Open shell
Pry fragments
Step
Step
Grow
Flag
Even upper
Higher
Move it like wildfire
Riff it like snot
One more time
Don’t corrct misspllings
Fix grammar
Correct misspellings
One more time
Even once more
Move on
to
another
mispld game
Fight fight ight
Kepz it kleanz
Doin it right
Conceptus
Remember
Nxt Level Cookie Maker
Chef of lives
Mix in souls
too many numerous few up down closed soul hole
Not profane enough
Fukc
Don’t correct misspellings
Ingrained.
Open your mouth
I’ll open my ears
I’ll close my ears and we’ll keep it up
Pullin’ faces
Eating too much,
but fasting on stuffing
incubate
synchubate
*******
Try
I won’t find
New thingsssssssssssssssssssssss
Old things
People n stuff
Open your eyes
I’ll open my nose.
*****.
Foomf.
Pinch in fiction and fingers
Level up
Order of operations
Fades into subconscious
Pious
Holier than Mao
Heads & Tails
Open your feeling
I’ll open my fly.

(2014)

"She did the laundry
in the mirror of me

I saw myself in
the mirror and disagreed
with the smell,

The thought of you

was beautiful,

but I was wrong,
and a feeling of discontent
-ment
came over me,"

Misspellings
Mispronunciations
An unconquerable world
of big money
I parted ways with the large
and saw another even larger world,
One that was intelligent and reads
the Wall Street Journal, listens to NPR,
and says "wow" at the sound of hearing
one million dollars, or upon hearing about
San Francisco start-ups,
or Silicon Valley.

Or the opposite, in some ways, but still very
similar to - Virginia Woolf.
whose book on feminism
which I'm unable to explain fully other than
to say that she suggests
that women only need
a bedroom, money, clothes, etc.,
or rather, less than etc.
in that, they need little, but only the bare supplies.
That they should be able to supply themselves with what they need
for when their husband, which, you know, is not required, in her eyes,
for when he separates from her
and leaves her 'in the dust,' alone without anything,
perhaps only with a child, or in another instance, estate-less,
with only a white dress, really more of kitchen-robe than anything else;
like Virginia Woolf says, we should really try and dismantle the patriarchy
that we write and tell about. Reader, what do you after reading a story, article, or book on radical or moderate feminism say? The boys, like me, who will tell, or, try to tell their perspective of the book and say to the closest person around them, "I just read a great book by Virginia Woolf, she brings to mind an image of a university with white buildings and ends of roofs of university buildings leading along to the the main hall of architecture buildings, with sidewalks pristine and underneath people walking in their sweaters, collegiate, and later to make their way to art history classes in the fall evening. So, like Virginia Woolf, who makes you ask why you're not at the Parthenon, but instead are inside of your house, in a city that you don't want to be in, at a hospital, in your apartment, or surrounded by whoever, she nevertheless gives you have a feeling of longing-ness and a strong emotion of want. Virginia Woolf when will we go to Greece together? What do you know about Athens and classical architecture, I nearly beg you.

December 30th 2018 7:11am

VACUUM CLEANER TANGO

---Lyrics by Jonathan Caswell

(Some misspellings are due to rhythm keeping)



The Vac…cuum Clea…ner Tango,

Is like…a juicy…mango,

Those fi…bers will…entangle

Your teeth or brushes, pretty quick!



The girls…who do…the cleaning,

Are ev…ver so…well-meaning,

To move…around…guys leaning,

That watch…and approve…the show!



Plugs must…be changed…more frequently,

If lon…ger hallways…decently,

Are cleaned…the most…expediently,

It’s all…a part of…the dance!



The vac…cuum clea…ner tango,

A dai…ly chore…is wrangled,

By clea…ners star…spangled,

Perfor…ming it with…extra class!

