I'm neurotically yours
It's impossibly true
All of my alter egos and I
Are madly in love with you

I'm crazy about you baby
The voices in my head tell me you're the one
(Of course, they also tell me God is in the numbers,
And that Doctor Oz is Satan's favorite son.)

I love you so much it's bad for my health
My reflection says I should seek professional help
But he's the one who ought to see a shrink
I never have any idea of what he's talking about

I can't keep track of who's said what,
Or when, or how, or where
Sometimes I talk to you out loud
Even when you're not really there

It's all those smiles that drive me wild
And the things you do with your hair
And the deep understanding I see in your face
As if you may actually care

I love you more than a narcissist loves himself
More than a poet loves words
I love you more than life itself
Baby, I'm neurotically yours

England played today, what a ****-up grandiose style, glass bottle like hail flew down on Marseilles, water-canons, all kinds of crowd dispersers, true grit on the former great, now belittled, nation-state in d' hood reduced to a pitch with 20 idiots running around kicking about Charles' 1st head, and too fidgety skeletons tagged to A.S.B.O.S. tags playing puppets in a rectangle... i stopped watching the match for a cigarette break, the free-kick went in, Saturay, Tesco closing at 10pm, i took to wearing an Australian Open t-shirt, i've never seen so many funerals drinking a beer on my way home - prior it it was all gorilla chanting and Tarzan... i only learned of Tsar Putin dipping his ***** in the **** of Crimea a few minutes later.

your typical Saturday night, next door  neighbour's
trying out an alt. Y.M.C.A. with disco funk,
i guess it spreads easily this day, feel the grooves
or lined Rodin - ape-**** up my *** -
music so loud coming from my neighbour's canopy
i should be asking for canapés - after all Euro 2016
kicked off, scarf-hooligans of Moscow made
Marseilles home-turf , two Brits at the draw
in hospital, faces kicked-in, real bulldogs,
asthmatics at the end of it - conversation turned into a tour
of the Cairngorms or the western outlets...
a lot of Scottish impromptu with **** **** freckles!
gee ginger! aye fucky ***** ****!
Anglo users love interchanging the vowels for emphasis
to differentiate geographic regions -
but this one book review got me -
entitled ***** state by a feminist -
the ugly child abusing father is a punter -
listen, if it were't for prostitutes i'd be a priest
7 years in, acne on my Richie, one ****** in,
kiss on the mouth several times, hell, the guilt trip,
poor boy poor girl, skin cream lubrication,
talk of doctor's appointments, ******* a *****,
i'd get the Scandinavia model if the girls weren't fickle,
the hand is hardly a plastic surgeon of the female
genitalia ***** - bony M... you must be talking
about ******* - ***** M...
Jesus no more the son of god than the patron saint
of prostitutes... the poor guy feels the aches of touch
while the rich boys sushi off a stripper in Billions...
i don't have strong dialectical encouraging to dispute
or discuss - i too am too blame, ask my dermatologist...
so my neighbours threw a party,
on the set-list?
Cheryl Lynn - Got to Be Real; Oliver Cheatham,
Get Down Saturday Night; Edwin Starr - Contact;
and then the one off from One Direction - History -
the DJ suddenly experiences the jitters neurotically
changing songs before they finish - midwestern horror,
Ohio or Iowa hammer masscare, excerpt from
Pink Floyd's anti-fascist anti-educationalist march,
dangly on the Cenotaph -
persona qui umbra-grata (person agreeably welcome
as a shadow) - yep, me and the ex_machina routine...
i know the feminist argument smocking pipe handy
clean for more pages, but ever hear a ******* ******
or laugh with you? if i didn't use up the profession
i'd be the buying type abusive father forever,
who the **** needs **** trips when the moment can please
twos? i'd be up against a Cosmopolitan Magazine Quizzes...
the "perfect boyfriend" types, later coverage in
psychological advice columns... but wait...
all that ******* advice about something being indestructible
in us, about us, beginning with this keen appeal to
atheism already defaults a logic behind the essential
characteristic of the existence pertaining to a psyche -
by destroying god we also resolved to more easily disqualify
the in-destructibility of the soul,
constrained, a study of noumenons, with logic application,
as if with the omni- prefix to the non-essentials of god -
logic destroyed the compatible qualification of soul
ownership, reduced, it gave us the advent of prayer
and the necessity of a god, rather than our selves,
via souls - something without deductive parameters to
cursor and pre- of the experience quickened to
argument with dis- and later -qualificatio;
the кaцaпс fought with Mongols... you think there's
a fair bet for your hooliganism in Marseilles?
well... it all boils down to two identifiers of nationalism:
parade with the royal family near St. James' park
or gut a pig in the south of France...
Wales will not bow this time, given that they're
not getting paid for their national pride dribble,
they'll ******* up... make more adverts with your superstars...
strange that, well, America has idiosyncratic sports,
i never understood the cheese-ball of oval either to the throw -
yes, baseballs makes more sense than cricket,
but you have to understand rugby before you
start crowdsurfing your *** in nappies -
the high expression of nationalism is so Joker-faced
with the Windsor ******, nationalism and a king never match
up to how Mao or ****** would have it...
and the alternative is football hooliganism...
i walked for my whiskey and beer just after the 75th minute,
along the way i met so many funerals, donning my
Australian Open T-Shirt... well, you, know,
a different type of spectator sport - i heard the rabbis
of the oval where deemed cricket tourists when kicking
a penalty through the H architecture -
cricketers are tourists, oval jerker-offs are Wallabies...
Australia in the Eurovision song-contest... oh yeah,
i'm mad... mad about Abba.. Matt in Memphis,
an Eve Cassidy moment, Sia's chandelier cover-up,
the truest form of plagiarism - the cover is better
without all the computing morphings...
oh sure, i could play the dating game...
9 years in and i had two authentic ***** in my day...
one was a black single mum who took me back
to her flat in Stratford, dragged her baby girl from the bed
to the floor, and her baby son, didn't want me to
penetrate her, tucked my **** in between her thighs,
i stopped, was woken by her son in the middle of the night,
took him and laid him on my chest and we fell asleep...
so yeah, prostitution is ALL BAD... coming from a theorist
who hasn't experienced the drudgery of lives "unexpected"
via eventualities akin to Chernobyl... given that the most
paranoid nation scared and scaring others concerning
a nuclear holocaust is the only one to set two off... two!
Pearl Harbour was an army attack on an army base...
what the Americans did was just a very quick Holocaust.

