Odysseus struggles needs to prove to himself world he is talented painter determined to achieve recognition goes from art dealer to art dealer seeking support one dealer says Schwartzpilgrim stop changing settle on 1 style you can be known for what you’re doing now is good stick with it call me in 6 months with 300 drawings just like these another dealer says Odys you must learn great art is a **** beneath bed sheets another dealer says Modigliani knew how to paint flesh paint like Modigliani you need to learn more about painting Schwartzpilgrim you’re too young inexperienced another dealer says thank you for your interest in our gallery we’re not taking on any new painters at this time Odysseus knows there are people so much more talented better looking than him he feels inadequate intimidated

thinks to himself sister Penny is right female wish list is curse Bayli haunts she alone always be my ideal until i met Reiko Lee now Reiko Lee Furshe holds me captive i long for her voice eyes shoulders wiry delicateness crazy outrageous humor fiery ****** appetite i need to tear apart wish list leave myself open need to learn to seek inner beauty let anatomy fall where it will need to cultivate new standards it’s difficult to see with different eyes i am so biased how do i do this?

Odysseus muses with Reiko’s ghost 6 months since separation lights candles burns incense opens bottle of red wine pours glass for her and himself sips watches her glass while he makes toasts speaks elaborately of her beauty charm cites reasons why each of them does not need the other why couldn’t you have been the one? what is it about me you didn’t like? what did i do wrong? pours another glass begins talking louder ending in rage why aren’t you here? why? what went so terribly wrong? i love you where are you? how come you’re not here with me tonight? looks at her glass sees she has not even taken sip feels slightly drunk fearful he has sunk too deep  gets up staggers to bed sniffs blanket for traces of her tonight is their anniversary his only excuse

telephone rings sometime in late july hi it’s me Reiko how’ve you been Odys? he questions Reiko Lee? uh yes Odys it’s meee your stray puppy Reiko’s voice sounds playful tender Odys are you there? what’s up? let me come over **** and ******* please he speaks into receiver Reiko Lee is dead hangs up wonders if he has done right thing paces room writes a woman like that you tell yourself you do not need  ignore her deny her let her pass because if you admit how much you want her you become fugitive in chains running from dogs men with guns a woman like that is all you need a woman like that is motive seed chance of a lifetime a woman like that takes chances at twice your speed a woman like that keeps you guessing hoping waiting a woman like that leaves you destitute you cannot have her because she possesses you a woman like that is a wanted woman

decides to move finds new place blocks away apartment on lill street changes telephone number in his heart he knows nothing more thrilling beautiful than joyous girl yet he attracts women who seek abuse because they see themselves in him because he lets them try to mend his abused mind because he misuses them so well reaching finding joyous girl looms impossible breakup feeds venting bitter fires

the most dangerous woman eludes meall other women are too attainable chinese green tea gestapo limousine it doesn’t matter that you don’t understand that is the line darling dangling darjeeling your lips bleeding your ***** on fire imagine i am running sprinting in relay race just up ahead i’m about to pass baton this is life expectancy of poet indonesian cigarettes made of clove leaves i held your wrists pinned your fragile body to floor strummed you like guitar while other men looked on i knew one of them would take you next

miranda comes out on verandah with lemonade on hot summer day hair blows free in breeze leans back against beam softly hums inside time bomb ticks somewhere fly caught in room knocking itself against window ricocheting off corners  buzzing crisscross ceiling floor miranda sips just enough so lips are wet eyelids flutter like butterfly wings ******* swell in heat of midday sun she calls to us with hand stirs more sugar in lemonade late afternoon when fly is caught entangled in spider’s web buzzing is muffled ice has melted lemonade watery we are dozing in hammocks rocking chairs miranda is changing dress perfuming thighs crafting character in mirror screen door slams she looks up recognizing it is only wind sun is sinking orange ball spider crawls fixing aim grabs thread swings in for **** we are passed out in grass at dusk lights around verandah beam on miranda appears wearing low-neck dress with one strap down breath heavy with anise invites us inside giggling shyly as we follow timeless newsreel vision men hard at work war room spins as fly ***** desperately spider opens legs miranda lies arched on bed eyes weaving

he gets drunk loudly sings she must be some kind of witch flying in the wind she must be some kind of ***** to dig this grave i’m in he rhymes it was just another **** stunt forgive me for speaking so blunt she was just being a lady no need to get crazy it was just another **** stunt he scribbles she gets ****** hair styled eyebrows plucked nails done walks out new woman miss fox Mrs. G. Fox madame de faux meeting the girls for lunch wearing her pearls writing her name in swirls talking up a storm pack of women is worse than pack of hungry wolves wolves stop at carrion women carve combs out of bones