Even if

nightmares, cats, leaders, ***, beauty, hugs, feelings, melodies, technology, communication, life, abandonment, longings, mornings, electronics, kingdoms, followers, humiliation, darlings, hyperventilation, depression, Alonedom, ghosts, trundles, Hell, gravity, tickling, hearts, unicorns, twins, education, lost ones, ink, medications, pavements, thoughts, souls, suicide, walls, hatred, alcohol, oceans, soles, music, misspellings, transportation, buses, guts, Heaven, time, attractions, *****, hands, blindness, organs, dreams, bodies, distances, understanding, currency, energy, love, spaghetti, contentment, happiness, tears, fire, people, oxygen, tongues, children, peace, death, papas, zombies, homicide, blood, kisses, drugs, families, caffeine, mamas, space, parchments, baked goods, economy.

didn't exist,
I would still wish you would

But you don't anymore

so nothing matters.

A close read
reveals that
I am nothing
but a rough draft
riddled with
misspellings—

a work in progress
watered down by
superfluous adjectives,
non sequiturs, and
smothered verbs.

Love is an editor.

She courts me
with a pocket of
sharpened pencils,
blue and red.

She marks me
up meticulously—
dele, stet
dele, stet.

Decades punctuated
by intermittent edits.

Sunlight slanting
through an hourglass.

Her hair as white
as the final page.

When the end comes,
will she love me enough
to give me another pass?

Please re-read as I will be making changes to this poem over and over

I want to tell you something
I am a man who loves changes

Changes of everything

You will see me suggest
A change in every retrospect

This morning I was re-reading
my own HP site and I was impressed

by my choices and how I ended up
With 3 different reposts of "My Fears"

from 3 different poets
that I reposted without me knowing

It's amazing how I am amazed
of my choices and have read them
like as if I am choosing them again

Now hear out my new suggestion
To HP and if you do like
Please make your voice be heard

It goes as follows:

If you like to relive the poetry
and you like to re-read your choices

and you like to reread the poems
you chose before once more

and get surprised while reading them
as if you did not choose them before

Then, we either need a second love button!  Or

we need to automate the love button
and every time we reread it knows

and the love gets even stronger
and somehow it grows

Another suggestion that hit me in the head while I was re-writing my poem

"The new suggestion is to give a comeback wink
to the previous folks who just read my poem
and ping them of my new important fix
To invite them to re-taste the cake that I just re-cooked

Or the cooking does not get posted
Until I feel its real good

and I press the release button
Before I let it go like I should

And may be we need to check our poem button with people that we trust

Before we embarrass ourselves badly
with a poem that may bust"

The problem with this is honesty
That we don't do it for just the fame

So for this I need your opinion to fix
my suggestion in playing the game

and make HP an even a better place
and enjoy it again and again!

Additional suggestions to HP:

please fix the current suggestions which is still lit even when I fixed my suggested misspellings. .. Call it repair
* a suggestion button to HP in the menu
* a share with others button that can grow .. You can click and see who I shared it with ... it can also be private
* a playback button ... Reads out loud
* a favorite button .. Quickly adds it to your favorites
* a read later button
* by double clicking a word you can ping the poet for a misspelling or a suggestion of a new word or love that word
* a unite with another poet button
* Go Interactive button .. Others can re-write your poetry!
* a challenge button .. Encourage challenge with another poet
* a marry me button .. which starts with an enragement ring ..
*friends .. siblings and brothers and family button ... they have to accept you as a family member!

O sweet honey bun,
I'm scribbling as fast as I can,
writing deep penetrating thoughts,
things I think you'd like.

O, isn't this hot,
thrilling,
scintillating
raw techno-fun?
Your responses are so sublime,
genuine sultriness,
you have suggestive-words
of your own,
it's hard to keep up!

O, pardon my misspellings,
but the excitement is taking
me over the edge,
auto-correct can't even stop
my intent to be with you,
giving you my ******.

O, I think you should know,
I cannot fight you,
the aura on my screen,
that view of you
makes me feel explosive.
So here goes doll,
I'm getting close,
I'm strumming myself
to the beat of your words,
I think I love this,
kissing you in space,
exploding to the glow
of modern moonlight.

