i stopped hanging out with my friends after the hook ups went around in a cycle. first, it started small. the same voice every week. it was always, "he texted me and asked me to hook up". melancholy out of not-giving-a-**** and not condescension like she'd hoped it was so it wouldn't seem like she was overdoing it, the rest of us would say "no way, again?"

every week. then eventually the rest of them got the same text. and they'd start overdoing it, too.

my first thoughts were, "gee, we can't even ask people to **** in person anymore." but then i thought, how do you do that if you aren't in love with them?

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after the hook ups went around in a cycle at parties. apparently, it's easy. first they broke the ice (when the term "hook up" just meant making out) with some attractive other of the opposite ***- or same ***, i really don't give a **** about that, either- and it'd be really special because they weren't just kissing one person, they were kissing ten. all of the others before. i found that lovely.

then after a few parties, they'd mature. ready for the next best thing, the next BIG thing, the thing that made you interesting. next it was "hey, let's **** in this bed that two or three or seven other people just ****** in while we listen to a melting *** of drunk and high teenagers scream and stumble to the worst music on the floor below us". i found that lovely.

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after they thought they were acting so rebellious by drinking when no parents were home. i won't lie to you, i had a few sips. but it tasted like ****. so i offered it to one of them after i had about down to the very first brim of the top of the red solo cup. so naturally, she took it, gulping three times before she pulled the cup away from her mouth and in between laughs i heard "i'm an alcoholic". i looked her dead in her face as the cup went back to her mouth, a slight laugh saying "you're not an alcoholic", but i was already done laughing by the time she did, overdoing it, again.

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after i realized they didn't know what being an alcoholic meant. i judged as they waited until five minutes after mommy and daddy were gone to crack open their super risky Mike's Hard, Bud Light and Twisted Tea. i judged the flavors. i kept thinking, "you know it tastes like ****, that's nothing close to what lemonade tastes like, have you TASTED lemonade??"

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after it was clear they'd never ******* tell each other why they ****** each other off. most times they were smiling way too much. overdoing it, again. i thought, "you're seventeen and you can't tell people how you feel but you can **** in a bed that two or three or seven other people just ****** in with a hook up that's not really one but ten."

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after playing Cards Against Humanity a few times and i realized i felt they were more ****** up than the cards.

it was pretty bad. and their answers were really ****** up. the sentence would say The greatest thing to happen in history is and their answer would be The Holocaust. they were ****** up for sure. but by the fifth week i didn't need the cards to think so.

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after they all started dressing the same. it was like being surrounded by mirrors with different faces, all that so badly wanted to reflect the other. being atypical i started to feel typical just by sitting in between them. they stared at each other the whole time and after awhile it was like they couldn't see me because i was the only one who dressed different.

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after my anxiety started ******* me every time i was with them. the voice on my left said "go home if you don't like them" while the one on my right said "you *****, if you weren't so boring you could have a few drinks and get fUUccckkIIINNGGG LIIITTT, DUUDDEEE".

-

i stopped hanging out with my friends after i realized i ******* hated every single one of them. i hated their culture. i hated that they couldn't say anything interesting unless they were drunk or high and even then their ideas weren't good enough. i hated that they never thought about the universe or art or how it's really ******* fascinating that the earth's lungs are trees and we're its cancer. i hated that their consistent use of alcohol got boring for me. i hated the alcohol. i hated their lack of originality. i hated the videos where i could hear them saying "hey, blow your vape into my camera". i hated the voice in their head that told them that it was a cool idea. i hated their perception. i hated how they always had to worry about everybody else's perceptions. i hated how they always agreed with everybody else's perceptions. i hated what they payed attention to. i hated that they payed more attention to who said the most but did the least. i hated that they started doing the least. i hated their values. i hated that they valued nothing. i hated that they got more than what they gave because they always gave nothing. i hated that they depressed me. i hated that i was too depressing for them. i hated that i couldn't share my thoughts for the sake of not being too serious all of the time. i hated their blank personalities. i hated that their personalities started fusing together until all that was left was one big blank personality. i hated that they were so easy going. i hated that they'd never stand for something. i hated that they were so easy going that they never had an opinion. i hated that i was alone. i hated that i was alone because none of them thought like me. i hated the way they thought. i hated their thought because they never thought it through. i hated their vibration. i hated that they made me feel singular when we'd sit around a fire. i hated their singularity. i hated that at most times i was surrounded by empty bodies with no brain. i hated that they never used their brain. i hated that i hated my brain because they never used their brain. i hated their culture. i hate their culture.

i gave up on their culture.