Cal is driving Odysseus sits in passenger seat heading to pit & pendulum for cocktails it is raining down hard Odysseus looks out beyond sweeping windshield wipers sees red cowboy boots the ones they found together at flea market there she is Reiko Lee Furshe arisen from wasteland Odysseus tells Cal to stop car turns to see her she is running across street his hand reaches for car door handle what’s happening? Cal demands are you there? i can’t stop cars behind me! this is crazy Odys what’s going on? i’m not stopping! Odysseus stares through rear window frozen watching her disappear behind red brick wall in pouring rain

ghost girl it’s difficult to write in comatose passage apart i am in theater of mirrors with empty seat beside me black hole inside me itinerary of fears i’m seeing dancer but haunted by you look in your eyes smell on your fingers clonking up stairs of your wooden clog shoes feelings we dared plans we knew might never come true la laahh la lay la lay dee la lady of shady lagoon weeping willow pisces moon like India ink you’ve left indelible stain i fumble in dark of empress’s tomb like necrophiliac i grip onto memory stroke ashes of you lantern licorice amethyst bone you are gliding in your canoe cutting through mist swirling whirlpools that untangle themselves behind you dancing nearer to flame la shady lady does pirouettes in rain

I wish to get this out in the open,
I wish to clarify something
I must confess something to those who care about my writing:

My sense of humour is... well...
If you know me in person, you know my sense of humour
or what could be errantly said
to be a sense of humour.

I draw heavily upon:
facetiousness, mythic interpretation, sarcasm, satire, excessive formality, irony, wordplay,
a somewhat predisposed tendency towards not taking most things entirely seriously
even and almost especially when I am 'supposed to',
resorting to profanity on rare occasions,
and quite simply and succinctly a ****** up world perspective
amassed over many years of living in this society
and from living with my late, similarly minded, brutally honest alcoholic Father,
in this society, nonetheless,
who in fact was at least quite ******* directly responsible for my aforementioned errant sense of humour.
If you knew him, you might say that I'm a "chip off the ol' block" in some ways,
but I know I'm quite ******* deviant from it in others.

So, to those of you who simply know of my existence via this digital outlet/public-sketchpad for my new-found passion of writing down every ******* thing I think it worthwhile to ponder again later, or perhaps even share with similarly minded, or at least accepting people; I wish to convey my deepest and most sincere pity, not in that it is anything that was your doing, just in that you can't possibly know my sense of humour and tasteless applications of irony and satire, and as such; I've probably offended some people.

However, for some anomalous reason,
some of you seem to like this stuff
So I'm going to keep it up.
If you read this: thank you,
but if you did not, then *******;
however, if you didn't initially read this but were later directed to it by me or by some other personage,
fictional or real,
or for some other reason happened across it,
I rescind the aforementioned "*******" in light of conveying my deepest and most sincere
"Thank you for putting up with my weird-*** *******."

I appreciate anyone who finds any value in my works.
I also appreciate the improbable nature of anyone liking my brain-*****.
I love creating and I love sharing my creations,
so when that all works out,
I'm ******* fit as a fiddle;
Giddy as a schoolgirl on Prozac;
Happier than a young necrophiliac who achieves his boyhood ambition of becoming coroner.

A firetruck races past the isolate Blue Fox and infinity. Dulcimer clatters fading brickwork on the cross markets and churches where blind men are the imagining heaven. Luminescent Volcanic leaves heated from sunfire beautiful in the Spring choke lanes which are battered by abstract cavern homes. What happened to the Orient Harpsichord Serenity? Where does the Blue Fox go? Incense Markets Sauna with Smoke are busy in Denpasar while I'm here at a North American shopping mall where Ivory Columns cradled in violet fauna do wait sturdy and enchanted in rows.
Here I'm waiting by the leather clay shade bench in silent meditation breathing community whispers and listening clear to water pour from the lionhead fountain. Parrots caw atop a wide gated ceiling facing Empyreus.

