The meeting is at 10:00 AM
So let’s begin
High above on the 38th Floor
In the Conference room, a view of new World Trade Center right across for everyone to explore
The Business Manager gave his welcomed speech
It’s was to everyone he was trying to reach
The Board shows the arrows of sales elevation in 90% results flow
However during the months of May and June show a decline of 70%
Due to the economy being extremely slow
Yet Oppenheimer helped everyone feel assured
After that, there was hands of applause
The Business Manager stated, “Oppenheimer has a solid portfolio foundation handshake
So we are known in the financial world and assets in what’s at stake
Oppenheimer Trader’s are well trained
We hit the bull’s eye being the aim
Let’s keep Oppenheimer on top
Keep focused and don’t stop
Now with that said
I will take questions from the floor
As you ask the questions, I will think then I will analyze and my outcome in concept planning surprise
Later the meeting was adjourned
Now go out and continue to produce in using what you learned
You are Oppenheimer’s success story and our talent is our glory.

That Spring afternoon of my Upper-Middler year at Andover, I had just spoken with G. G. Benedict, the man who controlled, in effect, at which college you would matriculate. Columbia and Yale were at the top of my list. "Fine, fine, Tod. You've done very well here," he said. That evening, every student found a place to sit in George Washington Hall auditorium. Oppenheimer was to speak. I sat in the balcony, but I could see the man well. He looked as though he might have been around plutonium too long. Gaunt, pale, he began speaking. I cannot remember a single word he said that evening, but I will never forget the portentous feeling that came over me:  DREAD (or should I say "dead"?) Over half a century after Oppenheimer's speech, humanity sits precariously on the cusp of extinction. A hydrogen bomb is 1,000 times more powerful than the atomic bombs we dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and there are thousand of hydrogen bombs we know about on Earth presently, not just the two atomic bombs Oppenheimer had. If only one hydrogen bomb accidentally explodes, scientists say that explosion will be enough to cause "Nuclear Winter." The sky around Earth will grow so dark that sunlight will not be able to penetrate it;  thus, nothing will be able to grow and we will all starve to death. Every living creation on Earth will die. I think Oppenheimer, as smart as he was, knew, at least subconsciously, he had lit the fuse to inevitable annihilation of all living things.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

He walked briskly down the street matriculating prisms of light in the rhythm of the half-life gauging the calibration of the saints deluding angels with his card tricks keeping mediums amused with stories of Jewish cowboys in the old west towns like Tucson and Fort Smith El Paso and Los Alamos irradiated deserts and timber towers of purpose harbouring test wrappings and the allure of relativity the tease of light speed the promise of a new universe bore of a split nucleus of electrons freed and neutrons cowed sliding into a chaos of religious quest and the argument of philosophies both lost and found and true dichotomies and myths that excite but lie and serve sweet political purpose of mushroom clouds below home skies before they puncture the foreign and innocence lost on wide blue seas of dreams spiked with insidious isotopes walking the street wondering if he should forget should he discard and will we ever reach the stars

Messiahs and martyrs
And saviors
And saints
Sacrosanct
Sanctimonious
False idol feints
Behind gates,
Palace walls
Fortified in a lie
An elaborate,
Enduring
Mythos we contrive
And apply
To the lives
Of misguided lost souls
Filling holes
With the answers
Of what never knows
How to be of this world
Without more to assign
What is so picture perfectly
Flawed by design
Intertwined with
The years we spend
Spacing in time
Agonizingly trying
To find
Our own kind
Out among the expanse
Starry satellite trance
Higher intellects seek
And destroy
To advance
The agenda, to claim
A new age
Under orders
Anointed upon
The consent
Of the heaven-sent
Nuclear bomb

the users of chinese require a respectable memory of logograms, but then the european languages users require a respectable memory of combinations of a limited number of "logograms", well, indeed limited, in comparison to the chinese range... and in so doing seem to have created a knack, a desire to create iconoclasm, a barrage of excess image crafting, whether in painting or photography, even logos are taken for equal representation among paintings and photographs in terms of being qualified as equals... if there's a quest at hand... it's to find the tetragrammaton in chinese: Y (convergence of three directions), H (the selfish twins of the ego), W (sine & cosine ripples, the ripples of a drop in a lake of a glass of water), and H (the selfless twins of the ego)... something like that - obviously upon interaction, used, the the two pairs of egos become the real dynamism interchanging their coupling... while the Y and W are seemingly constants.*

looking at the many maxims of la rochefoucauld,
so many seem true... but then again too
much truths and not using the Kantian
filter that the categorical imperative is...
and you stumble into custard of a maxim
kaleidoscope... obviously i'm not denying the truths,
but, as Kant pointed out... one truth will do,
the rest as there to be observed as if from-thin-air,
but it's still only one maxim, the ccategorical
imperative spurning you on, all the others do not
provide a vector consistency for you to repeat,
fall back on... i do appreciate the many observations
in la rochefoucauld, but too many maxims
and you do not which to grasp, wrestle with and
utilise to its maximum potential, not one becomes
a vantage point of safety, too many of them
and you're dancing naked under the tree of forbidden
knowledge... making it a bit of a foolery paying
homage to Bacchus... drunk on too much of it...
not really able to incorporate all of it, incorporating
too much of it is hardly strategic, one maxim will do,
a categorical imperative, a strategy of a measured
footpath, one will do...
but apart from that, considering each maxim with
a method i devised... dilution using synonyms...
that old chestnut, king solomon's
Ecclesiastes 1:2... meaningless! meaningless!
utterly meaningless! everything's meaningless!
in another citation the word vanity is used...
now vanity does not necessarily imply meaningless
as the closest synonym... in the latin tongue
vanity (vanus) implies empty... hence my revision
of the cartesian concept of res cogitans (thinking thing)
using res vanus (empty thing)...
if meaningless is given a disruption and a refrained
use, instead using the closer meaning to the latin (empty),
then i can see a better scenario...
everything is empty: emptiness! emptiness! utterly empty!
everything is empty! i find this to be a less pessimistic
conclusion on the matter... after all gravity was empty
prior to newton, who filled it; natural selection was empty
prior to darwin, who filled it; electromagnetic rotary
devices were "empty" / didn't exist until michael faraday
came along... the atmosphere was empty, until
leucippus and democritus came along, later proven
wrong by the supposed non-divisibility of the structures
by otto hahn and fritz strassmann and oppenheimer...
these evaluations suggest that people come across
these empty things, either by direct sensory perception
or through theoretical mingling, and fill them...
there's nothing meaningless as such as stressed by
Ecclesiastes 1:2... things are necessarily empty, in order
to be filled, and that gives meaning to man...
therefore... emptiness!! emptiness!
utterly empty! everything's empty! this, the dilution
using synonymousness as a divergence from
what strict interpretation would provide should
only a limited vocabulary be applied - rather than
an extended vocabulary of a juggling act.