What if  we had roots deep down to the centre of luck –
wouldn’t we be laughing about rain and tears
and wouldn’t we keep growing if we embroidered
our thoughts with roots and luck.
What if the fruit at the end of the twig was happiness, without a question mark.
Wouldn’t we chuckle about the empty space in our mind?
How could we stop?
What if, instead of connecting dots we overdrew parentheses and footnotes with smileys and flowers and purring cats;
What if science and pain only existed
as cuddly monsters with toothache in children's books;
What if we found a rabbit’s hole leading us into a world where psychiatrists and gurus were nervous patients
in big waiting halls without flushing toilets.
Wouldn’t we be neurotically smiling?
What if we didn’t call ourselves falling leaves,
but started feeling eons of love upon our wrinkles.
Wouldn’t death then simply be a slight breeze
releasing the heat at the end of a wonderful day?
What if our hearts went on, free of age and weight,
circulating kindred songs beyond fixed identities.
What if I was wrong and every conditional was closer
to experience than arguments and miracles –
My dear: I unlocked the universal laughter;
I turned sadness into luminous gardens, into a slow waltz
to hear the non-dancers saying: Cheers! Cheers! Cheers!  
What if we finally found the recipe for equilibrium:
Would we still be needing stock markets and currencies?
Or could we simply exchange syllables across languages
without losing the message of oneness.
What if we really had roots deep down to the centre of luck?
Yes. Roots and luck.

I

Fanciful and then the first notice of
suspended mouth corners,
fleeing gravity with invisible strings,
sloppily synchronize in giggles.

II

A glance at the shore horizon,
widening into chasm,
Erebus leaking
ominously—
oh but the raft
is far too small!
oh and flimsy!
surely the shadows
will ravage
the branches
and pull this
neurotically
euphoric contraption
below.

