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I buck the system my *****, like forget the system ***** , This world is  so Corrupted, The government just wanna take away are feelings, & make us into killing machines..just like the Nazis
(****  America)..Uhh

(They lie to us2,..MK Ultra,
(Its mind control2)..mind control
This **** is getting way outta control..)*2

Uhh, The **** been going on , I been In my zone,
I been sad for so very long..
I been writing all alone, I been stuck in my room, broken mirrors, & Monarch butterflies all around me, The voices in my head won't leave me alone mane, tryna distract me from my Fathers truth homie, I'm having  Dreams of demons tryna take hold of my soul..(I won't let em get to me thou..)..Ayo, I'm getting so sick & tired dawg..Im feeling very depress, homicidal & suicidal, like Tommy Wright the 3rd but forget killing myself dawg.. I'm  just about to buss out the AK & go Rambo &  make these ******* die dawg..They are gonna feel the wrath of Young Ston Poet.. The ****** Disciple , that I felt for so very long..Man its eating up my insides..Uhh

I buck the system my *****, **** The system my *****,..I'm bringing pandemonium..
**** The CIA ***** , America isn't protecting us  , They ain't doing nothing but putting us on a string..Uhh, So Forget America mane..Im blowing **** up like the Two brothers did at the Boston Marathon dawg..Real Talk man..Uhh,...I just don't give a **** any more,about nothing..Yeah

America **** them..Yeah
America is just filled with puppets man.. Sinning Machines, humanoids,clones..****, people thats just here for devilish purposes, like assassinations, & prostitution..
**** all of that sick **** man, **** being a robot for the white man, **** mind control..Imma stand against the **** ****..This is Only For The Real..This is Only For The Righteous.. Uhh

They lie to us, Its mind control.. MK Ultra..Uhh

.i. if Kant could have his von Kleist... well... who else to juggle juggernauts if not me? as a task of redeeming that poor soul who succumbed to the terminator of all poetic ambitions, with his systematisation off-the-page, as eccentric and punctual as a sunset on a sundial at 16:11... and in case either the spring of sunrise, or the autumn of sunset... but so many hours after exacting a sunset... that gluttony of the eyes to stare at it... 16:11 is the zenith of a sunset in november the 15th... much prolonged when warmer... supersized sun when setting in summer, and all that whiskey-copper wiring for the eyes to stare at it: oh for goodness sake, who really cares for Ikea likened assembling of words... we're not putting together a coffee table, we're looking for Darwinistic entrapment, we're scared of the aeons and yawns... we're trying to create a Darwinistic entrapment saying what segregates us from apes! that's how anti-Darwinism works - if they can easily call you a poet and a technophobe... then that hardly makes you a merchant with a Quran... to encapsulate the language of our modernity we're doing everything against writing the onomatopoeia of our beginning... monkey ooo! monkey ooo ah ah! or a gorilla grunting and then snorkeling... we're encapsulating our language more and more... because beginning with ape and then looking at history, and then looking at the consensus of the contemporary: Darwinism's greatest enemy is not theology... it's history... Darwinism and history are not compatible... oddly enough Darwinism and theology are compatible, simply because they are dynamically equal for the case of furthering both arguments in debate... but Darwinism is an odd starting point to argue, given that physicists argue from the perspective of prior to dinosaurs, prior to all things formed.

how can i begin this? it will leave me having to
write it for two days,
the anti-narrative sketch first, then filling in
the gaps sober... just to get second opinions...
i might have to cook a quasi-Hungarian borscht
and fry up a few potato flattenings to a crispy
yum... first the narrator comes in to describe what's
in store, a bit like a translator comes in and says
of Joyce: that's Irish... well, yeah.
               hence the italic preface...
as some would say, the person who wrote these
sketches worked quicker that an algorithm in asking
and also quicker to copy & paste the required
atomic encoding... e.g. ч and ch
                   э and euro and epsilon...
      once upon a time there was nothing prior
to Copernicus, then the somersaults came,
    h ч y        what coordinates where?
    well of course perfecting the encoding of something,
if things weren't stated awry there would be
no optometrists either...
                  it's not hard to read, it's hard to
remember how to read, given that being literate reached
the omnipresent velocity, the new powers had to
include some new power struggle...
mingling Latin and Runes, Greek and Cyrillic...
     and the proto-Latin of additional diacritical marks...
they exposed the entirety of humanity to literacy
within the framework of post-industrial society,
after hitchhiking a ride on the 19th century donkeys
they suddenly had to reveal their power-secret of
being literate, and by the account of women:
corset bound and bored in salons...
      but something else appeared that didn't really fascinate
them: that over-complication of Latin with
punctuation marks above letters: or diacritical
distinction, crowns over letters, subatomic particularisation
of once favoured: universal applicability...
as a narrator? i have to make a complicated
introduction, the sketch lends itself to do so,
it suggests that not all writing can be as simple as
a nursery rhyme, not all writing can actually
    **** memory, not all writing desires being remembered,
not all writing can be remembered,
                in the mediation of the two chiral opposites
there's fiction, which is suspended in an armchair of
pleasurability... but on the opposite side of a nursery rhyme
or a well versed poem? writing akin to arithmetic...
  something truly painful for those competent with
lettering, but not really competent with ten digits...
      as a narrator who has already read the sketch,
i'm trying to not write a "filling in the gaps" to the sketch
like an art-critic might do to a painting deviating from:
brushstrokes were employed. well... d'uh!
variation of italics as in transcending the pause that
implies a condescending variation of taking a pause,
also excluded are: dot, comma, hyphen, semicolon
and colon.                         dot-dot-dot is not joining up
the dots: it implies a variation of how to anticipate
a punchline: drummed: tu-dum wet snare!
     i am actually a narrator who is trying to find
that other part of me that might digest this sketch properly,
     and return fully competent to pick up another
sketch... if ever there was a narrator in this sketch,
it has to be me, after the sketch has been scripted,
and i am left to suggest a need for a dot-dot-dot connectivity
of the strokes of the pen...
i warned myself: do not overdo the introduction in italics,
you know how picky people are...
whether pickled pineapple of cucumber...
i swear Turks invented pickling chillies...
         oh look! an inflatable gazebo filled with helium!
no one's laughing: only because i didn't mention vegina.
narrative puritanism? you get distracted a lot...
but this sketch is really a thesis for narration,
all i have to do is find the antithesis of narration in it:
an actual narrative!          it stretches for ~30 pages...
   well that's me turned archaeologist with a Grecian urn
with a snap of the finger... because that's how this
sketch looks like: ancient -
                         but understandably modern.
              so .  ,  - and ;
        were racing... out came the world record
             9.58(0)         the full-stop is the bracket-bound
0... i.e. it actually happened: hence the pinpoint...
or in Formula 1 a timed nonsense of ave. m/ph
     noted to three decimal points: 130.703...
                                    or chicane cha chicane cha cha!
as said, this is an actual representation of a narrator
encountering this sketch: so before you lose your head...
i've lost mine!
  look at the correlation though!
we've gone way past atoms with the atomic bomb
and encountered subatomic particles...
    we're not going to get beyond subatomic particles
because we're going to encounter the already apparent
reality of obatomic particle: namely our bodies,
   the perceived ******* (ob- is the antonym
                                                  prefixation of sub-):
             that's were the microscope adventure ends,
    and this is parallel to cutting up a second with
three decimal points, as the safetynet suggests:
                                                              π / 3.14;
yep, the obstructive - hence we can't spontaneously
combust... but then again Goethe's Werther did:
  out of love... down the spiral: you sweet little *******.