No, no, no, Dirtbreath. I say we call the big one an elephant,
and the small one a mouse.
                                             Eve

I'm sure red's a better color for me.
                                              M. Monroe

She has a face that could sink a thousand ships.
                                              Ulysses

N­ow that Hawking's dead, I'm the smartest
guy on Earth.
                                             D. Trump

You're too Jung to understand the Superego.
                                              S. Freud

No. You keep it. I have enough.
                                              B. Graham

Are you sure that's the Delaware?
                                              G. Washington

E=Mc Donalds.
                                              A. Einstein

Go pound salt.
                                              Gandhi

Wha­t day is it?
                                               Roosevelt

T­hat's one small.... oops!
                                               N. Armstrong

I don't remember any of my dreams.
                                               M.L. King, Jr.

Hey, John, I can see your house from up here.
                                                Jesus

Beaches, fields, streets, hills. Did I leave anything out?
                                                W. Churchill

Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course I wrote 'em all.
                                                 R. Starr

It's just too big to wrap your brain around.
                                                 S. Hawking

Don't lose your head. This won't change a thing.
                                                  Robespierre

Before I was fined, I walked the line.
                                                   J. Cash

Could you lengthen the title and shorten the book?
                                                  Tolstoy'­s editor

What if we put the workers on conveyor belts?
                                                   H. Ford

I have a splitting headache... hmmm, interesting.
                                                   ­Oppenheimer

I've never liked orange juice.
                                                    N. Brown

Really? You want to blame me?
                                                    ******

He stings like a butterfly.
                                                     S. Liston

#timesup #metoo
                                                     A. Boleyn

Mr. Watson. Come here. Spare me a dime?
                                                      Bell­

Roebuck said he'd be back in ten minutes.
                                                      R­.W. Sears

To be or to do be do be do.
                                                      Shakes­peare/Sinatra

When you call me Whitey, I get cotton pickin *******.
                                                      E. Whitney

We're the team to beat!
                                                      Toro­nto Maple Leafs

Don't call me a Mother!
                                                      Mo­ther Theresa

Is that a Cuban*?
                                                      M. Lewinsky

"Thus fought the heroes, tranquil their admirable hearts, violent their swords,
resigned to **** and to die." – Jorge Louis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths

stoic labyrinthine sparrow-bone;
there is a slalom down your gullet,
bayonet curled around your neck,
you have a beak, you are *****-smooth,
have rubble for skin, an emaciated infinity:
everything is fractal so eat your words
they are you are your rusty toenails
every footstep is a holocaust there’s
genocide under your neurons,
watch them flex and shiver.

you have soft plastic lips,
there is a vacuum in your gullet,
a box cutter carving
through your adam’s apple:
epileptics are just indecisive,
when they seize hold their tongues
they are their words you are a god
are oppenheimer and shiva,
pick favorites it doesn’t matter
it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter
flex and shimmer we are just neurons
flatlines are not ghoulish nooses,
paraplegics are just cowards,
move with conviction each step
is a genocide, you have wooden
teeth and woolen wings,
thrashes are a velveteen sunset
an edible fog, your stomach
is a stomach do not eat the fog
just know that someday it will **** you
softly and swiftly.

it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter:
infinity is not recursive
alive is not our default state
once is the only route
blood makes the blade holy
if you cut me i will bleed,
i won't blame you just know
you were only ever
that very moment.

It was six in the morning**: I sat in a cab dangling on small-talk with a middle-aged white male cabbie basted in the demeanor of the over-friendly uncle. He asked me about school—I'm hyperawake, paranoid, body pulsing, feeling loose, depersonalized, and lightly psychedelic—my vision wavering as if someone had entered my skull to punch raw brain. I did a gram and a half of ******* that night; mixed lines with ketamine to simulate a proto-psychosis, but am convinced I may very well have driven myself past the point of no return. I'd been doing this strict mix for over 2 straight weeks, landing myself in out-of-body experiences and coked-out drawls on the floor like a sad, puckered monkey chewing on a lemon it mistook for an orange. Why I led myself to this existential precipice is both beyond me and totally within my rational sympathies if I pretend I am on the outside looking in.
When I was 18—drawn, for the first time—away from smalltown Powell River and into the Vancouver suburbia of Port Coquitlam, my only successful job-find was a McDonald's arched inside a Wal-Mart. The double-insult this presented me as a teenage anarchist pushed me deep into my first true emotional crisis which I only turned to accept after a particular phone call with my father in which he appealed to me to think of this stint as a 'temporary social experiment'; a chance to learn and breathe this proletarian experience from the inside out. During the pre-Christmas night-shifts, the only customers we ever had were the dark, apathetic silhouette-people Wal-Mart hired to greet the absolutely no one's walking through the door. I incessantly cleaned what was already a mirror-wet floor and made sad conversation with Rosario—the slightly autistic shift-manager with a prickly-shave of a face and an awkward sense of humor I could never come to appreciate and yet always managed to humor in polite obsequiousness. Regardless, it was a form of spread and endless boredom that began to fascinate me; it brought me to a darkness I had never quite known. It was an experience—like all experiences—to be had at least once, to the fullest and truest intensity. To be pushed with reckless sincerity.
Ever since, I have found myself pushing every limit to disembodied extremes—on occasion, to points of such profound irresponsibility or feigned responsibility that I break a particular streak and wind-up on the other dichotomous side of whatever line I unintentionally (or intentionally?) crossed (or broke?) because everything is a social experiment and I've touched the multifarious lives of overworked modernity, residential care aide, dishwasher, Christopher McCandlessesque wilderness jaunt, melancholic Kierkegaard, psychonaut, and now: a short-lived ****** inspired by the excess of Burroughs and the early beatniks all willing to **** their darlings for the sake of blood-stained posterity.
And yet meanwhile—in the cab—I can feel my headache grow perceptively wider from my left temple. Almost like a mushroom cloud over Bikini Atoll I am watching from as safe a distance as the physical body can withstand, according to some calculable hypothesis drafted by Oppenheimer himself. I am constantly amazed at how lucid I am in conversation with this friendly cabby; given that I feel as if I'm about to go ******, focusing so deftly on the way the streetlights glide across placid puddles moving only with our tires intervention—and the way I keep imagining insanity in the form of a zombie-likeness of myself strapped into an electric chair, skin melting and eyes rolling back in my head as I seizure to metaphysical death—I still laugh away short quips about the blind-leading-the-blind (he has no idea how to find my destination, and keeps pulling over to check a book road-map for 4143 Hessington Place). The only reason I am with him now is that I am venturing to see my girlfriend at her group-house past Uvic where the door is always unlocked for friends and friends-of-friends, she being the only solution to this crisis with her stash of .5 Xanax pills.
I remember those tense moments—with my body and brain as taut as a bow—he would pull over or pull out and my entire existence seemed to move through space and time as if against a wind that was perpetually in resistance—as if my entire consciousness was going to capsize into some form of overdosed darkness. Even when I exited the cab and waved a friendly goodbye to the old man, I could feel my dopamine receptors attempting to fire on empty. This caused a latent buzz that was only solved with two milligrams of alprazolam and my eyes wide shut until my head shut down.

