Some introductory 'food' for thought...

"When people say they prefer organic food, what they often seem to mean is they don't want their food tainted with pesticides and their meat shot full of hormones or antibiotics. Many object to the way a few companies - Monsanto is the most famous of them - control so many of the seeds we grow."
  - Michael Specter

"My grandfather used to say that once in your life you need a doctor, a lawyer, a policeman and a preacher but every day, three times a day, you need a farmer"
  - Brenda Schoepp

"Economically, many folks don't feel they can afford organic. While this may be true in some cases, I think more often than not it's a question of priority. I feel it's one of the most important areas of concern ecologically, because the petrochemical giants - DuPont, Monsanto - make huge money by poisoning us."
  - Woody Harrelson


Who is Monsanto?
Monsanto is a Chemicals/Pharmaceutical/Agriculture company that was established in 1901 in the United States, and over the last century has occupied a particularly interesting and questionable history that has within recent times took to the global scale, growing into a multinational corporation, well nigh on the complete monopolisation of the Agriculture industry whilst having established connections to the chemical and pharmaceutical industry. They are less well known for their creation of Agent Orange, of which they claimed had no harmful effects on the human body, which was utilised very predominantly during the Vietnam War by the U.S. military as a defoliant, however, caused hundreds of thousands of deaths by poisoning, and has now led to an epidemic of birth deformities in the regions of use. Monsanto experienced more involvement in war through their involvement in the Manhattan Project, which resulted in the creation of the first nuclear bombs to be tested on Japanese civilian populations. They also have a background in their production of PCB's (Polychlorinated biphenyls) which once again, had the negative human and environmental effects ignored and misrepresented hitherto 1977 when they were banned, however, was not before many fresh water supplies and the air had been contaminated and was a known carcinogen in humans, along with other health damages. There was then of course their production of DDT's in the post war period that was advertised as a 'wonder-chemical' to be used in agricultural pesticides. However, it was later uncovered that its spraying caused a high percentage of food breakdown in crop and in humans caused breast cancer, male infertility, miscarriage, developmental delay and nervous system/liver damage. They even tested the effects of radioactive Iron on 829 pregnant women in a bizarre experiment. Having no shortage of scandalous and often at times frequenting blatantly corrupt behaviour on their dubious track record, with an abundance of data and study arising in protest of the company's use of dangerous chemicals and genetic modifications in food, it is surely best to question the activity and history of this company.


What chemical poisons are being used?
Some of you are probably aware as to the fact that within many food products today there are various chemicals being used in modification, cultivation and in processing, many of which are harmful, often deadly to the human body and to the ecosystem. So harmful in fact that in cultivation workers are required to wear bio-hazard suits and due to the toxicity of the area in farming these GM crops, are required to ***** signs in the surrounding area warning of the danger.

So one chemical that has been pushed into foods and drink by Monsanto since the early 20th Century is Saccharin, an artificial sweetener made from coal tar which is used predominantly in Soda, Coke and processed foods, and is 700 times sweeter than sugar. In 1907 when Saccharin was first investigated by the USDA it was quoted as,"a coal tar product totally devoid of food value and extremely injurious to health" , and by the 1970's, when the chemical began to garner greater use, the FDA attempted to ban its use in products after discovering it causes cancers (particularly bladder cancer) in animals and humans, however, today is still used as an artificial sweetener, and between 1973-1994 the National Cancer Institute saw a 10% increase in bladder cancers.

Monsanto are also responsible for the pushing of another artificial sweetener onto the market to be consumed by humans, that being Aspartame, even more harmful than Saccharin, and since being used in Coke, particularly Diet Coke, since 1983, the rest of industry followed suit. When melted down at 30°C into its liquid form in use for soft drinks, it become far deadlier than in its powdered state. It was found that it caused tumours and holes in the brains of rats and is more addictive than crack *******. After a multitude of independent scientific studies arose in protest of the use of Aspartame, Monsanto bribed the National Cancer Institute to produce fabricated data. Here are some of the know side effects of Aspartame consumption in humans according to the US Food and Drug Administration:

• mania  
• blindness
• joint-pain
• fatigue
• weight-gain
• chest-pain
• coma
• insomnia
• numbness
• depression
• tinnitus
• weakness
• spasms
• irritability
• nausea
• deafness
• memory-loss
• rashes
• dizziness
• headaches
• seizures
• anxiety
• palpitations
• fainting
• cramps
• diarrhoea
• panic
• burning in the mouth
• diabetes
• MS
• lupus
• epilepsy
• Parkinson’s
• tumours
• miscarriage
• infertility
• fibromyalgia
• infant death
• Alzheimer’s

As is quite evident, Aspartame not only lacks any nutritional value, it also can have grave effects on humans when consumed. In fact, over 80% of complaints made to the FDA concern Aspartame and is now used in over 5000 products, yet facts are still being misrepresented and as primary producers of Aspartame such as Monsanto produce false data to cover their tracks.


How is their monopoly being secured?
Monsanto within recent decades has somewhat become the archetype of corruption and corporatism, devoting many millions to Government lobbying in order to maintain its hegemony over agriculture, its use of harmful chemicals and to maintain restrictions of food labelling of GM products. In fact, the company seems to have a revolving door between itself and Government now, one example being the FDAs Arthur Hull resigning due to controversy and going straight to an employee at Monsanto as a Public Relations representative. This means that the FDA, the central official force against the use and proliferation of harmful products is in bed with Monsanto, the main proliferator.

Another creation Monsanto have pushed into pastoral agriculture is their Synthetic Bovine Growth Hormone which is a genetic modification of the E-coli virus to be used in dairy products and cows. And in order to make sure this product is pushed onto farmers, Monsanto sues any that do not use it with teams of lawyers. They also, in a far more cunning and destructive method, are able to and have destroyed other, natural crop cultivation by the use of their Genetically Modified crops themselves. What they have done is modified their crops in order that they self pollinate, and that bees that come into contact with their crops are killed, causing mass hive collapses, which then means any natural crop in surrounding farms die off due to a lack of bees to pollinate them, forcing them to join the monopoly of Monsanto's GM supply.

Also, before the aerial spraying aluminium and barium into the skies began in 1998, that has seen a rise in the content of aluminium particles per/cm from near 0 to 30,000 in many areas, Monsanto patented crops that are resistant to soil with such high concentrations, meaning they now have legal ownership over crops, whereas the natural produce may be ungrowable in a number of places where the spraying concentration is high. On a side not, the spraying of aluminium into the sky since 1998 has also caused a massive spike in Alzheimer disease and lung cancers, rising from the tens of thousands to the millions of cases per year.

To Conclude, Monsanto has recently made a very big merger deal with the Pharmaceutical company Bayer, the ones who produced Zyklon-B for the **** extermination chambers. Sure sounds like some safe operations.


