.i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.

just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
heidegger...
       das volk,
      and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
       volklich (communal)
und?
           völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
music...
   see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
   i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
    the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
   by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
   and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
                 in an example,
   rather than in a counter example?
   two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
DAS DIE DER...
             is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
        bewildering...
if there is such a thing as a western
civilization...
   that sometime
    pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
   but learn to hide it,
           feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
    an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
                   it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
    as the driving force to replace
doubt?
              who the hell sees doubt
these days?
    either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
           motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
   can't be anything more...
   than a.... ******* chore!

The circus is here
For all of America and the world to experience.

Hats off to you, Mr. Clown
Seated in the Oval Office,

Juggling our country
As if it is a toy for your own amusement
Dropping ***** everywhere.

You sit there with arms crossed,
Your pockets full
Your heart depleted.

Rich in dollars
Poor in spirit.

You are the fool
Ready to jump from cliff to cliff
Taking our country with you,

Never looking back
To see the sewage you leave
In your muddy tracks.

You are the itching powder
That gives our country a scaly rash.

You are orange dye
In a well-preserved tube of poison
Ingested by fools
Rejected by those with common sense.

You pretend to love women
Secretly fearing them
Knowing that if it weren’t for a woman
You would not be here.

You, the all-powerful king would not exist
If it weren’t for a woman.
So, you must show them who is boss
Because you are so **** afraid of them,
Of your own loss of control.

You fill up your angry gut
With know-it-all tactics
And then you crap all over the sick
With your insurance plan for the rich.

You knock down people with preexisting conditions,
People that can’t afford a bottle of Insulin,
Heart surgery,
Cancer medication.

You knock down babies and children
Diagnosed with lifelong illnesses
They fall prey to your ugly world of disillusionment.

You help the insurance companies
Handing them a free pass,
a pass that lets people die
If their wallet isn’t deep enough.

You just nod in approval
As the large companies thrive
Murdering the sick with their indifference.

You know nothing about people
The people who make up this world
The people who count
And you blame everybody but yourself.

You bathe daily in your power
Yet you leave such a stench
An odor of greed,
Obnoxiousness,
Racism
and Homophobia.

You drip profusely with your own self-importance
As you clumsily trip over your giant orange ego
As it follows you everywhere
From tweet to tweet
From fiasco to fiasco.

You leave the public With jaws wide open
The White House becomes an unprofessional screening
For your larger-than-life Reality TV show
As you continually play games with our country and world.

We chuckle at the daily puppet show
At your do-gooders and cabinet members,
As they are dragged across the floor
Right into your madness
Hanging on for dear life
To your fickle coattails.

We watch daily
As you slowly implode from the inside out
Your ice-cold exterior doing little to reassure us
That you are not simply insane.






2017 Stacey Handler

I quite like the virginity of a fresh notebook
the way my wrists and palms drag across its leaves
breathing life between lines in pink magic marker or the severity of red ballpoint
I like the prickly practical meticulousness of a shopping list:
a dozen eggs
one pineapple
one bag of fresh spinach
one bag of English muffins
one bottle of dish soap
I like the tender impressions of curlie cues and firty cursive
communicating endearments placed on counters such as:
TAKE OUT THE RECYCLING YOU LAZY OAF ******* <3 XOXOXO <3
I enjoy the audacity of a wandering doodle
meandering
cartwheeling
hopskotching
between
and under and over
indices

and spaces
between shopping lists and death threats
i enjoy the lingering ghost of prose shaped caverns
carved onto seemingly empty sheets that carry on for pages
until they fade like whispers into an evanescence
I crave the obnoxiousness absurdity of a to do list
daring me to take a day off from procrastination
until tomorrow
call Gramma
rent due on the first of the muuuuuuuunth
take the GRE
update resume
be awesome. like a boss.
most of all
I love the pain and joy of a poem
the way it slowly leaks from heart to mind to hand to paper
staining
spaces
urgently
faster than muses whispers
barely escaping onto lines
prolific terrific poetry
sporadic spacious atrocious poetry
I croon over the denial of the last page of a beat up notebook
the way the paper hangs onto spirals haggard
littered with stringy remnants of lists and reminders and death threats and poems and goodbyes

.oh, i've seen a muslim woman unveil herself from under a niqab in a street in hackney... it's the moment you see what the band cradle of filth call a: persian nightmare.

