you can easily become an astronaut using the internet, to be honest.

clap!
****! it's beautiful!
i can cry about not having
to live it out,
yet nonetheless have it
played out with me as a
a passenger thus relegated...
into lost dialogue and engaging
in applause...
it's too personal to make sense
for replicas, clones and what dreams
may come... it's oh so personal
i'm bewildered why i even
wrote this abstract...
but i did, weeping.
murph! don't leave me murph!
don't leave me... mm'ha ha ha... murph!
don't leave me murph! murph!

I know I'm crazy..
Cuz, so said the doc
I'm sure, I'm crazy.
I love you and here's my ****.
But first, the daisies.
They're, I am, only for thee.

Said I was sweet
But no way in hell.
Slammed the door
What was I thinking?
Why'd I ring the bell?

Oh, the heartache, the agony.
Stupid, stupid, stupid Billy..

What'd I do? Can't go on living..
Think! For once... For once.
Razors! Yes!! Get 'em. Cut 'em.
Wrists lay limp and bleeding.

I tried to fly, far far away..
Landed where the cuckoos lay..

We sit in a circle. We're expected to talk.
Nurse in tight uniform, can't help but gawk.

Billy? Start the discussion, today?
N-no Mam. Got n- nothing to say.
Day after day after day after day.

In comes, the crook Murphy.
Nurse Ratched hates him..
Born a miscarriage, he liked to say.
Been away, said he, for a long time.
Girl he ******* was 15, going on 35.

Stole our cigarettes, turned the music down.
There's a game tonight, n I'm going to town.
Course, he didn't.. Fountain's too heavy.
Least I tried.. Did that much, I tried, didn't I?

They all hated him.
Envied him, but wouldn't say.
See, they'd all volunteered.
While Murphy, he really was crazy.

He became my mentor and i his protégé..
I laughed. I played. Had fun. I gambled.
I even stood up to Nurse Ratched.
That was the first time. **** it felt good.

Murphy knew. And told me too..
I wasn't crazy, don't need to stay
I didn't need doctors, nor lil pill gray.
I needed, a warm body, to make love to..

But how? And Nurse Ratched?
Why bother her? Why tell her?
She'll call a friend.. She'll call my mother..
She won't get it, Murph. She never does.
Billy, my boy, has she ever, the Big Nurse?

My friend was leaving. Party ensues in the cuckoo's nest.
Drinks, music, pretty ladies.. Crazies were in wild wild west.
Murphy whispers, she laughs. Heads my way, takes my hand.
I look back. Thank him silently. Craziest, kindest soul in all the land.

I wake up naked.. I'd made love. It was a new day.
Nurse Ratched looks at me. Like embers, her eyes were lit.
Aren't you ashamed, Billy? I was happy.. No, I say.
She says she's worried, how my mother would take it..

Emotions hit me from all directions.
Fear, guilt, shame all at once....
I beg her, Please don't call my mom
Have mercy please, won't you, Big Nurse?

All these days, I thought I was crazy..
In comes Murphy, makes me happy..
I wasn't crazy. I needed love, I was hungry.
Murph, was going out. He was a free bird.
He saw the whole thing. He didn't. Heard me cry.

It was kind of him to try on my behalf.
He's just a kid, he said, to all the staff..
But, I knew no one would cut me some slack.
Ratched wouldn't budge n I'd face the flack..

I'd had enough of this ****...
This life, this ****** pursuit.
I ain't crazy. Cuz Murphy said so, goddamit.
I lived, blissful, ecstatic. For just one night..
Wasn't that enough? Wasn't it alright?

I cut my wrists again, deeper this time..
No more drama, no pantomime..
I lived n I loved. Tis time for me to die.
I'm not crazy.. Not crazy. Or am I....??

p.s. pre. s. five - keep on movin'*.

"MURPH!
MURPH!
MAKE HIM STAY!
MURPH!
MAKE HIM STAY!"
i'm a newspaper article
every Monday would be proud of.
you'll just pass your gluttonous pride
onto your children,
had i children, i'd never want to meet.
WHEN THE SILENT SCREAM
IS NO LONGER TABOO
BUT POP CULTURE
OF AWAITING ASTRONAUTS
ON MARS.
such.... release of the silenced tear
readied to a silenced swarm vocalised
in mimic had the vacuum replaced atmosphere.

oh i wish but a minute of
companionship twinned with you,
to see you as equally hierarchic
ageing 10 to 20 to 30...
but you like such a child,
with motto: real me do not cry...
to recoil... if men do not answer
beauty in opera via weeping,
what men are we to speak
of if only populations of what came
like Moldova masturbated into
World War II; toiling bodies in mud
like those in funny spectrum
of a handkerchief;
i so wish i could have loved you...
i wish it so much above my own life!
and i know these are but simpleton's words,
indeed so simple, not decorated with
prosaic bouquets... *but, i, have, LIVED, THEM!

We’d known him, back in the day
At dear old Millard Fillmore Elementary,
As Three-Desks Tommy, highly imaginative monicker
Deriving from his decidedly unimaginative first name
And the fact that he, indeed, had three desks,
Each of them stuffed chock-full
With uncounted numbers of pencils and erasers,
Any number of homework papers
(Usually A’s and A-pluses,
Though there were the odd B’s and B-minuses as well,
As he was a bright, in fact inordinately bright, child,
But sometimes given to sloppiness and stray pencil marks
And a predilection for not reading the directions completely)
Eerily accurate renditions of dinosaurs,
Wildly inventive stories featuring rainbow-hued dragons,
Noble and voluble talking bovines,
And knights and knaves of every size, shape, and suzerain,
Stories which resided cheek-to-jowl with some bit of uneaten sandwich
Until such time it made its existence
Abundantly clear to the custodial staff.
We’d never stopped to think much about his miniature Maginot Line;
It was what Tommy did and had always done
For as long as we could remember,
Though there were some teachers and an assistant principal or two
Who thought the whole thing was permissive bordering on coddling
(His teacher was a veteran of the wars, and well-insulated by tenure,
But she had grown weary of over-glasses glares and snide asides
When Tommy’s name came up in the staff room,
A death by a thousand cuts and all that),
And one day, while moving one of his desks
To clear space for Simon Says,
It had caught on a sticky spot,
Overturning onto a soon-to-be-fractured toe.
When he came back to school, accompanied by an ungainly cast
And an equally ungainly pair of crutches, his teacher took him aside.
Tommy, she purred, Maybe someone is trying to tell you something.
The other kids all make due with one desk,
And I’m sure you can find a way to as well, don’t you, Tommy?
So Tommy embarked on a great cleansing of his little fiefdom,
Filling several garbage cans with his collected works,
(Math papers and mastodons, bologna and Brobdingnagians)
And afterward he’d kept himself to one standard desk,
Duly filing, returning, and circular-filing his paperwork
As the occasion demanded
(Though one time Murph Dunkirk
Asked Three-Desks if he minded downsizing;
Tommy just shrugged, and said Well, it’s better than a broken foot)
And maybe in his dreams he had a thousand desks,
A thousand tops to fling open,
A thousand repositories for light and legend
Or perhaps he never gave it so much as a second thought,
No way to know now, one supposes,
Though if anything out of the ordinary had come his way,
We would’ve probably heard.