~ii. i'm actually too lazy to write the sketch and fill
in the blanks... so i'm going to fill in the blanks as i go along,
  or that's what's called the rebellious stance of narrator: mmm,
work in progress, could you see that coming?

ii. a beer in between glugs of whiskey - runes
combined in the ******* / sigma, variant of agliz or
the rune-zeta extended toward a dark shadow of the rebirth
of Ishrael: zoological enclosure; sigma *******
sigma ******* sigma *******, sigma *******...
rune-zeta... we cannot say there are ******
mathematicians and poets akin,
not then one optic encoding states
     a b c d e
         another states f u þ a r
yet another а б (ρ) в г
  α β γ δ:
for worth of gamma into a trill only because of
   a wave, that's ~ approx. on the side of the letter
   e.g. г & r.
   or rho upside down? what the ****?
did Voltaire write this? reading Candide,
i hope he ****** did!
you the problem is pixelated paper? if you know
how you enter a deciphering mode...
                    but you require a personal library to boot,
all that dos formatting,
                       well there's formatting in the humanity
outstretch of this white medium too...
after it isn't all ******* white when all the psychiatric
pills are white too... i have really found something better
than the Bermuda Δ...
       Greek, Latin, Cyrillic and Runes...
i could say neo or proto otherwise,
but i still haven't unearthed the sketch, that
is probably puzzling the Danes, with Cnut on the forefront...
                    but the arrangement of numbers is universal,
but it's not universal, given the particularity of
how language is encoded and why some people are
richer than others...
            but it's still a beer between glugs of whiskey that
makes more sense...
i said, retype the sketch and go to bed...
and i figured: that's probably the wisest of all possible
events stemming from this...
    that's ~27 pages of notes to retype... and i'm already
in a disclosure mode as to expect what's to be jargoned...

p. 1        cкεтч       /      σкεтχ
   necessity of                        (acute
a-       -the           (ism)
is that of language structure,
          only from the use of one's language does
a deity present itself: from within the noumenon
ground work, not the reverse, as in from
(pp. 2, 3)
                 a phenomenological exercise in
the use of language: Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, (etc.)...
       e.g. Islam is a phenomenon,
  it's not a noumenon: or a thing-in-itself...
  for the Islamic god to emerge from Islam's-in-itself
Islam will have to prevent itself from being-outside-itself...
or overpowering other in-itself contentions
but still: to no apparent success narrative of true intention
as satisfactory appropriation and hence lending itself
to a widespread nod of approval.
  challenging space: word compounding, or the space
between conjunctional deficiencies: nod-of-approval (e.g.).

p. 2    concussion (great film, Alec and Will, 2015, NFL)
concussion... Blitzkrieg Alzheimer's....
brain is fat.... dementia = attacking proteins...
  steroids... the noumenological use of language:
e.g. that ****** is an enigma,
therefore his views will not go viral,
and he'll not become fashion trendy...
it's not individualistic idealism, it's reality.
as will die sonne satan - orbis reach more than 5K
views... so... clap clap... clap, clap.
           what i meant about the a-     and -the
and the ism is following a sentence that sort of
does away with conjunctional fluidity,
apart from the big words, i treat all minor words as
categorically conunctional... and, the, a, is, to, too...
given the sentence: brain fatty *****,
brian organic giraffe wall... ******* hieroglyphic...
           stood above the rest, rest assured.
  dementia: invading protein cells
   (bulging prune of the opportune: purely
digestion?) no thought to eat or eat itself like,
cannibalistically. the brain is fatty...
not fat in muscle for mmm, schmile and flex
for the selfie. how about a protein inhibitor?
(by now, rewriting the sketch, i've lost the page count,
it's actually p. 5 of note paged toward 27).
how about the explanation that we're living in
times of post-industrialisation and thanksgiving
feminism? to me post-industrialisation has created
a class of meaningless white-collar workers
and no blues... it's what the Chinese blues call
the Amazonian nomads: ******* happy...
no amount of crosswords or sudoku will exert
your body to do things for others...
   no amount of mind games will actually tell your
brain to be equipped with: a bunch of hyenas... run!
dementia is a result of creating too many
white-collar jobs (thanks to feminism)
and exporting the blues to China (thanks to feminism
and: oh i broke a nail, can i get a Ching plumber to
fix my heating while i get a ****** to **** me up my
****?!) - maybe i'm just dreaming...
it's great to censor dreaming, i mean: you stop dreaming,
you get to see reality, and you don't even need to
read Proust on a ricochet.
  - so we have brain as fat, and invader cells as protein...
protein digests fat... and creates cucumbers out
of people... where do the carbohydrates come into play?
it can't be at the point of a.d.h.d., can it?
     i'm blaming post-industrialisation, the complete
disappearance of the blues (formerly known as the reds,
in the east) for the whites...
or that old chestnut of: my god you're goon'ah luv it!
   to till for worth from the sweat of yer brow -
funny funny funny... to earn your loaf of bread
you will toil...
                   and toil until you are physically assured
that not ghostly / mental life can enter your world /
books... that went well... didn't it?
   i should be tilling a potato plateau rather than
be bound to be writing this epic (by modern standards)
poem...
             but that's the curse of exporting all the blue
collar jobs to China, then importing mindless
white collar jobs to the west, what the hell do you think
would happen, not the pandemic of dementia?
if you do not exert the body, and then you do not
exert / exhaust the mind... do you think
you can secure a narrative with a post-industrial
westerner on the premise of that person simply being
able to solve a crossword? well... i believe in santa
claus too... but i don't believe in him giving out
presents... because to me, in my oh-so-called maturity
that's called an anagram of satan's clause: which is a legal
term for: i can turn civilisation into shrapnel
of what's said and what's to be said: and what's not to be
said. people can't expect to turn honest labour
for the recreational run on the treadmill in a gym...
and they can't expect photocopying in an office space
to replace Newton's curiosity, and then compensate
all this distraction with mind-games...
          can they? well... they did!