it's almostly the most perfected contrast of divergence,
how there is great criticism of the muslim attire,
and a complete lack of by the appropriation
of the sunglasses...
can i mind you that cenobite butterball?
   i find people wearing sunglasses to be
autistic, or at least people a knack at being
terrible at eye-contact...
           i know that the niqab is satan's postbox,
but the sunglasses are the answer,
      of the autistic carousel of eye-wanderings
of autistic children...
are they looking at me, or pretending
to look at copernicus, to argue:
you really don't need a flat earth
to read a map, because you really need
a 3 dimensional something or other....
    niqabs are about as welcome as sunglasses...
either it hides a saudi "princess"
   or an autistic child,
             and both are pretty much alike,
although one above the other,
admonishes a "knowledge" of a, papa.
    which is also called a waving goodbye in
slavic.
           come on though: meeting the niqab
and sunglasses in butterball?!
   that's ******* desperate...

and yes, although i can't believe i've had a note
making session, which, i did call la la land
impromptu...
yes, they are excerpts of: i wish i was gay
& also a jew, slightly more the jew emerging
from a cosmopolitan culture of constantinople,
even though the turks loved that bit
of ****... elif shafak? do i really need any
more words?! can we at least call it:
an orangutan playing the banjo?!
     do i really need more words than
elif shafak?
            who am i to pay the compliment,
than the compliment itself?
          
the biblical commentary regarding homosexuals;
will homosexuals ever become dodos?
the biblical critique of homosexuality
always seems a bit awry...
    was the bible written in a time when
hetrosexuality was guaranteed a success?
why was homosexuality criticised,
given that hetrosexuality was pretty much
akin to gambling?
      i don't understand why people do not
understand the ancient critique of homosexuality,
with the uncertainty of hetrosexual activity...
mind you, i love ****-eroticism in art,
i find that hetero-eroticism has no part in
crafting an art...
  but i also do not understand why
the biblical critique of homosexuality is so
frowned upon, given that in the times
of the said text being written,
     there was a dodo counter-argument...
there was a real chance of a ******* metaphor,
most gays, akin to the greeks,
were salvaged from the upper-tier class
of aristocracy...
           what's so ****** wrong with
facing reality?
               i don't mind the *******
oddity, but you still require
hetrosexuality to provide you with
two *** lickers!
       i actually can understand the critique
of homosexuality, given the times that abortion
was half the way into conservative dogmatism
established as a:
    sort of luxury;
i can't believe the obnoxiousness of modern
people regarding the ancients...
  please, begin by desecrating graves!
ever wonder how uncircumcised penises look
very much like bloated octopi,
or like an octopus trying to internalise a laugh,
while attempting to **** into an empty whiskey
bottle, with the ******* pinched,
turning into a bladder pouch, expanding?
akin to:
fame -
             or that stamina mingled with the tenacity
to be able, to repeat yourself
(notably in the interview medium)
with the tenacity to appear straight-faced:
seemingly mummified?
   and once you actually do manage to ****
into an empty glass bottle, you start to
admire the bladder...
   it is anything but amazing,
  seeing how your bladder can expand to hold
a litre of *****, without you noticing
the internalised expansion...
and then watching a litre sized bottle of
one present whiskey, begin to fill with
                     the shy of amber liquid...
it's still bothersome,
  this critique of muslim attire,
           notably with the western answer that's
equally disturbing, the sunglasses,
     it's one and the same to me,
the same butterball cenobite quest -
who gives a toss about your ******
contortions,
    as the niqab, they reveal very little to me...
it's almost an autistic revision
of the supposedly empowered
women of islam...
                what i could get behind those
sunglasses, it a darting carousel of
eye-contact...
                chances are i'd probably get
more eye-contact with a gorilla,
while also getting more oral *** with
a ******* oyster behind that curtain.

ich wollen ein iranischherz herauf Nörden.

