jesus Christ
was the Lord of Mosquitos...
ha... well... who wouldn't... well it's not like the past
2000+ years passed as smoothly as extracting ice-cream from
a tubing...

hell is all around, eh... some Cain outliers...
what, can, you do!? eh?
mein gott:                nein: nein gott!
Jesus Christ isn't my lord... he's the lord of mosquitos...
blood... wine... do i need to paint a prettier
picture? in the hierarchy of the scheme of things...
i'm not even the blatant beast of the upper tier...
i'm not: definite article enemy...
i'm not even Lucy... who's the antithesis of Sophia...
i'm the buzz... the buzzing grift in the shadows...

but the Lord of Spiders is missing...
we have already accounted for the joyride of the Lord
of Mosquitos for the past 2000 years...
poor man... i want to pity him...
then again: i want to pity myself for wanting to pity him...
i have a weakness of a heart for about 10 seconds... i allow myself to think for 10 seconds... after 10 seconds... concern for traffic takes over...

oh... you're not going anywhere with me, until you're going down, and i'm going down;
shove your Quran up your ***... like any respectable Northerner might give a **** about some post-Nomadic niqqab-clad ******* worth of ******* ****** ***!

To soon
It flows back
My own monsoon
Entry through the cracks
I sink, water rises
Stop think, must stop the crisis
Passing thoughts not enough to float
All this depth makes it so hard to breath
So many holes in the hull, stay afloat
Sail while bailing out in the water reflects death
I jump overboard not going down with the boat
Never thought that my life would become a shibboleth
Gasp on as with the strange tides even death may die, a misquote

What catharsis is this that feels so plagiarized, I mistep, misquote, this thing you call hope. Do not mistake the mistakes made up at what I thought was the goddess's feet, it was only just a threshold to pass over.


    and you'll tell me that I was wrong an that living is dreaming but what is this teeming feeling of tranquility seamlessly seeming full to bursting like a symbolic version of fertility this cancelation of emotions rocking us through the motions of what people say is the end.


    I saw the church, I saw the altar, I didn't see the lie behind your eyes, as you faltered to say yes, it was then I climbed the steeple and rang the bell, outside it rang and the people saw, and in my fall I welcomed death.

We could talk for hours on end each day,
I guess that’s what made me believe you felt the same way.
Well that and every act of kindness you showed me,
I guess looks aren’t the only thing that can be deceiving.

I watched as you walked by Atleast you spare me a glance,
For me it was more than that, it left me in a trance.
It happened so fast it had to be beginners luck,
Until I realized Cupid had one arrow left and unfortunately I was the one struck.

It didn’t take much time to realize you weren’t “the one”
but who IS “the one”
where is “the one”
What’s taking “the one so long”
I’m tired waiting and lying to myself I’m strong.

Don’t misquote me I don’t need a man to exist,
but it wouldn’t be bad either to finally be the first on someone’s list.
Would I continue to let myself believe I am truly wanted,
All in the name of “what if he left me cause I relented?”

A shower of disdain
I felt insane
I no longer controlled what was going on in my brain
Is this what it felt like, the power to be drawn,
Only to hear he was moving on,
It was like uno to him, I hope he had fun cause when he reversed, I was realized we were never each other’s “the one”