- an essay by JDH

You watch these videos
Of people shouting BLM
Because if your black you are condemned
To them,
Because to them you are not equal
And somehow ****** is legal
But only if your a white cop,
SAY MY NAME
My name is Rayshard Brooks,
I am only 37,
I feel asleep in the cops car,
Resulting in me being restrained and shot because I was believed to be intoxicated,
SAY MY NAME
My Name is Daniel *****,
I am 41,    
I died in 2020,
I died due to strangulation from cops,
They used their body weight to slam me to the ground and strangle me,
SAY MY NAME
I am George Floyd,
I am 46 years old with a child,
A cop sat on my neck for 8 minutes and I died due to strangulation,
I had a kid and a wife,
SAY THEIR NAMES
Their names and lives are more important than your privilege,
SO speak up and speak loud,
Because you are their voice,
You can be the voice of the unheard,
And the misrepresented.

The power of Averages,
it means a lot
if you can
understand Means, a lot.

Assuming a Normal Distribution,

A Standard Deviation, or σ
defines where about 68% of the data falls;
roughly 34% above and below the Mean.

Two Standard Deviations
defines where a further 28% of data lies;
14% above and below 1σ and -1σ.

Positive 1-Sigma is one Standard Deviation above the Mean
Negative 1-Sigma is one below;
The range from -2σ to 2σ includes  96% of data.
The implications are astounding.

Within 3 Standard Deviations, one finds 99.7% of the data;
Within 4σ, 99.9%, 5σ, 99.999%,
the remainder are generally outliers and other improbable results.

To illustrate:

Suppose we had a group of 100 people,
and we wish to determine average height:
If our Mean height ends up being, say, 180 cm,
with a Standard Deviation of 20cm,
We can suppose that of 100 people, on average,
with a certain Margin of Error that is inversely proportionate to our Sample Size, or n
(for sake of argument, the Probable Error, or γ, is 13.49cm)

4 are taller than 220cm
14 are between 200cm and 220cm
68 are between 160cm and 200cm
14 are from 140cm to 160cm
4 are shorter than 140cm
--

Statistics is the parent of Probability;
Statistics is the Art and Science of Forecast,
Statistics paves the way for modern Science
Statistics is a powerful weapon in the fight against Ignorance
Statistics, however, are generally and intentionally misrepresented and thus misunderstood.

For increasingly accurate figures,
one must have a larger Sample Size
and a Sample group that is a representative subgroup
of the Whole

This is intentionally abused
by most of the News
you read or see each day on Paper and Screens alike.

If a "Statistical analysis" does not include at least
Margin of Error or Probable Error,
Mean (Average), Standard Deviation, and Sample Size
do not take it as accurate.

Depending on the source,
it could even be deliberately malicious.

Arm yourself with Knowledge.

The marks blamed on something, on someone
but why was it me
shooting outwards for the next one to see
It wasn't the other, for her actions go unquestioned
identity deflating words against what was respected
life and growing is hard but this is never mentioned
It was me to blame, I was the one
The one who threw the extra ball, the one who hugged for fun
the one who had love and the love AND THE LOVE
the one who never touched you except when you backed into a shove
the one who stopped all the hurt that came your way the one who stopped her hurt when she issued the pain
why I am the one that was somehow to blame
and would give their own life and would still today
Why I was to blame because I was used for what was needed
why i was to blame when she chose bleeding
I asked why over and over
but to no avail
I was there when she needed me but she wouldn't let me know
why she felt in a way that couldn't be properly dealt
why i was to blame when used and then put away on a shelf
why I was to blame for what her other parent lacked herself
I wonder if they know
the real truth and not just the show
Do they know what I went through
and the pains from every wrong blow
Do they know the lies and injustices
Do they know the real score
Do they know that looks and appearances can truly mislead
they know, they know the faces they can read
they know the memories of all the love given
they know that even the one most trusted can be the one that really needs to be forgiven
lies made to be true by the masses and power
undermining the best in life for friends made sour
convinced to blame you by the person hiding from life's truths
And now the truth finally appears it wouldn't take a sleuth
Your life was misrepresented by a crook
And blood be as it is
Let truth be bigger, let integrity be bigger, let love be bigger
and let the real you be bigger for this is what shines bright
With an unconditional eternal love that will never take a slight

But where is the place for the people like us?
The artists, the cutters, the solemn observers.
Every INFJ. Every poisoned mind. Every social awkward with so much depth they just might sink.
The ones who have found their soul but are searching for their mind.
The ones who find their mind by losing their marbles.
The misrepresented and misunderstood.
The hurt and the happy.
With a requirement of so much patience and love that no one is willing or able to give.
The ones who make adjustments.
Who hit rock bottom and manage to get back up on their own.
The ones who fall too fast for something out of reach. They end up quietly crashing and burning.
The ones who are living under layers of paint; on their hearts and in their homes. Whose sweetness and innocence are buried somewhere underneath the paint, barely recognizable.
The ones who were born with a fifty year old soul.
Who have a biologically memorized speech that no one will hear; that no one can hear.

I ask you, where will they go, the people like us?

How could I be cold when
I'm on fire with passion
It burns through life to char
What doesn't belong.
Turns it to ash so it will
blow away in the wind-
Leaving in the absences
space to flourish for
Everything that's right.
Vibrant with new life
What's left to grow,
Determined to let the
Best in me represent
The rest of me.

I am an ethical capitalist and
A poor philanthropist-
And as for party,
I claim none.
This system is exactly what the founders warned of
Parties that pit parties against each other,
Who forget they are comprised of compatriots of the same nation.
Never swear off community
For the sake of security and comfortability
Because those that tell you that is the bargain we pay
They have shares in lies

I comb my beard often
its reach thus far is to my sternum
and out falls thoughts like
Santa
Biker
Hobo

I am Me,
Wholeheartedly!
I am more than what you see.
I am Authentic
I will not be Misrepresented
I am Beautiful
I am Steadfast and immovable.
I am Courageous
My smile is contagious.
Interestingly
My skin glows radiently
Its Honey Golden Complexion
Was kissed by the Sun embracing my imperfection.
The passion in me
Flows pleasantly
I am Unique.
I am the Words I speak.
I am Strong
Hidden within the message of a Wonderful Song.
I am Powerful.
Magnificent and bountiful.
I am a lover
Im like no other.
I am a Mother
A woman of color
I am Resilient
Im one and a million
Just As Pocahontas
I am Conscious
A Descendent From Royalty Unseen
For I am a Hebrew Queen.
And I am Me.
Wholeheartedly!