III

glazed malfunction
blurred and hazed
for lack of clarity
billowing surges
mold as magnets inandout
and in andoutandinandout again

fades in before
melting again to
disjointed gestures
in a multicolored backdrop

IV

Skeletal architectures
return from a hysterical
awareness of ****** intricacy—
And discussion is,
of course,
forever precluded
for fear of relapse
and embarrassment.

I always believed scars were so beautiful,
until I became one.
A walking, breathing, talking scar - an unchanging reminder of what was and what shall never be again.

I became the scar reminiscent of our love- or rather my love because you were the definition of unrequited
and I used to like that about you - your unwaveringly selfish nature, I used to accredit it to your self belief but then I realised you got that from stripping away mine.
Bit by bit you became who you were by chipping away at pieces of my soul.
Catching the dust of all my dreams and beliefs in your hands and then sifting through it to get what you needed.

Some days you needed a lover.
You needed the heat of my hands raw against the planes of your back- which I had studied in such a neurotically engrossed manner-that surprised even you.
Other days you needed a slave, bent upon raw knees to serve your every whim
and not in a ****** sense because you made it clear that I was repulsive to you most of the time.
No,
you needed someone to serve you and worship at the temple that was your being. You needed a women to be enslaved to your love. You needed to be served and ushered and elevated with no emotional connection. You needed an unchanging commitment that only served you.  

You see, I was forever trying to be what you needed and in that attempt-that feigned attempt at what I used to believe was love, I lost myself. Wading through parts of you that you didn't even care to understand I lost myself.
Raw on my knees.
Wading barefoot through your soul.
Between the sheets- crawling towards you milimeter by milimeter only for you to move further each time.
Tracing the planes of your burning back.
That's when I lost myself,and became a scar. Evidence of all the times you hurt me in a marvelously unflinching and unforgiving way...

All of which I realised when I was destitute.
You see you used to be my home but then the season of our love expired and you threw me out and as I walked the streets of my new life, navigating what it meant to exist without you, I had an earth shatteringly glorious ephiphany - that loving you and being destitute were the same thing.

So here I am. A scar that walks and talks and breathes and the great thing about this scar is that I'm evidence of a healed wound. I am no longer raw from loving you and I am no longer lost. I'm a *** who smiles with no teeth.

I am guilty of projecting. I will turn you into a goddess
in my mind to deal with the anxiety of
the fact that you might actually like me. I will like you back,
to an extreme; to the point where it's scary,
so that you'll stay away from me.
"Oh yea, watch out for that one. He's crazy."

Vain girls are attracted to it.
They like the way I paint them in my dreams.
As if fulfilling their own of becoming some sort of
Aphrodite. They build their confidence off of my idolatry.
I've seen it go to their heads.
It makes me kind of sick.

I will use you. The fantastical female;
my muse. You inspire my more neurotically infused
writings, and give fire to my self-abuse.

A few times, I've gotten the one I desired. Always through my words.
Forced to deal with discrepancies between fantasies and the truth, I fall apart.
Invariably, they were emotionally damaged;
prone to crying. I'd give them my shoulder and wrestle with the thoughts
that I'd fallen for a girl so much like my mother.
**** you, Freud.

Now I know better, but I can't fight my nature.
So I've embraced it. Taken it to new heights. Turned it into an art form.
Mentally magnified mistress, watch this:
I will take everything you've ever said (which I cannot forget)
and reflect it back at you through my poetic psychotic lens
Freaky, is it not?

But it's also kind of fun.
If you can appreciate the irony,
then I think you might be the one.

Anything could go wrong at
Any time for
Any one for
Usually no reason at all

That’s why I neurotically say always be careful.