or simply Njørden - often the j is a softening pronunciation -
i want an Iranian heart up north -
that's what is says - imagine why he lashed out
with the words *sheisse ausländer -
miniature form of Dostoyevsky -
at 18 he was confused - his father probably
heard the words... hearing that he lashed out...
this is the proof of the power of commandments -
take one to extreme, and all the others seems
permitted - honour your parents -
he didn't shout out allah'u akbar - he did
a little maxim veto - as said unto me one,
may these bullets turn into revisited tongues -
the west has no concern for poetry -
i wouldn't make Iran an enemy,
after all... they're the ones that appreciate poetry...
mm ha ha! so given Iran's flavour for poetics
i can only applaud at their sensibility -
i too was once duped into thinking that watching
a movie i might lie to a girl and ****** her -
poetry is dead in the west... i don't write
for the west, i write from the west, which doesn't
mean i respect the west -
thanks to feminism we're cruising into
an affair of what feminists don't anticipate:
the impracticality of old age creeping, creeping,
creeping... with large families there are at least
chances of a benevolent child who might care for
his parents - in the west with surrogate foetal-things
it's hardly a bouquet of flowers sitting pretty on
a table - the problem are already waiting...
thank **** if you're rich... if you're poor?
well... hmm what a Disneyland awaits you -
**** stained and **** smeared dying for your idea
like any Communist might; well, i'm not going to
help you... ask Oxfam while the money you donated
ensured that only a penny reached the poor poor
Africans and why 99 pence reached the bureaucracy
of keeping a charity afloat - i know where
i can find fresh water... you have to cross a barbwire
fence, feed 10 horses 20 sugar cubes and you're
at a little stream of clarity... then you do the vegan
diet and sorta'h waiting for a heart-attack...
or you take a Russian Empire banknote with Tsar
Nicholas II to Switzerland and buy yourself out
with euthanasia... either way, win win.
every ****** time i go back home there's the Krähewolke -
i'm starting to imagine myself as the boy instructed by
Barbarossa to watch for the crows and a second life -
it's a small town, used to be industrious,
life here, there, everywhere, now a town of pensioners -
a European squabbling with a European but ignoring
the massive signs MADE IN CHINA, MADE IN CHINA...
MADE IN CHINA... why you blaming me for what's
going to happen to you too? you think this is the steam-engine
days of industrial revolution? do you have an Instagram
account? no. well... if you aren't going to be a third party
advert unit you're worth jackshit -
but still that Krähewolke of summer, thousands of them
swarm the sky - i'm not saying because i'm there,
i'm saying i'm there dwarfed by such a sight...
krähe die messerschmitt - so poetry is written by
*****-whipped English teachers, or it's the medium of
the weak, it has many voices but it doesn't have a voice,
it needs to be pretty, it needs to be neat, it needs to
have a prosthetic metaphor stashed in a pile of **** flare -
some say it even has to be as coherent as an Ikea
manual for putting a table together, people all of a sudden
trash the calculator and attempt mental arithmetic in
terms of reading... what... a... load... of... crock-****...
hyphen... mm... the Germans knew the immigrant Saxons
would speak less and less German and even of lesser
quality than the Turks... the Germans invented chemistry -
the Anglo-Saxons invented hyphenation... but it's so
******* weird that the Englandish outlandish will
hyphenate a word like overt-usage but never include the
hyphen in chemical nouns, like: Hydrochloric acid...
dihydrogen monoxide (yes, the d'uh hoax),
phosphorus pentachloride - what remains of Vater Schwaben
in English is bound to chemistry's language,
where the standard use of hyphen is disallowed -
the German original took on a different optometrist -
the English revision took on yet another (different) optometrist -
the eyes of the English starring at a German word
began to dizzy-up-whirl looking through a kaleidoscope -
the Germans just saw: schieße schrapnell!
achtung! achtung! die wort ist die fondant...
mm... gobble gobble gobble - pristine smile of sharpened
teeth in a smile! klebrigzähne sprechen sehr kleine-eine-miner.
well... if you're going to write a Monty Pi Ten you might
as well desecrate a foreign language with the grammar of
the one acquired - very much interested in how grammar
is reflected by Arabic left-to-right, English right-to-left
German right-to-left,but Latin left-to-right - all the genus
names - **** sapiens: rational man - or the up-kept
(******* ***** -φρεν - alt.  hi-yo in Beijing) desire for:
the instilled continuance of the rationalising man...
rationalise this! knuckle dusters down the East End -
gotta be a **** before you can be a Cockney Wiseguy -
say ooh la la say soo - bud weiss err - say ooh la la say soo -
amphetamine George says: ethanol Scottish Gaelic means:
twins sedative and un-inhibitor - talk of Enzymes -
south and shoo, north and nothing, east and extra territory,
west and **** / Vancouver - van coup verily ******
voulez-vous volleyball aha! write poetry like a dictionary
entry - spandex, annex, fly-flex - it can really become
a tennis match after a while:
   roses are   red
                   violets are blue
             i'm so in love with everything that's dead
    that i decided to call the past the necessary glue.
an article by Bryan Applied concerning poetry -
and why all poetic hearts are bound for Iran -
karaoke the current trend in the west for one -
living at a time when cooking books sell,
and plagiarism is celebrated more than any awkward
originality, but everyone still owns microwaves
and opts for ready-meals -
the rewards of old age aren't there because families
have become atomic based on individuals -
oh right? the article, it's long, ****** me off -
"we turn to poetry in times of need, but can it really
help? and why doesn't it sell more copies?"
ah the selling questions, i forgot a capitalist thinks
of poems like hamburgers...
i'll put in a bracketed word pending in the title and give
you a brief overview of the article...