poets are gagged by writers of prose,
no wonder they write so sparingly,
      they are gagged in the sense that they write
as if asphyxiated: they need breathing room.

well sure, if he can revive the Polish steel industry
and i can go back to steel plates and pillars,
then the rust belt will get a polishing also.

or what's called: shrapnel before the waterfall of
narration: darting eyes, and poncy **** all the way through...

     muse... muse...

        well, how about we take the fluidity out of language?
declassify certain words into one grammatical broth,
say words like i and they
                              a  and the    are all conjunctions?
how about that? let's strip it bare, after all: what categories
of words exist for us to primarily speak (let alone think)?
     nouns, verbs, adjectives... adverbs?
       but all those words in between are so jungly classified
into a tangle that i'm about to sprout a handshake
          of a Japanese vine grip: and never let go...

an actual extract from the sketch:

      https that doesn't recognise UCS
                   and insists on IPA cannot be deemed
       encyclopaedic

              i need runes for this! i need runes for this idea!
i don't need transliteration right now...
                but hey! that's an idea, etymological transliteration...
bugly term, sure, but the previous night i was thinking
  of transcendental etymology, as you do, likened to
carbohydrates... so it was transliteration after all...
but a dead end when it comes to geometry and Pythagoras...
      
    three words... and they are computerised (i guess you
have to buy a decent book to decode this), a bit like
buying paint in a d.i.y. shop...
       16DE (dagaz / d) 16DC (ingwaz / ŋ / grapheme of n & j)
                  16DF (ōþala / Valhalla / o / ō = oo),
in total d'njoo / d'nyoo - even i concede the fact that this
is a ******* mind-******... it's a ****** congregation of
four optic encodings of phonos... i moved away from
the ancient greek fetish for the logos... i'm looking at
the phonos... not the logos with Heraclitus et al.
               φº θ þ фª f

ªgreek
  ºcyrillic                ever see a prettier pentagram?
                      i haven't.

(false original title:
škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic - pending)

looking at the phonos is painful, actually painful,
it's like reading a book with a myopic pair of glasses:
a ******* aquarium blurry right there, befor...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

'e'? were you: was i, looking for an 'e'?

i can say this much...
what do you get when you mix a shot
of whiskey with a shot of bourbon:
i'm moving between bottles...
it's nearing christmas eve and i'm a ripe
taoist... i.e. i better this world:
by not having the world mind me...
on the odd occasion: oh... you're still here?!

yeah... i'm still here... i have glued-to-fascination
with my shadow... i'm just waiting
for the atom bomb to relieve me of a body
but ensuring my shadow is kept intact...
as if it were a Monet signature on a wall...

but i lament... the momentum has vanished...
i don't even know why i'm so idiotic as
to presume that: from the hour 22:00GMT
to the hours 00:00 circa 00:30GMT...
something will land into my lap,
my lisp... my cranium the oyster shell
my tongue the oyster...

it will not... i can't simply **** anything into
an existence that doesn't want to exist...
perhaps lurking in a canvas of:
"lost luggage" in an airport...
perhaps "there"...
i could be excused my... lethargy...

when was this written? back in 2018?
so i was thinking about teasing cyrillic even then?
wasn't i?
sketch cкэтч or?

what do you get when you mix a shot of whiskey
with some bourbon?
a Burguandian whisker...
i am not going to sound witty...
Ron's key...

that's still a cyrillic "or"... isn't it?
шкиц: škic...

i'm... deflated... nothing "new" has come my way...
i would have thought that...
reading some Knausgård would have /
could have... invigorated me:
reading him was supposed to be my:
dialysis my transfusion!
my zombie-go-to-literature...
it has proven an exhaustive enterprise
to begin writing again:
i became too comfortable
in reading - i almost forgot
the agony of writing...

alas... a contemporary of mine...
and someone well adjusted to prose...

notably: who would have thought
that death in june - the calling (MK II)
was something to be recorded in 1985...
for one: i wouldn't...

but i did begin: back in november 2016...
begin what? to tickle the cyrillic alphabet...
which is way before i discovered my reply
to the runes... to the ancient greek...
and this... "ancient", ahem... still in use...
latin script...

that script that went into the molloch couldron
of being invested in to code...
pristine as the hebrews cited:
how many holes in it?
to write onto a canvas of 0?
q Q R O o p P A a D d g b B...
which leaves...
W E T Y U I S F H J K L
Z X C V N and M "out of the equation"...

škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic (pending):
i better rename it as... circa 2016...
that's way before i even acknowledged
the cyrillic text applying diacritical markers...
i thought them too crude at the time...

beside borrowing outright from greek...
the already at hand oddities of glagolitic,
notably: Ⱎ...Ⱋ...

it's only a single word i'm using...
i have abandoned all notions of metaphysics
in favor for orthography...
i'm not going to burden myself
with: what's after the physics...
i'm after: what's now...
in the respective tongues...
2 tongue deviations from
the original latin and greek...

what came with the runes and what
came with the glagolitic scripts...
what was ****** and had to succumb
to inter-breeding...

come 2020... i will have one clarification
to base my existence on...
pronouncing the growth of my ****** hair...
i will hope to aim at a length of beard
that will forever hide the neck...
i will aim at... somewhere to the level
of my heart... when i will then manage
to turn my beard into an orchestra's
nieche of violins when i procrastinate with it...

since 2016...
i have identified russian in ******...
i've seen it... finally!
зъaрт... i.e. żart
and the "hard sign" becoming a "soft sign"
in źrenica: зьрeницa...

i still think the russian orthography
is... as... primitive as the western slavic...