For all of the months we spent together, I thought of you in neatly organized sentences. “I love you.” Always with a period, because that’s how you know someone really means it. The first word of every sentence about you was capitalized, because you weren’t some sloppy diary entry splattered on an old composition notebook page. You were a carefully crafted novel, bound by alternative rock bands and chinese buffets. You were different, and you could not have possibly been summed up in a measly three paragraph essay, like the one I wrote about Abraham Lincoln in the fifth grade. Every comma was the pause I had to take when I saw you, because I swear each day you continued to take my breath away. And with you, there were no misspellings, there were no grammatical errors. You had flaws, but they were so deeply hidden in between the lines that I didn’t even bother looking for them. I guess that’s why I didn’t notice when I became less and less of a priority. And when the “goodmorning” texts came to an end, that should have been a red flag. Your copy of How to Treat Someone You Love would be similar to a guide on how to take care of a goldfish. “Feed twice a day and change water once a week”. It’s really that simple for you, because you have the mind of an engineer. Logical. Precise. There is no such thing as passion and forgiveness, just empty “I love you”’s. Because you once told me that we are just in high school. You never really explained what that meant, but I got the hint. So I left.
            Because if there’s one thing I realized, it’s that you cannot make someone love you. You cannot make them care, and you cannot make them stay. And it’s one of the hardest things to do, but once you realize it, you get this new sense of… freedom. Not the feeling you get after the last bell on the last day of school, not that. But more like you see the world for all it’s worth, for the first time. Because it feels good to let go of the idea that you need closure. People don’t need closure, they need to turn around and walk away. They need to not put up with the people who wouldn’t put up with them. I don’t need closure on why we ended, I don’t need to know why you never took me back. You made your decisions, and now it’s my turn to make mine. Because if it were meant to be, my birthday would not have passed with nothing more than a text saying “hbd”. Hbd. I guess that’s who you’ve become. Your novel-like qualities have become nothing more than text lingo in the inbox of a teen girl. I swear I use to look at you like you were a poem written by e.e. cummings, but now you’re nothing more than a piece of scrap paper under my bed. And it’s sad because although I don’t know much about love, I knew enough to make you see the world in shades other than black and white like you’ve been raised to see.
            And thinking back on what we had, I see it as an art collection. But it wasn’t structured around the basic principles of primary colors and symmetry. It had life and depth and meaning. Things I could never get you to understand. But now I realize it wasn’t because we had it all wrong, it’s because we try to make it too right. But art isn’t right, it isn’t pretty. It’s brutal and honest, but it makes you feel things that engineers can’t. And I guess that’s what a poet gets for messing around with numbers and figures. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’ve exhausted every word and every sentence that could possibly be used to talk about you. I paid you the highest form of flattery, I made you into my art piece. I made you dance across the page, and brought what we had to life, because in reality it was dead. I tried to salvage us, but now I’m happy with letting my idea of you go. Because it’s not closure that I need, it’s distance. Especially distance on paper. So as this course comes to end, so does my time spent on you. Some people are better off wrapped up in the laws and theorems, because not even words can make them beautiful.

spinach,
baby arugula,
alfalfa sprouts
typos, misspellings,
guns, gods, lies, news,
jokes.
mushrooms, sauté
suite suit
suits
you well.
you are well.

i am no more lonely, but physically alone.
or yeah, maybe just that much more lonely.
i hate work. not equally, but differently.
i love music, because it's all i have and
my life depends on it. get me through this!


me?
i crave
***.
connection, even without ***.
love.
or apathy.
i'm not sure where to go, what do do....

25 in 17 days.
i thought growing up made sense.

I don't want to *******.
No, I want to be the midnight air
seeping into your pores,
witness the horrors
of your mind
and make them no more
I wish to row,
                    row,
                           row,
gently down your stream
of consciousness
and to arrive safely
at the solutions
to all your heart's
conundrums
and hope to God
that I am one of them.

I'll make love to you,
if you want to, too,
or lie silent in the night,
syncing heartbeats,
never touching you.

But I don't want to *******.