There is a fire in America. The Blue Fox is hidden beneath firs and palms bathing in humidity. The Blue Fox is writing prophecies of economic collapse and rampant pointless murders making the newspapers. Ash storms blazing while banana painted trucks row on row attend to Victorian wood panels cooling to onyx powder in too short a time. There is no room for learning when The End Times go too quickly.
I'm listening to Bob Dylan scream instrumental prayer on harmonica rough against my ears. The Blue Fox treads February Beaches a few hundred miles from Australia and whistling the words of flowers in his head. He chews on wheatgrass jangling change in his fur pockets like those cartoons. He is the vision of Bohemia, he is an active star dazzled in this beguiled galaxy, yet in his spine he carries the turmoil doppleganger kept by all and known by none.
The firetrucks are doing all they can to quell the lung-poison vase boiling an apartment dancing inside but it continues to grow in its enraged fury.

There's a fire in America boys and girls, come around and see.
Canoes of memorial gold row through oppression and genocide, the Inuits and First Peoples of ancient years are wondering too where the blue fox went when agony cries the air. Stories of wisdom replaced with stories of war. Balaclavas labyrinthine through  exotic Bazaars thick with music and plants hanging off fishhooks and brass coat hangers while I write and dream of such Valhallas in my shopping mall on a quiet afternoon.
Bill is playing the banjo with faded paint and a single broken string, there he is on Yates! Cowboy hat made of charcoal velvet holding a meager collection of change.  
Stephen Schizophrenia is lying on his back watching aluminum kingdoms hover on by expanding nimbus clouds. He has eleven dollars to his name along with a damaged half torn belt with his initials engraved on the buckle  He taps his feet to Edith Piaf howling "La Vie En Rose" while an Airplane collides with his sacred personal aluminum palace, suddenly he can't block out the repressed memories he's fought decades to hide deep and dark in his bleak jazz enthralled brains.

Maybe we're all supposed to fall apart. Maybe we're designed to hurt and cause hurt. Where is that ****** Blue Fox? He's ebullient, thoughts fragmented in sharp bliss glass cutting him through while he rolls around the sands catching Buddha particles in his paws digging holes on Kuta Beach to his Idyllic land where happiness is forever and therefore false.

The Blue Fox falls in love overwhelming with everybody and every soul. So many souls by the billions every place! Even the tyrants. Even the demons. Even the necrophiliac scoring an OD'd brunette at twenty six from Anaheim who collapsed flatlined by prescriptions on a 3rd floor Complex.
He adores the narcissist who loves everybody as fully as The Blue Fox as long as they are herself. She is the harmonic untainted flytrap unaware of its own venomous nature but jealous of Summer and jealous of those whose names are heralded through generation to generation.
He adores The addict who is hollow of everything but the ****** sizzling under his patchy skin while he sinks from divinity swelling through his heart. He smiles while the remaining light dies inside him, left with only the regret remedies of suicide.
He adores The artist who fled to the big City and became nothing but watered down pigment after the Capitalists tossed him off the nearest skyscraper shouting pretentious metaphors.

The Blue Fox loves them all! He has no concept of the corrupt, or the lazy, or the greedy and needy and crazy and forgotten. They are all equal to him! The Blue Fox is knelt on paisley carpet smooth and spectacular! His regular India ashram, uplifting his body and his mind. The blue fox knows no doubt. Or anxiety, frailty or tears. He has no impulse or desire. The Blue Fox is joy in form and breathing spectrums of color mixing to combinations we cannot perceive.

There is a fire in america. It rages on unstoppable. It engulfs countries thousands of miles and histories away. It swallows the morning, noon and night. It protrudes disease in its wake. It heats up the ozone layer allowing radiation to make us more than cancer the zodiac. It causes our terror. It blots out our ardor. It havocs our heroes. Nothing is clean anymore. There is a fire in America.