after all... зъ = ż...
зь = ź...
the balkan slavs have a caron...
which is neither a hard or a soft sign / acute...

their caron is... ч (č) or cz...
CHeaper in english...
and their caron is ш (š) or sz...
SHeep...
or the two together...
and always шч (šč): szczekam...
i'm barking...

pu-shch-air... a rare example in english
of the puщair...
but then lookie lookie 'ere:

CZACHA... skull...
ЧAХA...

perhaps this is my "revenge ****" on russia?
hey! boris the kremlin mascoot...
come and 'ave a look...
with how i disect your orthography
on the / with the language that asks
too many metaphysical questions and no
orthographic curiosities!

i'll meet you in Warsaw... given that you're
probably moving from Novosibirsk...
and i'm either in Stockholm...
Edinburgh or the outskirts of London:
Warsaw will be halfway for both of us...
you don't have to like Warsaw...
i only like it when the Ukrainian smugglers
and the Mongols appear
in the West Warsaw coach station...

smart as who? i am discovering this for
the first time myself...
i was only teasing it back in 2016...
way before i found the right sort of accents
in mother russian...

i do know that that crescent oddity:
above the ja: йa... is what it is...
if you only cut off the head in english... ȷ...
again: it's я given that most russians
are pulled toward an anglophile world-view...
they all see the window to europe...
the baltic and st. petersburg is somehow...
London... and the atlantic...
like hell it is...

i guess i feel it was a waste of time to
have re(a)d Kant, simply because:
i'm not here for the schematics...
i want to know how my thought my labyrinth
building architecture is coming along...
but with no one to talk to about it?

i found the categorical imperative most
dissatisfying... i didn't want to abide by universal laws...
poetry is already shoved out of waiting room
of the republic...
if my "poetry" is not a categorical imperative...
and it's not quiet a a hypothetical imperative...
it needs to be sharpened on a thesaurus
and some grammar...

categorical (adjective)... imperative (adjective)...
well two adjectives never imply much
if there's no noun involved...
and i'm pretty sure that... if i sharpen
the next word i'll compound with categorical-
in that hyphen construct that's only
allowed in oxford dictionary english:
since it's not: propergermannonhyphenfaustian:
i.e. carboxylic (carbo-xylic) acidity...

poetry doesn't belong in either
the categorical imperative focus...
nor the hypothetical imperative focus...

i.e. i must write a poem... to feel better...
i must write a poem... to organise my thoughts...
no! a poem is not a maxim is not a categorical
imperative! a language of poetry is not
a language of morality: it's a language
of experience - or a lack / a lackey's "sentiment"...

i need a... categorical: impetus!
it's not enough to have read kant's critique of pure
reason... it must also involved
having re(a)d the: groundwork of
the metaphysics of morals...
but i'm a democratic reader...
i need to hear the other voices...
i can't be a kantian scholar...
a snippet 'ere, a snippet v'ere (funny how
THETA disappears when making the posit:
THERE - ver!)

who needs metaphysical absolutes...
when orthography (or a lack of it)
in english... spreads open its legs...
and the tongue remembers its tongue-brain-phallus
stage of co-existence in the oyster?!

i'm pretty sure that a categorical imperative
is by no means a categorical impetus...
this had to be written,
but it had to be written in order to disregard
anything a priori... prior to it...
a poem is a shady concern for action or inaction...
it's a deviation from the cartesian crux:
res cogitans (thinking thing)...
into the cartesian levy (res extensa)...
it's an action of inactivity...
as much as it's an inactive activity...
"the rest"...

impetus is not an imperative...
an impetus sources its meaning in a per se
investement... of itself - in itself - for itself...
an imperative?
in pronouns... impetus: i want... i will...
imperative? you want... you will...

an impetus is self-dictative...
an imperative is: indicative...
someone would rightly claim...
those that mourn indicatively...
will don the right garments for the process
of mourning...
which is indicative and devoid of
the per se manifestation of mourning...
it is an imperative when compared to
the impetus to mourn -
which is self-dictative...
which does now shallow itself in
grief by making a socially agreed to fiasco
of a very specific choice of wardrobe...

basically: however you like it...
an IMPERATIVE ≠ IMPETUS...
the year is almost over and i want to break-off
the dust from the thoughts that fudge-packed themselves
as worthy of occupying the minor instance
of having to count a depth of:
not dead within the year of being written.

ANG BABOY by John Iremil E. Teodoro

Sugot takin nga mangin baboy
Kon ang tangkal ko mga butkun mk.
Basta damogan mo lang ako
Kang imo nga yuhum kab haruk
Aga, hapon.
Dali man lang ako payambukun.
Ang pangako mo man lang
Nga indi ako pagpabay-an
Amo ang bitamina nga akun
Ginatomar.
Kag kon gabii gani
Ang mga apuhap mo man lang
Sa akun likod kag dughan
Anb makapahuraguk kanakun.


THE PIG translated by Leoncio P. Deriada

I am willing to be a pig
Provided your pen is my arms.
As long as you feed me
With your smile and kiss
Morning, afternoom.
It is easy to make me fat.
Your promise
Not to abandon me
Is the vitamins
I take.
And during nighttime
It's your touch
On my back and breast
That can make me snore.

1:47 AM

My eyes lay wide open, conscious won’t let me sleep.
I’m new to this silent killer,
                              Loneliness.
Before I shut this world off I’m seeing,
                   I'm already soaking up the pitch black,

Yes. It’s my dirtiest pleasure creeping up again.

One more attempt to connect with my subconscious,
But the hatred within is so beautiful!
Born with no voice,
Words is the only choice I have.


… Her Words… Birthed my soul.