The possibilities are perched and overwhelming with their weight
the withered autumn branches of my street. Whining sinew of my mind
breaks off and flutters down, like leaves from life's misbegotten tree,
a petal or a timid accusation.
What now am I left holding here-- vulture feathers or sapling leaves?
That girl, with tufts here and there, dropped each quill as an embossed coin, effaced
by intrepid maids vacuuming my room of cloistered couches since
soiled by madam president during isolated summit which won't convene again, her golden
gown of rues has not a stitch of fabric for a single pocket more-- sloughing brittle currency under cushions
like Fall foliage under conscious footsteps striding in constraints of time.
She picks that soggy garment from the cleaners' with the sideways background ringing of
mistrust, apprehending
silenced, patient voices; detached from their seams with dis-acknowledgment--
the dress, comes by on the carousel and
fingers her feathers with its motion.
They're washed with him, her feathers and the dress-- shored up by late summertime’s ebbing
flood that year.
Each gust eddied unaccounted toward the beach our circumstance.
What held intact the branch of life and plucked that chord for dancing in the night?
The self-same vibration that severed from the soil his trunk, which was the ship's ballast, with the adz, my will, my want
and hopeful mooring --
cast and sunk, thus.
Sound waves clashing with our spinning crystal surface of wisping nodes
plunge now beneath themselves-- frail, flaxen and woven with water.
Held out near Tyre's port a scanty mast,
thought out for catching air; forfeited this vacuous, unstable mole', their bottle
poured on water to make earth, which swells as moistrous and abridged
as a musty vestule, corked and knotted in the wind.
Encased through sanction, hold and curiosity--
the tine rubbed and singeing, loosed you from me. Those brazen beads, sand percolating, lie with us.
We are now misrepresented; sniffling as sows after the trough who root.
The woman-leaves let will be known-- to dry up and disavow
their lecherous beauty by shriveling in the tepid sun of
late September. Does too, the feather-man eviscerate the model of time
in his way of losing each and every granule
that is the ground which swells with frozen rain 'til
Spring, then thaws and flies away. Or was it
their dainty, dizzied rose petal, suckling smog from sky since birth that has weather-worn
their gowns sheer silver, freshly hewn anew, by being ripped and pressed about
which came to stifle thoughtless dew?

We're misrepresented
(We male Caucasians),
Who don't indulge
In bigotry.

From the physiognomy that bruises the vertical from Gaul; axiomatic metempsychosis elements were transferred from corporate primaries to third parties after the incipient expiration of Vernarth. This orphistic or mystical enchantment was brought by Wontelimar from Valdaine, emerging from insane drunkenness on the Ardeche Mountains, transmigrating euphony and medical justifications that were united with the reincarnated Helminth reminiscent of Vernarth. Such was a verme or worm that classified itself in his arm, munching in his elder veins elongated by parasites of commendable colonies and idiomatic, retro-emotional, and lyrical heights. Knowing that its baluster made capital letters in steps and life-giving questions by means of beads, and the oratic chain of Luccica's godmother that awakened in him translating expirative and presumptive psychophysical Zionisms of the eloquent millionth perspectivism of re-trance, when his putrid upright arm was recorded. and landing in his Abrahamic physical departure, dissociating his body, separating and alternating with his dexterous spiral Aorion tri-bracelet between the arm of Sagittarius and the arm of Perseus, liquefying into indissoluble modular stratagems for three bodies, plus the one that accompanied occupying triplets in posthumous individualities. Unconscious metempsychosis singularities brought the right-arm picking him up several times from the discursive hive of Wonthelimar, to convince him and tell him that he had not been with the Hexagonal Progeny for some time, without hindrance it brought him from Ardeche in lasting and concerting sets, gray senses looking at the valleys of Valdaine in pilgrimages towards the expectant Patmian plains. His expiration was reborn from the appendages of the water lilies that were grasped by the recessed lumbar powers and were trans-mentalized into related memories that subsist reincarnationist and degressive in plausive longing when re-advancing with revived intelligence, to indoctrinate themselves when raised from an emetic absolutist consciousness, and free from the greatest breaths of judgment is constant waste and reciprocity on shelves that started from an initial discipline already transmigrated, on skinned ardors eroding from astral ellipses in decayed individualities expiring in the Ego-Xifos (Ego-Sharps), that transpose the gorges that even through Hellenic geography that has not been shed by the blood of a Hetairoi.

Wonthelimar says: “hold on to my lazy arm and embrace Lazarus and his decayed fierceness! in different bodies I have seen your blood hang itself on banners with different super-life monarchies, in the germs of the Valdaine valley avoiding their retreat into fatuous materials that vilified the acrotera of your descended Megaron. Remarking on the genetic tricuspid, and emanating lineages of surviving to invigorate in the dexterous appendage of Aorion, which has to wail from the armpit of Betelgeuse with insensitive patches that mock to see him bleed for more than two thousand years without coagulating in possible anarchies more than nothing, before speculating from where the meager blindness of compassionate triple restraints has germinated, like a split Psychí or soul three times before predicting about the valleys and a castle, in infamous beatifies that do not bleed with me…, Wonthelimar ”. It is possible that they have sublimated us from the apathetic and brief radiance...?, Only in some moor or headland before tearing us from the banners or Vexillum of the inaugural that stuffs its already subsisted vehemence in spaces that are already acroteral, resting on peduncles in floral capitulars. And the immobile ones mold the support pustules…, the sap that runs horribly towards you and behind you! Incontinent to your dehydrated past lives redeeming subsistence and rubbing it, then excluding themselves healed properly from their wounds settled in muddy dreams of reviving them expired. Resulting from its origins from the Mysterium or Musterium as an enclave exacerbated in civil disproportions that were established since the Neolithic, without having sealed the doors of all the species that were trapped in the mysterious ice ages, based on ritualistic doctrines, through eager entities to obstruct lapses in the open air of the Spilaion Apokalypseo, having to be returned in possession of physiognomies and of all the enclosed species of the Neolithic Age ”. The bumblebees loaded with spherical honey in their legs, flew by the assembly of the warriors, crops, pastoral assemblages, and sharp stones that cut the wind that disturb the infants who fear the night sleep in the rough quarries that made them sedentary of venerable thermoregulated and climatic seats. Making of them and us revolutionary discoveries, for the interconnection of cooled flints in forests of Memento or Vademecun, to be erected on the megalithic plains, from where I come, rolling like a circular stone that moves the rocks of the World away from a near east, making some timorous and Asian oratics, I was able to get close to you Vernarth, who since the Neolithic I appear following you without giving up in the horticultural and in bovine frights. In this way, the water lilies and peduncles cordoned off the semoviente, full of thrones to conquer them, almost after having lost the calculations of the plasma that were being innovated from a Hetairoi by being reformulated from its incendiary essence, with such spasm being pardoned in the orbits of those who it the sustain themselves and wait for them bringing elaborate anonymous spare parts. Thus Wonthelimar spreads Greek fire over his golden breastplate, entering his transmigrated soul there, as fiduciaries of naphtha, sulfur, and ammonia in treats of previous and speculated oxygenated suitability that was transmitted in suffocating atmospheres by his deltoid when he detonated hatred in his eyelids.. His ***** inhibited signs of fear and hissing of freedom in fields of glory from a mythologized go diving between desolate flames of excretion, and throwing fuel that was not conceived of the same troubadour in the final redemption. (Among waters, minerals and ureas from the Hephaestus braze where dead proteins of cell warheads were stained, nitrogenizing acids that were from the common verb of Wonthelimar) ”.