I want to set sail to your words,
to conquer the ebb and ride the flow,
establishing allies and vanquishing foes

I want to know the history
of every mystery
that you find compelling,
to correct your m̶i̶s̶p̶e̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶s̶  misspellings.

To be the lyrics to your favorite song
to be the sunrise when the nights get long
Yes, I long to be the object of your sideways looks
and to sleep between the pages of your favorite books

To stare in admiration at your eyes
like constellations
and wish on every star
to know every part of who you are

To have my sun-baked skin
be consumed by the waves
on the curves of your face

To trace and map
every landmark
on your effervescent skin
and be the nervous sweat
that clings to it

I want to let your strong lungs intake me
and let your cool air sustain me
and pray that you might save me
a spot in your heart

I wish to start pulling your mind's
fibers and wires
and to start a fire
under your frozen tongue
and be the unsung hero
who rescues you from yourself.
I want to silence your loudest thoughts
and embrace your silent tears
and I want to make this clear:

I do not want to *******.

I want to be inside you.

reposted for my granddaughter, Emily Riddle, in memory of my wife, Karen Riddle.*


I just couldn't do without
my grandma's heart necklace -
It was a gift to me, although
she passed away when I was little.

It also holds all of my mad,
sad, and happy memories,
just like it is a part of me.
I wear it on very special occasions,
since it is so unique.

When I wear it close to my heart-
it makes me feel special.
That's why I would always
feel happy, or at least, a little joyful,
when I hold it to my chest-
to pretend my grandma is
still alive.

She was very important to me-
We did so much together,
and I miss her,
and the special times we shared.

I can feel her with me
when I wear it, or hold it,
close to me.

Without this prized possession,
all of my feelings
would be lost,
with my grandma, in the sky.

My heart necklace
means the world to me,
and I wouldn't change
anything about it.

People say
"jewelry is made
to look beautiful."

Well, I say,
It was made to be a
"Memory Holder!!"

copyright-Emily Riddle- October 15, 2013

My granddaughter Emily, wrote this essay as a class assignment for her 3rd Grade class. Originally in full page, essay form, I divided it into stanzas, and added some punctuation. Although there are some misspellings(two), I chose not to correct them, but to leave the content as it was written, in order to preserve the sincerity, and the innocence, with which it was written. Thank you, so much, Emily Riddle. (She is about to turn 13.) Love you, so much!!
Granddad.

My fingers barely connect with the keys
Making letters appear in perfectly straight lines,
Misspellings automatically corrected,
Bland sentences erased and replaced

If I ever wrote as well as I intended to
I would work for my words harder than
they've worked for me
I would form thoughts in shallow trenches
Working out every letter, digging the flow
Reopening blisters and blinking on stinging sweat,
if I ever wrote as well as I intended to

Let my verses stretch the length of the valley
Giving the earth a fraction of what
she has given to me
Let them climb the cliffs, bleeding
nubs of fingers guiding their path
Let my words fall to the sky in towers of smoke

And when I am finished
Let them be swallowed, corroded, and filled
Let them dissipate and separate, for no one else
will I ever write as well as I intend to

By Emily Riddle(age-9)

I just couldn't do without
my grandma's heart necklace -
It was a gift to me, although
she passed away when I was little.

It also holds all of my mad,
sad, and happy memories,
just like it is a part of me.
I wear it on very special occasions,
since it is so unique.

When I wear it close to my heart-
it makes me feel special.
That's why I would always
feel happy, or at least, a little joyful,
when I hold it to my chest-
to pretend my grandma is
still alive.

She was very important to me-
We did so much together,
and I miss her,
and the special times we shared.

I can feel her with me
when I wear it, or hold it,
close to me.

Without this prized possession,
all of my feelings
would be lost,
with my grandma, in the sky.

My heart necklace
means the world to me,
and I wouldn't change
anything about it.

People say
"jewelry is made
to look beautiful."