©MK

Palkein bhi ankhiyon se karti hain shikayat,
Aayi hai kaisi kayamat,

Kyu mujh par bin mausam barsaat karti **
Jaanti hu dard bhara hai seene mein par mujhko kyu bhigati **,

Sikhati hai bahut hua paani barsaana,
Dusro ki khushiyon mein apni manzil hai pana,

Dusro ka marham bankar
Hriday mein deep jalakar

Khushiyon ke geet gaana hai,
Apni jhopdi jali ** bhale kisi aur ki nahi ujadne dena hai,

Kasam hai khayi,
Haaregi jaroor burayi,

Aag lagi hai dil mein
Khade hue hain fir se

Log kehte hai paisa hai khushiyon ki chabi
Galat, bilkul galat wo sirf hai jaroori

Paisa khushiyan nahi khareed sakta
Dusro ko khushi dekar is masoom dil ko sukoon milta,

Pochh do kisi ki bheegi palkein
Milengi anekon duaein

Antaraatma bhi hogi paavan
Khush honge bhagwan

Dua hai dil se hamari
Bhale le lo hamari khushiyan saari

Par is dil se kisi ka dil na tute
Warna ruth jayenge khud se,

Hamare ruthe chehre bhi khile gulaab ban jate hai,
Jab kisi ke chehre par hamari wajah se muskan aate hai,

Ab Naa koi dard, Naa kisi gum ka saya hoga,
Hume khush dekh dard bhi akele me muskuraya hoga,

Dusaro ki muskan lana hi hamari khwaish hai,
Na kisi se koi bair, Na kisi se koi numaish hai,

Jo log kisi rote hue ko insaan ko hasate hai,
Wo log khuda ko bhi bahut hi bhate hai,

Khuda unlogo pr kripayen aapar kar dete hain,
Unki jholi sirf khushiyo se bhar dete hain,

Ek sadharan insaan bhagwan budha, Mahaveer tabhi kahlata hai,
Jab kisi ke berang sapno me sunhare rang bhar jata hai,

Hamari apni khushi bhale hi humse ruthi hai,
Ab tou dusro ki khushi hi hamari khushi hai,
Hamari khushi hai.....

Collaboration by Shrivastva MK and Sonia Paruthi

She controls my mind MK-ULTRA
Burning in my own flame like Zarathustra

Her love turns to poison when it’s kept inside
She carries her pain, it’s weighing on my eyes
I think I’ve gone insane and I don’t know why
I lose my brain when I’m between her thighs

Wisdom in her body
My spirit’s like a tree
Growing so high
And feeling so deep

She controls my mind MK-ULTRA
Burning in my own flame like Zarathustra

Udd jayegi ek din chiraiya chhodhkar babul ka ghar,
Basane ek naya aashiyana sabhi ke aankho ko bhar,

Vidai ka hota hai ye kaisi bela,
Kyu hamesha jana padta chhod us kali ko hi akela,

Beegh jati hai mata-pita ki palkein vidai ke pal,
Jab aata us baag me chahchahane wali chidiya ki judai ke pal,

Bahut si yaadein  chhoti aankho me sajaye hue,
Ro rhi hai maa pari ko gale lagaye hue,

Papa ki pyari gudiya aaj sazkar sasural chali,
Tham ke hath humsafar ka ek nye dwar chali,

Jahan  pali badi wo pyari gudiya chali hai aaj us ghar ko chhod,
Karke suna ek aangan ko pita ki aankhon ko bhar,

Na jaane kyu beti ko janam se hi paraya btaya ,
Aakhir kisne ye  riwaz banaya ,

Nikalkar apne **** se ek pita apni jaan ,
Bahut bada dil hai ek pita ka jo kar dete hain kanyadaan ,

Waqt ka kaisa hai ye dastoor 
Na jaane kyu ek beti ko jaana hota hai dur ,

Chali hai aaj papa ki gudiya ,
Chhodhkar apne aangan ki nindiya, 

Yaadon ki jhadi dil mein basakar chali hai maa ki jaan ,
Chhod ke sabkuch apna Banane ek nayi pehchaan,

Babul ki laadli kab ** gayi badi,
Aayi hai dil ko chhune wali ghadi,

Jis  ghar me pali,us ghar ko alwida kaise kahegi,
Maa baba behan bhai bin wo gudiya kaise rahegi,

Vidhata ne ye kaisa niyam hai banaya,
Chhod ghar babul ka,ek naye ghar ko basaya,

Dekh tyad ek bitiya ki us khuda ki bhi *** aankhen bhar,
Udd jayegi ek din chirraiya chhodkar babul ka ghar,
Babul ka ghar.........

Composed by
Sonia Paruthi & Shrivastva MK

Aate hai farishtey bankar,
Rehte hai har waqt haath thamkar,
Milta Hai anmol dosti ka vardaan jise,
Phulo se sazakar rakhna use,

Aate hai anzaan bankar,
Rahte hai dilon jaan bankar,
Sari hasratey pure ** jate hain,
Jab wo pyare dost muskurate hain,

Gum ke sagar mein dubne na dete
Khushiyan ka paigaam hain bhejte
Zindagi jeene ka maksad btate
Pyaara sa sansaar hai chahte

har pal ko khushnuma banate,
Sahi galat ka ehsaas karate,
Jo gumo me bhi saath nibhate hai,
Wahi sacche dost kahlate hai,

Khuda kasam kya khubsurat rishta hai dosti
Phulo se mehakta bagicha hai dosti
Yaaron ke bina adhuri hai zindagi
Zindagi jeene ki wajah h dosti


Written By
Sonia Paruthi & Shrivastva MK

maybe (Big Maybe) your life has numbers in the title.

inked, digits trace the shadow of her hair

if you forgot...

how could You know
as You are walking down the sidewalk
           around a corner   --   wherever You want
that the World is not assembling itself
atom by (jigsaw) atom
from the blueprints (and stencils)
piled in piles (like so many piles of newspaper)
in (the rooms in) the back rooms of Your mind
particles rushing and streaming (fluttering)
together with (the ebb of) Your consciousness?

the World blurs fuzzily into shape
before snapping
snappily
into focus

just as You enter the room
blending concentrated reality smoothly
into some orchestrated Existence

the next time You          reach
for the doorknob on
the door to
the wait-, the waiting room

give,
pause

listen,         
carefully

can’t You hear the anxious atoms
           brushing
jostling
           shoving past one another?