*** and whiskey interlude

i don't write poetry... what i do do is **** poetry;
why do fellow artists hate poetry?
poetry in the hands of the old and young
thinks itself ******-like, the one art form that
says no to violence, no to intolerance,
no to drastic actions of revision -
keeping the Shakespearean sonnet won't do the art
any favours, it's the art too easily accessible,
because anyone can apparently write it
as long as they get a clue than a rhyme is necessary -
alternating rhymes are not that important,
i asked for a steak tartar, instead i got
plated a shepherds' pie - i asked for raw,
all i got for nanny picked and donning diapers -
poetry is best suited for that dynamo of reaction
known to internet trolls - trolls should overpower
writing poetry, they're intelligent enough, and
democratic too - cold-stone-heartless *******
should pick up these floral arrangements and
do an iron maiden make-over with them...
poems should be torture instruments,
they should never be treated as floral arrangements...
i don't like weakness, neither does nature -
when i walk into the museum of poetry
i don't want to see avant-garde art, i want to see torture,
they really did underestimate the vis poetica -
when i read poetry i want torture, i don't need
safety pins, straitjackets and other torturous
instruments of conformity - but from what i'm seeing
that's all i'm getting - ask any man why the construction
industry is ******* - women on site, women in the
army - feminism has infiltrated sacred sites of
manly brotherhood... you don't see a man stroll into
the fashion industry... well... unless he's a ****** -
a Grimm Brother's tale: once upon a time...
you could listen to a radio on a building site...
then women came in... we only heard symphonies of
hammer and drill... that alone made us deaf...
sure... we worked dangerously, we died more often...
BUT THE THRILL! **** *** bye bye... go on, wave at it...
it's like Titanic's maiden voyage... it's not coming back!
feminism's ugly head should have shoved itself once
more under a horse's galloping hoofs - a few times -
it played with the brotherhood of man - we're no longer
men, we're insurance policies, safety nets,
no wonder the Jihadis are fighting for our libidos -
cos i honestly think they are... they want us to feel the Mojo
once more from the frivolous spirit of the 1960s liberation
that only became slavery of the fake sinner -
**** it... applause gentlemen! applause! thank **** for
me donning *******, i'd be a real loser if i had to hand it
to myself without it... these days it's called the ******* -
the monk's sheaf of chastity - reduce a man to a *****
and you reduce a father to alimony cheques.
what?! ain't that true? i told you, **** poetry, don't
bother writing it, **** that pacified ***** into obedience -
you own it... without you you'd still be crying about
what shame it is that a nation that produced Shakespeare
undermines poets while keeping this old **** ticking
all the boxes of worthwhile inspection... i wish i was
the 20th century example of when poetry had some respect...
at any other time more so in the 20th century -
but we missed that train... shame for us to have inherited
such a past and the internet - so if not so keen on poetry
why Shakespeare the celebratory idol? twilight Sir
****-a-lot is coming - or so i hope.
so this article, citations:
a. Wordsworth 'thoughts that do often lie too deep for
     tears',
b. poetry is the language of crisis,
c. poetry as peak experience constructed from
    the shabby, battered bricks of verbiage
    (otherwise known as talk with a mouthful
      of spaghetti),
d. TS Eliot: 'purifying the dialect of the tribe'
     (too many dialects to make up a tribe, to be honest),
e. funerals in particular are what's called
    poetic crashing the scene, every subject,
    every opportunity, you'd never call a poet a
    polymath,
f. the healing power of poetry... the healing power?
    i never signed up to take a Hippocratic oath!
g. a permanent record of failure... or the allure of a permanent
     record of ridicule by others, so the minor success was
     there too - as in a boy buys a kettle
     is a success story, but a boy writes a poem is a failure -
     is that vocabulary as commodity without
     a handkerchief?
h.
              a sense of abandonment looms...
              the obnoxiousness of this article is all too apparent,
      i rather be headbanging to some ***** M: Ra Ra Rhas Putin -
(even surds deserve a bit of love) -
i might finish the citation of the article... but then again
i might as well cut it short - inc. in the Culture Section
of the Sunday Times, Bryan Appleyard -
people resent poetry for stealing what comes naturally -
really? so i'm a thief? a lot of people don't invest in
vocabulary - they convene to invest in flimsy investments
of slang - after graduation from being teenagers the investment
in **** suddenly disappears - grown-up vocabulary takes
over, comprehensive English, not slang English...
people don't acquire naturally (i.e. easily without discomfort),
if i were to complain to the people for treating me
as a thief rather than a poet i'd ask them to teach me to
do crosswords... a pain-in-the-***... i can't do them!
so i guess that if you're able to do crosswords you can't
write poetry, or give poetry a freedom away from all those
dusty technicalities / identifiers as such -
for poetry doesn't make anything happen
(WH Auden), it probably doesn't, but if you choose a boring
life, a lot happens... 11/15 is the feminist ratio of poetry's
Forward prizes in the genre - k k, a fraction - 11:15 -
new testament? or the old's citation? yeah... why do they
cite the bible like making bets at the bookies?
Gospel of St. Luke 15 to 1? they're betting on the 4 Henchmen
of the Apocalypse - gambling even in the testaments.
performance poetry seldom stands up on the page -
yeah, wheelchair bound, or in pop culture lyricism -
that competition between R.E.M.'s man on the moon
(yeah yeah yeah yeah), and Nirvana's smells like teen spirit,
hello hello hello 'ola! (later the yeah yeah hitchhiker's story);
did i tell you i got barred from a pub in Collier Row for
speaking poetically? a ****-hole of a pub anyway,
walked in with a pair of dolphin flippers and a shark
fin, spoke some words, made a few friends over grapefruit
ale - then a few days later got barred, because i apparently
"threw a pint glass across the room"; that's me booked
for the Cheltenham Book festival for sure... right next to
the cookbook aisle where people will be expecting to make
humble pie and cider squint tarts.