Well, I say,
It was made to be a
"Memory Holder!!"

copyright-Emily Riddle- October 15, 2013
(She turns 12yrs old on Feb 16, 2016)

My granddaughter Emily, wrote this  as a class assignment for her 3rd Grade class. Originally in full page, essay form, I divided it into stanzas, and added some punctuation. Although there are some misspellings(two), I chose not to correct them, but to leave the content as it was written, in order to preserve the sincerity, and the innocence, with which it was written. Thank you, so much, Emily Riddle.

When I was younger
I had this idea of love
As being a prewritten script

I’d spot you on the dancefloor
Our eyes would meet
You would smile
I would smile
We would dance the night away

All of a sudden you would have to leave
It’s okay though
You would leave your slipper
That way I could return it
So that you could be my princess

What I didn’t know is that dancefloors aren’t meant for lovers
Or that your eyes would be like medusas
Turning my soul to stone
And that when you left
You shoe would stay on your foot
Leaving me with an idea of love when I was a little older

Love was my dad in the navy
My mom the traveling nurse
Meeting in Hawaii
Getting married in a church
Her waiting while he was away
They’d love each other forever
After all, they had me.

But sometimes mom and dad fight
And sometimes mom and dad cry
Because let’s face it
Mom and dad had this idea of love
When they were younger
And this wasn’t what they had in mind

When I was a teenager i had this idea of love
She had freckles and green eyes
One half Irish
One half Indian
She had all of my heart
She told me to write down my feelings
And to trust in love
Love way talking on the phone till 2am
And holding hands in public

But no one told me that love could have a father
And that sometimes dads drink
And go missing for a few days at a time
Or that love could leave for 6 weeks
And that talking on the phone till 2am
Could turn into never sleeping
Because love wasn’t there
No one had warned me that love’s letters sometimes have misspellings
And that when love returns home she wouldn’t feel the same
And she never did
Four years later
Sometimes I think about love
But not too much
I am kind of done pretending

I am a poet
who cannot spell
I prefer to love words
with my lips, my tongue
the inflection in my voice

its not that I don't like
writing
the action of ink on paper
but sometimes I **** up
and I injure a strong
colorful
word with my pen
and the shame of this
is enough to keep me distraught
if only for a few moments

because I love words
all words
especially the vibrant ones

I love the soft curve
of their voluptuous vowels
and their sharp corners
consonant collarbones

I love the words
who's many meanings
swiss-army swap
them into sentences
where you would not
expect to find them

I love soft words
who hiss past teeth
with a susurrus
and I love long
complicated words
with edges that could
cut. you. right. open.
with vitriolic intent

I could have chosen
any one of dozens of
lovely
words to fill that space
but I chose one
that I could not spell

Maybe it wouldn't be so hard
if I didn't always write in pen
but I am a stubborn man
who finds it easier
to forgive a few misspellings
than to live with the knowledge
that all he has written
will someday smear

By Emily Riddle(age-9)

I just couldn't do without
my grandma's heart necklace -
It was a gift to me, although
she passed away when I was little.

It also holds all of my mad,
sad, and happy memories,
just like it is a part of me.
I wear it on very special occasions,
since it is so unique.

When I wear it close to my heart-
it makes me feel special.
That's why I would always
feel happy, or at least, a little joyful,
when I hold it to my chest-
to pretend my grandma is
still alive.

She was very important to me-
We did so much together,
and I miss her,
and the special times we shared.

I can feel her with me
when I wear it, or hold it,
close to me.

Without this prized possession,
all of my feelings
would be lost,
with my grandma, in the sky.

My heart necklace
means the world to me,
and I wouldn't change
anything about it.

People say
"jewelry is made
to look beautiful."