I held her close. I knew she thought I was an idiot.

The world’s gone mad,
Only one can save the insanity.
He feels the world’s sickness flow through him,
Like a virus invading his body.
He strives for sanity.
Cities will become dust,
After the cure.
Towns will become haunted,
After the cure.
Shadows will be scorched into the floor,
After the cure.
Puddles of red,
Puddles of grey,
Puddles of plastic of the children’s play things.
There will be little survival,
Surviving on little,
The floral patterns of their shirts etched into their skin.
The voices of their former society echo in their ears.
Charred ancestors,
Instant fossils.
Welcome to a future museum piece, of a savage era.
After the cure.
After the one.
After the saviour.
After the hero.
After the bomb,
The world will have gone M.A.D.
Mutually Assured Destruction.

“I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.” – Oppenheimer

I don't like honors
It just doesn't appeal to me
That such a surreal feeling of recognition
Is attributed to such intense hard work and innovation
I don't like honors
It puts on the pedestal of human achievement
Whereas, my work is meant for the few, who arrive at it
I don't like honors
It doesn't do me good to biased towards my own
Qualifications
That's why I love contributing
Because it gives me peace in this pensive mind searching for the end
Of the vast tunnel of possibilities, where questions are answered
And answered questions are an explicable form of logic
Contributing is a logician's ebullient dream
Because this hand is meant for forgiving and not taking
I guess that's why we have the sun set on a place too far
I guess that's why we have a fascination for the beautiful
Because it helps us understand ourselves better
And feel connected with our own art and creation
I don't like honors
It makes me feel like a destroyer of doubt
Rather than the creator of fascination and amazement
We have sullied the atomic bomb
Time for us to bring up our arms in rebarbative rebellion

January 1, 1000

Year One-thousand, January One,
starts the new millennium.
The villein, Jacques, in Reims,
wakes to find his world unchanged.
His hut stinks; his flour's wormy.
He fears God's wrath, but trusts His mercy.
Walled in by his community,
set in Christian certainty;
by their fireplace, with his family, sitting,
he plans the plots he'll plant come spring
The stars above him do not move;
he knows God's power --and His love.

                                                          ­                                        
1118

Others loathe such conformity:
their minds and spirits must be free.
Tutor Pierre finds knowledge increase
in the arms of his pupil Héloise.
Risking life and reputation,
they learn a different conjugation.
(L'Université de Paris's great philosophe
and the canon's niece --in reckless love.)
You think the danger overstated?
Let me remind you that Abélard was castrated
--and the **** confined to a nunnery ...
whence she wrote most eloquently.
("Though I should think of God, I think of thee.")  


225

Dear Francis,
I hear that when you visited St. Peter's
you exchanged clothes with a beggar
and stood all day at the door of the church;
that you asked the people of Gubbio
to be kind to the wolf who was eating their sheep;
that you call birds your "sisters" and fire, your "brother";
that you would have us give all that we own to the poor....
--Perplexed in Perugia

Dear Perplexed,
I ask only that you see God's hand in all creation:
wolf, *****, flower, stone --
God gives to each His rain and His sun.
What man is in the eyes of the Lord,
that I am --and nothing more.


1517

Martin Luther says you can't buy salvation;
the individual conscience is the only true religion.
Of intermediaries, he'll have none;                              
Man is responsible to God alone.
The Bible, being God's holy Word,
must, by each Christian, be read and understood.
Humble toil is a service of God
far surpassing the holiness of monks.
God is terrible in his majesty;
by faith in God, are we made free.  


1611

[London; Shakespeare addresses assembled friends as he
retires to Stratford;... a mysterious stranger rebuts.]

"Despite it surely not being my intention
to slight the worth of imagination,
to doubt the value of our fictive craft,                                          
there can be no question:  in their import,
the actual deeds of actual men
must, perforce, surpass the disembodied pen.
This [pointing] is merely men upon a stage;
these, merely words I've placed on the page."

"Master Shakespeare, I beg to differ:
it is your words which will live forever.
When fiery Phoebus ten million times
has run his course 'round rotund Earth, men will
still be astonished at Lear's great woe,
still sigh with Juliet for her Romeo."


1711

They've placed Monsieur Voltaire in prison.
This will not postpone the Age of Reason.
Men will speak and write as they see fit,        
be governed by laws and the intellect.
        

1783

[General Washington, at Annapolis, Maryland]

"My friends, I'm honored deeply,
by the faith which you here show in me,
your confidence that these qualities
which served so well in war might now
to governance be applied successfully.    

"I, myself, have doubts:
I fear that battle's clear, cold steel will be dulled
in the gauzy murk of diplomacy.
And though I were suited to this high estate most perfectly
still I should shrink from it.
I think of Caesar,
returning, triumphant, from Gaul,
his heart full of zeal for the good of his people,                  
who achieved much, but whose lordly rule
gave way to others far less wise....

"There's a name for a man raised above men as a god:
it's 'king'. I'll have no kings!

"Thus, I surrender to you,
the duly-elected representatives of the States,
the outward and visible sign of my authority:
this sword. Let the world take note
that these united States, born under tyranny's yoke,
shall, in word and deed, henceforth
be governed democratically."


July 27, 1890

Vincent finds his world has narrowed,
(--what wonders he'd seen in la lumière d'Arles!--)
all the things for which he's sorrowed--
rejection by his cousin Kee,
reliance on his brother's charity,
failure of his "painters' community"--
come welling up....
He walks to the field from which he'd come.
In his pocket, the letter he'll never mail.
The wheatfield he'd so recently painted.
In his pocket, by his chest,...
the gun.


July 16, 1945

[Robert Oppenheimer, near Alamagordo, New Mexico]

    If the radiance of a thousand suns
    were to burst into the sky at once,
    that would mirror the Mighty One's splendor....
    I am become Death --World-destroyer.
    --The Bhagavad Gita

Everything was so much clearer
when it seemed the Germans might get the thing first....
Now it's all so terribly muddy....
Who knows what these generals'll do with it.
...The radiance of a thousand suns....                                                         ­                                                 

That 100-foot tower --completely gone!...
If we didn't do it, someone surely would....
I am become Death --destroyer of Worlds.  


January 1, 2000

Year Two-thousand, January One,
starts the new millennium.
The sales-clerk, Jacques, in Reims,
wakes to find his world unchanged.
He's got Internet access! Two cars!
He doesn't fear the universe....
The only group he's part of
is guys who drink at the local bar....
He goes to church, but doesn't believe.
His job, his marriage --nothing is certain....
Even the stars above him move.
He knows God's power --but not His love.

so this nun mary from the school
of the sisters of notre dame
(dame or Dane?) had her brain removed
and probed: full of plaques and entanglements,
advanced Alzheimer's the coroner said,
aged 101 the brain,
yet up to her death no symptoms of the disease...
she was one of 678 subjects of the nun study,
American experiment genesis 1986 a.d.,
(journalism is really a true ally of poetry),
the 678 were told to write a character assassination
in range between poetry and diary (in their 20s),
"low idea" density they did produce,
but like Sister Anastasia: an amazing poppy-seed cake.
indeed dementia, the western medical anxiety,
10% of people over 60 and 50% of those over 85,
the grey plague i call it (grey matter, no
vermin scuttling about);
men are particularly less at the risk,
long gone the vogue of smoking tobacco -
could have asked the Apache indians about
peace-pipes long into their 90s... but no.
Aloysius Alzheimer / Oppenheimer
discovered the anti-ego unit and the atom bomb
with the neuron, in the latter case the 'd'uh' gene...
cave in the vowels on discretion
saying 'y Dinosaur kno'w, but i saw
a big mushroom boom' caving in meaning they
have to sound more hollow than you thought before
(the vowels, the vowels)...
like the article states, is it really a dis-ease?
i.e. a negation of ease? only if you found learning
at school to be torture and equipped with
a mentality for menial tasks like sunset on a monday
or summer 1904 so too summer of 2014...
no dementia in the giant Galapagos turtles,
they outlive us and still have a brain-rate
on a scale of: take one step here, plop a **** there...
lettuce, lettuce, lettuce... munching this greenery
will take forever! indeed the backlog of libraries of
knowledge and the result of those pioneer futilities
never tapped, still fucky fucky, toow dollar sucky sucky
on the cranium donning a crown.
the rest of the article concerning 4 inches closer
between the finger that dipped into peanut butter
(a closed mouth, eyes, and one nostril)
and identification of nature's diarrhoea (mm those
crunchy bits of fungi and corn undigested) -
but i'd tell you the experiment is faulty,
the peanut butter served up probably wasn't warmed up,
sense of smell and gaseous imprints, like
chlorine the disinfectant in public swimming pools...
not watching television a big give-away,
leisure time spent watching Plato's cave
at 27% of the sigma elsewhere and 18% by those
not afflicted...
then there's the whole dementia diabetes debate,
vegetables versus fruits... vegetables win...
Alzheimer's (also known as type 3 diabetes)...
imagine a creature coerced into disbelieving the
existence of water, and that alcohol is water
and a hamburger, that's me...
remember that nuns are cloistered yet sociable...

general hardbacks
1. the unmumsy mum (50,195 examples sold)
2. how it works: the mum (119,830 examples sold)
3. how it works: the husband (312,910 examples sold)

general paperbacks
1. the road to little dribbling (68,270 examples sold)
2. SPQR (26,765 examples sold)
3. the shepherd's life (61,000 examples sold)

want the fiction statistics of the publishing industry?
here goes:

fiction hardbacks
1. the last mile (4,190 examples sold)
2. private paris (3,225       "             "  )
3. predator (22,430            "             "  )

fiction paperback
1. career of evil (16,865    "              " )
2. the girl in the spider's web (55,625 examples sold)
3. make me (127,395 examples sold)

so there's that and there's the 148 diaries found in a skip
(a life discarded): apparently only 148 diaries remained
from a total of 1,000, the universal truth after seeing
Iolanthe, running incompletely from 1952 (Cambridge),
a "true thing" at 30 words per minute ranging between
1 and 3 hours of composition daily (handwritten,
imagine writing with a keyboard ***,
hand-crafted in Israel, yes the *** is an Israeli invention),

so there's that, all the intellectuals bits and bobs,
but there's also:
#instawoman: 'mostly non-fiction - so i keep
them in the loo. a paragraph is better than nothing,
even if it takes me five years to finish a book.
agony aunt "mrs. mills'" replies to modern truffles
(sorry, trivialities): my b/f wants to have ***
on trains on the Glaswegian side of scotland
bit tipsy bit turvy (turdy?) and popping to do likewise
on the Cornish coastline, her reply?
****** pervert... fetishism (Freud believed)
derived from a man's unconscious terror of once
having stuck his head out of his mother's ******...
(hey! my bladder man! my ****! that ****
didn't develop till i was outside that annoying
oven / aquarium!) - so she replies and says:
whisper "the seven o'clock London Liverpool St.
to Norwich", and as my own input:
for a premature *******.

that's Sunday sorted then.

why do they write about what's essential... well... ~essential... there's no universal proof of it, or the exhibition of a certain use of the currency of words... the elevated vocabulary... currency... they're at the mercy of a lion, a fox and a lamb compost heap of bone... they write as if the things they're longing for are essential... they're not... they were never meant to be experienced with democratic uniformity, no man is born equal, hence the dream of democracy... the dream of democracy was born from the obvious tradition of inequality... democracy is what stunted the agile strong man from bringing home the bacon, a critique of Christianity is nothing compared to a critique of democracy... how avidly we spectate in affairs of sports where one beats another in a sprint of a boxing match, and then comes this crucifix whining about equality... if Christianity is Platonism for the people... then Democracy is Platonism for the powerful.