It took a long time to realise that the world hadn't stopped spinning to watch us. It wasn't enough to adore each other. We didn't want the privacy of our mistakes, of our rapture. We had nothing else now and that’s what we needed, never had the look shared between two people, elated the world as ours had.

It had started with supple, modest beauty, an attraction fit for poetic justice. Never before experienced tenderness; we suffocated from the heat. A simple touch had us meditating for days and now we considered ourselves soulless. Could be graced with death today and we would welcome it under the promise of eternity in each other’s embrace.  

Dangerous now, not love but infatuation with the fear of our greatest loss. Existing had become more painful, the simple task of breathing someone else’s air made us sick. The closer we held one another, the more of ourselves we put in, the more lost we became. Blinded with the torment we were not good enough. How does one survive the day their heart is ruined?


And now it was over. And the world had remained ignorant.

Turns out
I am a man sized
Inappropriate
Bad idea machine
And I wish I had someone to blame

Like you maybe

I’d like to cause and affect your beauty
How I drink to stop my stutter
But only when I see you do I stutter

Is that beer on my breath
Beautiful woman?
Or is it the burning smell
Of leftover courage

I found it in a cup
Cost me five dollars

I mean

Chivalry is not dead
He and I just got lost in translation

How I still think it’s cute
To drunk text
Or type

Or

I mean I am drunk right now
Writing this
A six pack alone
And still
I can see you in the fog
Of my memories movies
Just as clearly sober
And just as hauntingly beautiful

Probably I shouldn’t tell you that
But phone in hand
I say

What’s up?

I’m drunk again.

Goodnight.

I mean
Not even fake courage
Could settle obnoxiousness enough
To be truthful

So in permanent marker
On my bathroom mirror
I remind myself

“You are an *******”
Turns out
I’m an *******

There is a bubble shooting out of my hand,
And it's made of plastic hurt and loathing,
And it's as see- through as I am,
And it grows and grows and covers you,
All of you, and your loudness, your rudeness, your obnoxiousness,
Your stinky cloud of perfume and ridiculous eyeliner,
And your burnt hair and bitchiness and stupidity,
And now you're inside of it,
And it's shrinking and shrinking and making you as small as you seem,
The size of your brain,
And you're tiny next to me.