1.i took a breath, punched the door. he asked if it helped at all,
rubbed his temples when i did it again,
told me to call him when i felt like talking,
we havent spoken since. he isnt important to this story.
what matters is how unsafe i feel just saying your name, how unreal
you make me feel. imaginary and implausible. wish fulfillment so blatant
im amazed i ever thought i was something more
than a myth.  

2. i can't give you what you want/couldn't give you what you want. something like a romance film,
candles on the shore,
not blown out by ocean winds.
something where i cry your name or
kiss you when you shout
instead of screaming back,
perfect plaster queen crumbling
for no one but you.
where i sing and you sigh.
where at least one of us cares.

3. im still not sure who's to blame
my heart is swollen my hands are bloated there is motor oil
pooling in the hollow of my palms, did you do this to me?
did i unravel you? im still not sure what happened. i stopped asking for help a long time ago

4.  i do not feel safe.
you are behind me always.
i am sweating bullets and you are loading your gun.
you are a breakdown waiting to happen.
you are my genes planning treason.

5. you're a fake.you're a fake.you're a fake.
buying me coffee and spitting down my throat like
it evens out in the end.you're so kind.you say youd never hurt me as if
i couldnt see my ******* intestines in your fist. you're a fake.
you're pyrite, fool's gold,
costume jewelry cutting off circulation to my hand.

6. i know everything sounds the same.
i know i give the same speech every time.
i know repetition is getting old and
six breakdowns in the same month is
overdoing it. i was trained from birth to **** up my life
and im exceeding expectations.

7. [image: memorial day card,
'we had nothing worth remembering' inside,
hallmark logo on the back]

8. i didnt really want to be real anyway

Play
overdoing
overworking
overthinking
overeating
overdrinking
­
Pause
the leftovers
of me
always lying
over here
over there

Eject*
my seat
overseas

Game over.

You are so sweet
We're all addicted to sweet
As people...
But maybe it's time
I go on a diet
That I learn to cut back
But my sweet tooth
It yearns for you

You've been a roller-coaster
So much fun
But so many ups and downs
But so many downs
You've gotten off
But I'm still on
Reliving the drop
Over and over

I'm not sweet
Like you
I don't know how sometimes
To be sweet
But maybe it's time I learn
I just hope I don't
Make everyone sick
Overdoing it

I dont think
We see the dark
Until we see a crack of light

I woke up
Same as always
Too stuck in thinking
The fog was normal
Was supposed to be there

That somehow I Needed
Permission to be just Me
My high impact crazy ***
Overdoing it fast self

Yes I may be too much
And I really have to watch
My limits
But that's not the issue

I trust myself to come down
Off my highs
And all the things
That say I can't fly
Were Never mine

I release the need to please
To act as if I belong
I only belong to me
I am only accountable for me
No one else has a right to
Change me unless I let them
I guess I am owning it
My actions my consequences

