sought
desperate
and double-sought. at last
inside embracing entombment
the skull-dome of earth my
mother
discovers the maiden intellect kidnapped by further
tomorrows and slakes my thirst on the
blood-brain beneath the hills of nemea.
am i the sa
vior the damsel or the beast?
curdling a slimy finger down the vaginaless brain
long veins delay my knuckles into nightingales between
serrated orifice-incisors made of thought and
all my hunting knives and bludgeons bring no unconsciousness to it. memories
they say
are as much like the present as a lion likes
cat food. The sleeping woman is about to become
cat food. cave shadows cloak what little of her is left
to imagination: nearly dead, nearly
beautiful.
does that brain-like lion stalk impenetrable as hungry
as intelligence as forceful as the crucibles of lust as
remote
as wastelands in the unforgiven breast?
i could asphyxiate that hurdle given resolve
i could lambast a mortal lion with my palms but not this
facsimile of fortitude forcefields intact. through
the nose of the wind and the mouth of the water i found my way
to the eyesockets of the very dirt; a veil
about my brain but
saw it still.
stillness
surrounded.
sought
some sign upon the smooth sphere an opening into
light or lifewaters or cold grey electricity but
no thing could penetrate that sheath of thought -- though it may yearn for fornication
some brains never breed but
condense in darkness
hermaphroditic, hunting through the silent greek city-states for
beautiful bloodrivers. there is no lion no trodden
angel weeping in a cave only
impervious struggling eternal meandering and the jar
of misdirection. thanks, hera
but it looks like you've been foiled once again and this time by your husband's headcold who said
only your brain can outthink your brain. she's a smart owl and
she's right:
every time i think i've reached my goal and
allow a little fortune or fulfillment to escape my maze eleven novel tasks
coagulate beyond my calendars of navigation. blood fills the veins of my
brain engorging it and pressuring it into questionable *******. for
if the sun breeds maggots in a dead lion
then i've emerged from the earth's crevice
victorious and spent. but there's more
to the story as i crawl off down the metaphor
wrapped beneath the brain's skinned hide its
vestigial thoughts arrest me thinking i
know, i know
eleven more sunrises until death.
thanks, brain.

The spoken language of my indigenous tongue is unfamiliar with composing a complex signature of words. I am a justly man who only possess a singular thought at a time and my current thought comes unto me gravely. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
     My evangelizing does not bound a union between a man and amen. Those fabricating words I once preached are as false as fish on grass. A paradox forms within myself. I am structured alike the absolute truth but I surely lie a fact. But I can no longer carry a deceit intention. Fool’s gold was at the end of the rainbow. And like a loyal dog, I followed with a wagged tail.
      I believe hindsight is merely useless, now. I attest to seek truth as it appears but my eyes are blind with fury. I mistakenly remembered that vision is of faith rather than sight. I become a precise and selective balloter. I either speak its erroneousness existence upon them or become a subject of harsh matters.
     The genesis Armageddon is occurring. Man falls to a higher sky because the mind of the body cannot outthink its own thought; therefore, it is the last transcendence. I kneel in solidarity amid the row of pews. Peace, be steel. For it will all cease, follow by a great calm.

I glimpse through the curtains
A flickering light,
And my imagination takes hold
On this stagnant spring night.

I fancy it a signal,
A call to something great;
It’s the start of an adventure,
The beckoning of fate.

When I investigate its source,
I know my life will change,
I’m in the beginning of a book
And my quest’s on the next page.

I’ll join up with a band of outcasts
To find a missing link,
There’ll be riddles for us to solve,
And an antagonist to outthink.

We’ll encounter many obstacles
As we fight to reach our goal,
Like a turncoat within our ranks,
Or an unexpected troll.

We’ll make camp along the roads we walk,
And dine on cheese and bread,
And our enemies will dog our steps,
But we’ll remain one pace ahead.

At some point along the way
I’ll discover a hidden skill,
It’ll be something supernatural,
Like the power of my will.