The double V merged and intertwined forming an inverted double V, being the metric bulbar of Wonthelimar raising awareness of the upper and lower Vernarthian blocks, night falling towards a density of the same that moved raised on the north deck of the Eurydice ship, while everyone slept in the understand the "V" residing and originating from the annihilating biological duo of the immemorial of Vernarth and the Bumodos river, contemplating the suggestive salvage of sap after overcoming lymphomas in the battle of Gaugamela. Wonthelimar in tender loves misrepresented what he would achieve with his ****** healings next to the bold tributary, leaving in the vanguard and in starts from all the gigs that had condemned to Halicarnassus to be truncated next to infallible Canephores in disgrace to their executioners, branching all the branches of holm oaks of the articular of Wonthelimar that had been sheltering from the head, girdling itself in old debt collector and of souls in pain on the sleeping Nyons. The carriage perennially transshipped hesitant and unconscious individuals that the Falangists invited them to order, and spend the night shining in their Xifos in the bow with the inverted "V" to open up to the abundant exciting sea and find it in some Eden, being assembled in the primary kicks of an anonymous withdrawn, among all the cattle cooked with herbs that did not manage to sprout between one and the other.

The brawl is the symbiosis of the Megaron that exhibited the “M” united with the two inverted “Vs”, conceptualizing in Wonthelimar the vigil of early properties and phobias fragmenting in numerous odes in Thessaly, which were already re-agglutinating attracted from a patriarchal image from Hellas, under the pretext of Hellenistic consummations as a vocational institute race in primitives of Alexandrina Magnus, derived a few nautical miles to approach Patmos. The ship sailed across the sea, pre-conceptualizing the very universal being that revived in the Tracontero, looming out of all the waters like a nubile breaker that spoke to each other with words from Mageireméno Kefáli Votánon, "head cooked with herbs." Speaking in primitive alternate erudition and in tidal waves with more than twelve meters of territorial Argonauts making similar corvettes as the Gulf of Tarnetino, possessing distant and comparative sixty miles of the base that colonized Wonthelimar for new sources when encrypting in the Megaron. They persevere, captaining the Immature Polis that would be documented in Patmos, and in the town councils of the assemblage with ****** ceased battles, climbing towards a great cogitation height of the Megaron temple and the Theater of the Epidaurus, under the three darkness of the lilies bordering the Spilaion Apokalypseos.

In the hemicycle Theater of the Epidaurus, the stars worked for the nations of Asclepius together with Wonthelimar, thus healing emigrated musical sessions in palmistry and Parapsychology, where burdensome marks of interveners expectorated in vast impellers on the Koilones and in their softened and purged bleachers, from where each one was shouting towards all the winds and the advent of all the auditoriums absent by past and future generations, cheering lives in salvific voices, for those who cheer them with additional sheltered and attentive spectators from ultra-semicircular bleachers, not being on stage, better absent more than the actors of a drama to stay alive when they prowled towards the Diazoma, or corridor where all the spectators suffered from the same ordeal of Vernath's right arm and pectoral in decreasing lymphomas, in a greater capacity of incentive and saving grace. After this incident, Wonthelimar became a cause and effect of the Vernarth saga, but of transmigrated formality for the purpose of corresponding survival and of cellular restitution of what had died in him..., thus, everything would begin to be reborn towards a prop in a double aspect. The former commanders who were once his faithful servants would appear before this affront, to antagonize him and make him desist from joining as a Proceriato and Gigantum Form of the heroes of Gaugamela on Patmos.

Information is weight that holds
down and holds back like a jungle
like so many vines and chutes
mud and rain that keeps
you struggling and straining
towards that place on a map
the high point that once atop
promises an unambiguous view,
the place that looks so close
there's no need to carry a pack
but nine hours later, hacking
through underbrush, pulling
at leeches and swatting mosquitos
finds you crippled by heat
cursing the map that so
grossly misrepresented the
relationship between yourself
and the place you wished to reach,
the map that never mentions, never,
that should you ever achieve
that keystone ridge, that high and
illuminating view, you will look out
to see the impeding silhouette of the
next ridgeline blocking your way.

What say you on the matter?

For,
To say the Pilgrims were not of the Americas,
Or thereby American,
Is False.

For,
To say the life force is not moving, pulsing,
Or thereby alive,
Is Wrong.

For,
To vocalize a sonnet as written,
And not vary tone or infliction from line to line,
Or to sing the Song of Madness.
But not feel the grimy groove,
Is flat out and most indescribably improper and in dire need of revision.

But to break off from the meter,
In travels that lead on out,
Progressing into a voyage of the vastly uncharted,

Is to paint a magnificent beauty,
Or write a tale with uncanny comparatives to a Huck.

And to forthwith stand from the bow of the vessel, not the stern, to say when they say, “Nay.”

From the start, on the breaking dawn of this episode, a new life seemed only natural to resurrect;
A chapter to rewrite that had too long needed a rewrite.
And so perceived and attempted it was.

Then, from the inner yearnings, came a need to profess what so vividly troubled.
But in unsure footings, the tongue could not confess.
But in undone attire, the feet would not uphold.
Repressed.
Halt!

The body comes to rest.
Lain upon the threshing block, to gather.
And preface a proclamation of the more just cause.
Ideals certain to be less casually fit than their predecessors’.
An ultimate theory of outlook.

Thus, this is my prelude, to the coming of age battle, and my constitution.
With most sincerity, this is what I proclaim.

The Right of Understanding.
—The act that in any case, every account and depiction of any story and thereby situation, should be heard, allotted, marked, and understood in full. It should stand, unbiased, before all, prior to any fore coming or hasty decision: the act of listening without interpretation by a lonely mind; of not intruding upon or giving up immoral ground in adherence to a person; of not spreading hell, nor involving the uninvolved in personal matters; of letting people share both the tangible and intangible, without hesitation, or living in fear being persecuted and/or misrepresented; and the understanding of every individual soul.—
The Right of Understanding.

The Right of Albatross.
—The act of grieving over loses, and accepting that things will not be the same. The act that time is so deathly important in revival that the absence of its constant equilibrium will cause damage; of stability in the face of fear, whatever that may be, or the fear that is eminent and sure to catch us all in its foot snares; of compassion to the suffering and those who have lost it all but continue to rise again and prove the statistics, kept and known only by the creator, wrong; and of being unsettled in the grey areas. For no one soul can truly ever make it alone.—
The Right of Albatross.

The Right of Acerbity.
—The act of saying what’s on your mind, no matter how pugnacious or acrid it may come out to be. The act of bluntness in dealings, without further discretion, but only after retched hate has built and anger tormented past its due date; of civility towards others in the postmortem; of biting your tongue until absolutely necessary, and only through well founded intent, however deluded the intent may be to ascertain such conclusive foundation, and of arrogance in expression and language for the betterment of others. The act of ripping out the orthodox for a radical reckoning of souls.—
The Right of Acerbity.

The Right of Escape.
—The act of fleeing tragic misunderstandings, for the sake of saving face, and to make great hast. The act of thinking contrary to the proof, setting a pricey wage on your personal beliefs, dissolving unknown barriers and outward influence, and claiming your stake; of being alone to the mind in hopes of evaporating the exorbitant data; of basking in the glory that swift feet have brought; of turning the corner, and establishing new peace of mind to comfort the once boxed in soul.—
The Right of Escape.