Well, I say,
It was made to be a
"Memory Holder!!"

copyright-Emily Riddle- October 15, 2013

My granddaughter Emily, wrote this essay as a class assignment for her 3rd Grade class. Originally in full page, essay form, I divided it into stanzas, and added some punctuation. Although there are some misspellings(two), I chose not to correct them, but to leave the content as it was written, in order to preserve the sincerity, and the innocence, with which it was written. Thank you, so much, Emily Riddle.

you make fun
of my poem about sunlight
shining through your hair
the poem about how our hands
are created to fit perfectly
with the others

i understand
why you doesn't understand
but listen:

my love for you
can not be counted in touchings
or flowers or blushing
it will not be seen og heard
in the curve of my smile
or in the rhythm of my heart

mostly
you will only see it in my words
that become hundreds of poems
about how your eyes
become another colour
as your mood changes
and about how you laughter
fells like kisses across my cheekbone

about how
you are my sun and my moon
and all the starts and galaxies
caught in 179 centimers
if kindness

my love for you
can be seen
in the way my hands cramps
after i've written your name
all over the toilet door

it is seen
in the filled trashcan
with crumpled pieces of paper
because you don't deserve misspellings
or wrong  punctuation
you don't even deserve
poorly written poems

you deserve real words
and a mouth
whom dares to speak int he daylight
instead of writing
on the lowest point of your back

and that is why
i smile and laugh
and reach out
for the paper in your hands
whispering april fools
and go home to the burn
my collection of poems
about your hair
and the sun shining through

my brain vomited
onto the page
all squiggles
and misspellings
unpunctuated
heiroglyphics
a secret language
only i
could understand
not prose
not poetry
not correct
just me
my pen
wreaks havoc
on unruled
paper
i am errant
i am irritable
i am irreverent
i am making
my way

I wrote once to the hypothetical love.
I said love your letters to me have had some misspellings
First of all, the name was all wrong
And so was the person behind it.
So a little while later I was up late.
And I had this thought.
Finally, the name on the page was right.
The laugh and smell and smile and hair and love
All of it was what I had waited for.
Sometimes I look at you and just smile.
And you look back and say What?!
And I say nothing never mind.
Let’s face it its hard during the moment to say everything
How can I tell you what you did for me?
I don’t really trust people because a lot of the people close to me have ended up ******* me over. You helped me trust again. You allow me to live by the standards I feel I need.
But most of all you bring beauty to my life.
You make me smile and show me yours and I just about die
And you hug me when I am sad
And when I am happy
And angry
And nervous
And sleepy
You kiss me when I need to be kissed
And when I don’t and when I really want to be
You inspire me to do what I love
And you have given me a person to call family
I love it when your hair is on me
And I accidentally spill your ***** paint water
And get sauce all over
And I drive to the middle of nowhere
And then realize you don’t know where we are
I can’t imagine being happier while being annoyed
Because you are you and I am me and that’s enough for you
And that’s why sometimes I look at you
Because what could be better to look at.

Dictionaries are wonderful things.
Spell-check, I’ve always admired.
My brand new tattoo
has misspellings of two
Of the words for which
you were hired.

Now I’ll wander through life
As an object of scorn
As this ink artist failed to reflect
That it’s “E’ before “I”
When “C”’s not involved
I mean, really, how could he forget?

There’s a ship that won’t sink
On my chest, done in ink,
With the slogan of
“Ankors Awieght”
I was drunk at the time
But you ought to be fined
Or at least give me back
What I paid.

in a world where you share everything
is everything possible
or is none possible?
depends on who you ask
but people have their ways of making the decisions
whatever the outcome may be
they like to make their little posts
in a neat little package
posted for the world to take a look at
yeah, thats nice that
trick
and then they expect the masses to follow along
its a fun game and I like it
wherever your soundtrack may be headed
I encourage it
but I
seem to have heard one piece of advice
that was heard
in a dormatory room
I read it in a philosophy book
to find your citadel
away from everyone
where you can be your own ruler
and I think that I have that engrained
in my system

and boy
does it allow me
to see things
differently
from a calm place
things are real nice
from the place of jack johnson strums
on a beach somewhere
you remove yourself from it
and it goes like that
for a little while
and I’ll take it on, and I’ll continue like
that

I’m filled with pause with pleasure with sigh, sigh sigh, knowing

maybe nothing that will ever be cared about
maybe one little sliver somewhere that was created accidentally

misspelled misspellings

and the man said
in the deepest of voices
in the deepest of dismay
he asked me to keep looking for something
you haven’t found it quite yet, kid
but keep looking
its one hell of a
ride

some of my really long practice rambling put through a few text
manipulators. it is 95% random.
I just took out repeats and misspellings. the rest is how it was spit out of the TM.