I’ll use it in the ******
For the ultimate defeat,
To overcome the opposition
And force them to retreat.

And we’ll celebrate our victory
Of evil overcome,
But our optimism will soon die down
As we realize what’s to come,

Our journey has reached its end
And we’ll be ****** aside by fate,
The world no longer needs us,
Now that we’ve accomplished something great.

The only thing that’s left to do
Is go back to where we’re from,
Back to unfamiliar lives
As the people we’ve become.

But when I finally get back home,
I’ll have nothing to regret,
I did what I was meant to do,
And no one will soon forget.

I made the difference only I could make,
And all is for the better,
I answered the call of destiny
And am no longer called its debtor.

I wish this were the case
In the reality that I’m in,
But another flash of light
Reminds me where I am.

Sitting in my bedroom,
As much in debt as ever,
Imagining that I was part
Of some life-changing endeavor.

I wish that fate would show its face,
And tell me what to do,
Even just a hint
Would be enough to get me through.

As I think back on my story
I see the light again,
And I wonder, if I go outside
Will my adventure at last begin?

Maybe this is it
And destiny chose tonight.
Maybe fate is waiting
For me to investigate the light.

Eons old ink
Echo from the depths of the sea where the distelfink
Lay.  It’s resting place discovered by divers who deserve to sink.
Not because of their ability to dive, but because of their ability to lip-synch.
What do I do, and to whom do I do it to?  Think
I must, for I am on the brink

Of collapse.  Do I go on living; knowing full well that this paper, on the brink
Of destruction, will lay forever on the bottom of the ink
Colored water from which my work was discovered.  Think,
For my life depends on it, the life of my beloved distelfink.
This whole tiddly-wink of a subject puts a kink in my ability to lip-synch.
Wow, what a link I thought, might this have something to do with the ancient sink?

Yes, yes, but of course, the sink
Of my past people; presented nicely in the present.  My people, on the brink
Of destruction, now have but one hope…my ability to lip-synch.
Where is my paper?  Where is my ink?
I must create more, more distelfink!
What can I do, this is such a stink?  How can I think

About the distelfink?  When I must think
Solely about the outcome, the cease of distruction, to our precious ancient sink.
No, no my brain of pink must help me render up some distelfink.
****, my mind is not in sync!  My body is on the brink
Because of how much I have to double-think.  The ink
Will not flow, and with that, in a wink, I’ve lost my ability to lip-synch.

Outthink, outwit, out measure, I must regain my gift of lip-synch.
This cannot happen unless the cross-link in my brain fixes itself and allows me to think.
What will happen if my ability to think and cross-link forces me to ink?
Like an octopus scared for it’s life, scared that we may never save the sink.
Like blue-birds that can’t sing, I am on the brink
Of madness, madness at the thought of never completing my distelfink.

What if I never complete my distelfink.
Will I ever be able to lip-synch?
Will I constantly be on the brink
With the thought of not being able to think?
Will I save my people, my sink?
It all depends on my eons old ink.

Eons old ink creates pink water soaked distelfink
As it flows into the sink and out as lip-synch.
I must think or I will stay forever on the brink.

Depression follows me
Like a shadow
Taunting me with its strange appeal
Making me long for sadness

I try to escape it but when I do
It’s right around the next corner
I can’t run away from it no matter how I try
It’s everywhere at once

I might think I’ve outrun it
But it’s still there, lurking in the background
Looming over my every thought
Never leaving me alone

I often get exhausted
Tired of trying to outrun and outthink this entity
But I have to keep mustering up the strength
To try to outrun it

I’m in the world’s longest marathon
And it never ends
There are no rest stops for me
Nor is there a finish line

you begat it all wrong with your genesis story: i don't think i'm hot ****, i doubt that i am, hot ****.

