Society, the embodiment of human securities
Is in reality the stark confirmation  
Of a conglomerate of screaming insecurities
Begging….its leaders….fervent introspection

Bending logic is an art perfected by all
Regardless of creed class or stature
No wonder the walk is seemingly a hard laboured crawl
Culminating into deep exposed…psychological sutures

**Beings are bedevilled by a roving myopia
Craving a farfetched grandiose utopia
That’s why a bespectacled cynicism
Is ironically of essence…to neutralise a deep rooted parochialism

i hope you're happy, wherever you are, with what you are doing.
you do not know that i am not, and i both cannot change it
and would not even if i could - this is who we are now.
we have drifted apart and while you have found an island and
invited all our friends, nobody speaks to me and the saltwater burns my skin.
i am sorry for what i said, but not for what happened -
i just wish it had happened differently. i am sorry for telling you
how i felt when i had never done so before - it was new to you.
you must understand that while i hate how things are now,
i cannot regret much - i do not mean to sound callous,
but rather i want to, just once, tell the truth - while am lonely, i am free.
you may not realise the toxicity of your words as they caress your tongue
but they burned my skin with their acidic touch
and dissolved my soul into something i neither recognised nor liked.
i wish you all the best, and you'll remain a part of me,
but now i cannot bear to see your face because i have seen
what it looks like under the mask of lipstick smiles and sharp eyeliner
and the truth of who you were to me, and made me be, is terrifying.
still, while you made me something i cannot be while keeping myself,
you made me smile and feel something akin to ... happiness, i suppose;
so i watch you take away what i have left without resentment -
i know you feel you need revenge, and i will not be the one
to keep your closure from you when i am finding mine.
this is the last present i can still give to you now that i'm gone.
i hope the spring air washes the poison off your tongue,
and that you can be happy with the people who loved me once;
i hope you can find enough happiness to neutralise the acidic hate
that made me leave a person i loved so immensely behind.
i have never been the one who left, but i cannot go on.

In my fairy garden
the bubbles fly so high
they blow into the atmosphere
and neutralise the sky

My fairy bubbles help my skin
they soften and they glow
they transmutate the sea-life
till extinction bids them "Go"

My lovely fairy bubbles
take my washday blues away
they saunter down my plughole
and drift into the bay

They poison and they modify
with each outgoing tide
They brighten up the logos
in the land of paranoid

Well my whites are so much whiter
since I bought my fairy friend
I give no **** for politics
I flush it round the bend

My clothes must be the cleanest
like the ones on my T.V.
A speck of dust a fleck of mud
is social leprosy

So lets all use our faries
and wash our blues away
let's forget about the ocean
and the price that we must pay

As the sea-life gets much rarer
from the toxic fairy sludge
ask yourself some questions
give your conscience a little nudge

This is the land of plenty
for all and not just one
Your cleaning and your preening
are blotting out the sun

"......for hands that do dishes
may one day grab your throat....
....buy Mind-Need-Fancy-Snake-****....."

hardly, it's offensive to see the correct spelling of f&&&, but not so much the sight of a page 3's *******... if only english had an orthographic dimension, they''d appreciate the graffiti joke in poland: ****, i.e. the correct version being chuj, and the wrong alternatives: huj, hój, chój... but then i find that english is a language regarding dyslexia... since it has no orthographic rules, since it applies no diacritical markers to form a rubric, which means; minus the orthographic graffiti joke; oh, right, and poland has what england doesn't, homeless dogs, and feral cats that occupy graveyards; truly, miles apart. personally, i still think the orthographic "wrong" aesthetic of huj looks better than the "correct" orthography... just as a metal-works factory huta, will always look better than chuta; both are a haa haa - even though that ch = h ought to own some grapheme symbol, mentioned later, with the german s / z.

one of those dead-funk *******...