When time ceases and your world falls apart,
When trepidation clouds your imminent future,
For when everything you ever held onto is lost,
and your thoughts shamble past your once glimmering eyes;
For when you stop moving your dexterous arms and just lay,
You feel pain surging through your veins,
Detriment taking over exuberance
fighting your self doubting mind off of deranged thoughts;

For once you feel the need to close your eyes
and fight off the impassiveness that blocks your sight,
For once you just wish this wound would heal,
For your toiled life to just ease into calmness,
To be ridden off the weight piled on your fragile shoulders;

Your mind seives through various ways
To feel the ubiquitous presence of ethereal light,
To curl up in it's peacefulness and inevitably give into it;
Tranquility takes the place of hurt
like an addictive shot of cannabis dissolving into your system;
You feel the penetrating urge to hold on to it
To reach out to your sliver of hope with your scrawny fingers
and grasp it tight,
Your hope of a world inoculated against the social stigma,
Rid of narcissus and his obnoxiousness;
Where for once in your troubled life you would not have to hide;

You feel your numb fingers closing over something sharp,
Possessed by an unquenchable thirst for freedom,
Wanting to insinuate yourself with the ethereal glimpse of hope;

Your breath lies between the blade of wishful virtuality and reality;
Reality, a now tormented word,
a word defining a world arisen out of
A never satisfying greed for power and erudition;

You fathom your cognisant mind to construe the moment,
To feel a sharp paroxysm of pain, a flush of wrong;
An ardor to redefine reality,
To concoct the mundane world scrupulous,
To write the wrong;

The heart now pumps blood of valiance,
Belligerence to cause insurrection,
A piquant taste to live builds up,
To fight for righteousness and to die of victory,
For it is in our nature to fight;

The blade falls into the pit of cowardice,
And reality has been chosen;
Chivalry triumphs over death
and the **** that time is begins to run rampant;
The crusade soaring in your mind now vanquished,
Your fragmented scorched life now meaningful;

For you have been reborn,
a master of time and chaste;
Reborn into a warrior,
one who has fought off the wards of death;
Whose prudence his armour,
Benevolence his weapon,
Candour his speech,
Dauntless his demeanour and
Intrepid his blood.

He did not want it.
So he tells me.
He simply did what he could
A simple gift by Lady Fate
So he says, sheepishly.
He shrugs in nonchalance
Graceless in his apathy
Yet he is given the reward.
Why is that so, Destiny?
Why do you keep me searching for you?
Why do you smirk
As I am blinded and deafened in my pursuit for the light
Some clarity, an opportunity?
And you throw it in my face?
I could so easily be mad at you
I could so easily wail in agony
I could so easily grit my teeth and curse your existence
I could so easily abandon any pretence of control
Yet I do not.
I dare not vocalise these petty thoughts
I dare not challenge you, for I am at your every whim
But you cannot stop me from asking
You cannot prevent me from questioning
Why him, why not me?
What did he do so much better than I?
As he fakes illness and emotion
As he swaggers around in brilliant obnoxiousness
What is that one talent that I am without?
Must I lay my hands at your feet?
Must I praise your questionable presence?
Must I abuse and disregard you for some show of mercy?
They say one must wait
They say ‘Be patient, every dog has its day’
Then what am I?
A miserable dead unworthy hybrid
A perverse creation that ought not to exist
That it is not given a part in even one proverb in innumerable?
You desire that I let it get to me
You desire that I grow more impatient than usual
You ****** things away from reach so I sigh in resignation, as you laugh
Cruelly, in mockery of my fumbling limbs.
But I smile
I keep the thoughts in a little box sealed away
I gather every ounce of sincerity and joy
I collect my courage, I move my muscles
Enough to speak, to type, to send, to wish
To the blessed child of good fortune
‘Congratulations’.

Comparing yourself
to others who, unlike you,
succeeded in their goals
is a feeling akin to the one you get
when you watch a bright multicolored parade speed away
its colors meshing together until it becomes
a large, shiny mass of obnoxiousness
the paraders clearly having fun, their screams of joy
slowly being drowned out by the roaring in your ears
the rise of water within yourself
filling the tub of depression
"I could have been in that parade", you whisper
as you miserably watch them leave you behind
*"I deserved to be in that parade--
but was i meant to be there?"