the you with whenever
back insensateness
window benzole Benzes
superstrength
rats have ichthic because
pried be how are tide
randomised the doors
limbs perpetually adrift
until reactivating evocative
phonetic persuaders to a ok fog
all undepraved the time
gainable arrears
financial nonteachings
stuck *******
space circumfusion
to things still doom of mending content
believe broadcasters highdive
into glycosylating days
classmates trepanning to
delightless clocks
sovereign
tiramisu isn't ruinable
Other then to repopulate gigaflops

I miss you, love.
Even with all the
Rediculous contradictions.
The misspellings and things we tell ourselves.
Not lies, but maybe closer to stories—

I try to be cute and clever,
Distracting from the fact
That it was given up on.
Confusing thought with expectation,
At what age do you assume you know?

I yearn very hard to be more
Than myself; a trait that’s honestly
So ******* tiring. But
My father, at this age,
Told himself he was in love.

I am maybe three when he
Pulled my mother across the room,
By her hair,
They stayed together for 25 years.
And still even now when

I look at him, not thinking
Of those times and feeling,
With all sincerity, Love
For him.
He is himself.

I hurt you in different ways.
And hurt myself even more.
And so tired, tired of
Spacing each line in some special
Way to say some special feeling.

I want to just feel
With true sincerity the things
That need telling.
No metaphor, or simile,
I miss you imperfectly missing.

Member that time,
When I was a kid again,
******* trash again,
Now world spinning away.
Scott Mescudi all around me.
**** I’m living in my dreams
Fantasies haunting me.
Right hands not enough
Too much for me,
No bluff,
Smoking a few pufss
And it all goes away
Spinning elegantly.
Foretelling misspellings
No hope for humanity.
No where else but me.
All you ******* eat my meat.
I go wolf now,
Lone.

And no one’s waiting for
Me back home.
I’m a stranger
In stranger and stranger skin
I guess its not for me
This luck this love
Others posses but never share
My words ain’t rhyming
But if you listen
You’ll hear its rhythm
Mo ***** you know what I talk
About when I say
Smoked a *** for dinna
In this home free living.
Do you follow me huh?
Do you see?

I’m free now.
Long dead
In peace
Fool I’m still beating
My heart its calling me and I ain’t
Listening
I’m not here anymore
I’m free
Teeth to this
Planet
Like child on teats
I live in the universe
No god I see
Believe
What you know to be.
Where is you’re god now?
Where has he gone?
We are all alone.
All
Alone.

That’s why when I hold her in my arms
When the nights dream
I can open my eyes,
And I can finally see
Life is like a mirage
And love its obscuring
You take off you’re glasses
You can finally see
I fail to smile
No one ever cared
No one ever here.

I’m destined to be
Where I am,
No on here.
Even my light deserting
Oh yes I knew him.
My light which is now past.
I have seen him conversed.
Listened to his reasons.
My angel don’t see me no more
Or I don’t see hi
He be missing I’m trippin
Guess its again me
Hate talking bout myself
Reality is my worst dream
Nightmare taking scenes
Heartbreak causing reams
Why can’t I be the bird in the sky.
Why must I come back down
Get my teeth out of the ground
Finally hear the sound
Of the birds flapping alon with
Destiny. But free
Why can’t something so simple
And happy become
Living.
Guess
No one’s waiting
Cept Mr. Scott and
Empty fireplace

Because the computer
does not tolerate any
form of individuality by
way of misspellings or
neglecting to dot ones
eyes or cross ones teas
there is no difference
anymore no eccentrics
we're all homogenous
just a mundane sense
of sameness which is
utterly boring and all
our writing is identical
we have been colonised
well I'm not buying into
it I refuse to end my text
conventionally therefore
not punctuated I decline
to halt this in the usual
way with a capacity cease