when i cite communism i don't imply:
a redistribution of wealth -
me? i'm happy with a good night's sleep...
i mean capitalism has lost the essence
of work -
         in that: there is no respect for labour...
such a trivial "thing"!
god... this sounds oh so awful -
      and in "career" one always ends up
sounding a crude as a lumberjack's echo
in a forest - chop chop - gunner on the tilt -
crude writing that comes when one has
ingested too much of foreign opinion,
via audio, and not via reading...
            i have to find myself apologising
for this outpouring -
       but then again sometimes the most
mundane "things" have to be said,
for *per se reasons, than for any vector
purpose culminating in a reached point (b)...
when people trivialise work is the worst
kind of times...
          when so many trivialise work by
contesting in karaoke sundays in england,
or "masterchef" kitchens on mondays
tuesdays through to fridays...
  how about honing in on the immediate
concerns, the near-breathing-aching-tomorrows
of these closest to you?
   how a father will complain to a son
that he made him too much lunch food:
what? it would be easier to complain had
there been too little, and that you didn't have
to throw excesses into the bin?
i had to outthink heidegger in his "fetish"
of dasein... it was too remote for me in
the end...
      and since i've never come across
a philosophy book that utilises grammatically
categorical words (e.g. noun, verb, adjective etc.)
i feel a veil has been lifted...
  the curtain of sleep -
and when i see how heidegger took to stressing
dasein: being "there" - i think of
journalism first, and how to excuse the world
and turn to hermitic ways,
  for there is a there, as there is also a "there",
i.e. there isn't any!
but that is much more an allocation of
counter-verbalising events -
      there's no talk of adrenaline when speaking
of a terrorist attack far far away,
       there's only the word: tragedy;
the terrorist is immediately felt,
but the post-scriptum is but a "loser" in
the descriptive allocations -
would you fancy facing this "loser" face to face?!
i envisioned heidegger's dasein to be
more procreative, more centred to
       a fickle coordinate of media attention...
   more the engaging "plotline"...
less a case of demanding aristotelian
post-etymological correction facility of nouns
i.e. calling things by their proper names -
and more engaging, always engaging,
even if by a centimetres' worth of engagement...
that old shambles of tornado in the west,
a butterfly in the east with equal event impressions
complimentary...
    of all places, my grandfather managed to
visit auschwitz three times, upon the third
he resigned from the encounter with the gas chambers,
but i somehow always seem to be trapped
in these barbwire confines, given that i've never
visited: romancing h. h. holmes earth...
    but i took to this **** philosopher like
a fish takes to water: the reason?
        defunct complexity of the prose
     in other writers...
                        notably aristotle;
i had to chop up history as some sort of
inheritance, that had to be kept for reasons
of posterity, rather than nostalgic romance:
for one, i hate history to be kept for
reasons of posterity,
   achilles or homer was not kept to this day
for reasons of posterity, they were kept
out romantic reasons...
      history as posterity belongs to scare children,
in the classroom...
      and nowhere else,
  but authentic history: desires no teacher
and no pupil...
           it just has the authenticity that becomes
ultra-history... myth!
   therefore my gateway to the ancient times
resides with heidegger's dasein
with? zusein -
         and yes, not being a native german speaker
i can understand the "mistake" of
this sort of "nuance" -
             again in inverted commas,
for lack of a better word, or a desire to open
a thesaurus (rex) -
           in auschwitz 2.0:
                     respect work, to be free -
it is this, in the concentrate form that's most
demanding: toward being -
     in a cubicle, in a tightly knit tartar patchwork
on a kilt...
     we're not going anywhere if
work, esp. manual labour is not respected,
or is frowned upon...
              when work becomes all software,
and little if no presence of work as hardware;
i guess that's one of the reasons
   i'm on comfortable terms with the supermarket
staff at my local...
  i go there so often, i'm so *******
predictable with my purchases i am almost like
the one ready to become part of
the flying dutchman ship... immersed in
my everyday recurrent predictability...
no qualms with the staff, just the frankly friendly
            'alright mate, how are you?'
'fine mate, how are you?'
    'oh, not bad.'
          'good good.'
i know i can be the most pompous ***** on
paper from time to time,
  but then my writing is one thing,
and i know there's an umbilical chord of segregation
between the hungry foetus of a blank page,
and me binging on pickled gherkins and
     raw herrings in a cream sauce with this
blah, as every over blah, turning into a blur
the moment i wake up the next day;
and in grammatical terms (i.e. categories) -
i have already given dasein a name (a noun)
in that i call it an offshoot of journalism -
whereas in the instance of zusein:
i invoke the notion of some act (i.e. a verb
dimension) - i.e. the acquisition of action
through non verbal involvement -
beyond the hier & the da...
        something that becomes a mongrel
of the two positions, to a non-relativistic
  compendium...
      and if we all assembled ourselves,
or simply had the ambitions of simple verse,
or complying to simplifying language
in order to "appear" simple -
well, what would happens to those of us
who wrote to attain complications -
and thereby remain the simple brutish folk
of easily understandable manners,
   and tactful hushes -
                and the awry grafts of hubris?
the worst enemy of staying awake is
the enemy of all of us: the simplified &
therefore overused craft of using language...
i am not writing a ******* lullaby!
       josé! pronto! yalla, imshi!,
i don't write for either children or for rhyme,
i have my reasons for this being
more than true...
        simple language is repugnant to me,
it just serves the purpose of itemising
the person who writes it as:
    well, **** me for trying to understand
that sort of writer for a year,
  i can sniff a rat with one line of verse,
neurotic, despotic,
      cleverly encrusted in homogeneity,
******, under-fed, just *******,
       language is there to be mishandled,
complicated, diversified, turned into
an amazonian cocoon,
                   something out the blue -
  something lost in space -
  opulent, high on fibre -
             i can't stomach reading works
that are nothing short of a geometric
precision & predictability of drawing
a circle, or a square...
  which is why, whenever i watch american
films i get bored...
   because i managed to integrate this
knack of seeing past the already recurrent
plotline predictability...
  so much for those "creative" writing courses.