what? i end reading more book reviews
than actual books,
i haven't the time,
            i'm about to admire a mighty sunset
and i don't require a flaubert to tell me
of salon mannerisms of french ladies in waiting
to boot...
    ****-facing, fracking the next
******* of a shooga-daddy-oh...
                    and thank **** that my hand
feels like doing ****,
taking a dump and doing a ***** roger handshake
never felt so good, as it did,
  when it was performed.
apparently massaging your **** by
straining it into an opening while jerking off
is almost, but not quiet, the **** experience.
        oh right, books...
*swearing is good for you, by an emma byrne:
a neuroscientist...
sky's the limit!
               japanese - manko or plain dumb
****...
                kutabare - or drop dead;
i'm still wondering why the *** yuppies didn't
invent poker...
                 squint-eyed double enforcing the stoner
eye-contact... huh?
             ah, when it comes to swearing,
i was at a pyjamas party in edinburgh once,
you knoiw students, complete party freaks...
  i has by tartan pyjamas on,
and this exchange student walks up to me,
and starts to compliment me
on the noun kurva, yes, written as kurwa -
but in english that W? = a Ł -
              which means two is a churchill -
3s a kit-kat...
                         and if you know the antics
of experimentation, that means 3 fingers up a manko.
don't ask me how stretch armstrong got
involved... he just did.
              but imagine paying the
compliment on how the western slav
managed to not numb the R (akin to the
english) - or hark it (akin to the french) -
but encrusted the trill...
  he called the word kurva a genius
statement, akin to a tool, like a hammer...
he called it a cushioning effect -
the cushioning effect of the word kúrva -
               something akin to a boxing bag...
sooner will you throw a punch than
actually neutralise it with a word -
  and the necessary rattlesnake effect of the R...
     scheisse nimmer ******* es
                           (**** never cuts its)...
           mind you the word kurva is bound
to a tectonic shift in the use of language,
categorically speaking,
    it's not a noun...
    it's a conjunction...
                       a conjunction just shy of being
a punctuation mark.
   yet i'm still wondering what happened
to the oath in german, scheisse -
  well...
  there's the ß (sharp s, i.e. z and somehow
nearing sh - + it) -
  but scheisse exposes the german s /ch -
i.e. a soft s...
                              which out to be its own
individual grapheme -
and there actually are...
ch, dz, rz, cz, sz, sch, central european
graphemes...
with only ß to congregate on -
  and even then it's not an es zett -
  nor a sharp s, rather a double s -
like rudolph heß -
                            why aren't these sounds
turned into graphemes symbols?
aesthetic reasons?!
                hardly...
                             ­     i've seen english text
slang... the poles and the germans can hardly
make it uglier than c u l8er,
   i swear to god... we've his the wall,
and the test dummies are mumbling in
some form of english that only exists in
pixel paper, text, tech, techno,
             **** know what they call it -
it's most certainly peppered with the americanism
of acronym, e.g. b.s.,
                                        f.t.f. -
fatty *** ****...
                                you know the usual
spare me, dear lord!
                       and why is this all relevant?
the same reason i can jump off a hyena /
             gorgon of a *******,
jump into the bath and have a cold shower
while she watches me and masturbates -
  and we have our little ***** moment on mute...
        we keep our *** in the realm of
onomatopoeia, mostly vowels and one or two
consonants...
                  the only "*****" talk i ever provide
is when i think...
        makes me less suspicious of myself ever
having encouraged ****** profanities.

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2447235/ill-get-your-name-tattooed-on-my-body/