Things can be
Repaired or
Replaced

But with lives there are
No do-overs
No take backs
And no telling what could happen
At any moment

Once a life is extinguished its
Gone
And you can never get them back
And you can never say you’re
Sorry
And you’ll never see them again
Never tell them how absolutely much you
I love you

Never tell them to pick up milk on their way
Home
Never tell them about a new song you heard and
Dance around the kitchen looking like fools
Until you catch each others eyes and fall over laughing
In a heap on the ground
Struggling for breath

When you wake up from a dream
Good dream, bad dream
The feeling of excitement or fear is replaced
By nothing at all
Just a sudden drop in your stomach
When you realize there’s no one to tell

No one to laugh at the absurdity of dreams
Or to comfort you from the darkness of nightmares



No one to make tea with in the middle of the night
Or an over complicated recipe for dinner
Or pancakes for breakfast
Or smores by a fire

To tell you that you look fine
Or ridiculous in what you’re wearing
That you have paint on your face
And twigs in your hair

That you are wonderful
And you are loved
And everything will be ok
Even when you’re not sure you want it to be

Tell them everyday
You love them
And believe them when they
Love you too
And ignore their cries of protest
When you say a little too often
Please be careful

when i woke up: are you ******* me?! or are you trying to tell a joke pretending to be Billy Crystal?

the word censored will hardly precipitate to
be a ****** of images,
you can censor as many words as you like,
to create this neurotically psychotic society,
enough warfare exposed to the populace of
civilians and you end up with civilians
internalising war, with not actual war taking
place, skirmishes, yes, but war on a
Napoleonic scale? no. you have to attack civilians
to such an extent that they internalise what would
have been otherwise cannon by the name of Howitzer,
or a Автомат Калашникова (awtomat kalaschnikowa);
attacking civilians rather than waging smooth transitions
between two elite armies created artificial peace,
a bit like the holy grail of seeking artificial intelligence
in inorganic chemistry, rather than seeking to
bank on intelligence in organic bodies... silicone v.
carbon... all the way! if you wage war by violating
the orthodoxy of warfare with the heresy of
attacking civilians, you'll get peace for sure,
externally all will appear peaceful, but internally
you'll be creating civilian berserkers, perfectly suited
to the cut-throat dynamics of capitalism,
"selfish" gene and all, they're as good apologists
as the *allahu akbar brigade, but instead of using
a whole ruler to smack you over the head with,
they just use a centimetre of it...
this peace we're seeing in our current times is due
to the unorthodoxy, the heresy of warfare,
you attack an unarmed civilian you will subsequently
usurp traditional fields of war, you will internalise
conflict, you will create renegades without army
or comrade or general, all against all, and eventually
culminating in a schizoid i against i...
the psychiatrist Laing was wrong to subscribe to reasons
of a post-colonial nature, he was already the *******
and self-defeating: only i'd would like to think more
of a Scot, but he's an example of a union that worked...
the Welsh were never kindred of the Scots in wanting
rebellion... no William Wallace among them...
it's this broken rule of warfare that exposed the public
to internalise it... but what were you expecting...
there we have guerilla warfare, random, chaotic free
and then we have the straight lines of regiments,
sitting turkeys firing 30 metres apart from each other...
how warfare became so idiotic the soldiers decided
it was necessary to shove war into civilians,
we have actually become impregnated without
really bothering to notice the impregnation disguised
in masquerade of what capitalism offers us:
the many distractions and chances to spend money
with even billionaires succumbing to philanthropy
given their 20 toilet to number mansions...
so if you find certain words offensive i'm asking you:
why did i build up a verbum account of a rich
vocabulary... when i see you readied to censor me
and then sit there, watching police violence
like a ******* touchdown in a football match?
well... if it ain't dementia, then it must be dyslexia.

I'm sitting on the carpet of my rented room
Swatting neurotically at gnats and fleas that may
Or may not
Actually be there,
On my arms and on my face.
The only proof are the little red bites,
Up my left arm and across the bottom of my chin, where they stop.
As if my blood boils while I sleep, leaving little red marks to show that I need to
Chill out
Calm down
De-stress
But I'm
in distress,
Destroyed.
I need a higher up.
I need a voice that speaks with more experience,
With firm understanding,
With the knowledge of everything.
And I can't seem to find it in Bibles, Torahs, Quarans, or other holy scriptures.
I only hear it whisper from old history textbooks,
I hear it only
Chiming softly like drowned out cymbals from the radio talk
I only see it peripherally in my rear view mirror,
Can only taste it as an after taste of many drinks.
It is ribonucleic acid,
It is thymine, guanine, adenine, and cytosine.
It is the carpet of my rented room.