And America is the world!  I'm watching out the front doors of this shopping mall where an elderly man trips at the food court escalator and becomes more renowned with every lethal collision down the tiles of freedom. Paramedics arrive shortly after and attend to another scalded by that same fire.
Up and up it goes!

arms rip away at this skeletal heart without question:
a useless muscle that means nothing to me if i can't hold you.

open up your eyes, beloved.
just because i'm dead doesn’t mean
i can’t love you in this bed
during the night.

for today imagine that this is mutual.
that i am not a ghost and you are not
bound to sunsets with men that don’t
share my exact eye color.

let me lie to you. explain that i don't
******* to shadows ******* anymore,
cross my heart and hope to die.
(i hope you remember that
a heart can beat and still
long for grave-sites).

i know this isn’t a coffin
because i am burning
and you are always here at my side.

pull me up from this
necrophiliac-night-club
and we'll go on

as if you've never found those
maggots in my sock drawer.

i promise.

you say
"youre a ******* fool, red"
and i say
yes i ******* am
for talking to you again
only an idiot
would trust the words of a boy on the internet

you are sweet boy, ryan
sweet like a wolf who wants his way
sweet like a bird of
prey

i will not let you cut a piece of my arm away
again
even after three years
the old ones are still red
no more messing with my aching head
im already dead
what could you possibly want from me
this time?

Under the sepulchre where my heart beats slowly,

There lies a necropolis where the dead lay glowing.

-

The undercroft beneath my ribs inhales frailty.

The tombstones of the truth here reminisce of failing.

-

An Acolyte to the corpse of Babylon,

The basilica spire, lies thereon,

A whisper of what had there been,

Before the Plague, the demise of Men.

-

A Monk to the infected Abbott,

The cathedral drowning in the cab’net:

The darkening secrets, too much to let go,

The flowing blood, too much for the snow.

-

A Coquette to the blistering Brothel

The modern meretricious hostel,

Lays Her cradled head down to rest,

The false hopes of a Prince, there infest.

-

The memory of a malignant massacre,

The Cancer spread like fungus on cadavers,

He tried to scream with no chords to make

The sounds emitted to keep the worms away

-

A Father of a Failure, afraid of the mirror,

As well as his own damnable creator.

The dissolution thereafter commences,

Although none change his recompenses.

-

The Leader of a glorious tribe there fallen

Rotting, decaying, like the rest of the solemn

With all respect, I know not His name

Forgotten in time, as was His fame

-

A “Friend” to a Martyr turned to a Betrayer,

Betrayer embroiled terms of the conveyor.

Martyr’s eyes and entrails are now long gone,

Though not with time, his head absent along.

-

A Dread-Worker to His mortuary,

His concept of death one day did vary,

Found were His diaries of a necrophiliac,

The town had him drawn, and quartered at that.

-

A Navigator of the salted sea,

He lays here now, bereft of memory;

It took His ship, the rocky cove,

His body here, His soul with Jones.

-

A Prophet of a fictional God,

He said he’d save the sacred sod,

And yet no miracle ever made He

His followers putrid now, festering.

-

The Violinist to His melody,

Forgot to eat, His mortal form craving,

Developing the perfect serenade,

He fell starving ‘fore having writ the last grade.

-

There is no judgement among the dead,

Except for what we give unto them,

They sleep soundly, forever eternal

Caring not who lay next to them, fraternal

Are they, and with silent kindness

Accept those also sharing their blindness.

-

The piercing shallow eyes,

At least for those who still have them,

Lack vision of the sky,

Or of the flowers who up to it stem.

-

Under the sepulchre where my heart beats slowly,

I feel a chill inside my spine that takes advantage fully,

The necropolis has inner bliss

It lies under ground and in our midst.

It's time I write a morbid verse
Of a necrophiliac's scent
A love sonnet in a dark hearse
The way sick, evil love is meant

It's sure something to remember
The cold night shaped the mood sedate
'twas an eve of dark December
Beauty lured me to procreate

Though cold and stiff, love's not inept
Melody's morose symphony
I do believe with joy she wept
Dead, she deserves no sympathy

I swore...

your death would not stop me loving you.