either entertainment or no attainment, make a choice! democracy is belittling me post-Victorian with omni-education - they want me
to write an *X when i should be writing my name,
why am i suspicious of democracy?
at least in the alternative you have one, clear, target,
in this ****-hole you have too many to aim at,
and i'm sure, dead certain that we're not selling
nappies in Westminster with all the bold speeches,
is that Mr. Blair trying to wriggle out being compared
to a former Mr., Milosevitch (Milošević: Meelohshevitch)?
there goes the linguistic alphabet,
use the placebo language that doesn't use accent stresses
and apply the languages that do, up yours upside down
omega! /ˈhəʊpfʊl/ v. hopeful, e.g. there;
it was a bountiful night, walking home trying to
find a place that sold the Saturday edition of the times,
didn't find one, stopped in a street,
a house without curtains, plain sight view,
like in the old days, one television per street,
after extra time, Germany v Italy in the quarter-finals,
watched the entire penalty shootout from a street
looking into a stranger's house... the old way of
watching television, the feeling? better than HD,
or flat-screen, whatever quality is to be minded,
Œzil missed, Schweinsteiger too....
now image the lost influence on me by a television,
i didn't eagerly sit till the match ended,
took a few beers for a walk, watched the shootout
like a mid-20th century person, through
a neighbour's / stranger's window -
and all this world around me, happening,
and yet in the vicinity... nothing... a pigeon *******
in flight, a dog barked, a car was parked,
a family photo was taken... even with all this
faking of global unity via the internet and the television...
the world is still largely minute, i know
that globalisation allowed astrophysicists and
darwinists (anti-historians) make bold claims
of the encapsulated individual -
an average ape shaved on an grain of sand
orbiting an average star - our ancestors the cavemen
and the flint - **** me, chicken oven baked in an
hour, egg boiled in 5 minutes for a runny yoke,
a marathon: Radcliffe's 2:17:42 (almost like citing
the bible) - you want me to be conscious of
what came prior so many years ago?! this is *******
ridiculous, it only means we're speeding up -
and the crowning zenith prize of our scientific inquiry
is crippling old age everyone seems to be afraid of...
**** yeah! we are speeding up, having this arm's reach
into prehistory isn't slowing us down,
not with 24 / 7 underground of New York,
"christ's" critique of the Sabbath in full swing...
it's a clear and utter barricaded proof of a burn-out,
imagine having the routine of a 9 to 5p.m. when
all the major tasks at hand were mediocre by comparison
to fishermen or coal-miners... what then?
burn-out... the first critique of Marxism didn't work...
the second one will, and it will be silent, less warring,
less prone to national agendas and borrowings from
Hinduism... there is a second Marxist critique coming,
but it will turn out to be a masochism for those that
didn't embrace the first critique - as a way to embrace
the invigoration of the category of species rather than
the individual - we now have a species inside a species:
individuals - not necessarily true to the point,
the stresses of biology were perfectly suited to communism,
the stresses of physics are perfectly suited to capitalism,
Oppenheimer: now i've become death, the destroyer
of worlds - given enough 'heimers and we will not necessarily
need atom bombs, just a carbon footprint and a few
selfies on the beeches of Goa, Morocco or elsewhere.

the internet wasn't originally intended as the playground for the young, who have no reason to convince themselves of a need to either dogmatise proper spelling, or proper diacritical-punctuation... hálo humpty-dumpty! utter that hark like a dragon!

i have something more volatile than atoms
to construct an atom bomb and
cite Oppenheimer -
i have letters as atoms, words as minor
twitches, and language as Samael:
the death-breathing harvesting resurrector...
  i call the film *a beautiful mind
a perfect case of a beautiful propaganda
machine that backfired...
  if that mathematician who died "tragically"
in car-crash was anything to go by
with having his negation of ease hijacked,
exemplified, magnified to scare the public,
then Gabriel must have been a really sweet
soothsayer in Muhammad's ear...
   because someone with that kind of imagination
to conjure up people should have never
worked for the emerging C.I.A. or F.B.I.:
but Walt ******* Disney... to be sure of it:
Bukowski run parallels with the story:
staying drunk: to keep up with the sober-imaginative
collective: i would have done the same...
can you believe i've passed the 50h mark
on not sleeping under a self-imposed
example of what's barely a scratch of the
siberian gulags?
                   can you imagine that i...
simply had a fetish for it? imagine being awake for
over 50 hours... and having a nearing-****
audacity to not fall asleep for a minute?
can you imagine the military rigour of such
an endeavour?
   must have been self-taught and therefore, very
much indie: selling to the highest bidder.
oh please don't take my literal Monday's worth
of vocabulary truthfulness on it:
i'll play truant on it:
   i don't have people-friendly devices to keep
up with gossip, the rule is:
you can only go mad once,
you can play double jeopardy with madness...
    talk going mad a second time...
        i'll talk about recreating carnage park
in essex... you know what's scary about
that horror movie? it happens at high-noon...
there's nothing eerie about the night...
with the night i think the solace of death
and the never-ending and the never-shifting queue
of names, dates, and the ultra sensitive invocations
of faking epitaphs, i mean, inscribing things
on graves the people who "own" the graves
never had the capacity to say, in the first place.
but you know what scared me about
the film carnage park? the first horror movie
based upon Hitchcock "resurrected" -
but it was never about it... there's no close-proximity,
you actually see the culprits face...
   the idea being: humanising the man executing
moral justification by tugging the guillotine
or pushing the switch on the electric chair...
it's all about moral ambiguity,
hence the horror is all about daylight,
daylight representing the quasi-assurance of your
own judgement: and could you do the justice
by bypassing all jurisprudence paperwork?
  daylight is important in this movie...
                 nothing is hidden, nothing is romantic,
because the man in question is a ******,
he's not a torturer... the invocation of agoraphobia
is seminal! no... subliminal! Greeks invented little
fears and allowed them to be wedded for magnification
given that theatre is extinct... little phobias
create big budget exploits...
   but this is a first of exploiting agoraphobia...
       and agoraphobia could only be exploited in
high-noon... when i think of night these days
i think of the j. r. r. tolkien romance novels of
what man once had... adventure...
these days? plain talk? tourism.
                            i never could think it could be done:
but apparently is has been done...
           the ever distant voyeurism is also gone...
how can anyone be voyeuristic in an agoraphobic space?
   you're basically knitting and deforming
a large space into a pixel... there's no sadism either,
no loch ness barrage of torture methods,
only what man employes to capture animals...
   it's militarism: solo...
        the true essence of a renegade:
   antidote to indoctrination...
             exemplified by the fact that no matter what
mask you give the horror, the mundaneness of it
doesn't go away: because it's not hidden,
  the placebo horror scenario -
          we fake hiding from it... horror these days
is medicinised by fantasy... which is the abhorrent
quality of our times: over-assurance...
    our times are too self-servient, too self-assured...
too comfortable... we're championing
arrogance, calling our predecessors incompetent
*******... oil on the flames? maybe...
                       we prefer to imagine dragons than
see actual dragons among us...
                       that's why we seem to begin with
congratulating dinosaurs into having begun
   as abstract spines that the serpents of our times are...
us? to our inheritors? brains in pickle jars.
we have already started the process of pickling ourselves
by extracting as much as we could from our being
and encoding it into artificiality...
        anyone with a global invasion tactic can easily
tap into this "economy"... it's not an encyclopedia...
it's an economised unitary model readied for
exploitation for invasion...
       do i share the film's culprit paranoia?
well... i share his defence of environmental study...
but having provided the most adequate striking-point
             with the utmost drama of cyber-warfare debate
and all counters against ourselves...
            would i choose this maniac over a wall st. yuppy?
          what's that... vomito ***** vs. huey & the news?
if only i was paranoid after having watched this
movie... i'd see it spread akin to the bubonic plague...
but it's apathy that's the bubonic plague:
since it's the most effective safety-mechanism virus...
you get that docile look and try to suddenly say huh?
with surprise, but you get a choking sensation
as if you just swallowed a hazelnut.
      people get these fantasies about other evolutionary
lifeforms... it's not ******* c.i.a. crap about
      everyone working for them being called mr. &
mrs. smith... just so they can dodge bullets
   and buy milk at their local supermarket...
                      without being asked for autographs and
selfies... and have you ever seen a film critique engaging
with a character that says very little, and then
hysterically laugh, with a sense of music akin to
playing front 242's album 06:21:03:11 up evil?
      the true test of horror is music... the visuals can
be Marquis de Sade in Disneyland... and no number
of groans will do it... if the music has
         transylvania's chant of the chastity of anti-sodomites
written all over it... you're in for a knee-jerker...
the diabolical thing about this film is that it
has the double-effect whether it's watched at night
or during the day... the first horror movie that
doesn't invoke close contact between predator and
the prey, along with not even making the night
as something orthodoxically necessary to craft
                                      horror thematism.
well... plus it's a testament to existentialism
in the case of the hostage being "unrightfully"
attested in a crime... the existentialist would
simply conjure up: possible bait / excuse and
unwillful thinking necessary for his own
             victimised self-reflecting-counter-via
the reflex-of-against-self-discriminatory-collective-input...
radical­ised into a reflex puritanism:
   abiding by cohort norms was not enough
                for the cohort minimum:
                    pyramidal elevation was necessary,
               and there was no human explanation
beyond certain matters, all else was justified
in the three digressions: diabolical, angelic or genius:
the madness only came when one claimed to
hear instructions from the devil, or from god,
                        or claimed to be a geniusº.
  disregarding the two fabrics of a self,
the one prior and the one post collective-input
    regarding a doctrine needing a "self", an "individual",
nevertheless: but a pawn.

      ºthere's no articulation of god, which is why
we have no article ascribing a definite or an indefinite
nature toward him, which is why paupers reduce this
argument, debase it to the level of pronouns -
the reason why we cite a genius and the devil...
is because only angels have names...
                              even the fallen ones...
           for they have a misnomer of god, as we have
a misnomer for many a good things.

i thought that Sunday would be the day that i'd save money and indulge in my insomnia, not drinking, but i have a triage appointment with my G.P. today between 12 and 5 p.m., so i'll not be synthesising sleep (quantum peek-ah-boo with ß in American with a zed - i.e. zed leppelin), never mind. you pick up obscurity as you go along with it; whatever becomes personal you depersonalise by abstracts, standard procedure when writing a chemistry experiment: abstract prior to explanation, in science abstracts are not exactly abstracts in humanism, they're merely prologues, or shorthand intros.

my writing addiction is worse than my alcohol addiction,
a hell-raiser in heaven...
****, i can end up penniless and broke on the street,
its my parents i'm worried about -
i do have a Muslim enemy - i buried it for 7 years
faking schizophrenia so i could be untouchable -
i can give you the name, i can give you a little biography,
i'm worth two coin flips a **** by my estimate,
i didn't fake insanity so i would get £120 a week on
debility payouts, now that would be mad...
i have to plan from time to time when i have to stop
drinking and synthesising sleep rather than going mad,
i was brought back to ensure my father didn't fall into
depression when one of my cousins undermined his
team of roofers stealing them, the "cousin"?
husband of my grand-uncle's daughter, technically my aunt,
undermined my father's self-employment strategy
employing Poles and Romanians - my father? taught
by Scots... old Jack the Guinness pouch puncher -
diesel running at 4 a.m., breakfast at 5 a.m.,
work is life... work is life... **** me! it's 2016
and the death of Prof. Dumbledore died today,
the movie was completed in 2009 - so obviously no spoiler
alert, 7 years the secret was hidden from my ear...
i only learned of it today... as i also learned...
premature depression in the youth of England -
second Marx and Engels are waiting... spring clean angelic
suggestions of how England invented unshakeable
utopia... WRONG! what do you think Marx and Engels
were doing? what do you think the problems are in England
right now? right now?! mental health.
the pride and prestige of English society is getting to me...
their under-reading of philosophy books -
what sort of damage can a thought experiment have on someone?!
none! getting all ******* pompous and Clancy will
not solve the matter - they don't like wording, or subsequent
excesses - they're importing nurses from India
and are mesmerised by the Japanese curse of karaoke -
England, the 51st ******* state - akin to the Penguin
cover of K. ****'s *man in the high castle,
you ain't pure just 'cos' you think you are!
i have a worse addiction than drinking... writing enlarges
the monster in me... you obstruct my hands from the
keyboard i turn into a monster, given brain damage
you can reason why i tend to need an ****** space of
recording something down - i need it more than alcohol,
without alcohol i just get bored, i don't live in
sparkly Paris for one, the nights around here are deafening...
one example? my father obstructed me recording a thought
(got i miss the expected ease of cognitive narration
i knew prior, and i loath the personality that resides in me
at present... i could have been such a good father)...
i get blocked on the stairs before i want to write the
waterfall, he grabs my index finger and dislodges it...
the rest is pure comedy... the paramedics come,
i compliment the male paramedic on his looks
(why am i so misogynistic by now? i used to idealise
women! n'ah, no point mulling this problem,
the answer is too obvious)... i go to the hospital...
i wait for an hour, pose for pictures with my dislocated
finger, have a laugh and a chat, walk up to a black
girl with some medical problem (the dislocated finger,
what a brilliant comedy gimmick) and introduce her to
Us3 on my knees - time to straighten my finger -
the doctor asks me how it happened -
i lie: i was in such a shock i don't remember,
i pursue the lie to effectiveness - i notice his name,
i was in a pub with a Hungarian barmaid and i asked
her the problem i was having, some psychiatrist with
the surname Szasz, an english speaker couldn't make
the z into a h to say... shash - so i tested this failure
on the barmaid on the doctor, Hungarian test 1.
said his name... asked... Hungarian? yes, he replied.
bingo! lie sealed, Malachi's prophecy came true.
later he obliged to send me the x-rays of my dislocated
finger to my email account... charm charm charm.
i'm a poo'h bear when drunk, strike a conversation
with me like this one Lithuanian girl did and i'll kiss
you from forehead to your chin and neck, kissing your
eyes shut... but get between me and the blank page?
not a good idea. i'm ******* scatter brained -
rarely i get the opportunity to relive the cognitive narration
fluidity i once had that inhibited me from writing anything,
and i mean anything apart from homework and exams.
also... the **'s debut album is a rarity... it's one of those
albums you can listen to without headphones -
listening to it on headphones is rather pointless -
it's perfectly pitched for a bedroom auditorium;
and not much music makes sense without headphones
these days; but i also wonder why not everyone is
addicted to music, and more to conversation via the epitome
of Radio 4's chatty chatty broken bloke.
Sunday newspaper book reviews as usual... no book of
poetry... oh hell, let's bring out the howitzers -
pop culture ignores poetry, poetry explodes in a culture,
many people are disaffected, congested into sardine phobias,
struck that some people remember the countryside life
and milking cows, small town life... the internet is in its
genesis, the middle-classes semi-proficient in the technology
are damning it with promises of a feasible exodus to
the promised land of the sitting-room couch and television,
no one is noticing the digital miners who are digging
for the perfect pixel - a polydiadem fly-eye;
but here i am, facing ridicule at the teachings of Jesus Christ,
hating him is sorta a fake, but it's more a fake at
either Christianity, or the unrelenting fictionalisation of
the man thanks to the Greeks, bemusement at the Star
of Bethlehem, the historian Josephus, and the fact that
that the Nag Hammadi library was found in Egypt and not
Israel... i'd be dumb to ignore the archaeological proofs
culminating with the crucifix and the atom bomb and the
pathology of predicting ends of worlds... Oppenheimer
was just as good, quoting the Sanskrit death bit -
i guess living in Egypt gave the little man of Nazareth
pharaonic ambitions of worship - easier and more convincing
on a crucifix than on a throne with sensible Greek
digestion of the world and fascination to boot -
hence the fascination to the last with architecture and
'my father's house will be a house of prayer',
seen the state of the Anglican Church? and see how mundane
the prayer service has become after 2000 years?
everywhere, now, countless religions are sprouting like
spring ginger using psychedelics and what not...
well, that was the case in the 20th century... the 21st century's
answer is this dark age reinterpretation of Cartesian
philosophy... not so airy-*******-fairy about philosophy
books, are we? philosophers prescribe no drugs, merely
thoughts... what you would probably have not thought out...
harmless pharmacology if you're into claustrophobic
suicide pacts with yourself... the 21st century has proved
another breeding ground in England, this time not economic...
and if not economic, therefore existential...
i'm just another Engels looking for his Marx... or another
Marx looking for his Engels. ah, the cascade ends.

Oppenheimer knelt before death as the destroyer of worlds.
As only Ozymandius stood previously.
He was anointed, and found guilty
The curse to challenge and defy Death's wisdom and mercy...
To usurp "the bringer"
Required only a more certain demise
Several had met the challenge to arrive on the Black Dais,
But death himself remained triumphant
Asbestos, mesothelioma, lawyers,
Each took their place but never challenged Perdition directly
Until one so overtook him
Hell shook Oppenheimer from it's shoulders
The place itself defying it's judges.
Discarding death with him
Oppenheimer - prime acolyte of the light
Who could best even death at being the inevitable and unenviable end
Except life and light herself
Vitae stood guilty in her own judgement
Dismissing the darkness into half-forgotten memory
A shade now unchallenged, an undeniable answer
Her frail form untethered, and expanding into decay.
Vitae cleft her left arm
Forming it into an inkwell
And shaping her right into a quill
She began to write her story again...
"Let there be light"



We must go on

are you the god you believe in ? does this blood soothe you so ?
are you not a bullet ? are you not not mine ? are you serious ?
why so ?
do you cleave to your wicked  grace like uranium chanting Oppenheimer ?
are you safe where you are and can i say " goodbye " really ? for once ?
how deep are your shallows ? can we drown the noise precisely, my love ?
are these questions enough to see me from ?
and where are you gone ?
you're so gone...

am i there ?

and you know what was, or rather,
what is the most "fun" aspect
of being being mis-diagnosed
as a schizophrenic...
   oh... 12 years ago?
  no one could have told me
i'd be riding a ******* carousel
of the remnants of my ego
into this sort of... "reality check"
prognosis...
   i always sat there in the psychiatric
office,
replying to what books
i was reading...
    making as much of
my ****** courtesy,
thinking... not much...
       inter-sectional feminism?
intra-sectional feminism?
ooh... someone has a fetish
       for Latin prefixes, don' 'eye?
when chemistry became a hard
science but also a quasi-science
of: well... we've done our bit
for the worth of shampoo...
*** yer *** on the benzene ring
unravelling...
   meta! y' sir!
  para! y' sir!
           ortho! y' sir!
  find us... trans!
   y'... you what?!
                                    find us trans!
imagine my astute astoundment,
say... 6 years ago...
being asked: what is reality?
the ontology of ever is,
that is, and every is, that isn't,
and every is that is in-itself?
do i ******* look like god?
well... here are your answers...
   trans-gender "women"
moved in all-female prisons?
arm the female prisoners
with strap-on ******...
         what?!
               it almost seemed like
a waste of time, back then...
   but, now, i guess...
everyone is as... "confused" as i was
back "then"...
to no apparent then
with what is worth a... now...
yeah... i always need a reality check...
like... reality is anything
worth checking, rather than checking-out
off...
         and i understand the gimmick
pundits...
      problem with me:
i have an unnatural will to live,
and a knack at playing
the patient, & happy,
& non-talkative happy camper
of... a... chief bromden...
whatever the hell i said so many
years ago...
  well... **** on me...
what does it matter, now?
- but clearly i never assembled
the grand puzzle of, "reality"
to what has been perfected
to a dysfunction...
seemingly: to begin with...
  most of them?
gen-X single mother households...
me? classical learning:
my mother is my worst enemy...
classical Oedipus-complex...
which means:
   i do not possess the audacity
to... trans...
             sure, i tickled
my fancies with cross-dressing...
had the ***** to walk into
a Butlins ****-fest of a night
out...
   lost my wallet...
but now?!
      chemistry, thank god,
is still a rigid toy of words...
  like... what's north, south,
east or west in Copernican terms?
answer... flat earth...
oh yeah... because that round earth
GPS really helped those
*** tourists in Australia...
drive their ******* car into a lake...
but chemistry is a cul de sac...
unless...
  you translate all that theory
******* back into a fetish for words...
esp. Latin prefix jargon...
physics? covered...
by science fiction...
and the atom bomb... no problem...
spoc' 'as 'is 'ne covered...
no worries...
   ah... but biology?
      there's a realism behind it?
sure... psychiatric realism...
       at times you start to wonder:
why does a psychiatrist
even get a chance to speak...
before a philosopher might employ
the cuddle and a pillow of sedatives?
yeah... so much of cultural darwinism...
has made... reality...
                 in-and-of-itself...
either...
             stealth synthetic beef stakes
and...
    ****** trannies...
   in prisons...
where female prisoners
are not armed with strap-on
******...
           no... no reality here...
n'ah 'um...
                   nada...
         zilch, squid... nuffin'...
no... ****** taqiyya...
                   we all wish to be homophobes...
only...
       going to a gay bar the previous
night... ended up snogging
a south american...
next day?
            went to a birthday party...
the south american
made an inquiry with my gay
cousin...
so i was at the party,
he was at the party...
       i came to the party...
was investigated by the feminist
police about being homophobic...
spotted the south american...
had an intolerable pain in my gut...
apologized to my cousin
hosting the party...
and...                            left...
the gay i could take...
  i was just getting my hots for him
had i enough drinks in me...
but a ******* homophobia
investigation, by a woman...
no...
i rather eat rar herring on beach
in... ******* Southend...
sitting on the pebbles...
wanting to count the number
of grooves of hemorrhoid about
to blush: blue....
yeah... reality...
everyone has a sedative
for that...
it's only that some of us...
do not think... being over-excited
by its speculative nature
of a theoretical physicist
            is all that important!
- so, what do i see?
directionless, and a-chemical...
just by looking at the attachment
groups to a benzene ring...
        but you know...
chemistry is a stable science...
      it couldn't be attacked,
it could only be exploited,
verbally, borrowing from Latin...
  physics is still instact,
although: science fiction,
unless you drop the Oppenheimer
quote...
                 or... talk via
a mobile phone...
                 but?
      not even the fault of Marxism...
although: i should wish that to be,
no?
          cultural darwinism...
     looking too long up
the **** of a monkey...
             and so...
                  in the meantime:
i did enjoy some of ted berrigan
poems...
                 unless of course
i have succumbed to a filter,
where i'm strapped to a pit
of rats that are about to gnaw at me,
and i will never hear
the sort of conversations
backstage at the BAFTAS
         or prior to the Ascot races...
at whatever tier i'm at...
having just picked up...
  a lászló krasznahorkai
   (like the name of the psychiatrist,
dr. szasz... yes: that implies no
SaS or ZaZ... but SHaSH...
  well... unless he wasn't
Magyar to begin with...
     but a geerman! ßaß)....
satantango...
          edition?
        the first english edition,
tuskar rock book
2012...
  oh hell, the book is older than as me...
first appeared in 1985...
but yeah... started reading it...
       to peer into what...
an anti-paragraph novel looks like...
and i thought that people only read
poetry for a light-heartedness...
turns out...
there is a hyper-statement of
prose-claustrophobia...
namely? the anti-paragraph...
then i read something from
the blog of alex preston...
writing in 2014 to his younger self
in 2009 having just secured
a faber & faber publishing deal...

              and all i could think of was...
the merovingian...
who? lambert wilson...
in the film... 5 to 7...
  about an aspiring writer...
                  hey baby hey...
hey second from now here on in:
boo!

                     alex preston
doing the analysis, back in 2014...
http://alexhmpreston.com/a-letter-to-a-young-writer/...
average: x25,000
          accurate figure x11,000...
one baby in hand,
another baby in tow...

the very sensible man...
            and why would anyone
crouch over a screen,
   find enough propensity
to earn a living from... being-bait
of one's on clicking rhythm?

sure... all poetry is but the horror
of an extension of one's
"inability" to shed off adolescence...
either the *******
claustrophobia of prose,
or the anti-paragraph
myopia of some Magyar...

           let's just call this
the medium of the infantile minds...
and call... the serious writer's
medium,
the medium of the book critic,
who finally exclaims:
and of the 20 books on my reading
list for the newspaper...
for the weekend magazine
review section... ?
i probably finished... 1.

pendulum... pendulum!

On May the twelfth of nineteen forty-two,
A project was started by Franklin D.
A plan was penned to make the bombs we threw,
On Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

The bombs were named after a boy and man,
One of them little and one of them fat.
Both of them made by project, Manhattan,
No one can guess why they named them like that.

The project was held in three locations,
Hanford, Los Al’mos, Oak Ridge, Tennessee.
And with sci’ntists from three diff’rent nations,
The US, Great Britain, and Canad-ee.

The bombs that ended the second world war,
Began as the scientists’ idea.
They didn’t see then the fam’lies they tore,
They didn’t hear the “Ave Maria.”

The project was kept top secret for fear,
Of Germans, Japan, and all the Russians.
That all those countries’ spies would steal and hear
Their newfound ideas and discussions.

The morning of August six, forty-five,
The Japanese city, Hiroshima.
People awoke with no thought to their lives,
Just after battle in Iwo Jima.

Little Boy fell, over nine thousand pounds,
Plopped from B-29 Enola Gay.
Pilot Paul Tibbets in far above bounds,
Dropped Little Boy to heed orders that day.

The Fat Man fell just a few days later,
August ninth on city, Nagasaki.
A bomb of this force, made by traitor,
Not so, it’s made by those from Milwaukee.

Thousands of pounds of explosive power,
Tens times efficiency of one before.
Dropped on a village within an hour,
Explosion, explosion upon the shore.

By Robert Oppenheimer it was led,
With help from General Leslie R. Groves.
They felt great regret for all that were dead,
Those people they killed in shadowy droves.

"everything you are
is a product of all your interactions.
you mirror your friends
or you mirror yourself."

heaven may not be a place on earth
and you may not be oppenheimer,
but now you are become death:
destroyer of worlds around you.

It the fox to find a den
The raven to a bow it's home
The shrew to dig into the earth
And the trout to freeze below

The ice the snow
The months from sun
With peace i make the dark
And dark so early every day
Drawn and ugly grey

Be it by a God the hazy
Still waking to the lazy
Of the so much he to do
But mostly very little

But with the will to follow through

To makeing him a a man
And man to make a flame of such
of Oppenheimer's warning

I have now become as death
And the cool of Earth's command


So to cooling was to warmth
The march into the spring

The step into the light
The blossoms april brings

The waking of the things that sprout
The children of a forest Stout

Pine and oak speak to each other
But of this work god i do doubt

...and the guy with one eye said...

This street like the street before and a thousand streets like this street have had the feel of my feet on them, every cobbled stone and cut throat crack have touched these soles and they came back again to touch on the pain where each street is the same and who do I blame for that?

In the corner, Cyclops mutters as I through muddy gutters crawl and bawling my tears into ten thousand years don't make it a lake.

Take me back to my beginnings where I still had thoughts of winning before the **** crowed thrice.

ps the **** was nice,
we ate it with some french fries and a small glass of Sauvignon blanc,
I wanted red wine, the **** was dead, fine, and you get what you are given if it's living that you want.

I want for nothing now,
the prodigal returns but save the cow he gives us milk and the hands of human kindness slow caress as smooth as silk,
It had to be
the man with one eye only sees in mono
I am stereopticon
gone the blinkers,
open wide,
let Oppenheimer take his slide, but again I take the Cyclop's side, I like him, one eye guy, 'Mr Mono' my oh my he doesn't like it when I call him this.

My feet kiss street that's all I know.

We won the war.
We won the war.
You say it, again and again.
You hold it in your mouth because the lie tastes better
against your tongue than any of these self-evident truths.
We won the war.

Far away,
under a scattered blue sky,
Vishnu takes on the shape of the many-armed destroyer.
He holds the prince’s chin in one of his hands,
and he says,
“Beloved, thus have I formed thee.”

And Oppenheimer stands on the empty New Mexico desert,
and he runs his fingers through blood he will never see,
and he says,
“Now I am become death.”

You dream.
You dream you are brilliance and dust,
and when you wake,
you weep,
for you are nothing but flesh and bone.

With every spear thrown
With every flying arrow
With every javelin ******
With every sword parry
With every cannon fired
With every bullet shot
With every gas and bomb
That we dropped
Like Oppenheimer and Thanatos
We have become death