The spoken language of my indigenous tongue is unfamiliar with composing a complex signature of words. I am a justly man who only possess a singular thought at a time and my current thought comes unto me gravely. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
     My evangelizing does not bound a union between a man and amen. Those fabricating words I once preached are as false as fish on grass. A paradox forms within myself. I am structured alike the absolute truth but I surely lie a fact. But I can no longer carry a deceit intention. Fool’s gold was at the end of the rainbow. And like a loyal dog, I followed with a wagged tail.
      I believe hindsight is merely useless, now. I attest to seek truth as it appears but my eyes are blind with fury. I mistakenly remembered that vision is of faith rather than sight. I've become a precise and selective balloter. I either speak its erroneousness existence upon them or become a subject of harsh matters.
       The genesis Armageddon is occurring. Man falls to a higher sky because the mind of the body cannot outthink its own thought; therefore, it is the last transcendence. I kneel in solidarity amid the row of pews. Peace, be still. For it will all cease, follow by a great calm.

it really takes but a little article in
the sunday times style magazine
to open your eyes, ever so slightly,
it talks about the "pressures to
look your best",
all the way from istanbul to iraq,
the floodgates have opened,
and young girl are pouring in...

the ego lies,
   the ego per se, is the forbidden fruit
of eden...
   it lies, it regurgitates itself,
over, and over again,
  until it finally eats itself, and allows
its sole master, death,
to guide it from its sporadic form
of automation...
psychologists have wrapped the ego
in both bed-sheets, as in *******,
as in a trinity equal to christianity
with the substitute layers of
     current inhibiting worth
yet another disposing mechanisation.

the ego is a liar, first, and foremost,
it's not a sentence to embrace not
thinking,
  to outthink the morally
cognitive ought, i.e. to make a choice
is hardly the difficulty to begin with...
the problem is, is to forge
a subversion of the liar's quest:
  namely the ego, who sentences us
to the delusion that... we can all fathom
a capacity, and a desire to write:
a book.