so who're teasing the hedgehog into a pinhead curl? can we neutralise the anomisity? to spare the rotten hangman of the crusade taken? how about, instead of... the suggested lack of body space for each authentic name, you, Kelsey, get a tattoo, that reads one authentic name: ⠼⠚⠝⠕⠝⠽⠍⠕⠥⠎(number indicator, 0, i.e. not 1, not 2... leaving the rest as -nonymous, without the A, for Adam, et al...) - i heard some cultures have mastered tattoo to encompass braille proto-culture, some minor cannibalism rememberance-sunday try-out... i'm getting an itch sensing you're teasing the grim reaper and a number for a car in need of being taxed for using a road... also... dont you think it's a bit ignoble to celebrate having survived suicide, when the purpose of suicide is to die with one's honour, i.e. to have completed the attempt akin to the samurai donctrine of being stabbed: with the missing adrenaline punch of surprise of self-disemblowelment? adrenaline is an aesthetic in this instance... hell, i digress... off i go as a person with a surgical mark for a tattoo... imagine! the compliment of your gratitude, having a similarity being paid due for both the ambition, and the "luck" of being bitten by a shark, or rather, seeking suicide, without a determined self, a shark, an clown parachute... you know: the spice that is life that is SHOCK and adrenaline... god, suicide is the horrid death worse than ******, since it has no surprise... and a death worse than old age, since it has no ambiguity of god... the hell has a tattoo to do with such taj mahals of debate?

What am I doing here?

Straight posture, recalling the days I found and lost love.
Vivid to the sun on my skin,
On that hot summer’s day.
My shoes part the hard sand on the ground,
GPS set to my destination.
The air is loaded with uncertainty,
For my loneliest night ever.
Time is only wasting,
“Nobody cares”, but I do (a whisper).
Do I possess rare knowledge?
Or am I just disobedient to convention.
I know my truth is a billion years away from you.
Nothing I say makes any sense,
Not even to me.
If I walk to the horizon, maybe then will I find
A love that no amount of evil can neutralise.

Cette ville écrasée sous les signaux hallucinés
De commerces blindés et de business débridé
Jonchée des ordures mentales et des pourritures verbales,
à grignoté cet espace comme un rat patriarcal

Hantés par les chimères implantées au scalpel
Qui s’éclipsent dans un râle à chaque fois qu’on se réveille
Sur des trottoirs miteux qu'on arpente avec peine
Avec la boue sous nos pieds, et la crasse dans nos veines

On a plié sous le poids de ce que la ville nous a privé.
Dans les formes sa nuit odorante et gluante
Influencés par les gangs d'une valeur anarchisante
Et plongés en abimes au fond de cette nuit sanguine

On voudrait tout rejouer, vacillant, comme le phare
Qui contemple, hagard, la ruée des cafards
Et dans un dernier effort pour nous hypnotiser,
La ville nous livre en pâture aux chiens carbonisés

Le tintement des coupes dans la brume artificielle
Neutralise les rampants de cette tour de Babel
Et les sons du stylos sur papier parano
Sont remplacés par les cris des couteaux tranchant la peau

Et la chair et les os
Et du sang et des larmes
Du vacarme infernal
Des détonations cérébrales
Des entrailles putréfiées
Jailli un souffle empoisonné
Et nous restons médusé
Par l'absence d'humanité

Les rues scintillantes
Éclairées par la tété
La lueur violente  
Des bouches noircies et enfumées
Les grouillants salissants
Anonymes agonisants
Des cris que personne n’entend,
Des invisibles que personne ne défend

Figé comme crétin qui de colère crispe les poings
Étranger parmi les siens humilié comme un larbin
On reste allongés dans la poussière face contre terre
Mais on reste assuré que notre rage est salutaire

Déjà ça tremble sous les pieds des biens pensants
Déjà ça grogne aux oreilles des bienveillants
Alors on reste là à observer impunément
Des remparts occultants qui se fissurent singulièrement

Et du fond des cimetières revient une herbe un peu plus verte
Et du fond des ghettos un asticot rejoint la secte
De ceux qui croulent sous la promesse d'une existence
Qui maintiendra leur cerveau dans un état de complaisance

Mais on sait qu’un jour, notre printemps reviendra
Et on sait qu’un jour la chaleur nous stimulera
Et la lumière brillera pour tous les anges et les salauds
Et elle consumera tous les faisans et collabo

Et ils sentiront toute la menace des renégats
Et ils comprendront que c'en est fini ici-bas
Et ils trembleront devant la détermination
De ceux qui n'ont rien a perdre armés de pierres et de bâtons