The Right of Pursuit.
—The act of allowance to a pursuit in anything, with the freedom of beliefs, and articulation. The knowledge and acceptance that not all pursuits end, nor will they ever on the intended terms. End may or may not be reached, but the communion of trial, even if failed, is all that is needed. No hatred should come of a man’s choice in their personal pursuit; merely the acknowledgment and appreciation.—
The Right of Pursuit.

The Right of Assertion.
—The act which is commonly referenced, and includes great similarity to, the speeches given on the basis of freedom, with the truth that prior most follow up to the same base rule. The acts that no tyrant or thereby abusive parent should, or has the right to, downsize or ignore the declared speech of his child. Nor should one be angered by the truth that so passively flows through their ears. The right to free a man’s mind without a show of emotions becoming of us; just the listening of and rock like appearance of the stern look upon agreement.—
The Right of Assertion.

The Right of Compliance.
—The idea that man-kind can fit in with man-kind; the ideal template that brother and sister is known and used universally, not just selectively, as a label of people; that an atheist can walk into a church of any religion and fit in among the plenty to find a new assurance and home; that no restrictions are made to shun or cross out those unwanted in group, club, education system, religious aspect, or government area in question; that all of man-kind fits in anywhere they so choose when they are there under the prefaced agreement of good and strong intent. After all, intent is nine-tenths of the law. Lastly, that people can never feel out of place or lost in life.—
The Right of Compliance.

The Right of Deception.
—The knowing that man-kind can easily be duped by the specious mind; that promises aren't always kept, and that some stories aren't always true. Often times, there even a change in maxim just when we all become accustom to order; the idea of flowing emotion from one betrayal subsequently falling and spilling into right into line: next in life; that man could plainly be trying to be grandiloquent and fascinate rather than honestly working to be even with other men; that imagination can take over, yet leave a trail of crumbs leading toward reality, and remain in such a constant comatose state until life seems to become better; the mere acknowledgment that the mind can fully overpower the body.—
The Right of Deception.

It was that long ago that we were invincible,
Or too long ago to remember the good ol’ days,
Or too long ago to remember how past, present, or future,

We would always be friends.

No rivals could break us,
No terror could render fear,
No mountain was too big to climb,

We would always be untenable.

Every time we thought that,
Every time we felt safe,
Every time we leaned closer,

We grew older,
Time set in,
Tearing us apart.

As we fell apart,
Thoughts got the better,
Days turned as years past,
And our minds now seem to confess,

So here we are,
Once more staggered in unity,
And for the last time linking arms,

To exalt a power high above our reign,
And sign the final treaty,
Forever binding our humble beginnings,
Before the long journey,
That will, in retrospect, be a mistake…

But at least they will know exactly what We have to say.

You see this world.
This I know to be true.
But you see refractions
And shadows of other yous.
Your cries are misrepresented
Seen as horror in the night
But I know that it's just Peter Pan
Making faces in the light.

You are different.
I'll give you that.
But differences are just
Glitter in the cracks.
Some may say that
You are wrong,
But you're not, their
Imagination is just gone.

You are beautiful.
Scars and all.
Scars especially; it's
Strength, not a downfall.
Hold on to the colours
Dancing in your head,
Because without them, girl
It will all be grey instead.

REST IN PEACE?
Long legged lady.
She smiled.
Subtle smile all of her own.
Glint in her mischievous eye.
She’s a wild beast.
Misrepresented in the world.
Slumbers dumb.
Until the instant nasal greeting.
Perfume of *****.
An instant alive.
A nose full of fire.
Sees a feline creeping.
Timidly perched on the fence
En route to somewhere else.
Timid beast becomes savage.
Ballarat, makes a small pooch freak.

By ladylivvi1

© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

before i begin, a pre-scriptum...
         in my hand, this minute?
                   what a rare delight...
the Beauties of Sterne:
                                with some account of his life...
printed for J. Walker,
published by J. Walker, Paternoster Row &
   J. Harris, St. Paul's Church Yard...
London... 1811!
    and being a big "fan boy" of the fiction
that a bibliophile might have an adventure:
Roman Polanski's the Ninth Gate...
   now, for a book that's... 208 years old?!
it's not in bad shape... sure...
the hardcover is missing by a half...
but all the text is intact...
              obviously colouring of the pages...
but hey... i'm not a museum...
             the book is still fiddled with...
ha ha, the opening page with a picture
reads as follows:
   there are worse occupations in this world,
than feeling a woman's pulse...
perhaps a quote about... insensibility?
   it reads as follows:
       it is the fate of mankind, too often,
to insensible of what they may enjoy at
the easiest rate (sermon XLII)...
   besides, lucky for me youtube continues
to glitch from time to time...
    now looking more in line with channels
than individual artists...
   notably? Harakiri Diat (channel)...
eh... :wumpscut, the soft machine,
demdike stare, vomito *****, feindflug
weren't enough...
          turns out... there's more...
beyond penta, matutero and GloOMy
PhAntOM... well, please, allow me:
   filmmaker - the love market,
              la ***** bianca - demian...
hell... if you want to venture into the past?
i know one band that freaked out
my ex-girlfriend... gong - flying teapot...
or that song by greenskeepers, lotion...
               i thought i'd never see someone
become freaked out about music...
curios and also highly curious, yes...
but freaked out?
                 primitive knot - puritan...
demolition group - you better...
          1986 Yugoslav minimal electro...
Bruce Roach - Gut...
              and as it turns out...
    i look from this corner of the internet and find
absolutely no need to delve into
the dark web... install Tor...
           if you really want to...
  you'll find all you need... but you need
to sift through a bibliography of a book prior
to... it's all here... this sort of material
has an inbuilt filter... it filters out
             mainstream consumers of content...
i should know...
    3 websites that banned me,
1 suspended me...
                   i crossed the threshold...
    normie poetic: outcast *****...
           yet i still sometimes happened to chance
upon a will...
           lao che - soundtrack (the whole album
is decent) -
              


.i once heard it was based upon the following maxims: bogatemu wszystko wolno (the rich are allowed anything), siła razy gwałt (force multiplied by ****)... well... over the years, that much was true... but then i conjured a reply: nie wszystko wolno bogatemu (not everything is given an allowance to be expressed by the rich) and wola odiąć gwałt (will, having substracted ****): otherwise it's still wola razy gwałt (will, multiplied by ****).