to be honest i abhor psychology's vernacular,
i find it expendable,
esp. when people mind stating
that latin is a dead language,
yet forcibly enshrine their thinking
and support a latin word, like ego.

   i find no reconciled emotion in this...
both sides feel like bullshitting the other side
into submission
that gravitates to no single, worthwhile
statement of grace / reconciling austerity.

we have already pinched the tree and have
eaten its fruit...
  and that fruit ingested, became our ego...
our ego: with the missed circumstance
of first ingesting ergo...
    but not all that is was ever meant
to be a pleasurable digestion,
  whether by taste, or by eye-sight (e.g.
parasites)...
        the **** thing lies,
and ever the time you catch it off-guard...
and manage the slightest etching of
impromptu script?
     only in this flow of words will you
ever find yourself truly accomplished,
and never alone,
  for you will have accomplished
the unison of both stagnation
  and the waterfall...
      a counter-mediatory medium of
the much discussed sentence of
the word consciousness...
       that constanstancy of influx via reflex
through to the flux...
     some call for abraham's *****...
others? for heraclitus'...
      but only in wording...
for we all govern best, what is nearest
to us, as i do: my father's, embedded quest.

such is this last remnant of discarding
latin, the most difficult,
as it stands, in a trinity of
post-christianity,
   ego the son, superego the father,
id... the **** immovable collective
"conscience"...
      it's most painful having to discard
a language, while retaining it's phonetic
encoding, esp. given the fact that
the phonetic encoding, encourages
retaining the most superficial words used,
why? focus on the cartesian phrase?
why do you think
psychologists were allowed such
profanities, given that cogito ergo sum
wasn't allowed the grammatical
viability of allowing the concept
of both res vanus and... the ego lies?
why? because they wouldn't have made
careers, should it be stated
   with an automated identification process,
and loss of "confusion"
via ego cogito ergo ego sum...
     psychologists?
   spin-doctors of satan...
            why are we clinging to latin meanings
when we've already inherited the script,
and allowed ourselves to move beyond
it, with diacritical distinction...
   unless of course, a certain people
are dragging us backward...
    to think we're the romans themselves...
i wonder... what language hasn't transcended
the original latin script and avoided invoking
diacritical distinctions?
the greeks are mad with applying them...
oh wait... who? the english!

Why are we all sad?
I don't really have a goal with this, I just really want to know.
Art is a really great form of expression... so... you know...
This is about as real as it gets via the internet.
I'm your average joe, honestly there's nothing too special to put me in a category.
Maybe I'm just ******* depressed always - well, most of the time - it's physically in my genetics!
Can you outthink your personal DNA???
Dang, it would be really cool if humanity could evolve to the point where we can manipulate and control how we think and operate.
I guess that's what medicine is for then?
Naturally I'm a little insane and I don't respond correctly to certain things or situations.
I'm not sociopathic, I just grew up disconnected from expressing my feelings... I would bottle it up until it would break and EXPLODE.
Yea, some days are better than others, and I usually only hop on here when I'm in the dumps but hey it's just a feeling
gotta
keep
waiting
it
out

In the arena, where warriors stand tall,
Smart fighters rise, they give it their all.
With strategy sharp and minds like a blade,
They conquer their foes, in battles well-played.
They don't just rely on strength and on might,
But wisdom and cunning to win the fight.
They study their rivals, each move they dissect,
In the quest for victory, they never neglect.
Their fists may be strong, their bodies so fit,
But intelligence guides them, in every hit.
They anticipate moves, they dance in the fray,
Smart fighters excel, in their own unique way.
In the ring or on canvas, their mettle is known,
They outthink their rivals, they've skills finely honed.
So here's to the smart fighters, champions of art,
In the world of combat, they're a class apart.
By: Glenn P. Cunningham