sitting in class, perfectly silent, makes my teacher ask "are you sick, autumn?"
but you see mr. teacher you would not care even if i was. My mind said only deep to the bone, but you thought my normal obnoxiousness was normal for me. Yet this quietness inside me has been wanting to break out for oh so long and now it has. why must you believe i am the wau"i" am?
why couldn't you look deeper to find the real me?
i am not silent, nor am i what you all believe me to be.
so stop assuming i will do what oyu say,
so stop believeing i will say this not that,
so stop insulting me because your insults are so ridiculous you have no idea,
your insults don't even compare to me because you don't know me,
so i beg of you to please just stop.
so i beg of you to please just keep on going as if nothing will make a differnecr when im gone.
i beg of you to stop defending me.
i beg of you to stop saying i impressed you with my being quiet when thats who i aam, i beg of you to stop being so danm ignoraant.
i beg of you to open your eyes.
for thats all i want.
open your eyes, and seee that i am me and you are you,
and that that's
what it simply
is.
so
i
beg
of
you
to
p
l
e
a
s
e
open
your
EYES

They call me the commisserist.
Formerly the lyricist,
Maniacal empiricist
The consequence of ignorance,
Innocence, and decadence,
Offensiveness and recklessness,
****** derivatives
And withdrawing cohabitatants.

It prolly made me who I am.

The evidence is obvious
In devious derrogitives.
Indeed it is a problem if
With copious admonishment,
Obnoxiousness and callousness,
Carnivorous compulsiveness
Fix Chemical imbalances,
Inglorious and various.

I'm demanding chariots
And lariats apochryphous
Precipitating blood and dust
To accolades appropriate.
Dangerous in hopelessness
Religion for the atheist
Unanimous consensus is
That weaknesses cannot exist
Within the noxious consciousness
Of Bryan the commisserist.

the day i learned
that the band ****** jesus
with their song
i'm the mountain
wasn't some u.s.a.
trucker fetish,
or anything related
to the u.s.a.,
and was a bunch
of ukranians...
  well... the day...
          just like any other
in the marginal fabric
of realism...
something worth
forgetting,
or engaging with
   on the basis of: it works...
like a button
and a button-hole
on a shirt...
   or a belt,
fastened around
the waist..
or: **** yeah -
i have never heard of
people ingesting
hallucinogenic fungus
huddling under an
open umbrella
indoors...
                like:
the grand tales of
the kingdom of non-irish
gnomes...
but i still live
in a society
whereby: ****
is offensive, blurred out
when the A-crux of a breath
and the mind that knows
its spelling, interacts
with the tongue, lips and teeth
and: gobshite...
but **** is a sorry sorry no,
while ***** is:
the best traffic we'll ever
going to get...
  shush the ****-aroo,
dim-wit!
    savvy ser, savvy
blossom kills... yes sure you R...
which never required
a vowel to be bothered with...
given we're all so
minimalistic, these days...
i am the who-mountain:
   and that-valley...
        which is pin-point
for...
       and all that became
life as what was scuttled for
the baron of: the lottery...
  how homeless people
are never obese,
and the obese are never
homeless...
        and how the homeless
nomad cult:
with no jew willing...
cool-quiff of worded
obnoxiousness makes
pyramids of:
   the stuff you mould
with that sand?
yeah... i ****** on it.
- and life is all the all that
it can ever be...
               i almost fake
having an identity
whenever a stretch
my limps,
and encounter a public
scrapheap of:
what never becomes
history, the news,
or a library...
         a lot of times:
i even forget that i have
a face...
      i hyper-inflate
my literacy,
and then loße it to the emoji
franchiße...
                the world continues:
i accept a gruelling fact...
i pardon myself before it,
and letter my insignia
to unfathom a...
     pervading scarcity
of cogito on a canvas of
dasein...

   telling myself:
all the cogito i will ever
encounter, is limited
in the verb dynamic of
classical physics & interaction...

intraction?

           the world & its worth
of being concerned with it...
is not stand: upon the basic
of any search for being...

a thought:
the basilisk of Crimea...
  congested, private vocabularies...
made public...
    
   i almost forgot to have
to succumb to the want
of being understood...
in that:
          i made myself remember:

you can't see or hear:
****...
but you can see in transit
a case for ******...
choice: choosey reader...

so ******* polite,
so pertinent...
but it seems...
i forgot to don a top-hat!

scripted read (creed, reed, A(h))...
and i to have
confused the locus of
the 'ed and rhomb'us
of the rarity in: red...

             past...

          the travelling
circus... who's who's curiosity?
who is who's curiosity?

      favorite movie
character?

     one liner & opening:
no thanks turkish... i'm sweet enough
  bricktop...

    but all these observations
are not worth the business
of employing the hounds
of the  pediatric nature / stipend /
allure...