****, i only just "woke" up from
this game,
you know that game...
oh i'm pretty sure you know it...
it's called
   pass the jew along...
   rudolf höss
      cited, among the list:
ibrahim ibn yaqub,
         radhanites (there's a surd
H in there, rad-'anites)
    casimir III...
esp. the latter...
           so.. give the current h'americans,
we're still playing the globalist
nomad game of: juggling the jews,
yes, no, maybe?
so my mother tended to
two old jewish women,
because, just "because"
their sons were active in
the "economics" of passing law
and techno-literacy?
oh... right... i "see"...
                            i... "see"...
in defence, of the "neglected" ones...
makes perfect sense,
de facto 51,
                  area 51 was always
a propaganda convert term
for Israel, rather than some area
bound to Nevada, wansn't it?
wasn't it?
                      ask me again
one year from now,
did we live peacefully among the jews?
they'll tell you the joke...
didn't the jews shoot,
with riffles,
   with bent barrels / sights
aiming at themselves rather
than the nazis?
       no, no soap jokes when
it comes to yews...
the yids...
      everyone in poland just
wondered: why so pacified?
        so blatant in walking into
an inferno?
                      you know...
it took Poland longer to surrender,
while being attacked by both
the Germans and the Russians,
than it took for the Fwench
to be attacked by the sole effort
of the Germans?
    funny... that...
                               i truly admire
some nazis, for their ingenuity...
notably? erwin rommel...
   lothar von arnauld de la periè(re)...
(subtle, i give you that one,
per-y'eh...
                 'old 'ack 'old 'ck
   h-b-h-b,
                                    rein in...
otherwise perié... ergo without
                                           the -re)...
michael wittmann...
and i'm a ******...
      **** me...
they didn't bomb paris,
might as well state:
they also didn't bomb
  marienburg or most of danzig...
Warsaw? taken down,
levelled, brick by brick,
        until no brick stood on brick...
              what?!
i thought the western capitalist-ico
communist insurgents
wanted target practice?
          i thought these people
wanted nazis, no?
          i'll admit... tiki torches?
you must have never looked
at european football hooligans...
tiki torches?!
you having a bbq?
            never heard of flares?        
- mind you...
you know what's worse beside
beind ridiculed?
having your intelligence
insulted...
i.e. do i look like someone
who managed to ****
your mother with a *******
harmonica,
or, am i, bound to the responsibility,
of your parents playing
the irresponsibility card,
attempting to convey a child
into existence aged circa 50
circa 45,
and what comes out is
an autistic cucumber?!
    **** me...
try giving ****** lessons
to circa 50 year olds;
and now the paradox...
   "i'm" the "schizophrenic"...
cool cool, coolio...
     i'll just hide in that "harem's"
worth of a brothel with
the prostitutes who tell
me they get s.t.d. checks on
a regular basis, o.k.?
_____

what am i to add to this?
not much, is there...
was the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald
ever great?!
  how satisfying it is to be unable
to please the crowd....
words, after all, are not bread...
how one wishes
for an anathema rather than
a martyr's embrace...
            one begins to imagine...
then one loses interest...
then...
                    peering through
the eye of a needle
watching a camel walk through...
one spots something outside
the realm of the metaphorical miracle...
do i have to?
      what if i remain to this side
of the eye of the needle?
what riches do i have that i cling to...
books & music...
does that make me rich?
what are the sort of riches where either
people plunder readily (music),
or do not engage with to begin
with?
who are ready to read...
i can claim to be a book thief...
i stole two books from my high school
library... the quran and the scarlet &
the black by stendhal...
            "stole"... i extended their
licance of being borrowed...
how am i rich: if my riches are the riches
no one would want to steal?!
i am rich... though...
               but i am rich in a both
materialistic / non-materialistic paradox
frame...
                what i own no one wants to
steal! why steal a first cheap edition
of a dickens' novel if you're not going
to read it!
              
       **** **** ****.... if they were such
philistines... when blitzing London,
why did st. paul's remain intact?
   "coinicidence"? i don't think so...
and why did they steal all those
art-works? again, "coincidence"?

                    they were people:
i find it uncomfortable to suit them up
in transcendence,
to be: epitome evil...
  to be the übermensch...
                   they loved art as much
as they loved being the antithesis
of the golden horde: gucci, dolce & gabbana
zz top: well dressed men...

     nazis loved art and fashion,
by far the best dressed army in the world
and history...

   ol' herman and otto came back
from the eastern front to a scared wife and mother...
people! they weren't mythical creatures...
the nazis can hardly become
chimeras as they become in the minds
of pseudo-communists of the western lands...

they are hardly the epitome of evil,
i know the 21st century narrative
deems them: "the perfect example"...
come on... they're not evil embodied
with not subsequent examples to be given
to... historical capitalism of evil:
there's always someone waiting,
some group of people to stage
a competition libra... and they will...
overcome the nazis...
it's only a question of ingenuity /
imagination...
           gas chambers was only industrial...
it will become personal in the years to come...
methodologically trained cultured
barbarians woken from a slumber...

the nazis were not: philistines...
   in no defence: didn't they speed up the creation
of the state of israel?
   didn't they? **** uncle:
   lavrentiy pavlovich Beria is going to state
the matters differently?
like hell he is...

        my family also suffered in that war...
sure, not in a concentration camp:
but on the front...
             there's even a joke that my
grandfather remembers:
the jews were shooting with bent nozzles
of riffles...
   as he also remembers two ss-men
who he asked for sweets,
and they would give them to him,
he'd as them: herr! bitte bon-bon!
   sweets so sweet that he would have
to rinse his hands under water
to unglue them from the sickly in-between...
how all the insurgent soviet soldiers
were teenagers and preferred to
sleep in pigstys and among the goats
in the hay...

how did the nazis become mythological
i will never understand,
at uni i had a **** history teacher,
canadian, she really liked my essay
on napoleon... how he was a great
strategist...
akin to?  

   erwin rommel wasn't a ****...
erwin rommel was, erwin rommel...
a great strategist...
        am i supposed to thrive in this
current year of polarized *******?
it's the current topic,
i can't escape it,
  sure, i'd love to have a Wordsworth
moment, lurking in me,
or an anna akhmatova breakthough...
instead?! i'm given this sort of *******
on a platter,
  and all that's missing are the wedges
of lemon and the eager oysters to
be gulped down... lucky me!

no, i don't like how the nazis are misrepresented
as both the übermenschen:
these mythological epitomes of evil
(no greater evil is to come? really?!)
and at the same time
as philistines: they stole art,
they ensured that critically cultural
documents of architecture were left
undisturbed... st. paul's cathedral...

         it's not like some otto or moritz
didn't come back home to a wife
and children... no...
he came back to the shadow cult
of the ******* hanging over him...

you know what the most haunting experience
i have ever experienced was?
Ypres... world war I site...
visiting a german cemetary...
compared to the allies cemetary?
**** me, what a meagre sight!
           the allies were burried with marked
graves, each man to his own cross...
the german burial ground?!
  mass graves....
eh: one marker: 200 bodies in one pit...
                 and here's the 21st century with
games about shooting: zee nat'zees...

   just visit the world war I cemetaries...
the ally cemetaries? square miles...
each man with his white cross...
german cemetaries? as mass graves go...
one marker per 200+ troops...
so... not that much space required...
less: bombast!
               pride & prejudice /
   pomp & circumstance...
   which the english speaking world is...
of the latter convenience to suit the narrative.