Hello, my dearest, my loveliest.
I haven't met you just yet - at least not physically, even though I have seen you many times in my future. In fact, I think I'm in love with you already, and it will be really awkward when I meet you, because when I finally do, I will know, in my very heart of hearts that it is YOU. I will remember what I've already seen, and it will feel right to touch you, to look at you. Just hearing your laughter will make me whole. And I will know it's you.
You will know exactly what kind of coffee I want from Starbucks - you won't forget that I prefer soy milk, you'll know exactly how much sugar (brown!) I take, you'll know what name I want written on the cup - and I won't have to tell you. You won't just let me wear your clothes - you'll hide mine, so that I have no other choice but put your shirt on. You'll know how I like my tea - because that's how you like it too. You'll make waffles for breakfast, and I will frown at you for trying to make me fat, and you'll stuff my mouth with waffles to shut me up. When our little flat needs cleaning, you'll turn the volume up, and sing Queen's I want to break free as you vacuum and I wipe the dust. We'll take turns pushing each other in the cart until they throw us out of the supermarket. You'll order pizza (vegetarian, even though you're not one) and download the new Doctor Who episode when I work late, and come home tired and starved. You'll scold me for smoking and for drinking too much coffee, but will secretly make sure there's always instant coffee in the cupboard and a blanket on the balcony for my midnight smokes. You'll kiss my forehead and make me soup and take my textbooks away when I'm overdoing it. You'll teach me how to eat Chinese with chopsticks and you'll order foreign cuisine and eat from the takeaway boxes when you know we're both too lazy to do the dishes. And when we do do the dishes, we'll end up wet and covered in foam every time, because at the end of the day, we're both three-year-olds. You'll fall asleep on my belly as I read The Lord of the Rings aloud to you, and you'll have Harry Potter marathons with me when my exams are over. You'll always beat me at video games and try to spoil me the new comic book issue I haven't had time to read yet, and every time I'm cross with you, you'll start humming The Rains of Castamere, and you'll hang Targaryen banners on our walls when you're trying to please me. And when we feel like it, we'll have karaoke nights, and even though we both can't sing, we'll scream at the top of our lungs until the neighbours come knocking at the door. We'll go travelling and you'll always let me drive, and you'll never get tired of taking pictures of and with me. When the time comes, you'll propose with the One ring, like I've always wanted to. Even my parents will like you, surprisingly. We'll have our catchphrase and our inside jokes, and we'll understand each other with a mere look. You'll like what I write, but will always give me reasons why you like it, so that I always know you're not being biased. You'll find faults, too, and will let me know, and that's how I'll know it's you. We will watch singalong versions of Camp Rock and High School Musical, and sing along we will. And we'll tickle each other breathless, and we'll have surprise pillow fights. We'll always spend Christmas alone, eating takeaway and drinking hot chocolate and we'll have Weasley-style Christmas sweaters. We'll have a Doctor Who themed wedding, like we've both always wanted to. You won't mind me rumbling random unrelated history facts and ranting about biological inaccuracies in books and movies, and you'll join me in my social justice rants.We'll **** wherever - on the floor, on the table, on the couch, in the bathroom, sometimes even on the bed. You'll always take the blanket, and I'll hate it. You'll hate my eggplant lasagna and the way I always kick my shoes off. I'll hate your annoying habit of never ******* the toothpaste top, and always leaving the lights on. But those are things we can live with.
I don't know how you look or what your talent is, or how old your are, or how big your family is. I don't know where you grew up, I don't know you yet, I don't know anything about you. But I know I'll love you to bits, and so will you, and I can't wait to meet you, my loveliest.
Yours always.