I hunger for the blade against my skin
Like a necrophiliac lusts for
Cold decaying flesh

I need the blade to feel the rush
Like an addict needs
A shot of ****** racing through their veins

I want to see the blood
Like a murderer stares in amazement
At his latest masterpiece, all gore and guts

I met you yesterday
And I fell in love
Like nothing I have ever felt before.
Love at first sight never existed.
Until you stepped into mine.

…

…

…

…

And got ran over by a car.
Blood running down your chest.
Spattering from your mouth, and nose.
Staining the street a dark scarlet.
Like a flood.

…

…

…

…
You always wore all black.
So I wore that to your funeral.
You looked so dead.
Not peaceful at all.
But I was still in love.

…

…

…

…
I wanted to get with you.
But that’s impossible.
I’m not trying to be creepy.
But somehow you make
Dead look so good.

deep ocean steel
challenger deep steel
abyssal
like a bulkhead
behind the temple like lapis lazuli
fleeing something
the closest thing to life that isn’t living
i’ll put you up against my flesh
and compare and contrast
fleeting images of cold rainstorms
and flashes of light
flashy blade
from far away, a signal
candid steel
lucid steel
halcyon
mute sensations in a cathode ray tube
except in exactitude unmatched
and louder than the loudest
vocal cord vibration
and silent too, not a breath
escapes the hostage
with steel against its trachea
unsolicited speed
home run
thrown into the wall stud
luxurious scentless tasteless
and so rich and tasteful and sensual
if I’m in love with you steel,
I must be a necrophiliac
or not

Chivalry is dead
and it was killed by the fairer ***
lipstick red cigarette butts
and wine glasses
squeezing the trigger
to complacency
and if romance is dead
then I guess I'm a necrophiliac
because I still believe in the chase
and the grand gestures
and don't tell my male friends
but I cling to the stories of true love
like a kid too stubborn to believe
that Santa is really just old ma and pops
blown out in a haze of smoke
the dust cleared to clarify
that crazy chaotic chances
won't always land on snake eyes
but I keep throwing the die anyway
and one day I'll die
and then I'll die a second time
when my words die
and maybe I'll be proven wrong
and be alone
but I won't stop
I can't be an atheist
because I understand all too well
the depth of the well of faith
so I'll keep on walking like a blind man
carrying my romances around with me in a hobo sack
until I find what I'm looking for

Humans are ****** up.
We search and search for the approval of others.
     We coordinate clothes in order to get "that image."
     We make our music selections based on what everyone else is listening to.
     We don't shower because hygiene is so uncool.
     We starve our selves to get concaving clavicles.
     We boast of the ***** and drug abuse in order to appear "hard."
Why?
     Who cares what he/she is wearing if it makes them feel good?
     Why give two ***** if they don't know that band, it doesn't make them inferior or you superior?
     ******* shower, if you don't shower for own personal enjoyment then power to you but because "greasy hair is in" isn't acceptable because I can tell you, it's not.
     Collarbones aren't hot or romantic, the only thing deep about them is the depth, very few people like to cuddle skeletons, maybe necrophiliacs but if you want to cuddle a necrophiliac then good luck to you.
     Being a heavyweight, smoking ****, cigarettes, hard drugs aren't ******* cool. If you do them then do it for yourself and not because you want other people to know you do them.
Riddle me this,
     If we accepted ourselves for the clothes we wear, the choices we choose, the body we've been bestowed, and everything we are, then would we need others' approval?
    Is having an image all that great? Think about it, your image in the mirror, you dissect it until you want to change almost everything about yourself.
    I understand that I am the worst hypocrite of them all because I have yet to approve of myself but that's me. I accept that. Can you?

Condolences,
Today is the day,
Dangerous circumstances,
Are soon on their way.

From the brains in your head,
To the feet in your shoes,
You are soon to be beat,
And you're soon to be bruised.

You'll have blood on your head, crusted into your hair,
No wounds will ever heal, not the cuts or the tears,
With your head leaking brains and red stained white cleats,
The athletes will beat you while you're out on the street.

They'll touch all of your ups,
And they'll touch all of your downs,
From the back to the front,
From the tip to the crown.

They'll open you there,
Wide open and bare.

Outside things will happen,
They will continue to do,
Things that mess with your head,
Because you are a Jew.