Enfin on pourra se tirer
Briser les chaines a nos poignets
Et on pourra se libérer
De la douleur et de la fièvre
Finis les temps répréhensifs
Emplis de ténèbres et de peines
On cherchera la saveur
Et le parfum des jours meilleurs

Mais y'a personne aux commandes
Et dans une crise d'indifférence
On supprimera de nos états
Le ciment de paranoïa
Et on pourra s'envoler
Vers une idée de liberté
Et on pourra se reposer
Car on n'est pas fait pour vivre de cauchemars et de haine

The first memories of sorry often lie in the first years of school,
don't rip out Cindy's hair, don't tread on Tommy's shoes,
stand up straight and look on forward deep into their eyes,
the teacher would adjust you then say apologise!

Smack! Dead in the middle, hit harder than before,
It wasn't your fault you didn't see her behind the door,
but it's okay! She may be crying,
but she knows you didn't mean it.

SLAM! The door ruptures the eardrums of your family,
you screech out in anger and fear but you hide your crying,
how could he leave you so easily, in the blink of an eye?
it wasn't your fault, you did your best and yet you still say sorry.

It feels numb now, everything not because of the loss of love,
but the lack of it and so you search around frantically,
you either will act in pain and sorry and discarded aside,
or maybe you'll learn to hide it and say sorry every time.

It gets to a point the pain begins to drip away from your skin,
you realise you weren't to blame but it doesn't ease anything,
you hold a note to your heart and vow to be kind and tender,
the mirror stares at you too and begins to say "I'm sorry".

Endings aren't always as expected as you see,
brainwashing of the mind can be almost too easy.
Cruel nature often hides within the veins of our being,
yet would it really hurt to put the acid away and neutralise us all?

Sorry is often stated but in the end it's just a word,
the sentimental value is the part we need the most.

Love is the sweetest feeling
on mother planet!
it stirs and maintains storms in lovers
spreads pleasant sparks
over souls involved
some lovers bathe
in the waters of happiness!

Sometimes bad conditions
make feelings we enjoy unbearable
peace and smiles hide far away
from couples now parted company

I am tempted to think at times
man is incapable in body and mind
to manage that emotion
in very dark and painful moments!

Some turn against themselves
take their own lives in hiding and open
some dive and drown
in the sea of madness
the pill of rejection fails
to slide down throats of some
many resort to unwanted violence
in prooving love turned sour
persons cannot stand seeing
former lovers happy and laughing
attack and maim them
worst murdering others!

Guidance and counselling
offloads burdens of some
but piles of excess anger
are almost bursting chests
of many ex-lovers!

Additional assistance
is urgently needed
to neutralise the poison
of vengeance in the hearts
troubled by love gone bitter

You and me must ensure
the world throws away burdens
containing love turned sour effects
hate, hunger, murders, orphans
divorce, deserted offsprings...

Governments and spiritual institutions
should strengthen and support
marriages and all relationships
counsel the separated and broken hearts
with remedies in place
cost of separation will go down!

Love is a juicy fruit
rot at times attacks it
how can we discard it
less hurting all involved?

A Swedish Midsummer 2020

Geography the usual;
The place on planet just the same;
The night light full till after midnight,
Daylight’s dawn at one or two
With so few hours in between.

This year then,
A little different.
Last year when
A crowd would meet
To dance and sing and drink and eat
On park or lawn or balconies,
Families and friends to hoopla til a dark
Which almost never comes
Makes the ending for them.

This a deviating year;
Debating and departing from
The customary dancing, prancing,
History may chronicle as Distancing,
Fiascos, blunders, six-feet-unders.
Romance from six feet of space

This midsummer in the North
Coming forth with likenesses
Has, by the laws of nature
Put the  emphasis on differences
Which we, survivors aa a race
Will surely neutralise and chase away
One future day.

A Swedish Midsummer 2020 6.16.2020 Nature 0f & Nature In Reality; Our Times, Our Culture II; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin