Lumpenproletariat's                     
Comprise the population
Revolutionized, new variants
Attempt consolidation.
Socialist experiments or
Anthropology's deviation?
Avoidance- societal detriments of health:
Classism's obliteration.

could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.

ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
                           we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
                                    take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
  all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
                 about, it's just a John Bishop
          Scouser type of beating.
                  ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
    oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
   the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
             some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
      yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
  - we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
   i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
   i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
  when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
             you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
                 there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
      no i'm about to sell my first copy -
  i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
   i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
   by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
    i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
       or why you never take l.s.d.
   question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
   back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
                   - or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
          only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
    it was truly a devolution via brass -
   you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
                   and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
           oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
                  the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
  but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
           an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
         it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
                  sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
            gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
    far far away...       well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
              i love that: y'all -
                          it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
           originally
                    he had
                  another thought he wished to take
                 but...
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
   and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
      oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
       i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
               i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
                 pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
           still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
                        post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
            the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
       if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
                      or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
                          and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
                   will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
                but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
                   and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
              then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
     i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
   then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
   a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
  the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.

     interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...

and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
  hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
      when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
          but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
   there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
                      that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
  narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
       we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
              thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
   for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
  suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
         against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
                   preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
                  but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
        p.s. as to be ever written!
    thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
  some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
                        and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
                        first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
                            in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
                         narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
                          actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!

the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
    they begin with memory -
         it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
       they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
      the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.

or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
                    in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
                       but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
       concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
               or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
         when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
                         i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
     i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
         i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
                            the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
                              what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
wh

Extermination decapitation
Nocturnal obliteration
Armadillos anteater bafoon
Typhoon heatwave...
Mr Grim Reaper
DON'T YOU KNOW?
No grave can keep Her...
Men march on as to heaven
Twenty four seven
Three Six five days
Ten different ways
Passionate professional
Daring sharing nurturing
Caring...Monsters within Minions
Amazing people aren't they
There is no substitute for hard work
Just observe Ants.

and by the way
there are flies in the basement,
no doubt, the
result of passionless blood-letting and
christ-sharp animalistic screams (that scatter across places)
where ingrown genital hairs take presidence over ionized howls of ecstasy-
where flies buzz around and die, worshiping the patchwork
row of halogen lamps
that get so hot as to scorch the hairy legs that spread apart wide just to touch the
sacred flesh of incandescence
-these that ****** reckless photons into the tepid air like rotting meat
and wants them to **** the last drops of electromagnetic ******* from their poems of illumination.  
meanwhile
i can be found numbing myself into comfort and complacency-
the phosphenes of faustian inadequacy taxing my eyes
with the vaporous waking that seeps through the vacant-
but i knew it was real when you pulled down your tattered jeans, exposing your backside to my interpretations of perfection and
allowing me the liberty of *******.
i have seen you scream.
and breathed your sigh of servitude.
these wet ******* and the tangy juices of anticipation dripping down your thighs becomes reality
and reality consumes.
and the world becomes conscious awareness.
and there is nothing to be known except this.
alleviant zero of the cyclic
and the 60-cycle hum of stagnation-
frustration.
we know that tomorrow
the angel-headed hipsters
will be basking in the instagram-induced solar radiation,
supine on the neatly cut grass,
donning their leather jackets and skin-tight corduroys. thick-rimmed-plastic sunglasses
obscure their frail vision and allow them to distance themselves just enough from the sunsoaked oasis to call themselves "cool"
and i would hardly know to recognize you amongst the candorous chatter about humanity and the existence of love
and i would hardly know to call you god
nor to look you in the face and tell you to dream a thought unthreatened by sanity
or to bring you to tears by means of dexterity.
i like my body for what its worth
but i did not try to stop them when they bound and ***** the waitress.
i stood and watched as those gentle agnostics tore apart her lacy blouse
and pushed thumbtacks through her ******* just to watch her scream
and she liked it.
when they held onto her skeleton ribs and hipless hips
and she liked it,
they tasted the *** with cinnamon tongues,
received the grace of an angel as pierced ******* and clitoral stimulation
listless yelps filled the tender air like howling phantoms-
little ms. misanthropy
with her
disposable epiphany
self-proclaimed teenage sage
with mistakes to make her wise
i try not to understand
and then i dreamt of forgiveness.
my days of holding grudges and killing mice are over
and when we don’t kiss
i can smile.
and did you want me to define you through destruction?
-martyrdom and madness?
her bracelet and studded pieces to decorate
only obliteration of expectation
gives my finger the feel of tendinitis
i have come to love things less
how i long to just let bay, my leaning lip
my wrist bent back, asks, how much more can be done here?
i guess it's a little too late to walk away.
endless mind-numbing repetition,
was it for the retribution?
or perhaps reassurance or the infliction of pain.
misdirected meaning-
bluebirds.
and blue-black bruises on your arms.
wrinkles.
from falling feathers and
do you hear the echoes of chains rattling in the cellar,
or was it just a love song gone wrong
alivient zero.
why do we have to be beautiful rebels
we leaned to love with our shoes on.
listening to the stereo silence-  
runaway gems, poetic outcasts
leaderless young lovers
she was a young poet
but her tv ran out of new channels
idols were made here, dreams shattered, and promises left unbroken
but her *******, not left untouched

unblessed
i can taste it in your tears
i can hear it in your voice

bless these tiny fingertips and her lips are soft.
her skin is a whisper.
i will leave no inch of flesh-

unsacrificed.


her wounds bled with the words,

*you begin
to
understand-
all of me

love-energy swinging toward bitter blows:
a father’s pride becomes a son’s,
he becoming bitter becoming hatred
in the midst of love abused,
a civil fight for freedom failing in the eyes of youth:
these minds of ours turn wildly—
change to the beat of unknown drums
and death knocks us up
pregnant with a new generation of hate,
of goals to love: the obliteration of hate’s mother,
but question on, worship your mind,
build a shrine of doubt and find
darkness emerging as a deeper shade of black
knowledge? knowledge?
myths laid upon us through the perspectival dimming of language
no one’s fault? societal pressures
no cause for blame? survival instincts
no source of evil? history has a gun to their head. . . .
no use for these words? meaningless.
dialogue, yes, for the birds,
the carrion of hope
once the breeding stops
and lets the precious journey start:
down the cesspool of quasi-oblivion,
where we’re all a minority of one,
grasping for meaning in an abyssm of phantasmal foundations.
words, words, the excuse of words;
when father’s left no ground to walk on,
the son sits there digging
ditches for the death of systems
holes in the fabric mother wore,
tears in the existence we thought we knew.

what is this about? question marks
swerving away from sour truth
bleeds the nonsense through the flesh of what we love
and dying, dying, hate becomes a source of love,
guilt projects a softened heart
kneeling down now
outside, but wanting in.
affirmed, dejected.

[OR
are they swerving away from faith
simply a defense against the actions to take
ontic procratstinator! hear me now!
safety is the goal behind every measure
seek danger and you run the dangers of comfort,
seek comfort, and delusion becomes your handmaid.]

for knowledge of past dogma is dogma too
and the heart pumps it anyway;
for existence is. O heart, your sutra
flows nimbly on into eternity,
but you take this life and live it now,
the rhythm born of a mystery,
sacred to the foolish,
sarkin to the wise—
and the dancing wise man
birthing a new enigma
travels on into the depths of the ordinary
with a smile and a bow,
a hop-skip like Nietzschean
melodrama.

I can write it once for fun,
twice for accuracy,
thrice for fame and ten more for shame.
Do you want to know what it’s about
or do you want to figure it out?
the game of pride makes fresh
the fish of mental seas;
but truth is less cozy;
dagger in your existential eye.

no conclusions to be embraced without the whim of faith?
no art show game gripe to win but for the game of taste?

this bout goes on, this Bout goes on! oh how I wish my mind was lacking!
but no! the sacrifice, but the sacrifice,
pigs of Aristotle knew no quarrell,
no such quarrell.

when does such a poem become a forced effort?  when will I stop questioning myself?
where is this urge to destroy originate?
what ******* language am I speaking in when I think?
what and why,
who the but questions, questions
falling spiking holes in teh floor of contentment
or is it laziness: should I tak emy e pick now or wa itf ort he rig htto **** newith mystic alllllllllllll certainty from be yo ndt he fen ceof lan gua ge.

why go back? why try?
the difference between communication and self-indulgent writing is the effort to conform to the extent necessary for the sharingof truth... and so nobility demands conformity, however long it takes and however wonderful it may be in the mean time to simply spill my fingers across the trypesu ritre lia shjkk e a A b B i IG load o f ***... as if the hiddenness of deconstucted language masked my immaturity as a poet, as a person, as a thinker, as a wallower in shame.  as a Man. as a *** machine. as a weak creature. as a creature of potentially great accomplishments but small ***** at the present, as a person hiding from the said for fear of having to live up to it, as one who doesn’t believe his words half the time, even noe, ever noer rht all suiooos  dhjhjh tuof rhty w arbif trya dfyoudng huddkkfkd fmdmf dfdlililhkjga wyeruipok smmm tuhtuth dgfhg dagdh f dhajkdf  fuduudjjd fh d hdhhd bit b not n tno totot t ototot  read read read read read read read read read reda dnrenadkf leadsd fhdus duig hgjhdf dh sdmf sialdihf duf dreioan ign udfin the dh diguicse of hjtkjh heioa never heros heilike hte  e9a 1 1 ih kj n h ogma doifj hedOLvever otitoto the  ososososririrroow ww dance waiting at the librasyer renckjh c concon con iejr a  goodo excucse to t constraint no nt rot th even dfhight hwith th d dear on the all ndklfn eh fh searching thioart worthless buthen I find htheihadf htis hivoih Valid dfkdljhf jhkajh yea it s i kjh Lavlls ishn Vadildld meaning ngon woven into nonesense nd fnidoijifj bJar in Tennessiossdnohf  a freww few deletes and the important words become clear however taxing on an hypothetical reader from the future in which I do hope to become g”reat” half-heartily,  though for show.  .  .and the experience of writing is revealed through the laziness, or tiredness, of a recent graduate trying to write something meaningful after a summer of passion and *** and drugs and resentment toward the family and the sad economic advice given him.

pierdolony tasiemiec, ten mój angielski.

it's a strange affair, asking for gender neutral pronouns -
last time i checked, a pict taught me english,
and he, not once, suggested
that the category of pronouns
was a gender case,
or a gender neutral ground
             for that matter...
thank **** i am using this as
an acquired tongue,
otherwise i would be confused
as to what this whole affair "means":
i.e. it means *nothing.
do these natives even realise that
they already have gender neutral
nouns?!
        oh yeah, if you check out
some of the other european languages
you'll realise that there are pro
gender nouns for objects that
do not have the mechanisation of
a ****, or a piston?!
     throw three ***** into the air
and hope that they catch them
and start juggling.
            english doesn't have
a masculine & a feminine ascription
of "******" differentiation of objects -
the english language has the already
gender neutral articles:
   the point, a point -
   a sun, the sun -
           it doesn't treat the sun as female,
nor does it treat the moon as male...
but other language do that...
       but gender neutrality of pronouns
is a bit like... don't know:
    talking sign-language swahili to
a chinese person?
and then this talk about *** lives
and household chores...
  who the **** said that cooking
is a feminine enterprise?
who let the women into the kitchen
in the first place?
  talk to an organic chemist -
he'll tell you:
i relax making culinary experiments.
once upon a time perhaps it was
a case that men hunted and women
cooked...
     so all the michelin star restaurants
are run by women?
   cooking is a feminine "enterprise"?
man, have you lost your *******?!
who said that women can cook?
oh right, that's a tier up from the insult
that women belong in the kitchen,
oops...
            the last meal i had was a pasta
bake, with the pasta not done al dente,
and after baking: mush...
   any pensioner would be happy
to slurp that carbohydrate mush up,
through a straw any time...
  bad *** = divorce? try overcooked pasta,
or undercooked potatoes.
      that **** gets me steaming
puffing screaming obliterating any if any
there was an internal monologue...
  why is cooking deemed a feminine
            "chore"?
                    why can't cooking suddenly
emerge as both art and chemistry?
but it is just that...
                 who said that women belong
in the kitchen?
            i didn't say that...
   nor did hell making a broth of sins...
   and suddenly, what? the idea is infantile?
go with the flow, no point breaking
a sweat by imitating a ****** building a dam
to clog up the popular view of:
   well, given my dreams, i'm sure as ****
scared of dying, and waking into one
of these dreams...
     where in the woken-into-dream i'm
not the protagonist, but merely a cameo;
my fear of death is not that of amen obliteration,
but the idea of waking up in a dream,
and as i already said: with but a cameo role.
once again: who let these women into
the kitchen, and why is cooking stereotypically
a feminine affair?
                 doesn't anyone relax and loves
to see the transformation of food
like a chemist might with chemicals?
              again, once more:
   you can get your gender neutral pronouns,
but once you allow pro gender nouns...
    i.e. a chair is a man, a table is a man
(masculine) -
         a candle is a woman, a mirror is a woman
(feminine) -
oh, wait, right, english doesn't have
this grammatical dimension of things being
categorised by gender...
      it only has the microscope the (i.e.
direct article) and the telescope a (indirect
article)...
     point being, this isn't even my fight...
i'm quiet literally a bystander,
the english language is inorganic to me,
it has been acquired,
   it's not organic enough to make a former
slave into the slapping slur rapper of exponential
slang source...
          i don't know how this mutilated
elephant man of a tongue is going to survive
this "epiphany"... " " (yes, that implies
sarcasm, as perfected by the english themselves)...
      i almost feel sorry for this to have
arisen, someone must have taught you
cheap native anglo...
   now i get the english gender neutral noun -
but a gender neutral pronoun?
  you'll have to start speaking french,
or polish, to get a gender neutral pronoun,
given that in these languages:
nouns are pro gender.
                                            sorry;
you simply can't turn your spreschen into
hieroglyphs overnight and expect me to understand
you, with, what the current year suggests,
leaves me without a rosetta stone
to decipher the jargon that's transcendental slang;
maybe if i spotted some gender neutral
pronoun graffiti on the streets,
then, maybe;
nonetheless, once more:
   this is not my fight, this language is not
an organic extension of me,
   it's an inorganic implosion -
to me this language is a parasite,
        and i am its host -
bo inaczej nie powiedział bym swego
pierwszego słowa: tak,
   jeno inaczej - jak już powiedziałem przez
swego, krasomówczym, pasożyta.
and if my ethnicity is vermin,
   guess what... this language but is a parasite
in me; the day i die, is the day
              i finally rid myself of it.

One year has passed today, one year since you took your last breath on this earth. A whole planet-full of anguish has been left in that wake. You would have been 23; a full month older than I am. No longer is such. You’re frozen; forever young at 22.

They told me time would ease the pain, and I guess they meant the physical display of hurt. I don't burst into tears every time I see a Steelers logo or find myself suddenly breathless whenever I hear a song that you loved. No, I am not that same mess of a girl that existed last December. I do not look like her, but she's still present within me.
The thing about time is that the pain never really dissipates; you just unearth ways to tolerate it. Ways to function around it. I am able now to maintain a smile on my face whenever I need be, and a small, invisible part of myself can curl into the crook of my head and weep. I numb myself and place the pain on the back-burner, to deal with it later.

One year, come and gone. One year without you.

One full year I've wandered around until my feet were bruised; until my shoes were breaking. Wandering and not perceptive to what I was looking for. I know now that you are the destination.
I'll always be searching for you, and you'll never be there.
Because you're in the wind. You're in every kind gesture, in every hill and mountain I find beauty in. You're in the smile of your sister, the love of your mother and the memory of every family member or person who mourns you today.
And I mourn you so much. I never considered that this much sorrow could be coiled into one body so firmly. So crammed in that at times I spring a leak and you fracture forth like a rainbow on an oil spill. My mind circles back to you thousands of times in a single day, like a little determined moon circling the wake of her planet's obliteration.

I don't have a place to visit. At first, that was one of the hardest parts of moving on. By nature I am a wanderer, and in my travels I yearned for a place to stop; a place where you would be always.
You don't have a final resting place, and that's fine, I've accepted that now. It wouldn't have made sense with who you were as a person. You always were more like a force of nature than human- so beautiful, destructive and awing. So when I imagine you in the present tense, I like to think of the swirling dust devils that whirl leaves into miniature tornadoes. You had a playful spirit like that. I think of you in the wind that gusts paper from my hands, because you were always a joker. And I think of you as a warm breeze on a summer day because your warmth was something people sought out.

I'll continue writing for you, even though you'll never read it. I'll never stop loving you, and your memory is enough of a home for this wanderer.

To quote What Dreams May Come:
" I’ll cross whatever distance there is. I send you my love."

Forever and Ever, C.J.H.
-Sarah

islam is really buying into an ideological
warfare
       of creating a historiogical narrative
for former crusader nations...
           the history? it's way gone, past,
in the dust... but islam is probing
        this need to settle old qualms in a modern
narrative...
    i can't actually add to a history
           these days, but i can take up a banner
of historiology, or so i am told...
   and yes, certain words aren't exactly
the standard bearers of who easily you can
rap them...
            you really need to pause and catch
the nuance... or the naiveness in which they're use...
   when i use the word historiological
i think of the past as having necessarily happened,
and in need to happen again, on the basis
of someone else telling me: you have to
inherit this.
            it's no wonder that islam attacks former
crusader nations... france esp.,
          what with adhemar, bishop of le puy,
urban ii grand speech lauching the ***** into
a tight spot... tancred de hauteville...
                 bohemond...
        radulph of caen merely annotated the deeds done
and the words said...
      robert, duke of normandy, and his daughter
adela, quick to **** at Urban's tongue... the truth...
   Islam is really reassigning us with
a historiology, not a history we might be prone
to forget, or be ashamed by...
   it's not doing what the word histiorology is defined by,
not this unearthing of graves, and their deseceration...
you really want to wake up the Nazgûl?!
seriously?
   sure, i can be your necromancer... we can have
total obliteration... just speak enough ****** constriction
to germans, and then point them at the target,
and you'll get a crossbow shock of the event...
     Islam really is warming us up for something,
they're nibbling at us, they're trying to
  really give us the "spark", it's not a case whether i'm
correct in thinking this... it's only that i feel it...
i can taste it... i can stomach it...
     such lovely names, those old crusaders...
Tancred...
                     mind you: peter the hermit's child
crusade...
                       if they came from north of Persia
they'd be drafted as Mameluks...
       le throng! if only there were always
the french incission to state that...
   le throng! you just can't leave youth culture
settle into the urban environment,
you really seem to want that... get pockets
of culture coming from the youth...
     it can't ever be grime from east or south london...
    me? i'm trapped in a library, i actually
built of myself... apparent;y 1 in 10 people don't
own a single book in england...
         the brothers Godfrey, Eustace & Baldwin...
   oh lookie lookie... you're tickling the beast
so just, any minute now and it will awake once more...
    and be cited as having said:
   walking up to me knee in blood and
slaughtered corpse... Harod looks pale the minute
past...
               Tancred... dubbed te Panzer sulphur snout...
are there more gentlemen of my stature on
their way?
        that's me: don't know who's the possessor
of a ***** and who of a juiced up ****...
   but i can bet the niqab does wonders...
   so much anonymity, you don't even need
  internet pseudonym names, no jackx666
or rogerxtra... you just don the ninja and, ooh!
ooh! everything's so flimsy! so airy! flutters
of a butterfly!
               that ***** king in the kingdom of heaven
movie did have a name: baldwin iv...
   and he was a *****...
         you'd accidently sneeze into his face
and his nose would fall off...
   true story, or i'm drunk...
           but my: this wine i made, this homemade
wine? it does the trick!
                 baldwin iv died aged twenty four...
lucky sod, kurt cobain of the medieval ages...
    oi oi... wait wait... ZENGI!
  zengi the heavy drinker! buddy!
fully name? imad ed-din zengi. ah, zengi zengi,
zengi... what tales i have for you...
      i'd tell them, and you'd turn out to be in full
disclosure trying to fake sober...
                        ibn al-athir also wrote something,
does it deserve more a toast or mere chronicler?
the latter will know.
fatimids and sunni caliphs...
              Balak, the dream-inspiration for
Fulcher of Chartres...
Antioch, Tyre, Edessa...
  and that old feverish fox known as the lesser
Barbarossa: Reynald de Châtillon...
         don't know...
   as an ethnic bias, i am of the people that remained
bound to a home near the Baltic sea...
  we also fought crusaders...
the knights templar, die ritter von deutsche haus
beispiel sankte mariam in yerusalem...
       which makes my history a bit different
to the current history...
i have other myths... with
Jagiello... and grand-komtur Brzęczyszczykiewicz...
but you know... hmm... let's go crazy
and pop a pill or two... blues for the upper
and reds for the downer...
what a unique occasion! are you sure
we're not sailing on a gondola in the water-alleys
of Venice singing some obscure folk-song, hmm?!
by now i look like the stańczyk (grand court
jester) in one of jan matejko's paintings,
laughing my *** off as to denote: that i am,
quiet righly: the most amused. ha ha.
Sioux! sioux! pruss! pruss!
     and the crucifix really is a profanity of
the tetragrammaton, that came back,
morphed, as if touching a philosophers stone,
and turned out to be an acronym n.e.w.s.:
north, east, west... south...
   the minute the tetragrammaton touched
the ✝ it came back as n.e.w.s.
      and that really is the most dignifying
Balaam equal compliment i can give...
      but you know, just seeing how Islam is really
inviting former crusader nations to have a fight...
   and i'm spotting this, coming from a region
that also had crusades riddle it...
    but it's true... the crusades around the Baltic coast
never get any coverage these days...
  i guess you can't really make momentum
from a reigion where it's natural resource hidden
in the ground is salt... rather than oil...
    then again, lying about,
reading the book crusades by terry jones
& alan ereira... didn't really make me think much...
   when it comes to the two splinters off
res in: res cogitans,
  i can only think of re-       i.e. reflex
   and re-    i.e. reflection...
     and the tongue these days is so ******* saggy....
i'd take more pleasure eating a bagpipe of haggis
than listen to current rhetoric...
    it's a sickness though, this demand Islam
is making, that once Israel has been established
we forget our cosmopolitan cocktails and engage in
a holy war...
                  but it is the narrative, we're almost expected
to feed into a crusader culture...
      but once again, i'm using a tongue that once
did wield crusading pomp, and i have an
underlining perspective of being on the receiving end
of crusades of the baltic states...
     i really should be jumping for joy right now...
   but given the schooling system in england,
or i suppose the whole of western europe,
i'm part of the schattenvolk...
                how the Lithuanians were so and so...
how the Poles were so and so...
    how i could almost try to seek out the same
linguistic pride of modern Silesians in ancient yore
of Pruß, but come against nothing but the Kashubian
denote...
**** me! so it really was worthwhile keeping
my native tongue, and exploring my ethnicity
and history like a ****-pants 16 year old girl
on a trip in the guise of tourism?!
  oh applause! this is better than milking old ladies
like Liberache might for a fur coat
or a gold-plated toilet!
     ooh... you rascal you...
                 can i please not sound gay now?
i hate how the concept of personnae can creep into
your psyche and give you, the most obliterating
narrative techniques imaginable...
                        but if you ask me...
Islam will not wage war against nationas that did not
succumb to the rhetoric of pope Urban Deux...
        i mean... can you really imagine a terrorist
attack in Poland?
             given that Poland experienced it's own taste
of crusades?
                 well... if it does happen... that really will
wake up something... it certainly won't be multiculturalism....
perhaps this really is merely a **** into the wind...
         my, all this can come out sleep-walking by
simply lying in bed and reading a history book?
             it's a good thing i assimilated on the basis
of merely using the tongue, rather than tapping into
past history of the people, past grievances, past prides,
past symbolism... i just use the language...
    i don't expect to really revolve around being an
adamant west ham supporter...
i just know that i'm Polish in the english language...
   and Islam doesn't really attack
      those who've have the better share of grievances...
whether in the 20th century context,
of going way back, when Israel was about...
             and reading a history book...
   wriggling toward a status of fame is absurd...
     i like the idea of: gently passing by like foam on
top of a cup of cappuccino...
                      someone said froth:
i'm exfoliating with this that and the other guess work
of vocab...
               well... that's that...
        worth noting the many more easily impressionable
young men out there...
                that would rather chop a head
of a person of their assimilated culture, and subsequently
not retain their native tongue,
   and then not play: smack the ******!
    layering over what their ethnicity clearly speaks,
although with a borrowed tongue...
       which is why a slang variation of language
has to emerge...
                it's not a case of slang representing
prior footing, and current footing, but cleansing
prior footing, as current footing, with only
a melting *** to be sure of...
         on the objective basis that's the right thing
to do... you really want to eat a good curry
at the end of the day...
  but sometimes you need someone to say:
me a shallot prior a carrot in that melting *** of spice...
        the feeling is not mutual...
    would i ever eat sand to sharpen my teeth
for a cannibalistic grin?
                         i'm quiet content with merely
dabbling in poached lamb... but if another mein teil
scenario arises... it'll probably come west of the Odra
river.

Undecided frontages in the back of the garden
bleeding orchids look through you with
shots refired and rewound
through time slowly i see
i want to become what
reality has plunged
me into broken
clocks and Time
defeats me
crushing
me

I.  ****** Transient

Overnight takes on new meaning
when the sun never sets and will never rise.

This time i didn’t bring words, i brought lines.

And Esmeralda danced circles around my eyes.
You gypsy ***** You.
Leading me confused,
                  with knees low and back hunched,
                                    into a labyrinth of solitude.

Embarrassed of what exactly?
i’ve barred scars more deep than scars
like profound pools of black sticky tar
that almost suffocates with its gluttony
and still You wouldn’t look away.
And now i pay a price as images intertwine
                           creating zebra patterned designs
                                             on the alcoves of my mind.
         Black, White
They contrast in spite of the connection.
         and I wear this contrast like an emblem,
                  hanging from my throat,
                           heavy on my heart.
                                    yet with the delicate touch of some
                                             slippery silvery chain…
                                                      It almost rids me of the pain.


Back turned or give me the front,
i still want either way.
A petrifying carnival of desire,
making my eyes tire of this display
and my lips itching to play,
a lilac purple tongue,
and bronze arms on the way.

You feign revolution by shutting the door in my face.

A shuddering sigh and flutter of a heart,
                           as caged ribs start to part,
                                   liberated room for more,

i’ve become an emotional *****,
lips wet with anticipation,
pulsating with a passion,
that You defined as infatuation.

And that i just couldn’t define.

-or rather-

defined as a transition in time.

****** Transients* would abstractive-ly be the best,
         but the abstract, once put to the test,
floats past concrete lines,
and creates a world of its own where, even as a stranger,
                  i feel right at home.
                                    Lioness of the abstract dome.


Razor sharp You
        sliced a tingling into the souls of my feet,
        and week after week i did nothing but smile at my own loss
        of balance.

The feminine reemerging as the phallus,
and the phallus in comfort with its feminine home.

         i patiently wait for my Special Kinder Surprise,
                                    and meanwhile,
                                             satisfy myself with imagination,
                                                    ­           to which an interpretation,
         would require the use of a million scholarly texts,
                                    which still wouldn’t attest to this degree
Of Vulgarity,
         or this degree
Of Sexuality,
         or this degree
Of Spirituality.

Like the slaughter of fowl for mythological pride;
                           You hide behind an altar,
                                    and with all the holiness i posses,
I intend to pull through and impress with Determination.
                           --and the petrifying realization—
that You are Artemis and i soon to be set upon by the hound
                                                           - choking ego to the ground.


But ****, it was worth it.

worth the,
vulnerability
worth the,
audacity
worth the,
ecstasy,
-It naturally dissolved within me.

Only to be pushed down by an incessant flipping of the door,
an incessant call to reality.

is the overnight truly Over?
      —or pray mercy and tell me its begun.

The rising Sun seems determined to puncture the fun,
And the valiant battle with Apollo seems already to have been won.



II.  ****** Ensnared
  
I’m getting tired of this ****.

A tantrum fit as if we were kids of three.
Stomping on adult realized priorities.
We wear our hair like a mask,
                  we analyze our clothes,
                           personify the persona we wish to adapt,
         and commend that same personal persona
         complimenting its research studied aura.
                                                    
--I’d rather stay in this dream forever.
  (you judged me by my hair
   yet remained unaware
   to what it masked.)

Please don’t preach to me about consideration.

The obliteration of that term in action shocks me.
Truth be told?—I’m quite Angry, and I feel used,
Yes, believe it or not, Abused.
Infiltrated and Dominated.

And I am a Leo at heart.

So to part with my throne will only be met with roars of defense;
                                                        ­       to be direct, Aggressiveness.


My interlude is met with seclusion—
         isolation to the utmost degree—
and I see that the world agrees, as I’m met
with a phone with no tone
and a power-cut of electricity,
while the world contracts visibly
and the static in the air
ensnares my fiery wrath,
and storms overhead
are weighed down with
anxiety and dread
that express themselves
in raindrops, that I lovingly
call tears.


I fear this is me at my limit---
        And I exhibit nothing but ferocious gloom.

This room which contains me is not enough,
And I will huff
And I will puff
Until the walls come down.
                  And the only sound to be heard,
                           is the numbing effect of silence.

My Rifle stands ready to be shot and plunge through that stubborn heart
of yours until it is rejected or until the reflected opinion dominates. Is it
too much to ask for a change of heart?
Empathy? Understanding?
Basic societ-ical handling?
Apparently yes.
So I detest
having to put in.

The waterworks that I display
convey nothing but submission
to your inconsideration.
                  And the devil in me crosses her fingers
                  for experience by example,
                  as elephants trample over logic
                  and the symbolic is simply symbolic.
                                             That’s too much reason for my taste.
                                             And I see that it was a waste
                                             Trying to impress with determination.

****** Ensnared has denied a nation of people their feelings,
                  listening, with unappealing resolution
                  satisfying herself with this conclusion:
                  “Let them eat Cake.”


--It’s true.
You can’t have your cake and eat it too.



III. ****** Verbalize

On a park bench it took me quite by surprise,
my eyes met with scripture
recognizable though not to my hand,
the band on my finger tightened and
yet the anger seized.
         -- How could I not have surmised ****** Verbalize to enlighten me?--


“Your Majesty;
         I owe you My Apology-
                  And I couldn’t be sorrier for my selfish self
                  has decided to rest after this long period.

For She was too busy
trying to make you feel safe and home
--She was too busy trying to suppress her ****** up
whipped cream so that you can have you cake and eat it too—
But She failed.

        You believe ****** is selfish,
then I’m afraid you never knew ******.
                  --****** loved you with wide arms open and she
                  Was pleased to meet you.

She hopes it was a useful transition for You.

.THE END.
The ******”

Upon his glottal’s larynx spreads a lingual deformity. Isolation as a result from tuggo disaffiliates. Misshapen promontory in the direction of upper-body inflammation. Not only above torso alone, location;head/injury;mouth/main informative;tongue.
The boy’s tongue was permanently horned. A horn of 18 inches shy, where taste buds formulate, he owned a lone spike. He wasn’t abraded by the unfoldment of onlookers around. His irregular attachment was a main confidant. Criticized, he was not welcomed by towns near. Citizen’s were baffled and disgusted, ridiculing him daily, he did not impale with grieve over appearance. Enmity he wanted and craved. Among the works of flesh, square inch niches, repugnance revealed. Revenge, revenge. Vindictive spirit shelled so timely and calm. Remaining this state of sumptuous integrity made him stronger each go about. These goes were so stimulus, adding to the *** of hatred. Deep into the tundra’s most vile he intruded. Went so every month or few, for weeks at a time. For this sheet of rigid earth so contiguous to the town made the worried weary, the skeptical seared, and the nautical not so knitted with directional sense. This was his consummation of gathering. The place of being a being. The dry winter amid eight months was restricted, so the moment a due mustn’t be bothered. He had his reason of validness for course. A rich succulent from the bearings of plant life on cliffs. Repelling an obstacle such as was ludicrous for even one born the ever so adequate and society defined norm. Now having a tongue with a horn, some sought might as well die to be reborn. He had to, to stay alive. The liquid, which sit so treacherous, was the mold to mouth medicine. To speak at all it must be attained. Not only a curdling death trap waiting to swallow, the boy had to get a plentiful amount for the hard hitting winters collied. His tongue could swell like the storms, loud crimson on the esophagus. To die of asphyxiation was his dodge of ultimatum.
While passing by a local television in a thrift shop-
“Today’s Newscast: Blizzards, moving in at speeds of 94 mph. Predicted to cover like a blanket for 12 months. Ice Age relative people, this one is gonna be big! Stay indoors at night, the barometric’s indicate that from 9PM to 4AM temperatures as low as 28- will stouten for the next year. Once again people, stay indoors at these hours, get your needs when available. Back to you Ronda with the quintuplets birth today!”
Plucked and grit witted he stood. He felt the trepidation of abhorrence swaying in orbit around him. How to emanate from this delay? At least five clones of self did not exist for him. Merriment struct pro, while the cons derived from which they know. Exultation when despondent, how greatly that gift could gab. Despoilment of that, he weighed options out. To altercate thick snow or simply, let it go. Afraid to die unrivaled, the off cutting is wisest. Since his first second to now he’s flourished with his horn. Obliteration to the occulted manifestation mannered as an antique replica of anyone catching him by twice by day. Remove it, remove it, remove if you want life in your years that follow. Remove it, ever so. Remove it, cut and sew. Cut and sew. Remove.
This plateau poisoned place stay calm, anticipating climate of tempest bold reaches, anyone who was anyone was not so. Negative degrees. How could he retaliate the opposite, while acquiring a surgeon field hay day buck builder? Eruption turns the wave of cons. An only equal precision, deciding, tonight is the night. To assemble the tools, publicly was questionable, no more, through. He will emerge to the lands and people a new man, sustained, and hornless. No more. From scratch he will vender what’s needed. Wood was chiseled under the last moon viewed for three sixty three days ahead. Uprooted vines of old pine will hold the bark tight. Breath revealing around the outsides of his appendage. Like a fork in the road, which way can you go, for him air strides both. Scuffling fearful towards the pike of the tundra, he is where wanted by none. A be all end all as you could alleviate ones slightest sympathy, the courage it takes, ****** immense. His sweat was not seen, but there it consists. One hand grappled around his earthly dagger, tongue positioned in an outward arrangement. Travail glowing all over him as an aura unlanguid with no disruption veering. Abound now, without great weight on his shoulders, he’s lived. Ascending keen eyes towards the blood bath around his feet, going both ways around the fork and road. After relinquishing his steady gavel, the checking of his pulse is counted. 5, 6, 7, 8, seconds, still life to live. For the very first ritual to come, placed in his mouth, the tongue. The rigid roof so unfamiliar and new he bestowed in his joy of such a common flank. The tundra felt warm as he inside let over pour. Once more a milder gasp as he vociferates to the last moon for the year. On his peak, and favored place of being, he let out his tongue. Sharp inclement so hawkish and frosted he felt. The lilliputian of no pain, heeded by first snow to wane.

I looked for a word to say.
   but I could not find one today.
I had hoped to find a word that would stay in your heart.
   That would show you exactly what tore us apart.

I hate what you did... I hate you so deeply.
I hate what you said... I hate you so passionately.
I hate what you made me... I hate you so sweetly.

I look at you and I cannot tell what is in your eyes.
   I speak directly to you but all that comes out of your mouth are lies.

I see how you hurt.
I see how you hurt me.
I just do not understand.

All your true feelings are kept and safely hidden in a far far away land.
   Is this a land we call love?
And now it is a destruction.
   A land God has made from above.
And now we call it seduction.

Its true in a way we both long for each other.
  But we both see to long for another.
Another human being we both thought we were
   But now it seems that this human being I thought you were is now a blur.

This is a bitter sweet heart
   That will end in eradication.
This is a bitter sweet part that needs some construction.

Why I hold on?
I do not know.
I probably will never know why.

I should move forward... Yes
But I feel like I would rather just die.

You caused obliteration deep into my heart.
You caused obliteration because you thought it was smart.

I hate what you did... I hate you so deeply
I hate what you said... I hate you so passionately.
**I hate what you made me... I hate you so sweetly

.i might have been an *******, on many occasions and with many instances of it being true... but attempting to take someone's life? even i couldn't be such a ******* in the worst of probable instances; no, i'm pretty sure we were doing the "sleeper game", and like i once asked myself cognitively, 'what will be the last song i'll ever hear?' well... it wasn't good morning, or godless, or muhammad... it was... sleep... from the 13 tales of urban bohemia album; befitting, don't you think?

there's no point investing in
the current narrative,
given, that, the moderns
do not entertain the notion
of a dialectics...
    personally i don't see
the point...
or a, point...
          how can there be
debate "concerning",
a, "freedom" of speech,
when one side speaks,
the other side listens,
and then exercises authority
over the former side,
that abolishes their,
"freedom" to continue discourse?
that's not a, "freedom"...
that's... taunting
for the sake of taunting
and subsequent obliteration...
this?
  this particular piece?
i'm not talking...
    i have a cat sleeping
in my bed, in a fetal
position like an alien embryo,
and i'm taking?
who's talking?!
hearing voices in your head?
oh don't worry...
whoever is in charge
will gravitate to moving on
the one politicized medical
condition, schizophrenia,
as an excuse to cage you...
i know... i was also uneasy
when it came to making
a protest...
and guess what...
i made the right accusations...
but i hear of no law suit...
kinda figures, if i'm not being
sued, "merely" labelled
mentally ill...
  hence the... perpetual silence
surrounding my claim...
i can eve give you the details...
he said it was Salvia...
  a south american hallucinogenic...
and he said he hallucinated
riding an elephant,
in India...
         and he also encouraged
the driver of the car to smoke
**** which included almost
veering of the road...
and prior to that fateful day,
we went to a party,
and he made marijuana brownies...
and i donned a cowboy hat
and posed for a picture
like some Buddha with slit
eyes...
         and his friend encouraged
me to do a, "sleeper" while listening
to some Dandy Warhols',
song?
coin toss:
either Muhammad,
  Good Morning...
                    or Godless...
  "sleeper"?
when you get high,
lie down...
  and have two speakers on each side
of your head
blasting music...
a gimmick, a revision of
the concept of headphones...
where?
Canterbury... with a good view
of the cathedral...
the next day...
   spring frost... lovely tinge on
the cathedral from the sunrise...
also went to a bookshop
in Canterbury...
lovely atypical market / cathedral
town narrow streets...
what book did i buy?
inevitable revolutions:
the united states in central america,
by walter lafeber...
so i guess i must be mad...
given that i remember so many details...
regarding the day
i experienced a psychotropic
poisoning,
experienced a brain hemorrhage...
with my face...
melting on the...
here's a problem...
was it the left hemisphere or the right?
i'm not sure...
left?
or right?
   but the sensation of being ingested
by the sofa, and having
difficulty breathing...
with his friend...
as i drowned...
    imitating riding a
Lego-land choo-choo train...
and the fear in his eyes,
the eyes of: someone who failed
to ****** someone
but at the same time fearful
of the intended act?
      i should be dead for...
oh... 21... i'm 32 now...
11 years...
         i might be an alcoholic,
but i have a memory like an elephant...
and i'd believe all the crap
i've heard over the past years...
but if they only drove me to
the hospital...
   out of a simple human empathy...
instead, i was driven home...
i'm surprised they didn't smother me
after witnessing me get up,
and get 4 shots to the head
of my consciousness retracting
from the hemorrhage...
as they recalled back to me,
i said: i'm looking for the 4 other Matthews.
but i'm not a rat...
i am waiting for karma...
i played happy birthday on
the guitar on one of his birthdays...
and i'm guessing...
my sweet sweet love...
Ilona, that russian *****...
hey... she proposed,
she chose the engagement ring,
and then she broke it off!
is behind all of this,
i'm guessing, thanks to social media,
they ****** and she complained
how she was planning to enslave
me by becoming pregnant...
baby... i was so going to propose
you donning a latex **** suit
to extend on the ******...
and he being a Muslim...
and all things quasi-Irish
with regards to my advice to her,
poor thing, only 19...
hey... get an abortion...
   was the Mullah in a bright
white turban, ready to save a damsel...
but i thought that abortion
was legal in England?
oh hell.. pro life and ****...
but a 19 year old?
so why didn't she move to London
with me?
  i had a job here... there was no
prospect for me back in Edinburgh!
   ah... two flats in St. Petersburg...
but i guess that's how law & justice works
in England...
i'm a ruined drunk,
he's a son of a radiologist
             and a mother working
in the perfume avenues of a John Lewis...
my father is a respect industrial
roofer,
   my mother is a housewife...
i guess... i guess me being a boorish
drunk and he becoming an esteemed
corporate lawyer is karma...
   i wish him all the best...
but his children?
   what my parents experienced when
the circus came to town...
all the possible misery,
in the whole, entire, world.

but coming back to current affairs...
there's no point,
absolutely none,
in expressing a, "freedom" of speech,
since expressing such
a "freedom",
is not met with an engagement
in dialectics...
none!
   so why bother...
let's join the four horsemen,
with ***** on either side of our
eye-sockets...
and just charge forward
like a hurricane might,
mindless and in perpetuation
of complete, and utter,
destruction...

i'm up for that explanation
with regards to an exit
policy,

mind you,
happiness could savor
a peace of mind...
but sarcastic humor,
once upon a time...
also could;
as it does...
dutiful to expecting
the final closure
of relying
on the uttermost,
relief.

On this tan cutting board
You earn your corrupted name:
“Alligator pear.”

The serrated blade
Punctures your hide—a balloon
Under a pin’s pressure,

Shades of green furling out.
I’m sure you’d prefer
Vegetable status if you developed

Self-awareness; or maybe
You’d withdraw from knowledge
Of the human type.

I trust my cooking songs—
Slowdive and Chaka Khan—
Can’t hurt you anymore

Than your predestined obliteration;
Mastication via your domesticators:
It all ends in fertilizer.

(Where you began!)

O, avocado, phantom “fruit”
Born of the self-same Life Source,
Schopenhauer’s Will,

My transient enjoyment of you
Within this vegetable salad—
An Achaean enclosed by Trojan blades—

Suffices for a life of sanctity.

it's almost beautiful, we created the thing called
money, in order to turn tribalism
into a myth of Eden (alone, stark naked) -
          it's almost as if we deviated from
creating it and asking for family values,
            but never got them,
       i'm trying to imagine a Russia where
Rasputin wrote a book
that might have resounded with Nietzsche's
ubermensch - but thankfully precipitated into
world war i & ii... fancy the interlude:
a cold war i, now the cold war ii...
you should be happy, to be honest, it's the best
status quo you'll ever get...
but **** me, 1970s disco craze: even i'm
like Mozart-who?
               a little notebook, and my getting
drunk thoughts in it, funny how drink intellect
knows all too well about the: diminished responsibility
white flag -
              as with the **** chokes come the
drunk-and-writing-a-poem jokes,
                                i'd say blame Al Capone!
you know how many diacritical distinctions i could
insert into that surname? diacritical marks
are ulterior forces at-be when all punctuation goes
*******, not sentences, but words -
Cá       ponè - cockney slang Capone on the phone:
        we had fun: because you really don't say
Cáponé like you might say a torero's olé, do you?!
me? i find it grand to paint syllables with
diacritical marks, i mean: it's not even a blank canvas,
shame the semi-colon isn't minded in distinction,
but still, i already know that poets are scared of
punctuation, hence breaking the lines and not
engaging in a paragraph... tying shoelaces seems about
fine when it comes to modern poets,
talk about knitting jumpers, or scarfs by grannies -
sold as doing that same activity on shredded wheat cereal:
- = a hanging pause (suspense);
       , = necessary pause (or the expected
in a rhythmic cyclone);
   then i say to all my would be assassins:
you'll be doing me a massive favour, to be honest.
at times it really is the age of trusting entertainers
and not the media and certainly not the politicians -
it's almost stating the obvious.
i was in St. Petersburg for a month, and every time
i wanted to go to a danceclub to dance she refused me....
me and my naiveness in thinking that people could
actually be seduced by good...
      i don't mean being exposed to a tsunami
among the other elemental congregations of Shiva
there goes my belief in people being good to each other...
shoom! gone... bye bi!
(origins of dyslexia? maybe).
                                 she took me to the opera and
she started her snarling condescending approach to
the new-rich girls in the next booth...
     **** me, relationships leave me so ill-equipped
i actually find it staggering that i had any...
                 i must have been really naive in believing
that people could do good that i ended up
   a hermetic pessimist or misanthrope -
i never expected to be one, or share the juices of such
a calibration of humankind:
but it's funny how a movement overstates the cartesian
sum and never the cogito,
and when you by chance encounter the actual cogito
organising a movement, you represent nothing
representative of the movement's sum,
because the cogito is actually so staggeringly
divergent from being affiliated to the (e.g.)
         French revolution's guillotine locomotive.
when utilising only one hand in writing?
a black notebooks is written into at a rhombic degree,
yep, slant.
        i have two or three decent points to make,
but, obviously, i have to utilise verbiage to state them,
let's compare that to building a thousand homes
before the leaning tower of Pisa comes along
and people say: wow! in the immediate sense i
will require compensating that exception with
enough social housing for the tower to actually be erected:
that's natural: regurgitating maxims from no experience
would be an equivalence to an exoskeleton:
no experience, no harm... and where's the fun in that?

(interlude no. 1)

almost 15 minutes in an opera house, long enough
for the march from your seat into the street and a smoke,
  i still can't understand while people adopted money
for the demand of talking to each other via pebbles,
we are in our billions and made it so demanding to
only appeal to the few for company... i mean, should
i be sad? we made our company so unbearable because
of engaging in the concept of money that we later had
adapt to books as the conversations we need to have
among people we can't even talk about the weather to.
people always think that talking about money is
shallow... as if it's some really necessary version of
the crucifix (which to my mind sounds like a name for
a charity and the need to be thankful for it being there),
then again: something so geometrically pure
hanging over us and then comes Rodin's the kiss:
that really is a miracle - walking on water can hide itself,
turning water into wine (40 days & nights in the desert would
do that to you, every time you rehydrated, any liquid
would be intoxicating).
             oh hell, i have the notebook narrative,
i need to take a break after having written the unexpected
intro, and subsequent interlude.

it seems to me that language can never be sampled,
sampling language
is anti-scientific,
because it breaches an objectification of things,
which sad,
    are the Balkan states Slavic, Christian or Turkish?
i'm asking because a Greek said
it's Byzantine, and then lapping allah illha Allah
turkish took to Istambul...
*how best to defame a god with ensnarled capitals,
each, levelled,
                                only Islam will reign under the
praise of my name, which alone, will sing my praise.
   to move mountains, one must move throngs.
          to move people you expect them to become
mountains: or sun-tanned noon
  having been charcoaled into obliteration.
     one thought: an ottoman janissary: and vlad
the lesser crucifier and the adamant
impaler, who said that homosexuality shouldn't matter....
   imagine the comparative pain...
i can't: therefore i won't.
                     thus the black scripts of notation...
better than uttering original maxims,
          as in... better to engage in transcendentalº
dialectics
     ºin ref. to Nietzsche: the masses do not hold
an opinion on sanity: hence my concordance
with "him" - and insanity in individuals (self-dividing
                      duos in calamity of one):
insane individuals are rare: but conglomerates are
the norm - thus an agreement of shared truths
that has no debate to support it, because it has been
"plagiarised",
   the transcendental aspect is the lack of dialectics
(replaced with diacritics),
     and also the historical novelty of shared observation
with a disparity of a century's worth of history:
governing still the caveman and the modern man,
            as if the two were mutually compatible.
that one could rewrite the other, and so too true in
reverse.
   i find it harsh having to relinquish the authority
of language, as my own it used,
but only when school-friends suggest it, those
with ******* family members do i foremostly
experience it as my own: well... thanks to you
i'm not a plumber because your father detonated
the atom bomb and never bothered checking what
the gorilla did next with the grand censor of fertility
to protect an aesthetic...
           but then again: you were always Irish.
oo! well: sodomite that oops... it'll be worth something
in 30 years' time. strange how it must read...
Holocaust deniers also have the same lysergic trip.
             insanity in individuals is rare,
among groups it's the norm, within a framework
of Nietzsche: thus an agreement of shared truths,
that has no debate to support it,
because it has been "plagiarised" (necessarily experienced
more than once),
   ºthe transcendental aspect is the actual lack of
dialectics, and also the historical shared novelty of sharing
of observation (the tsunami cult, the earthquake cult)
with a disparity of range toward the century-range...
   philosophy infamously aks purposively
unsolvable questions: or questions that require many
more questions... or what is known as a transcript
of Aristotelian awe: of those who commit to error
with that science of pure wording, to spur people on;
philosophers are the adventurers in error:
only because this engages them in providing a "gravity"
locus... for others to hone onto and correct...
(oh how i'd believe had there been a Koranic surah
on the mindful hoplites)...
         purposively erroring: philosophy;
philosophers are pioneers: birches... scientists
are all but oak: auburn well established.
       but what of transcendental dialectic that expands
into shared truths (as experience) within the dual-disparity
of nearing death and the dawn of the 20th century
   and never-nearing a life at the dawn of the 21st century?
excluding dialectics and diacritics has given us
such a society, where everything is nearly snowflake
lucratively dissolvable and gentle...
                   few people utter truths,
even fewer utter truths than need to be debated...
             for the over-lord truth is mono, or glue...
        but still the tactic of avoiding certain truths
for the necessity of sitting in an armchair rather than
on a cold pavement... for in their pluralism
they express as many universal traits of non-experience,
as they subsequently express enough
    particular traits of experience
(translate rhyming into philosophy and you get this...
going cross-eyed in allocating an understanding,
summarised by the word zez).
hence the unwinding: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -):
    of time, and how to encourage abstracting
worded coordination into an advanced literacy rate,
that'll fail, because literacy is power that requires
labouring anyway.
  because you did say "encapsulating a zoo"
readied to perpetrate a staging of a freak-show.
examples: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -)        are zeniths in
the narrative compensation to nothing -
        in literature a surprise turn of the plot,
a summarisation, as such stand-out moments,
or quotes: here is a version of encoding verbal
"mathematical" synonymity -
         i too would wish to create a language
that doesn't abide by the language of miles,
but that of metres, but then there's the thesaurus
distinction between metres in deviations of
centimetres and nano in close-proximity
          ruby, crimson, burgundy, bled throughout the week
until pale grey and with an epitaph.
      language never brings us together,
it never did, we all wished to be cats and have said
meow... but we rarely and will never say...
that's nearing toward shame...
  i absolve humanity of the original sin...
                    if sinning was so original i would suggest
other forms of compensating it rather than prayer:
i'm thinking of the original shame...
it's that story of a serial killer who believed he
had no universal traits concerning him,
he had no systematisation of conscience,
he denied having a sense of guilt...
          it's hard to believe such things,
given the ceiling is the universe...
        it's hard to become a rat in a solipsistic maze...
that's ****** had to believe...
                   to deny having universal a priori
is also to deny particular a posteriori...
                           even though nothing really happened
apart from god laughing and man yawning
and the devil crying. it's very hard to believe people
these days, even though they deserve it,
                    it's hard to summate oneself in being
able to;
  thank god philosophers didn't complicate simple words
with remnants of Latin like psychologists did,
there's the prior (a priori) and there's the after (a posteriori),
or the two within a-: without a prior (to) / priority -
                  or without an after / an imitable vogue / trend /
    zeitgeist.
          can you write something like someone disclosing the fudge
of what's technically an arithmetic summary?          
no intelligence is being undermined here,
         what's being undermined is what's critically an optical
   java transitory period.                                                    

(int­erlude no. 2)

the laziest philosophers always write about the word
philosophy without actually philosophising,
you can say as much when saying: i'm thinking about thought.
of all the professions, philosophers don't know theirs...
it's true, if you do it, you do it not-knowing / unconsciously.
modernity does in fact overprescribe the word genius
because it doesn't give practitioners of philosophy any
credit in the slightest of actually being recipients of
life... every time a thought spawns from nothing
the limitation of expressing it is: you don't exist;
soon enough you hang up having any competence in language
and say to people you thought you knew: adios amigos,
good luck: then you wonder why they're so
prematurely depressed, and then you forget about them
and think of a million Chinese carpenters:
simply because it's less depressingly so.
     do you ever write encapsulating a rhombus on a page
with your literary / wanking hand? i know i do,
write in a notebook askew - or that's what's called the
future of absurdity: i'm thinking about thought -
some later claim morality, and some later claim god -
        that should sound more simply as: ought i?
    but it doesn't... hey, here's to self-projecting ****** -
it's not even that good people invented god,
  it's that evil people did...
                  which is always a bit ****** having that
microchip in my abstract mind (the brain) i sometimes
try to get rid off while acting as an atheist for pop super!
       does that sound highly idealistic?
it probably does... have i an influential counter to it?
n'ah. thinking about thought without the either or of
ought leaves me asking outside the box / transcendental
questions about what self is ingested by that
Pontius Pilate... talk of the "true" self and talk of
the "false" self: who the **** is the narrator then?
are we all bleaching our handshakes these days to
give a handshake?!
    some men would claim to be the husbands of that
insatiable "woman" that's Sophia,
         who, after all, is better equipped to satiate 3
men, than a man to satiated 3 women:
the trinity of ****, vaginal: oral - funny that,
how perfectly that plays against all those years of
practising to a demand of the churches': kneel!
i'll just watch you **** him off while Mary Magdalene
spread the schematic that resulted in the Islamic
******* analing the "respected".

(interlude no. 3)

just can't be bothered mate...
  never did so much charity work pour into
      herr Herrman's charity chest of
the never thought of set of poems.

- and a day later, just a blank,
what a formidable evening,
why do i queue for even a trombone, violin,
       a viola, trumpet or a sax to add to my voice?
but in musicological terms: that's exactly what i'm doing.
it's hard to not see this as a cure:
with 16,713 views matta's echo babylon is
truly the antithesis of Prokofiev, or any other,
as might call it: windy character.
        classical music was bound to tornados and
zephyrs - modern music is the epitome of rhythmic
sampling, drum eroded violins,
           and other things happened, too.
rhombus within the framework of the hand-written prior,
on tiny scraps of rectangular paper,
because it's easier to write like that: slanting
and therefore for the imagery of cascading -
and as the pronoun revolution dies down,
                    and the voices go unheard,
   people will start to think about thought
and later thought per se for transcendental purposes...
     because choice will be ejected from
having competent access to it: namely?
   i can't see those **** the ***** protests seriously
if people can't take to shooting guns,
          i mean real rebellion... obviously i'm egging
on the situation and spraying gasoline on it
(obviously), but if the French give you the statue of
liberty as a present, you get to look at the appendix,
and start thinking: where are the guns, so
it looks like a genuine protest? i thought the idea of
being able to own guns (by the people), was to suggest
that if the government was electorally undesired,
people could start shooting... the tongue isn't
a

Come dance the Tandava with me and you too will be free

Creation सृष्टि
I am Shiva’s Shadow
स्थिति ..... I exist to support life’s precarious platform
संहार  ..... I feel Creation’s seed.... cosmic genesis

The first wave of flagrant eruption
Ending in the the cosmos’s destruction.

तिरोभाव There exists illusion
Which gives rise to me
The obliteration of ignorance.
We live in times of ignore-ance

Here I have little sway.
Years from now....maybe.

Until then, kali decides to dance with me. Primal संहार Destruction
Bloodlust and Fire
******* and desire
Quantum tantric tangle
***** the world’s funeral pyre

Goodbye beauty, Goodbye love

WE bring it upon ourselves, creating shells and building shelves
to stack the wonton clothes of identity, the context of all hells.
The layers are too many
It collapses
And if not, I'll ******* burn the scaffold.

I know why I am here now.  
To destroy tirobhava,
all this pain is an illusion
I hereby release this sickness from the world
in prophetic burning grace of emancipation अनुग्रह is foretold

To dance the sacred tandava
say goodbye once more and end it all.

The Eagle did land,
In the Israelites' hands,
The eagle was candid,
When Our Lord landed,
The brain game's the same,
Humans still play it the same,
Weapons of mass destruction,
Hell is obliteration,
We should aim high, Our Father
Would Peace on Earth rather,
Once upon a lifetime,
In an instant of rhyme,
The Eagle was candid,
When Our Lord landed!













,

feed yourself the beautiful dream
one brain wave at a time
so as not to choke on its entirety
or have to suffer anymore.

the entire vibrato you've used
is getting you nowhere, you see.
but soon, you'll be able
to say you're not on the streets to score
another fix
another mix
of chemical endurance
and obliteration

step on up, and read the sign
there's nothing left here
just as it was when your father walked
from one end to the other, feverishly.

we're dying out left and right,
but you're sure to make it,
i swear it, i've seen it,
and i'll make it all a reality
*based on dreaming
shaped from cleaning
of the mind
and its impurities.

Dealing with obliteration
Like a sandwich
Eating the edge off til you feel
Like a little machine
Or small animal
Maybe a squirrel
With your teeth
You click click click


@Copyright 2018 Dennis Willis

I
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

       II
Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measures destined for her soul.

       III
Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
He moved among us, as a muttering king,
Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
With heaven, brought such requital to desire
The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

       IV
She says, "I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?-"
There is not any haunt of prophesy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
As April's green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow's wings.

       V
She says, "But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.-"
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

       VI
Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set the pear upon those river banks
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning ***** we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

       VII
Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
Shall chant in **** on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

       VIII
She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.-"
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

This is chapter one; your opinions  are a blessing?!



As Obliteration Comes...

What is there to think of a man who goes, so far, out of his way in the destruction of the woman who loves him; Years beyond the assault she could not, would not speak about… a woman, … within her devastation tries to dissociate and desperately tries to make it… not be?!  Of this day…, she tells no-one; … only those there knew, they were there in the aftermath and saw. There at the place she’s works and holds a different name;  a place where she could not report  to police…, not without turning her world inside out, a destruction which becomes impossible to avoid?! Considering such a thing leaves behind evidence of its unspoken crime. Unknowing all … He hates her for acts of duplicity; as if she’d want any other than he, who owns her heart?!
The day
I know Denise’s men; for the most-part, their ******* Freaks! I’d never normally go near any of them?! But, this man had pleasant eyes; I knew Denise was going to be in before I leave… so I sat with him.
He tells me he and Denise know each-other through my other Agent, Lisa; I worked with more than one agent, AI-Talent and Top Entertainers Talent Agency all for my NY, Conn. and NJ gigs. I had Lisa for all gigs at after-hours and for those long-distance clubs.    
(Lisa’s the agent which was going to give me up to the Rode Island police, when we were all on the way home from a four week gig we did in Boston’s Pussycat’s Lounge. An unforgettable time to say the least ;)

Kal walks over around 3:30 and whispers “Denise is a no-show tonight could you stay until her replacement gets here?”

What, as-if I would say no?
It was one extra set and I would be out of here at 5pm!
” No problem! But, I need to be out of here by five?!”

“Janice, cool! Callie lives on the other end of the Market; she said she’ll cab it down!” Kal looks relieved.

  But as it goes with Denise’s friend; he was, to say the least, miffed!
“Denise told me to be here! Why…? If she wasn’t going…”  
I tell him, “If Denise told you to be here? She’ll stop by later or she’ll send someone in to get you! Right?”
He orders me another drink; he stews about where Denise could be…; Meanwhile, Denise’s replacement is nowhere to be found?!
It’s now 6pm?!
“There’s no-way, no way in hell, I’ll make it out to Rockaway’s by 8pm!” thinking to myself …, ‘I can’t be late?! I’ve never been late!’
“This is not my day!?”
Denise’s friend turns to me and says,” I’ll drop you down at the train; Hell, I’m going down to midtown; the hell with waiting for Denise! So, if you can use a ride down to the city?”
As he says this Callie flies through the door.

As you know; I’m an *******!  I was totally elated thinking of the possibility about being out there with Joe by 9- 9:30! ‘He’s saying he can get me down to the A train and from there… One straight run! Oh, Baby!’
What a ******* *******; I’d never… I wasn’t thinking.

“That’s so nice of you; thank you!” Stupidly, “You have no idea; Let me go in the back and get my stuff!”
I never before..; “You can’t know how much this helps me out! Thank you! “      

   I tell Kal he’s was giving me the ride.  Kal smiles, “Thanks man! She’s a good girl… take care of her! “
  
He takes my bags to carry them outside for me; It was so bright outside. After a seven hour long day of being inside drinking with that pounding music and those pulsating lights; the outdoors seem so foreign?! I look to see where his car was parked?
He laughs saying, “I put it in the lot across the street! Willey’s lot was full when I got here.”

Still thanking him for driving me downtown while crossing over Hunts Point Avenue; we reach his car he opens his back door to place my bags on the seat… fumbling the bags one of them falls to the ground. I remember hearing his laughter as I bent over to get my bag; all the bags were flying towards me!? Before, I could… I …   the back of my head hit the edge of the door… my bags were on top of me … and all the weight? I try but couldn’t make a sound! I was in the back of his car. All my bags moving, cutting into me and him pressing down; …clawing, pawing all over! My bags cutting into my skin; His arm pressing against my chest!  I heard, “Don’t… **** … Die!”   I couldn’t feel… Breathe? And; Snap! …Blackness.    
Then, I remember… falling!? I was…. a body empty nothing-more as it’s pushed out the door and hits gravel! Bags slam hard onto…, all of what remains left of it.  
There’s sound of an engine? There’s shower of gravel? Car-horns are heard blaring in the distance; still breathing.  
I’m not sure how…??? I pick stuff off the ground. My mind’s numb, thinking all I could… I need home to clean this… I’ll make it gone??? I’ll make it… not have happened!’
I took a cab from *****’s; All the way from the South Bronx! I still don’t remember that time to my home; I only remember getting out of the second cab, The Rockaway’s Play-land; I remember watching for the A-train to go by… thinking; ‘I’ll tell Joe I took the train out. He’ll never know… he can’t?! He told me not to go; he told me to be out here with him to meet his friend. This is my fault.’ The head’s not… Hide, it didn’t happen just forget the last twenty-four hours?! I turn the corner and walk down the block towards the bungalow; he was there.
‘He’ll leave you; it’s your fault you went to work; he told you not to go… No, nothing happened?! He loves me? I love him!!! Nothing happened!’
When he saw me? He didn’t even ask anything about my not having all my bags? I always carry my three extra large duffels and a pocketbook?
I walk in the yard with only money in my pants and not even one bag?
If I were here straight from work and had left the club when I suppose to off I’d been here no later than 8pm?
I show up ten moments to four in the morning, without bags and he doesn’t say a thing about it; not even a single word about this long-sleeve shirt covering my cuts and bruises?
He smiles; he tells me his friend’s still sleeping but when he wakes-up we’ll all go to breakfast. His friend comes out and we sat and talked for a few moments. Joe hadn’t notice but his friend asks me if I was alright: I said, “Yeah hadn’t eaten all day; Joe says we’re going out for food. His friend took his car and Joe and I met him there. The whole time sitting there in the Crossbay Diner with his friend I kept thinking;
‘If Joe and I were with each other it would be as if nothing happened? It will be it never happen?! That’s what I need to do!? I’ll be fine. Everything… fine.’
  After breakfast his friend got into his car and left;
Joe says he needs to head home to get some rest later-on he’s taking his mom, Rose, out to her other son’s house.
And, he says he’ll come for me once he drops her off… and we’ll go to the place underneath the Throgs-neck bridge  
How hard it was…
Joe parks and takes out his jug of ***** and grapefruit then begins talking? He’s talking???
As if there wasn’t …?  Like nothing happened… nothing??? He was simply sitting there saying something about Vincent and Helga???
“They’re going to drive mom home!”
He’s smiles? Saying, “They’ll take mom home from their house so we can stay here as long as we want!”
Every time he tries reaching for that jug or reaches out to put his hands on me…; I’d jump!?   I felt my skin crawling; there was a bubbling sensation all over in every last place that was touched; I felt my skin as if it going to burst out with blisters of poison! I needed to get home!? I need to wash this..!? I need not to have his hands touch… This thing I was???
‘He touches me, so help me God, I’ll open this car and run and throw myself into that water! I was shaking, I was sitting on the arm-rest of the door and I began yelling!? “Take Me Home! “
“You son of a …!  Can‘t you see; Can‘t you see!”
“I need home! I don‘t feel well!? “
“You, *******!  Get me home!”
No Clue. Still, He’s clueless to any difference??? He yells back at me, “What’s your problem?  You on the rag or something?”
He drove me home.  I open the door before he could try to park and I run inside; I locked myself into the bathroom. By time I was out the sun was up!

The phone begins ringing.  It’s Kelli Ann, “Sometime last night my grandma, Rose, died. “
I dropped the phone. My sister got on… with Kelli.
I just stood there numb; thinking how…
‘Dear God! Joe and I were at the bridge!  
If I told him what happened he would have been with her.”
He would have left me; But, He would have been with Rose?

Rose was the most amazing person to me; I adore her, I denied her… and I stopped him from being with her.
‘I didn’t want to lose him; I couldn’t see losing me again?!
And, I made it so he wasn’t there… for her.’
All the times he’s walked away from me, so many times; He’d say nothing and show up at the house with some girl.
And introduce her to the family; that was his way telling me just how important I was… That was his way of telling me he didn’t want me. And, I would stand there… act as if it wasn’t a big deal… ‘It must be nice… no feelings?’
But then after a while he would come back; It be like none of them knew a thing?! Yeah, not even what I did for a living?! When asked, what I did for a living, I’d tell them; I work as a Entertainment Manager for bars throughout the Tri-State area; Yeah right; I was entertaining and I did Manage… (I manage to get to and from my gigs and I was entertainment!) So, it’s not complete truth or lie. And, HELL, Joe can’t think too poorly of what I do; after-all it was his idea?!

It’s only three days before his birthday and here’s Joe having to make the arrangements for Rose’s ( his mother’s) wake; He turns to me and says,” My mom had these spills often before..; But, she’d always come back to me! I’d hold her hand and I’d call to her!  I wish I had been out by Vincent’s. She maybe…. Maybe she’d still be here with us.”
I felt… numb.
That night we were all at the wake;
I hover in doorways watching every person go in than back out again. I kept looking at Joe; I didn’t know why, but my mind, I wish it was him in that **** box. Isn’t that sick!  As much as I love Rose I’d wish her son could trade places??? How that would have been unbearable for Rose and yet…
The biggest reason Joe and I kept our being together a secret was her; She was by no means the only… not by a long-shot!  But, she was a most important reason. I could have never dealt with even a thought of her hating me for loving her son; I fear… loss; now, she’s gone. I love her; I want her back! I want her to know; I want to tell her! She never knew… he’s her grandchild? She’ll never know now.  Here knowing…, seeing everyone around feeling this loss for Rose; because of me… she might have still been here…? Only if…?
Thoughts, ‘My life is imploding; it’s all moving in slow motion. I don’t know how far… I don’t know if… I’ll survive this… this time? ’ I cling to straws; I can’t lose Joe; I can’t make my sister leave home? She’ll never make it on her own; I can’t tell Joe what happened? Then he’ll know all of this, everything, is my fault?!  I stopped him from being with Rose when she needed him most.
What if he’s to ask about little Joe…? With the way he feels about my sister? I never gave him an opportunity to ask out-right if he’s his before; it wasn’t me who told him. When I let him know I was having a baby I told him,” You could be the godfather?! He agreed to that… He didn’t ask, he didn’t want to know; and I couldn’t ever take the chance… Not then, not now; He’ll take my child away; He’ll take him and leave me?! I’ll have nothing I’ll be…?!
Say nothing; …perform as you go; Stay in survival mode!

The day of the burial:  We went to church and everybody goes up to the front. I didn’t know where to sit? None of the family told me where…?  Then, Kay Young, a neighbor and friend of my mother’s pulls me over and says to sit in the last row near her; so that’s what I did. Afterwards, when we were all outside someone told me to get into a car; a car which turns-out to be Lynne’s car!? Lynne and Kelli together were the ones who made it that Joe found out about the baby.
Thoughts, ‘… imploding; It’s all moving slowly… don’t know how far… or if I’ll survive, All this … this time? ’

After my son was born Lynne was the one who told Joey that others are saying little Joe was his… Joe wouldn’t ask me if he was the father and I was more than glad not to tell him! Yes, I know it’s extremely selfish; but I couldn’t risk losing another one. But, if I did I would have turned Joe’s life upside down for nothing.    
(My Joe was a preemie; barely six months along when he was born. My tiny baby boy needed to stay in a hospital from June 6 until Aug. 31st.. )  
It was June;  
We, a whole crew of us, were out at Rockaway‘s;
Kelli Ann and Lynne were making drinks and I had maybe five big drinks in those 20 oz. cups. To say I was blotto is beyond an understatement!

The two of them get going; they were told and they know that my baby was Joe’s; And, I have to tell him!

“I don’t know what you girls are talking… You’re wrong! Leave it alone!”  
“Everyone knows how you feel about him!?”
“What? Leave this alone! You don’t know what you’re talking…”  
“You’re going to have to tell him….?”
“Leave this alone; this is none of you business and you haven’t any idea of what you’re talking about!”  
“If you don’t tell him I will!”
“I’m telling the two of you to leave the man alone!”
“Well, he needs; he has a right to know!”  
I got up and say, “Apparently, I do need to talk to him about something? Don’t I?!

I turn to go find Joey! I need to talk to him about what Lynne and Kelli are saying to me…??? There, in mid-turn, I slap in face into his chest; Joe’s standing there hearing every word of what was being said.
He yells at me; saying, ”What… This is ******-up!”
I start crying; I run towards the beach! Thinking, How am I going to tell him? How can I say I couldn’t tell you, I could trust you! How do you say to the man you love that you left him to believe he wasn’t… because having this baby means more than he does; And, if he knew he was the father when he was told about the baby he would have just been another person, in this life, trying to stop this baby from being born. I lost too many; He’s mine! No-one’s taking him from me. Not even his father.  How do you say this…  
I went up to the bench on the boardwalk; I would always sit in that same spot; I was crying.  
Joe comes up behind me;
He says,” What are you going to do now? **** yourself!?”

I didn’t try looking at him; I just spoke holding my tears, ” No…, You’re not worth that!”
A long time passes as the two of us stare out at the surf.
He said,” So…?”

Painfully, I remind him his words he told me, at Christmas time, when we first…;
“Joe, do you remember, what you said to me? The very first time I told you how much I love you? Do you remember?  Joe, you told me, “Don’t!”  
Then you told me, “You’re just for now?! No attachments! Remember?”    

Joey turns and goes back to the bungalow; He gathered up his stuff, takes Lynne and leaves. He wouldn’t speak to me again until mid-October after, I got little Joe back after my mother and my grandfather kidnapped him.
When I got my baby back his stomach… There was something wrong? Every time I try to give him his milk it wasn’t staying down in his tiny body?!
I was so frightened; I saw Rose outside the house and I ran-up to her for help; she goes downstairs with the baby and gets out baby cereal she mixed it with the baby-milk?
“Rose? The doctors told me I’m not to give the baby anything but the baby-milk?”
  
Rose said, “Don’t worry; I’ve seen this before… Don’t you get scared?”

She force-fed Joey some of mix and in moments the baby threw-up every drop of what Rose gave him; she cleans him up and shoves the bottle of plain baby-milk into his mouth; He was drinking it on his own!
She tells me the baby’s stomach was shut-down. She says, “Sometimes baby’s go through this failure to thrive when there’s too much turmoil around them. But, this little guy here is alright now.” She hands him to me and says, “Now, He has his Mama.”
Joe came down stairs from his room he must have heard the yelp I made as the baby threw-up the cereal-mixture.
Rose saved the baby’s life that day, her grandbaby.
And, now, I’m sitting in this *****’s Lynne’s car; I’m going to say goodbye to dearest woman I ever knew… ‘I wish it was me going into that hole.
Later, we all went to eat out at a place on the Blvd and then the family came back home. We stayed up late and Joe’s brother from Florida with his wife and their two kids went upstairs. They bunked-down in Rose’s living room and Joe and I were down the basement in the kitchen. We finish cleaning the dishes and he tells me to come with him to his room;
“They will sleep ‘til three; Both, Butchy and Sandy have been drinking since seven this morning.”
I went with him; I felt so numb. I belong to him; I love him. I just need to let this happen then everything will be the way it’s…I am his.

I kept saying, “My Love, I belong to you! I need you! I love you! Joe, you are everything to me!  You are my life! My head kept whispering” You didn’t stop it; you allowed another to take what belongs to Joe.
You are nothing.
I kept repeating to Joe, “I belong to you Always, I’m yours.” I kept saying the words over and over to him; I didn’t want to stop telling him, I am his…
When he fell asleep and I was sure he was asleep; I got up and slipped out of his room. Sandy caught me leaving his room; I saw her and I stood there like a deer in headlights!
Sandy just asked, “Is he still up in there?”
I said, “No.” and, I went fast out the door and ran home.
I need to check on my sister and my son; I didn’t want Joe’s brother or any of the rest of the family getting any notions. Running into Sandy as I left Joe’s room scared the hell out of me! But, she was … Sandy didn’t remember seeing me. She says she doesn’t remember anything after she ate dinner down-stairs.
That was the last time him and me…              
Joe was pretty busy while the out-of-towners’ were stopping by and with all the paperwork needed to be done…  I just hung-out with Kelli; I figure, when he’s not too busy he’ll talk to me.
It was a few weeks after that night; Joe comes up stairs where Kelli and I were; he asked Kelli to leave us alone.

He handed me all the papers he was holding for me and told me,” Don’t you ever talk to me again! You are a nothing; do you hear me? A nobody! You’re a worthless ***** and I don’t want to ever have to look at you again!”
Then, he went down and locked the door, hard.  
Kelli Ann comes back in and asks why he’s acting like that towards me; I told her, I don’t know?  And, I didn‘t?! I didn’t until nearly two months later when I went to the doctors; then, I knew.
I have gone back to work; But, I will never go back up to *****’s!
I met-up with Denise a few days after I went back to work; we were both at the Golden Dollar; she was just leaving as I’m walking in…  She slaps $350.into my hand saying, “Thanks for taking care of my friend! Gotta’run!” She’s out the door before I could tell her what happen to me wasn’t, by any means, by chose.
Time passes; it’s now, nearing my birthday; I’m hearing about how Joe’s spending his time with Lynne; So, I decide I to write a letter to Kelli. I could stop kelli from mistreating Joe, for what wasn’t ever Joe’s choice in the first place, and I can stop Joe from being convinced into taken my child away from me by that *****, Lynne.
Joe wants to be with that… that’s his business; she thinks the two them will take my child? Not that *****!  That ***** won’t ever get to put her hands on my child! After what she did on June 4th and 28th and so many other times… With his wanting to be with her it makes it a whole lot easier for me to feel a deep disgust towards him. Joe thought me to be such a no-body; he thinks me so cheap… He left me months ago unaware… in pain and he thinking I would want…
  Fine, two birds’ one stone?!   I don’t want her mistreating him for our not being together… It’s not his fault I went to work; but if he’s going to try at any point to come and take little Joe away?! I can’t let that to ever happen!
I wrote Kelli a letter saying his in no way my child’s father and for her to stop mistreating him like he had done something wrong his mother has died and you are being nasty to him. I can’t be friends with you anymore I have too much in my life I need to take care of my son and my sister and I told her I hope the best for her in her life. I wrote… using six pages of words but this is the full gist of it.
I thought if some day things are different and he and I find our way back to one another again; Kelli would have a chance to confront me in front of him about the letter and I’d be able to ask Joe for a signed a waiver of parental rights and then I could ask him to have a DNA test done. But for now, my son will remain where he belongs…with me.

How it is that all this started; why must this be...

I think we're going extinct
I hate to even blink 
...
I remember when we were in sync 
But things changed 
We will act strange over change 
Being caged and attached by chains is voguish 

Are we hopeless? 
Why can we polish our pinky rings 
But leave rust on our linkage chains? 
Our words don't bond anymore 
Our words are shackles 
Our words are like crooked spurs 
And unbalanced saddles 
Yeah It travels 
But lies are to be told 
Only to smear what we really withhold 

I think that we're going extinct 
I hate to blink 
As my eye lids flicker 
More and more existence spills from our mankind 
Man-kind 
We're turning into the kind of men 
Who emotionally melts when we see celebrities 
Where's our rectitude? 

I think we're going extinct 
I hate to blink
Where's my natural woman?
Every time I twitch 
More and more she accepts the word ***** 
And in no time a guy can become exposed to her hips 
Where's our morality? 

Are we going to expire 
All because we create our entire empire with desires? 
Desires and thirst that require us to hurt 
We smile and we smirk 
We loath from good work 
We poke at nerves
We drown our minds to swerve 
We absorb potion 
Only to tranquil our motion 
We indulge in copulation 
With a stranger 
But somehow for consolation 
...
We are endangered 
We are a few more trends away from complete annihilation 
Eradication 
Liquidation 
Obliteration 
Cancellatio­n 
Our tendencies are cancerous and if we keep being patient 
We will need medication 
I don't feel any radiation 
To not become subject to our decimation

I think we're going extinct 
My instincts tell me that
Though we're a percentage and a contributor to this nation 
We are approaching ruination 
My instinct senses that I am one of the few who mentions devastation 
And if I blink one more time 
And if we keep wasting time 
We'll be wastage 
We 
You and I 
We'll be ejected from the race 
And they'll use a prosthetic ethnic affiliation for our replacement 
Can we come together with cooperation 
Resisting this operation 
May we all stand up 
Before they go through with this amputation ! 

Blink
Lets see

I am adrift in a sea of both rhymes and alliteration.
Of both lies and obliteration.
Of both ties and obligation.
I am adrift in a sea of both degradation and pain.
Of both sane and insane.
Of both space and plane.
I am adrift in a sea of both ideas and emptiness.
Of both of melancholy and happiness.
Of both empathy and cruelness.
I am adrift in a sea.

Mumbling, mumbling, intoxication
Ripping your lovely white dress on the front door step
You wonder how long you can keep this up.
Mumbling, mumbling into obliteration.
Closer to the each other, screaming mad.
Seventy watchful eyes on you,
Hopeful, hopeful, incantations.

Lustful brown teared eyes
Fixed on green snake eyes,
Quivering lips touching secretly in the quiet coat room
Famously ending in abrupt awkwardness.

You raised your glass in high spirits
Pushing, pulling into temptation
Still mumbling, intoxication
Wishing for more than incantations,
Mumbling, mumbling into obliteration

The barren   landscape sends me shivers
Further enhanced by the total obliteration
The presence of ghosts still lingers
So many years after the detonation

All this desolation pictures
Like a scene from the apocalypse scriptures
A pale nuclear shadow projected eternally
The perpetual loss of harmony

A remnant showing us our absurdity
Was vaporised by the obfuscating bright
The ashen picture is the last goodbye
Relic of the tremendous light
My moods darken I want to cry

This is the last trace of a human being
a son of someone
prevented from further ageing
That from fate couldn’t run

Like a permanent echo of the disaster
a visual silent scream
like a photograph of a dreadful dream
a shout that sends a warning to us all


As we wish to forget how the balance is frail
It’s easy to disregard the detail
and be united by the same fate
that destruction at an even greater scale
it’s yet a threat  not out of date

I have long sought quiet.
And please, let me be clear: quiet.
Not the quietus Hamlet desired,
No “consummation devoutly to be wished” for me.
No, with or without a bare bayonet,
UNBEINGNESS is hardly what I seek.
It is not the predicament of death,
But the quiet spectacle of the grave I envy.  
Originally a city mouse,
I am familiar with the urban soundscape.
I know city noise, amped up in decibels.
Noise-induced stress, shrill and enervating,
Add to the mix a working-class neighborhood,
Where someone is always hammering,
Using a power tool of some kind,
Repairing, improving an older, somewhat decrepit home;
But a steal as the realtors say.
Or vehicles, like Old Havana relics,
Held together by secular prayer,
And thriving underground Cuban capitalism.
Then just for fun: "Let’s send the ******* to war."
Tympanic membranes be wary and be ******.
Stretched and perforated,
Compressed and torn,
Shredded like wheat.
Pummeled by shock wave.
I was Lear wandering the heath,
Your ***-cheeks cracked:
“Cataracts and hurricanes . . .
Oak-cleaving thunderbolts . . .
Sulphurour and thought-executing fires . . .
Singe my white head!”
Cue Cabaret music (Cabaret (1972) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0068327): “Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome . . . to Indochine,”
First a Weimar-Saigon suckee-fuckee,
Then out to The ****,
Mind-numbing concussion,
Reek of jellied gasoline,
Charred meat,
Assorted red entrails,
Obliteration of thought complete.

the inky black ocean watches, silent, as judgement day's unfurled
unaffected by the passing of time, by the anarchy below
in silk soft silence, chaotic is the death of the civilized world

the once calm waters of the void, now are swirled
smothering the fires of armageddon with its inexorable flow
the inky black ocean watches, silent, as judgement day's unfurled

silver pinpricks of light, into the infinite waters, are hurled
and liquid orange pigment leaks forth, ever so slow
in silk soft silence, chaotic is the death of the civilized world

around this blue and green marble, the vast water is curled
undisturbed by the hate and rage humans show
the inky black ocean watches, silent, as judgement day's unfurled

news of paradise's destruction throughout the heavens whirled
obliteration of one another the human race did bestow
in silk soft silence, chaotic is the death of the civilized world

the vast expanse of the ink black ocean is purled
as the earth was torn asunder with its final death blow
the inky black ocean watches, silent, as judgement day's unfurled
in silk soft silence, chaotic is the death of the civilized world

Through my veins
Traced in my blood
Elements, Remnants
Of beautiful, strong, dark eyed, dark skinned people, women
Skin touched by the sun, leaving a golden tint that glows and flickers under the light of the moon

Eyes and heart moonlit
Glowing even when eyelids are closed
And the soul leaps from the heart to travel those mystical realms
Realms believed and made so real by a people old and lost
People beautiful and horrific all at the same time
So great and tall

And all that’s left is the blood stained heights of pyramids
Unkept and untouched but standing for so long
All along
Stains that raise not the heights of where my people reached
But stains of an obliteration
The grounds they shed and bled over, buried now so deep

I have gazed and pierced through mirrors delving into the deepest darkest part of my eyes
Ojos Tapatios
Ojos desde alla
Darkest, deepest brown mud that seals and protects this ancient blood
Ancient beauty
Ancient woman

Sun touched and moonlit
Here, now, today
A bright, strong leaping soul that lives and breathes remnants of ancient worlds
But speaks words of truths that have no age
And feels love, of herself, her skin, her blood
And even the men, the souls that follow her through the realms

Through my veins
Yo soy Reyna
Yo soy Princesa
Yo soy hija de mi gente
To every end
To every beginning
In every new breath of life I take
And every breath of life there after
Mi gente I emanate

each broken bone will build my empire
and each scar will build my throne.
though crashing waves and
gusting winds try
to shake my stance i stand
as tall as a tower built to honor
the gods.
for i am not a god but a goddess
and i will level all of their towers
and break all of their shrines
to rebuild mine.

I tried so hard to reach you
But I can’t seem to break through
You continue to keep
Falling
The harder I try
The faster you fall
I’m ready to
Give up on you
I don’t know what else to do
It’s like I’m screaming
And you hear me, but you aren’t listening to me
You love the lies you tell yourself
And your mind thinks they are true
Because of how much you repeat them
Aloud and in your head
How dangerous.
You feel trapped
Not knowing what to do
So many things go wrong
But what you don’t get
Is under the shapeless words and I’m sorry’s
You know the real truth
You can fix your wrongs
And make them right
It seems that so much has gone wrong
That you are giving up
But it’s the wrong time for that
You tell yourself that I don’t care about you anymore
Yet another one of those lies
Cause if that was the truth
I wouldn’t still be around
You and I are living proof
That love is real
That love exists
But we’re also proof
That nothing is perfect
You get what you earn
You get out the same amount you put in
And right now
You are experiencing the cold truth
You have
No job
No money
No pride
No self confidence
No trust
From anyone
Is that how you want to live?
Seriously think.
Pay check by pay check
Bill by bill
Excuse after excuse
Borrowing knowing you can’t return
Being lucky as hell
To have just enough
Think.
Because as of right now
Your words mean nothing
Unless there is an action to back them up
I always say
“I’ll believe it when I see it”
And a cliché that fits
Actions speak louder than words
It’s true.
I wish for you to do better
I help you all I can
But I ran out of sympathy
I’m sorry.
And I’m not sure what to do
You should stop telling me that I need to prove myself to you
Because it is most definitely the other way around
I have never done anything
That would make you not trust me
I don’t break my promises
And I don’t forget about you, ever.
And now, I am killing myself from the inside out
For now, forget that you have me
And your mother
And your grandparents
And ryan
And all you have now is you
All your luck has run out
I don’t know what I’ve been doing all this time
There’s so much I feel you’ve stolen from me
Time
Money
Feelings
Tears
Effort
And don’t get me wrong
I have expressed/given you all of that out of my love for you
But I feel drained.
I feel like even when I have nothing
You continue to pry.
And that frustrates me deeply
I don’t want to feel this way
And you can’t change for anyone but yourself
I feel scarred.
I can’t keep thinking
Wondering
Worrying
WHEN?
When will you change?
And keep a job
And get your life to where it should be
And be able to be independent?
And be free of borrowing, pills, and everything else you need
If you live the life you’ve lead
You’ll never get to what’s in store for you
You were dealt a certain hand
And you need to make decisions based on that
Not on what you think should have happened.
History repeats itself
And when I say be careful
I really mean it.
And please, when I talk about my past
Don’t get mad, and say “sweet”
Cause it means something to me
Which you need to respect
Ryan and I go way back
He’s my best guy friend
And even though it’s unfortunate he’s your little brother
How do you think he feels?
About you being his older brother
In this situation
Just think about the fact that
Things that don’t matter to you
Could mean a whole a lot to someone else
If it weren’t for ryan, I probably wouldn’t know you
Think about that maybe
Life is more then us.
My life can go beyond you.
I seem to keep telling myself
I’m done
And If so,
I won’t be around the drugs
And the lies
And the emotional obliteration
That has worn me down
We fight so much
Because I have lost all tolerance
I am no longer a pushover.
You are never going to win this war
Because you don’t understand
I’m not against you.
I’m trying to help you
And you just use me for support
You just think everyone around you
Will make up for your laziness
Poor decisions
And lack of effort to do anything
Things won’t just fall into place
You have to make things happen
On your own.
There are so many obstacles you face
But some you create
Inebriating yourself is IMMATURE.
It doesn’t make the problems go away
Or make reality disappear
And when it wears off
You are right back to where you were
And how you were feeling
Is it really worth it?
It makes you look like a coward
Dependant
And helpless
But you’re more than that
When you blow coke
And smoke ***
And whatever else you do
And you lied to me and I didn’t find out
That’s no accomplishment
Cause you can’t fool yourself
And you can’t fool god
Under exaggerating the bad things you do
Doesn’t make it right
Or better
Or more okay because you only did a little bit, a couple times, maybe.
Don’t tell me you stopped smoking cigs because it will make me happy
Tell me when you have really done it
Because it should make you happy
And proud
You can’t careen through life
Just doing enough to survive
Doesn’t cut it.
Through these months
You’ve done just enough to keep me here
I am all that you have worked for
I look at you in distressing anger
Everything you do affects me
Mentally
Physically
And emotionally
I have a notion
That you are afraid to ask for help
Besides money
I can’t see you not succeed
I’m just that kind of person
I don’t need tangible items
And gifts
And to be spoiled to know you love me
Wealth means nothing to me
Don’t try to buy me back into loving you
So baby please
Live your life to its fullest
Do everything to your full potential
And just please get your **** together
Because I don’t want to see us apart
And I know you can do it
I have full faith in you
And you always tell me
How I am the only one that matters
And only my opinion counts
I need you to put in a truthful endeavor
Your love for me emanates from your smiles
And hugs
And kisses
And I don’t want to lose it
So for our sake
And for the safety of your future
THINK.
Take these words
And think about them
Cause I may forgive you one last time
You have had too many chances
And have completely ****** them all up.
Really think about what you are doing when the time comes to make a decision
And don’t make them because of me
Make them because you feel that even though its not what you may want
It’s what you have to do
To help yourself get out of being used to no daily routine
And dependence on others
And be a new
Independent
Clean
Successful
Happy
Mentally and emotionally stable
And most important
Be you.
I love you Justin Hurley Aronica
And I will love you forever
But it’s solely up to you
Whether or not I will be able to share my love with you
I didn’t know what love was
Until I met you
And now that we have experienced this deviation
I know what true love is
And it can’t be demised.

Click them off like

rosary beads

with accossiated prayers.


Smudge the dreams

into the eiderdown,

And divide them down

in ironed out

layers.


Line them up and

gobble them with listless

tea.

I am your prediction!

(said in shushes,

quite benediction)

I want to drop like stingless bees.

I am Addiction to Tranquility.


How jealous I am!

Watching him fall on his ****

as I begin the solitary farce

of trying to close my

eyes.

I watch his chest slowly sink and rise.

How beautiful -

to be cut down,

like grass.


Flophouse drapes of

cigarette smoke

hang from the ceiling in

billows.

A headache clings and

holds me close as

daylight stumbles

like a ghost,

and settles her questions

on my pillows.


The tragic thing about each morning

Is that I greet each sleepy dawn

with the dry and

pinkened threat of tears.

Sleepers – do you know the

might of what you do

each ******* night?

The oblivion in half your years?

The fiction of your wild frontiers?

The obliteration and presentation

of all your garbled

Freudian fears?

Do you know the glamour in what you do?

Do you know what I’d give to be like you?

To live and somehow not be here?

To close my eyes?

To disappear?