And when things will happen,
Don't worry, don't stew,
Just go along with,
Whatever happens to you.

OH!
THE ****'S YOU'LL MEET!

You'll be up on your way,
To see some pretty sights,
Then a **** will show up,
And knock out your lights.

You'll lag behind, because you don't have the speed,
The whole gang will jump you, they'll do it, indeed,
Wherever you go, you'll fight the best of the best,
They'll use their fist to rip your heart out your chest.

Except when they don't,
Because sometimes they won't.

They will be high or drunk or maybe just blue,
They'll be so sad and depressed, they'll do nothing to you.

They will either hang themselves,
or pray in the church,
They will put down their weapons,
and stop the search.

Upon leaving the church,
You'll surely feel a thump,
And chances are then,
That you've just been ******.

A special kind of ****,
That will leave you stunned,
While it's up in the ****,
You'll scream, "This isn't fun!",

You'll feel the reaming of Muhammad and Mark,
One is a light skin, and the other, rather dark,
They'll tear through your **** like it isn't a sin,
Then they'll turn you around and take you for a spin,
And a slurp, and a choke, until the stuff drips down your chin.

When they finish, will you have the strength to fight,
Or will you barely be able to tell left from right,
You'll be so dizzy that you think you might be blind,
It must have been too much ramming from behind,
After they're done, they'll keep you in prison confined.

You will get so confused,
While they're booming the bass,
Riding you faster, at such a neck-breaking pace,
Riding the throat then spilling all over the face,
Then they leave you in shock, in this dark humid place,
Dark... humid... place...

...just waiting and waiting,
As the seasons come and go,
And cars will come and go,
And people come and go,
Some people ask, "Are you okay?",
and you say, "No.",
You continue to just wait.

Wishing that you were just white,
Instead of a Jew that gives off a fright,
To every non-Jew and hater despite,
Religion or if they're dead or awake,
So you still lay there in anguish and ache,
You'll soon get the nerve to pull up your pants,
And then you'll walk south until you reach France,
Every step is a throbbing pain in your ***.

NO!
YOU WILL NOT GIVE UP!

Somehow you'll escape,
The praying then spraying,
Removing all hope,
Whatever was remaining.

As you leave Germany,
you will say goodbye,
But you were too loud,
And you were stopped by a guy.

The man screams out, "HAULT!", as you begin to run,
And now you realize that the great chase has begun,
As you are running away, you trip and you fall,
Still wanting to flee, away you sluggishly crawl,
You feel the mans hands grab so you beg and you plea,
You loosen the grip, stand, then pinned against a tree.

Rammed into the wood,
Knocked out, this is no good.

I'm afraid you'll be caught,
And chopped up in a stew,
This is bound to happen,
No matter what you do.

Very Dead!
Whether you like it or not,
Dead will be something,
You'll be in the ***.

And when you are dead, there's a very good chance,
That a necrophiliac will find romance,
He'll steal your body with his swiftness and brawn,
You'll make him say, "I do want life to go on!".

On he will go,
With his moaning and growls,
On he will go,
Stretching right towards your bowels,
On he will go,
Like a wolf he will howl,
He will awkwardly peck,
With his mouth like a beak,
Upon the great hole,
In which he took a leak.

On and on he'll strike,
Until all the white tar,
Comes out of his *******,
Dirtying his new car.

He doesn't own a horse,
But a car you can blow,
Because there are thirty *****,
Hanging off the window,
And the wheels are some *****,
That are hardened and cracked,
This is a normal car,
This car isn't abstract,
This car doesn't run on gas so it's quite the heft,
When it's pushed up hills with hands of the deft.

So... will you bleed?
Will you beg and plead?
(This Is Actually Zero Percent Guaranteed)

JEW! YOU ARE IN CHARGE!

This is your life, your way,
You're able to seize the day,
You can go to all places,
You can choose to leave or stay,
So please do what you wish,
And your life will be great.

1
Once you go necrophiliac
You NEVER go back



2
******* look at this *** on this one
The things i wouldnt do to her
I'd love to just bend her over
something and pound the...

Hey
Thats my wife you idiot

Oh
Sorry dad