I am double the age I was, in my darkest hour,
When nothing seemed to be, quite right,
When I gazed extensively into the depths
Of my abyssal dark brown eyes, only to fall
Desperately in love with my Self and realise,
No one could ever care for me
As much as I.

I am double the age I was, in my darkest hour,
When nothing seemed to be, quite right,
When I stared neurotically at my surroundings,
Observing my likes, breathing human beings,
Their pain, their strength, their cruelty.
None of it was good enough, for me,
Too much love, too much pain, too much grief.

We were too much, of a marvellous creature
To deserve living in anguish and gloom.

I am double the age I was, in my darkest hour,
When nothing seemed to be, quite right,
When I survived my own death and will,
And decided to love all, as much as I love I.

The green of my veins
Shivers at the touch
Of your sleek fingers
Often I wander unarmed
In the mystic blue haven
Of your clear eyes.
Vulnerable, held prisoner
Ramshackled in your custody;
When finally our lips brush together
Yours as soft as rose petals
Of a rose newly slithered
From an unrequited bud
And like a floating lost dandelion
I fall in your ravenous embrace
Our souls slip into each other's
Tearing the curtains of shame
Aloof from the miseries of reality
Flooding in madness
Deeply, truly, neurotically
Drunk in love.......

~Manu M.

Our Congresspeople get rich
No matter how much you *****.
They do it again and again
Because fools voted them in.
You can’t make them stop
Because we don’t have a cop
That works for our side in DC.
We can’t call this the land of the Free.

It’s the land of gouge and overcharge;
Of money laundering crooks at large,
Calling themselves patriots and stealing.
There seems to be no thieving ceiling.
Rave and threaten and lie about it
There seems to be no doubt about it.
We are in the clutches of the greedy
Who fashion themselves as the needy.

And like some Middle Eastern nuts
They are constantly showing their butts.
They commit their crimes daily
Then go about almost gaily
Pointing at the victims they harmed
And claiming the poor are armed
Then trying to take away our rights.
They’re the people that rob us at night.

Yes, they are the crooks and now
They don’t even have to explain how
Because a third of our voters are dolts
Who have no concept of the nuts and bolts
Of the complex offices that lead us.
We’re in the hands of jerks that bleed us.
Once this nation was something great.
I hope we fix this before it’s too late.

They don't know the bubbleheads the ones
They don’t really know what they’ve done
Is a simple matter once we dissect it.
And what they really need to do about it.
They wring their hands as they are *******,
And neurotically grab at an attitude;
Then blame anybody else for their misery.
It’s a frightening case of mistaken identity.

you can
read my poetry
in the breaths i take to cry
short,
gasps.
you can
read my poetry,
as neurotically
as my nightmares on a hot summer night.
it is poetry,
not the national anthem.

r.c.

Scratch the itch
You start to slip
Drawn into whatever
They tune you in

There's only a few
Like you, they know
But you're paying them
For ignored lies

You're just cattle
Waiting in line
Condemned a thinker
And you don't even have the wit to act

**The cynic is strong. But the cynic is weak.
The cynic is strong. But the cynic is weak.
Vibrating neurotically in the vacuum of tyranny. Let the animal out of his cage.

It's a complicated world
ruled by pain and fear
Everything's 'will you swim
or will you fade'
the smallest things
hold us back
the madness outside
these walls
are nothing compared
to what's within my halls

Brain traffic: s/o confused
grid-locked & neurotically fused
Drain my Soul
Brain traffic: over/used
fear-****-fed till your dead
then Life's on hold
it's all Inside your head
BRAIN DEAD.

:: 03.27.2020 ::

So judge me.
For everything I am.
My pain. The juggling game
And lines drawn
So neurotically in sand...
With ammunition
Meant for judgement...
I stand. What's left
Beneath the cover of a man....
My feet like butter
In their hands...
I sleep like something
From insanity...
And cant feel cuts
That scuffs my hands...
And all the while
My smile unfaded
Draw  the nuts
On every hand....
But poker hurts my ******* guts
So just try
To dummy up
And love me as I am