the humble sloth sees no morning and no worm in the sun -
nor the chittering of a few eager sparrows,
either -
             he sees everything square in
rhombic - squinty eyed, sorta:
should i bother it, or will i wait long
long enough till it bothers me?
that's me, right there, a young man will
idealise women, until he finally idolises
them in the naked form at-moist
sensual... and this will go on and forth,
he'll pass the corridor of a few
teenage pregnancies, because there
was no *****-Nilly & the Eager-******
scenario for him to scream and moan...
until dawn.
                      the natural contract is there
and it will knit & pick out the most
useless lions... until a few lionesses start
to congregate and do what the lion
does... every lion's statue akin to man's
is not even in a state of contemplation...
strange how man glorifies life and sacrifice
and indeed sacrifices the worth of life
by burning incense, and selling goods,
and running around the world
for a worth of a scalpel's worth of
a barber overdoing it... calling the forehead
a man's chin, and bluntly stroking it
until a dentist can take part in the wreckage...
might i say: i am sometimes like a sponge,
i read a bit of e.e. cummings and act on paper,
i don't plagiarise as such,
i merely focus on how one might repeat -
he said, she said,
       and return to: nonetheless, it said
for both of you: without a neuter pronoun:
she'll say eve, and he'll say eve,
    he'll say apple, and she'll say apple,
and you're still both, both! going to sit on a
******* chair... deemed obscure for
the sistine chapel, but indeed worthy to
scribble the lesser findings of graffiti into
a classroom table, like GD GV M GD CCK...
       so i i dabble a lot, in much of what
really is testing the young men who begin
with misogyny comparisons of genitals
at Billingsgate... and later try to find
one and only monocle to a bowler hat and moustache...
that train? long gone...
     so let us find people like me...
who idolised women, who made them divine in
supposed grace, and... well... eventually
all babies look similar, as do old people...
women chop of their locks (unless
they want to be deemed Merlin's brides)
   and the fat embodies them and they all turn out
alike... we all think heaven is the pinpoint -
    governed by an aesthetic democratisation of
all our faults... i just don't trust a world to be
wandering a forest of oak, while in the background
man settles matters of what dwarf eye of the beholder
should be asserted above the immortals' arrogance...
         but there i was... idealising women...
what a horrid affair...
     the moment you encounter woman
you already know she eats, she farts, she snarls
and she stares... after all: what woman is a woman
who isn't building a cosy abode?
            the moment you begin from a fascination
with women, that you state your anti to a misogyny
well... try wiping your nose with paper
   and even bothering debating feminism with anyone
except a homosexual... you haven't got lunch,
you have this seemingly 1970s film from Polish cinema
that states that feminism is equally transcendent
to encompass Aristotle in the present age,
       as it is not encompassing some frivolous
   ancient Greek joke... why women have less teeth
than men... i guess they hide them... then they
practice felatio... n'es pas?
                    i have a wriggly worm, she has a
hollowed out bone to fill with juices of the marrow...
     then she's practical enough to call Aristotle
an autistic astronaut... i say: give the woman! a time-machine!
         why? she has no sense of humour,
or no historicity concerning humour,
    or how there are necessary fluctuations...
men these days tell rapes jokes...
           because the one joke they are afraid to say, is:
at a ceremonial altar, with the punchline: i do.
               i do is hardly synonymous with the more
appropriate: i will.
                i do is a stagnation coordinate:
how can i do all of that if i say i will do such things
only account of mere ceremony? surely
the chaplain gets paid... but what do i get?
alimony checks, court-hearings and how
        i have two testicles, she has two *******
  and we debate the 2 to 3 ratio of d.i.y. holes
     for inviting sinister sergio to do the plumbing;
cos the ******* cobwebs got in the way by way
of leeching on the purse.
              see where misogyny comes from?
not getting an Aristotelian joke... or basically not
getting an ancient Greek joke right...
because off they go! mistaking dualism as a dichotomy...
   you start idealising women, you encounter
a woman and ****! the dream is gone, and out
pops shaggy and ******-doo...
                   and if you retract from idealising women?
you begin with Billingsgate and genitalia...
me? personally? i always thought of marinating my
chicken thigh in a warmed marinate of yoghurt
and tandoori spice - mix the two: you get Coronation
pink... all fluffy and unicorn and wonderful...
           idealism can be hard to shake off...
unless of course you tell either Americans or Russians
how finicky things can get in the bridal-chambers
of Essex on the Grecian isles of Cos,
   or Ibiza (I-beef-ah), or anywhere where there's
contrary speed-dating shakiness that's bound
to be representative of Essex, once upon a time,
when great music played a key-role in merely
utilising all body parts when dancing, i.e. snogging,
and lo and behold... when satan averted his
eyes composing the two serpent composition,
he looked into the mouth of man and a mouth
of woman, and found no resemblance unto his
original investigation: speak no ill of tongues:
for the tongues of men are merely ill-fated
         against themselves: for they revel in
other parts of their anatomy bearing the sting
and quickened step,
   but whether it's politics or uniting two tongues
in a dance: they're sluggish about it
ever becoming fruitful quickly enough to
            sediment into a snail's shell worth of
chattering teeth into old age, for the slug of both
sexes' tongue, having no such allowance,
         and subsequently left wriggling into their
daily trough of the competitive: first come,
first served.
                   but then man want's clarity!
if i idealised women, have i not become a gimmick
to such idealisation in the first place?
              how can i display this with all but words,
well, i can, all the more simpler...
                 by idealising women i have conceded
to a contest that has brought me against my fellow ***...
              and all because by having idealised woman
as a concept: i cannot see any of man's achievements,
i cannot see any achievements worth striving for
   in what could be translated as creating a reverse
idealisation of woman, in that other men might idealise
me, to later idolise me... all saints were fools in
idealising jesus, which is why he's strung to a crucifix
made of termite-wood... the minute they hang him
upright on mt. golgotha the crucifix collapses...
                        how could he be an ideal if
  the obscurity of righteous judgment be so-far removed
from the people? is this the construct of the pharisees
appealing to the reason of the greeks to save them
from the roman "oppressors"?
         can this really be the case? just because the greeks
had so much more to think about, and so many more
things more interesting than the romans to think about
that they would have rather written the "new" testament
in greek?
    i am indeed graced by an incompetence
   of having begun with idealising women, experienced
a woman, and thus begun idealising myself
    to a status of idol, or a moral example of plagiarism
worthy of imitation...
               does a crucifix imply a metaphor of
marrying a difficult woman? how many poetic
angles has a man have to write to rob these filthy
philistines of taking things too literally
      and provoking Islam?!
                      when it comes to the old testament
poets only exploit the book of genesis...
   but with the new testament... it's almost like
this need to create a poetic attack on the established
order... and when the book of revelation appears
as the exodus-equivalent book...
       we get: a democracy of poetics...
           which accounts for escaping the health
of the body, and an inherent illness of the abstracted
brain: the mind, and then that becomes
     cubed and encompasses nothing quiet
once more able to take literalism mind's experience
of the world: back into it.
             sheltered man of civilisation can take
a painting more seriously, and then explore it in
his dream factory, than the man pledged to the land
with no galleries, and instead given a canvas
that might swarm with tornadoes and give him
absolutely: no luxury to dream.
   dreaming is a luxury... the last remaining luxury
most people have these days...
   i don't think people can be artists by simply
dreaming... i think they're luxury hobbyist,
       call them the ones standing in line
            as Joseph's Travel Agents... 7 years in Tibet
     (lean years).... and 7 years in a district of Beijing -
where have the "blind" prophets disappeared to?
      and why do so many seem blind
      and blindingly obey to the prophets of "sight"?
nonetheless: frivolous questions...
                 i idealised woman to the extent that
upon encountering a woman: i could not find
an ideal to suggest idol worship for other men...
or create a continuum of dialectical embedding
or the sight of following the cause toward becoming
a sacrificial lamb: whether under the bachelor's
ideal of becoming a martyr - or indeed
                      the idea of becoming a martyr:
bound to old age... and woman - for where did
the wooing of man recede to?! farting into an armchair
and arthritis... much aplenty about that much
could be said about me too: solo.