to reiterate...
   as a ******... the whole german fetish
isn't my kind of gig...
what with my grandmother being born
on the front... given opiates at an early
age so she would not cry and allow
the soldiers to locate her and my gread-grandparents...
but...
   they were the best dressed army in
the history of warfare...
they were not philistines and they certainly
weren't the mongolian golden horde...
i.e. they stole art, notably jewish artwork...
and if a luftwaffe squadron were to drop
a bomb on st. paul's? they'd probably
be shot...
  after all... Posen wasn't destroyed,
Breslau wasn't destroyed...
        Danzig wasn't destroyed...
Cracow wasn't destroyed...
             o.k., half of Warsaw was,
but we know why that happened
(or at least i do... idealist students who
thought they could fight the enemy
with slingshots and air-pistols)...
why? the Germans were simply thinking:
oh... we'll just be moving back...
i once explained it to myself...
they weren't exactly some mythological
grand evil template...
so i started thinking about them as:
Hans von Seeckt...
  or Otto Hertz...
              or some other german random
soldier...
      well... you should travel to Ypres,
Belgium... and visit a German cemetary
from war world I... then visit
the allies graveyard...
       each soldier, individually buried...
with his pwetty pwetty weißkreuz -
mostly named...
                 now visit a german cemetary...
mass.... graves...
                they just dumped them,
heaped them...
                        to me they were people...
you can't exactly reason with a mythological
evil - an archeological evil,
   an archetypical evil...
          for an archetypical evil?
try the nuclear family...
                         ******... that sort of thing...
child abuse... too many actors
were involved in this story,
too many mistakes, too many naive blunders...
evil on this scale is easily diluted...
which is why it's taught as history,
in schools...
   no one will teach children about...
oh... say... the Wiener Blut scenario...
   Josef Fritzl...
                    i'm pretty sure this will not be
taught in a history class...
                or... the H. H. Holmes Hotel story...
but it might become a jack the ripper
tourist-fetish... might it not? well, it already is.

I’m looking at the presentness,

Tomorrow breaks off like it makes no sense.

Yesterday begins to fade; past tense.

Today will vanish as I engage and not pretend to surf the waves

‘cause I’m actually just riding them.

At this breakpoint awareness has no imagination.

Tomorrow does

and yesterday is misrepresented by shoddy memory.

I leave no room for ambiguity.

How many?
How many holidays are to be taken away?
Valentines day was once Lupercalia
A day to celebrate fertility in honor
Of the Roman Gods
Now it's looked down on
Called a consumer's holiday; A day of romance
Either loved or hated; stolen nonetheless

When I am asked how I feel about Valentine's day
I look at Christmas; Yule and Saturnalia
Easter; Ostara
And who knows how many others
If you are going to steal a holiday,
At least don't make it on the same day

It makes me think
Why am I forced to hide
On these oppressive days?
My religion has been demonized
Stolen from and misrepresented for so many years
Suffered in witch trials, burned and drowned
If we have done so much wrong
Then why are you stealing our sacred days?
Giving them new names, copying the rest

Our symbols, our holidays, our spells
All stolen
The cross, Valentine's day, a prayer

When I think about Valentine's day
I think about how much has been taken from me
And how much it hurts to hide
In the shadows of a vilified faith
'Do what you will so long
As you harm no other'

Our kindness has been trampled on
By the 'generous' faiths
With their arms outstretched
To ruin and take
Rather than forgive and accept
Forced into the shadows
To practice my religion
Wearing my symbols
Like chains of shame
Looking at my holidays
In envy and with heavy heart
Happy Valentine's.

Naive
Gullible
Ignorant



Meaningless to you, are the few morals I care to
Voice to you.  
        Trust-   The little that was there just got swept up
By the lies or misrepresented information you so
   Proudly And adamantly Assured me were to be true

Who are you to decide the outcome of my body?

You can not trick me into doing things your way.
      
    .... It's my fault, for being so gullible  and trustingly
With something so precious as another life being
Brought into this ****** up and twisted world

It takes two to tango and you do not get to dangle
Me around and control me like a ******* puppet

**** it

I  not overreacting--
     How dare you speak of instructions or give me
Advice- and it be untrue??
      Perhaps I would not jump to accusation
If you did not become immediately defensive and
   Try to convince me to have your way of thinking!

Deception
    It's all becoming
So clear.


Accusation
    And admissions of your little games.

Now you are playing with tiny lives and unborn souls

Emotions are now frozen.

     I am not as dumb as you may think

This ship is about to sink.    

To be honest- judging by your actions it may
Already have sunk
      Now this raft is deflating

As your respect and common sense is depleting

And my common sense seeps out

just as my heart bleeding...



11-30-2014
Rhea Bryan

Wondering how it would feel
To be the product of an act of heartless violence.
Would you believe you are nothing?
Or would you be stronger?
Wondering how people would react
If you told them you are
The sum of a misrepresented equation?
How could a vicious act of cruelty and terror
Lead to such delicate beauty?

gossamers of golden silk
enriched with salt-water luster
sea-foam pebbles nestled between
warm sand freckles
gracing sunset skin

with a jolt
i wake and wish
silently to myself
for someone to just
put me out of my misery
there's no serenity in sleep
only an endless barrage of shifting
mirages half-glimpsed through
a looking-glass awaiting
my every whimsical
fear

consciousness is a hoax
a self-sustaining delusion
premised on confusing anecdotes
and misrepresented by inadequate
synecdoches that fail to convey
intended meaning

it is not difficult to trace the illustration
of truths that prove
at once illusory and immediate
deliberate attempts to assuage sentiment
before it returns in full force
terminate without consequence
since affection drowned in ambivalence

yet i somehow still
lack the cognizance to
be fully aware of my
own subconscious

Seriousness, maturity, composure and hopelessness: assumptions of an adult man metamorphosed into a beast. It is usually said that no serious man practices certain acts, but, the truth is that no serious man lives.

The concept of integrity has been misrepresented, and today what makes us whole is the same thing that makes us stupid. Men who overrate for seriousness and integrity become dour, sad, "decent men". Composure deprives us of the flame that feeds the soul called inconstancy.

There are also those who confuse good humor and sarcasm with constraints that merit respect. There are those who preach that you must be ruthless and never show weakness. There are those who say that all you need is a lot of pain and a person on the other side of the phone refusing your emergency call.

But it is these same men who commit suicide because they have reined in. These are the ones who keep the world in an eternal free fall. Seriousness is the cowardice of not laughing at the ironies and the bad bits that life puts us. More than good image, seriousness deprives us of life. And that's why a lot of people die convincing themselves that roughness is a victory.
Fool is the one who believes that seriousness presupposes respect, and kills wittyness. For even though most understand it this way, being conniving with it is stupid.