Numbers, pixels, they                  jockey

       squinting through
the eye of
       the image of
the woman on
       the screen of
the television in
       the corner of
the ceiling where
       it hangs

she wants to know
why You divide
Them              from Us

so clearly
so readily

she wants to know
why Your countries
are bordered

by an indifference to equality
by a contempt for disillusionment

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!:
An extraneous dispute broke out between two
atoms on the table this morning;
a tiny china teapot was broken.

not that You care, but...
how would You know?

people are no more
then elaborate pieces of Your own mind
now once You hang up the phone
e v a p o r a t e d  
                        into no more than
                                           an afterthought
                                                    ­     of empty space

                                             the smell of burnt matches

                You think that
everything You imagine is beautiful
                    even death

               but in an ugly way

the man on the
                                edge
of the third chair
from the door
has no face
(none of Them do)
all of Them don’t
(have faces)

until They speak or You look Them in the eye

until They do something       Wrong
which is why They look                  down
when They walk down the sidewalk

They are afraid
You Made them Afraid

to live
  as a tree
    in the park

where a pillar of
angry
           energy
                       falling
failing
           the
                       pessimistic
sky
might strike
Them
(older than You
yet born
in this moment)
making the ground
around
Them steam
with the sweat
of a silent room
waiting
for the
            door to
                        swing open
                                      and tell
                                                   him

                she’s going to be all right
              it was close there for a while
                        but she’s strong
                      she pulled through

                              in the end

the pressure
of the years
of the rings
(which promise to
grow tighter
as time leaves us)
is heated
squeezed
left sitting in
flesh
turned to char
ash and smoke gently
cradling a tiny newborn

                                          diamond


perfect           (silence)

broken
down the middle-
                      aged
                             flawed

You should be perfect by now
You should have a face by now

speak           look Yourself in the eye

see Your own          Face
stop looking                down
when You walk down the sidewalk

it's Your painting,
don’t be afraid

to live
  as a tree
    in the park
  
They say don’t talk             to strangers
and You’re a strange one            indeed
how can You see the glamour
where Others            cannot
see that, laughing quietly to Yourself,
(You) can set the expressions on their faces
to joy
     to pain
           to fear
                to apathy
                     to peace?

               yeah, she likes him
                and she likes him
                    to know that
                    she likes him

                      in the end

she wants to know
why Your countries
are bordered

to keep Them      out
and Us       in

           this is Mine                  and that is Yours

You see
what You want to see (without)

(knowing what You want)
the sticker
       on the bumper
              of the car
                     rolling past whispers:
                            jesus is coming,
                                  better hide the ****

the tone is green, jealous

if You listen             carefully
You can almost hear, someone's

             giggling

             please do not think about green elephants

(a student just snuck in
and sat down as
the professor was writing
on the board)

             please do not feed the green elephants

I
Myself
have a strong suspicion
that Your mind is
as You read this
(hidden in a carefully cupped notebook)
spilling
black ink particles
across
existence
running
onto the very next          page

                    You write that
You imagine everything is beautiful
                   except for death

                   it is an ugly thing

              yet still the chisel gouges

    i whistle a catcall
at my blushing bride
      llac ot eltsihw i
   edis ym ot god ym

        through the crumbling protests
               of the reluctant stone

                                    each new line
                                    tampers with space
                                    holds suspect time
                                    postpones the end
                                    and evades death

You breathe
               You write
You sing
                You live

You casually craft causality

         yet craft on
         surely You are not yet done
         You may never be
         at this rate but
         but
         STOP

the World reblurs then blows away
listen closely here I say
all Things must come to End one day

You
Yourself

have tasted the                      Hunger
                        of Greed
seen the                                 Zeal
                       of Hatred
heard the                               Stories
                       of Genocide
felt the                                   Loss
                      ­ of War
and smelled the                    Decay
                       of Truth

                      this             is Mine
                                 what’s Mine, is Yours...

Aborted ideas rule this realm
Injecting truth from a needle's point
Floating in a sea of desperation
My mind runs in circles again
...and again
...and again
...and again

The trees grow tired of childish games
They move in close to strangle my dreams
Orange sunshine driving me insane
Nothing makes sense or so it seems

Locked in a battle for my mind
The acid gets stronger with every crime
I witness the death of all man kind
A simple rhyme about the end of time

Hofmann's ghost haunts this life
His soul on a sugar cube
****** my  mind with deep insight
These walls don't like me much

Storm clouds rage and curse my name
The lizard king preaches in vain
Dreams where Lucy guides my hand
I remember when I was sane

This ocean of blood calls me near
Telling me to join my friends
Bodies float by, with smiles in their eyes
I wonder how well I can swim

The horsemen ride by Leary's side
An onion shatters on the floor
Lies of peace fill my heart
Rage soon floods them out

A plastic Jesus sits on the shelf
Condemning me through dust covered eyes
A conman watching with deep disgust
While I savigly **** Alice again
...and again
...and again
...and again

Open the doors to my perception
Grant me sight beyond sight
The dead pile up quick, it's quite a collection
Why am I shielded from his holy light!?

Endlessly searching for my mind
The acid glows brighter with every crime
This sick joke labeled mankind
A simple rhyme about the end of time

HOW LONG DOES THIS ******* LAST AGAIN!?
   ...again?
       ...again?
           ...again?
               ...again?

I never thought,
             Never seeing your face,
             Would be so beautiful...

Your smile crept into my world,
Cold, lustful, nights
Shattered just by your words.
A simple message, interpreted into a brand new soul.
As an young man, I always believed in God,
I just never knew love was born with no face.
One of main reasons that's why I bow my head on every plate.
Humbled to a broken heart,
Her words gave life and it made amends...
To my broken heart...


©MK

Fine,
if a bitter wind blows

Fine,
if a liar arrives

on my patio
hard heart
worn
right
with the
knuckle
skin

Fine,
pressed on the razor's edge
(grinning ear to ear as if I wanted it)

Fine,
when what was once the worst
(grinning ear to ear as if I wanted it)

returns to a placid place
below,
so

a new threat may
emerge

Look at the ones
with beehives for mouths,
ejecting out opinions
to anyone caught in a net
of overworked words,
every opinion delivered
with a lethargic varnish,
each one a sting
as a glob of soap in the eyes.

But we use our voice
with our lips tightly shut.
Let the art inside us
buzz like a sneeze
waiting for release,
blast out in a fizz
of ink and smudged fingertips.
Hear the consonants trickle
like a tap not quite turned off,
the vowels rising and falling as waves.

Spill your thoughts if you must.
Make a point.
But don’t hurl them at us
with a sour taste ,
sharp as an already grimy blade.
Use them sparingly and well,
let them linger before
evaporating in a trail of steam,
as if a ***** of sunlight
before it slithers
beneath the horizon.

Chahe aaye aandhi ya fir koi tufaan ,
Kamzor nahi padegi hamari udaan .
Chhaon ** ya kadakti dhoop ,
Nikhrega hamara naya roop .

Lakh mushibat aaye nahi rukenge hum,
Badhte jayenge yuhi hum kadam dar kadam,
Rastey chahe kitni bhi mushkil kyon na **,
Har mushkilo ko chirte hue ek din manzil tk pahuch jayenge hum

Bheedh hamesha us raastey par hai chalti ,
Jahan ** na koi mushkil khadi .
Par humne chuna hai raasta alag ,
Kyunki karna hai humne kuch alag .

Itihaas rachna hai tou bhid se alag hona sikho,
Paristithio se daro nhi paristithio ko badalna shikho,
Ek din wo mukaam tumhe mil hi jayega,
Dekh tumhari safalta ko ek din kismat bhi muskurayega,

Mehnat ke bal par likhenge khud ki takdeer,
Takleef ke hain hum mahaveer.
Na chahat hai sitaron ki ,
Na tamanna hai nazaron ki.

Sirf wahi log itihaas rach ke dikhaya hai,
Jisne apne taklifon ko gale lagaya hai,
whi log asafal rah jate hai,
Jo mushkilo se darr tut jate hai,

Har mushkil ka saamna kar ,
Pahuchna hai apni manzil ke shikhar par .
Khamoshiyan sabra ka imtehaan ban gayi ,
Apne man mein Umeed ki jyot jag gayi .

Hum wo hai jo Kismat par rote nahi
Jo rote hai unke kuchh hote nahi,
Mandabuddhi wala einstein tou paper wala kalaam kahlaya,
Apne kaarnamo se hai vishwa me ek alag pahchaan banaya,

Laakhon kasht aa jaye saamne ,
Hamara ishwar bada hai us har takleef ke aage .
Musibaton se baghna na humne kabhi seekha ,
Hamari nanhi akhiyon ne bahut kuch hai dekha.

Milkar humne ye thana hai,
Naam nahi hume etihaas banana hai,
Ab kisi bhi mushkil se na darna hai,
Kyuki Hume kuchh alag karna hai,
Kuchh alag karna hai..


Collab Poem by
Sonia Paruthi & Shrivastva MK.....…....✍

Let Me Be A Child
by Mirriam Mk Salati

The age of innocent looted violently
The narrated tale of the order met harshly
Let me feel secure in my home
Let me realise that love is always the norm
I cant remember the sunshine on my face
I work all day in a cramped space
I cant remember how it feels to play free
I cant recall how it feels to climb a tree
Sharttered-self-worth from blows and knocks
A"good" child keeps quite never talks
Let me know when I make you proud.
Help me to have pride in my own accomplishments
And let me earn your trust
Trust me and i wont let you down
Let me try my wings,sour through the sky,
touching evry cloud
If i fail let me know its ok then encourage me to try again.... and whats More' Let me be a Child'

When I was 15, I wouldn’t have believed you
if you told me all of this about constant lament
in a Red painted Animal House of scapegoats
that I’ve yet to see

it’s
        streets of beige
it’s
        fast food bad food no food spilled milk or beer
it’s
        the South no the East maybe West probably North
it’s
        in the air the water the meat there’s just too much heat to breathe or hold a job
it’s
        hourly wages and daily commutes of gypsy peddlers in a town I’ve never been to
it’s
        the cigarettes or nicotine my useless spleen filtering things I should never inhale or drink
it’s
        divorce rates leading to ***** flicks c-sections finding acquaintances on monitors after dark only able to generate laughter over years of tears
it’s
        women
it’s
        pain
it’s
        the migraines we get when we're waiting on the rain to paint the beige streets bronze
it’s
         rolling trees metal trucks frozen lakes lumber jacks and ice fishing
it's
         the anxiety of right wrong bad good all grey in the sunshine without you
it’s
         the words of times you said meaning more to me than it ever could to you
it’s
        the colossus of Wall St. overbearing my own suit and tie un-ironed or cared for but necessary     none the less
it’s
         CCTV the fight for power Government foreign travelers or terrorists Project Paper clip MK Ultra Plum Island persuasion propaganda Paul Wolfowitz
it’s
         who governs what you can afford when you sit tattered on a curb after earning another mans bread
it’s
        what has or has not been said 7 times or none that still lingers on the grass out front of home or house
it’s
        no matter how big you are you still answer a toy phone handed to you by a two year old
it’s
       the tears of Alexander when he realized there were no more worlds to conquer

Rishtey wo nahi hote jo duniya ko dikhaye jaye,
Rishtey wo hote hai jo dil se Nibhaye jaye.
Rishtey nibhana har kisi ke bas me nahi,
Ab to bs rah gyi hai yadon ki haseen gali,

Rishtey wo nahi jo sirf sukh me kaam aate hai,
Rishtey tou wo hote hai jo dukh me sath nibhate hai,
Rishta agar es dil se hota hai,
Wo rista bda hi atut hota hai,

Rishta banao tou use dilon jaan se nibhana,
Kisi ki bhawnao ka mazak na udana,
Kisi ki zindagi bankar uski zindagi na chhen lena,
Aankhon mein aansuo ka tohfa na dena,

Rishtey me khatas nahi mithas hona chahiye,
Rishtey me bahas nahi vishwas hona chahiye,
Wo rista ek na ek din tut jata hai,
Jo rishta dil se nahi dimaag se nibhaya jata hai,

Saath chhodne wale tou bus majburiyon ka haath thaam lete hai,
Nibhane wale tou maut ka darwaza khatakne kya aakhiri saans tak hamare saath hote hain,
Rishtey tou milte hai mukaddar se,
Sanjo lo unhe dil mein,

Jis rishtey ko us khuda ne bnaye hai,
Ek na ek din use jaroor milaye hai,
Jab do dil ek ** jate hai,
Tab wo ek anmol rishtey kahlate hai....

Collaboration  by Shrivastva MK and Sonia*Paruthi

shibumi, bruised eyelids, loitering on the pedway

flickering between hellish
concrete and clear air,
clutching an unraveling yarn
of smoke in her mouth

waiting in front of the liquor store
for her man

and mouthing to his back as he turns,

"i love you; i love you, stay inside"

(I'm ready for war *****, I'm ready for whatever..)3
I'm ready for war *****2..Uhh
(Yeah I'm ready for war *****, Yeah I'm ready for whatever)3..(I'm ready for whatever2)
(I'm ready for war *****,  I'm ready for whatever)3
(Im ready for war *****4)..Aye
It's whatever...Uhh

I'm going to war against America, **** em, forget them , They don't care about us ******, they just want us dead, confused & nothing.(Yeah2)..They just want us to **** ourselves, real ****, The CIA got all of my ****** so mislead Yeah..Aye they brainwashing the kids, Aye what's been happening in this world is alot of evilness up in people contaminating their spirits, since before Christ was  even here man, Yeah real spit,..I'm spilling the beans,.. Yeah I will take my chances, (dying2)..for (being somebody2)..I wanted to be , instead of thinking the same,..Im programing myself mane,I'm so ready for war *****, Yeah I'm so ready for whatever Uhh..MK ULTRA still exist, & we the people need to do something about (this2)..is more than just an conspiracy theory,.. It's the truth my *****,..The biggest conspiracy is that we are free dude,*****

No fake it, till I make it type of fucc **** going on in OFTR
This is (Only For The Real..2)..business
(ONLY FOR THE REAL2) ENTERTAINMENT

Yeah mane .*****, Yeah..Aye man, I'm fighting for what is mines..I'm standing up for the truth Shawty..(I'm ready for war3) *****..OFTR ENT, we ready for whatever.. ***** we the leaders, ***** we the elitist, ***** we the achievers & ***** we achieving man..

/(Yeah *****3)
I'm ready for war *****
(Yeah *****3)
I'm ready for whatever man..Uhh/2

Only For The Real Entertainment
Young Ston

From the earth the stars
look like they could reach out to one another
and hold hands,
link fiery arms,
and share burning kisses.

But I imagine they're lonely,
just minute blinking lights to one another,
fires extinguished,
in a single breath,
flames dulled to nothing,
like pinched candles.

Can you feel what they do?
As they watch each brother die?
Not close enough to know,
not close enough to hold,
not close enough to save.

I have always known
that you feel it,

but now,
so do I.

Let Me Be A Child
by Mirriam Mk Salati

shartterd-self-worh with blows and knocks
a "good" child keeps quite never talks
let me know when i make you proud
help me to have pride in my own accomplishments
and let me earn your trust
\trust me and i wont let you down
let me try my wings,sour through the sky
touching every cloud
if i fail let me know its ok then encourage me to try again
let me know that you love me with a pat or a hug on the back
let me tell you when iam sad and blue
let me tell you when iam angry even at you.
let me know that even on my worst days...
your love is unending always
let me dream......
share with you when my dreams come true
share my tears when they dont.
and pretend that everything is alright..and then encourage me to try again

(Aye.., I wanna be free3)..I (wanna be free2)..I wanna be free,..(aye..I wanna be freed 2)..(Aye ..I wanna live free2)..(I wanna be freed, 3) from all of this pain mane..(Aye I wanna be free2)..mane this world is insane,..(Aye I wanna live free3)..from all of the grieve mane..(Aye I wanna be freed3), emancipated,... Aye,Man

How does it feels to be free,.Aye,  I wanna know  How does it feels to live free, Aye I wanna be free..Aye, How does it feels to be free,.Aye,..I wanna know How does it feels to live free, Could somebody answer me please.., Instead of passing by me mane,..Aye,They just keep on ignoring me, & Its so annoying to me,..because they are the ones that need my help the most,They need me more than I need  them mane,..Aye..How does it feels to be free,.Aye,.I wanna know How does it feels to live free, can yall please stop walking over me mane,..I wanna know How does it feels to be free,.Aye,,
Can somebody please tell me How does it feels to live free,. Because I really wanna know mane..How does it feels to be free,.Aye,How does it feels to live free mane I guess I can only get the best answer from my king Jah ,..Aye
How does it feels to be free,.Aye,How does it feels to live free,Yo that's a good question that would  probably never be answered because we all are under mind control by the CIA ,..MK ULTRA, Aye

If I can't be freed then Imma  start alot of chaos mane..
If I can't be freed then Imma start madness right away..If I can't be freed then Imma just lead the way for the next generation..Aye,..If I can't be freed then Imma just emancipate myself mane,..It's time to Prison Break,..Aye I wanna be free..(from all the hate2)..(I wanna live free,2)..(from all  this pain2)..I wanna be free Prison Break..(I wanna be free..I wanna be freed2)..no matter how many lustful thoughts enter my mind mane, no I won't let these  demons confuse me, No way..

Imma stay having hope..Imma stay having faith..Imma stay praying above mane for changes to come into effect in this evil sick crazy world mane,..I can't let the thoughts of not having what I want curropt me, I won't let all of my depression upset me,..I'm sailing all of my pain away,..I'm sailing all of my anger out too mane,..I'm breaking free from every single generational cursed that Satan has place on my me &  family,..I'm being me, myself , & I &  I'm breaking free, Aye...

I know that the government has  been chasing me, but noo I ain't afraid of a good challenge mane..The Illuminati can't have my soul Noo way, These jeaslous people can't have my body..Noo,Noo, mane.. I'm playing a solo game, aye, & I'm steady finding my way, Aye..I'm in the dark homie, but I'm using my spirit to see, Yeah my spirit shines so bright in me,..I think that's just the Holy spirit mane, I  always gotta give my praises up to  the Heavenly,.. &  stump down on Satan mane,

I'm on a  mission, I'm emissioning all of this realness, To remission all of the darkness, Aye, no Batman No part time, Noo I won't clock out..I'm saving all of my brothers & sisters that's soul less, Yeah They can & will get their souls back because Imma fight & Imma make sure of that,..Aye,..can somebody please let me know something.., before I start shooting,. Aye..
Young Ston Poet, I wanna be freed mane..

The light began to dim because
the oil was running low and the
morning came a creeping up
as if I didn't know,

never meant to be the stranger
I am Tonto to the Sunshine Ranger.

Invincible
I am the storm
reap me, read me
in the early morn.

In spite of me
I write of me
my protestation is but
the denunciation of
previous wrongs

and the megalo' in me
dressed as Romeo
sees the spotlight on me
as I put on
the one man show.

Behind these masks
there are certain deeds and tasks
of which I shall not mention.

Against the rule of
Isaac
Balzac
vitamin A and
Prozac
I would tack this to the end
but the end is yet to be and
in this the truth could be
nothing more than
ripened Brie
( nice to spread upon your bread,
but fit for nothing else)

I would be a Jane
but I am John
also a Christian
and how do I carry on
this thread?

What I see inside is
beyond me
as fathomless as a
bottomless sea
I never understood
how could I?
the third eye
is blind.

Between the cemetery
and the library
a sign that reads,

here lies my poetry
RIP.


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