as i found it strange:
that the world:
"simply"... happens...
         and...
                         it will continue to
do so...
while i... will not even
have to make a remote place:
such as the position
i am in...
     to be held accountable
for...
it not even "being" so:
to begin with!

       oh... we're long past
a genesis...
                   i am anonymous,
but thrice over:
unaccountable for...
   for whatever reason
people make themselves
accounted for:
notably in epitaphs...

             unless...
by the "luck" of a grotesque
freak accident...
or a scam...

                 the world is
so pristine...
in its drama escapades...
it's not even that
i'm afraid of stepping
into the water
for fear of drowning
in it...
   i call it a case of...
lethargy to counter
the intricacies of triviality
of the world-riddled
people:
who are sometimes found
counting their steps,
and apprehensive
of their shadows.

me? i sometimes find my
ego make a statement...
i have an arm?
       it i it has a having
of an arm? there's an arm?!
if only and only but the few
read some of samuel beckett's
watt...
and... no ******* chance
mate!
                 no one is going
to become a public
intellectual...
in the anglican spreschen
woowld...
having read that sort
of *******! ha ha!

Logic is. Small but its.
In acknowledgement. Of how
I swallow it.
I follow it. Like dominoes.
Falling like the walls around.
All of my accomplishments.
I watch this talk like 60 minutes.
Cocky ****** crowding politics
Gone in 60 seconds
From this cage of bigotry
Hate and intolerance
Your obnoxiousness
Is rotten. And your bigotry
Is polished with.
A type of solvent that makes chrome
Shine sparkly when
That black cotton rag has to polish it.
Us white folks up in parliament
Fought the south to abolish it
You fought to keep those
"*******" under lock and key.
And pick the fields and build your children all white colleges.
So you can worship god but its.
Not for afro awesomeness.
*** you've forgotten this.
That every man. Is perfect as a child
Unless you preach the gospel
Of  hate to man.
You rotten *****. That's ******* godlessness.
I could demolish every bit of your awesome hot blooded white supremacy. From consciousness.
But honestly you cant decide if I'm the devil. Or I'm a forbidden want you dare not. Mention.
Talk or bother to acknowledge it.
When the walls come down
I'm sure I'll be ok with all my principles.
*** the devil makes his bread and spreads disease with you sick.
Twisted individuals

Watching patterns in a storm of randomness.
****** in pants. Tailored
For a man.
When my inner strength.
Is female handling.
Obstacles. Thinking
Boxless like tearing chocolates
Out the cardboard box
And dismantle conventional
Practices of packaging.
An instrument of god.
Who solves the wolves
That lurk
Like shadows. In the city
Under man made suns
That light up.
Sidewalks
Where bodies lined in chalk
Make Benjamin bratt
Batman.
Marishka hargitay
All deploy tactics
To evolve the plot of miss piggie
Fooling mom about the sweet allure
Of my want for the awesomeness of
The cookie mob.
Is watching every ounce of
Imported chocolate
Controlling product
*** dad hated gangsta rap
So that's the way my life
I was crazy to model it.
Drakes the top. Of tyranny
He wants my body
For a swallow of his hot chocolate
So I swallow it
And roll in modesty.
While sarcastically
Talking of obnoxiousness
Like the same box I do not think in.
*** drakes box.
Is toxicly stocked with ****.
And ***. And love.
The total. Sum. Of love and chocolate
Like I'm filled with humour
Haunted by a want
That's as noxious as a ****
Choking other every other
Thought
That grows in the garden
Of my consciousness
So as the watchmen
Drop clues
So do I want me to swallow this
It's like slavery
13 states wanted it
Half of the people fought to abolish it
America. Your awesome
But half your population is intolerant
The times have changed you votedtrump
Your dumb as ****
You scare me with your complete
Abandon of moral competence
So I've gotten my response
From god
He said you lost in Vietnam
The dudes who wanted it
Were haunted by a political ideal.
Your rich sons never fought in it.
Hate me for every stitch my Jean's rap the sacred cloth that swaddled my body in.
That's slot of talk
That Jordan's a false prophet
And hesgodless and monstrous
Prominent talk of Christians acting like gods. Trump followers. And ignorant fallen angel followers and lots of intolerance
In the empty corners of an office crawling
With spiders. Inside my eyes. Drawn inside a web that entangled every bug and crawler.
In my bedside drawer.
Tell me horrors. I cant stop
So say goodbye.
Admire my broken jaw
My spoken song.
My matching eyes.
And watch me die