Matheus Peleteiro

he keeps telling me i don't love him
that i think i do but i don't
that i couldn't or i'd do so and so
that i shouldn't anyway
that i wouldn't have left out
any aspect of my life i found unpleasant
he won't say it but he thinks me a liar
but i won't say either because he says
i make this up and put words in his mouth
so he asks me to explain what it's like
when my nerves bundle up so tight
and strangle my throat
and wrench my intestines
and why i hadn't fully explained
for four years

the best i can reply is that
this cold sweat and shakes
the revolving-door thoughts
merry-go-round panic
the bilious *****
the short quick breaths
and trembling lips
have become a routine
like washing my face
or brushing my teeth
so frequent that to mention it
seems below mundane

but i'd try anything for him so
without thinking too hard i'm writing about
how sometimes the roaring in my ears
fills my whole body like screams
of a person in agony i am helpless to rescue
and in my nightmares i watch someone else
plunge to the ground with wails like grappling hooks
and no music or lengths will drown
the siren call of the razor promising
relief at the expense of my dignity
a little quiet stolen from my future

i can't justify the selfishness of fear or
the cowardice of losing the best thing i've had
to the worst thing that has me
and though it was never my intention
maybe i misrepresented my strength
so i'll stare at the beer stain on my ceiling
when you shook up the bottle your third night here
and hope that when i dream
maybe this time
i'll be the one falling.

Should I just walk away
or should I just pretend
that others will know the way
and I'll make it to the end
If. I. Follow. Them
Am I just a sheep
or representive of the people
do I bleet with power
or am I just a sheeple?
That minority that herds forward
seeking single blades of grass
to munch on arbitorial
swallowing questions not asked

How. Come. It. Cuts. Like. Glass?

am I misrepresented
by the shame of not being focused
missing the road to everlasting
Salvation

my ticket says I'm on a one way trip

to *Hell and Damnation

Another sleepless night.
As the hours tick by,
days seem to blur together.
The concept of time, lost
a seemingly unrecognized importance.
A constant order, now shrouded.
Lacking focus, distinctions hard to identify.
Clarity is a wonderful thing,
with value tends to be misrepresented.

Taking into account all the extra hours I have,
Reflection and self-evaluation tend to fuel
all my extra thoughts.
Nights like this tend to be the worst, at least during the day
there is sunlight to dispel the inner shadows.
These thoughts, more painful than any physical abuse
I have ever experienced.
For my psychological prison tortures me more
than those forsaken tools of punishment.

Coat hangars, wire, studded leather,
the list goes on and on and on and on,
long-lasting impacts, not initially seen.
While the scars on my body have healed,
the injuries of the spirit remain fresh.
Damaged so badly, dreams are gone.
All that remains is hurt. Those
nightmares so vivid, so painful, so...
real.

As things run into each other,
the nightmares fuse with reality.
These distractions limit my interactions,
for sometimes,
comprehension disappears.
Letting things happen and not making decisions
serves as an escape.
For my brain is busy
trying to distinguish what is and isn't real.

Expressing myself has never been a forte,
for how do I explain the hallucinations,
the manifested fears, the projected demons
that originate from within?
So I deflect.
I run away.
I pretend to be okay.
I try to remain steady
amidst a raging typhoon of anxiety, regret, and fear.

I want to believe it's true,
but your words drip with guilt like dew falling from a blade of grass,
falling gently enough to notice,
but not to take note.
There are so many flaws within your lies,
it's something of you, I have come to despise.
Must I relinquish and undermine my original sense of being,
or continue with this misrepresented agreeing.

Where are you now Elliot?

Sitting atop the ashes of Oregon

Bathing in golden melancholy
With needles, and woes and angry
pints

Neglecting the linings silver lure
Unfamiliar and unsure of what it really means
To be happy

Concepts are ******

If I could have your way

Grow black moldy moss on my skull six feet below the ground

And leave this decay with a pressing of emotion engrained in circular black plastic like stone

To ring generations calling for comfort, solitude, in apathy

Maybe then I would be complete

Or complete a vision all too real

And join you in the whispers through Portland,
In the tears of Los Angeles,
Drifting subtly through Washington

And finding rest within the cavities of culture and youth

Speaking sweet sorrows as invitation to a dance we are are familiar with

Stepping on every third beat
missing the counts between

I wish I could know you Elliot

The way I wish my peers could know me

Maybe we could convince each other that the logic behind our understandings were in fact
Misunderstandings

That the pain that coincides with hope was meaningless

That a figure drowning in confusion was simply the manipulation of an ancient desire we've created within our ourselves

So for you Elliot I drink
Every sip a tribute to the ones before us

Cut short to bloom a gene as troubled as ours

Where are you now Elliot?

With blood spread across the floor like red silk carefully layed for display
A sheet of innocence tainted by love and abuse and self infliction

Now relevant the way you were the whole time
But never felt

As I feel

Perhaps I'll achieve that sense of enlightenment someday

And join you above the Rockies
So we may sit and sip coffee and continue to observe the aftermath of our destruction

The way we fantasized in life

The way no one had planned but ourselves

Every stroke of the blade as important as the lyric that followed immediately after

Every song a howl for love misrepresented
And poorly executed

But I am not you
Elliot

I have years to endure

Before my thoughts can reach an audience that suits my content

Years to endure

Before soft light drifts from my eyes

and warm lips run cold from deaths tender kiss

I will know you Elliot

In every note plucked upon the strings of her spine

In every contour I traced with my fingertips
Memorizing the curves just in time for her to vanish
Like they all do
Like I will
Someday

And when I see you Elliot

It will not be in happiness
But in struggle
Conversing the reasons behind such drastic action
Regretting each one
But finding a sick sort of comfort in it

I do not know you Elliot

I will not fulfill the yearning to know you or any other the way I've wanted
Not in this life
But for now

This knife will suffice
And that is enough

election cycle returns
and the returns are in
no one gives a ****
about economic downturns
or pacific trade agreements
built to further gut
the Amerikkkan dream
Honey Boo-Boo lost eight pounds –
wingless welchers tirade over lost causes
causing the public to collectively *****
only racial injustice strikes cords
or the ever popular threat to children
outside of that, the general consensus
is to give the Dugger ******
a second chance –
guns for drugs
bombs fall on Bagdad
homosexual agenda
the imaginary scourge
melds with marijuana laws
giving the conservatives pause
but only until the Letterman finale –
sightless masses spoon fed by multimedia
millionaires
much maligned in the middle
misrepresented and mismanaged
mean well
but they have given over control
to the television set –

Oh what you all must think of me now
When my heart sinks and my lips part to form a scream Though I know
No noise comes out

With all my mistakes
I often lust for leaving
Long for drowning
To wash away the permanent headache
Sending waves of humiliation
Through my entire frame

I often replay every wrong word I said
Second guess my second guesses

Try to retract my misplaced reactions
Settle scores I've carved against my own skin
Determined to paint over this portrait
This ugly depiction

I feel so low that I dream of dying
Just to erase the slate that haunts me
I hate this familiar basement of friendship, where your words are twisted and your intentions misrepresented. Everyone leaves me -again, saying I am poisonous. And a very deep part of me believes that
Maybe I am.
Poisonous.

And after so many times,
How can I not begin to question,
Is it's truly me or
Or is it them?