It's not a bad thing to make mistakes
But overdoing it can make aches.

Sin came from our desires
It is a force that tempts us to lit our fire.
Sin causes lives into distruction
And make people cry in unsatisfaction.

Naive people,sinning to earn self happiness.
Selfishness is the start of fights.
War, and more sin which is made by human kind.

L is for the way He looks at me

O is for overdoing it by myself you see

V is very, very changed maybe

E is trusting Him with everything and God's Got This

LOVE for you and me

Aching legs won't carry your lazy ideals
The light patterns on the veranda dissipate
your past Summer's glory
Aged arguments still tarry a cast
and slightly overdoing it at the Lido
promised more than capability
as your range shrinks day by day.

When you are working on that really important history project, before you can even begin, there is always that one person who asks: "So how much is this worth? How much will this count towards our mark?"

Ugh. Welcome to the Bauer state of mind everybody!

All that matters in life is how successful you are. And as long as your average is a constant 100%, you do not need to worry about anything else.

What a life huh?

These people are the perfect people for office job life. Nothing but numbers, no life, no soul.

Nothing else matters to them.

And singling these people out in high school is the saddest thing, and the most hilarious thing I've done.

Because these people brag at 100% and cry at 99%.

Wait, what?!

How can you not be satisfied with anything less than overdoing it?

I mean, you go on and live your life.

But I'll stay here with a more than satisfactory 85%.

I can work with that.

I tell you it's hard to live with a man
Who's always so preoccupied
With making other people happy,
Especially at Yuletide.

Time and again I've asked why he
Prefers to live in this frigid zone.
And then he works each Christmas Eve
While I have to stay home alone!

I mean, why this bias of Christmas
With winter and snow year after year
When it's nice and steamy on Earth's
Beautiful southern hemisphere?

Don't get me wrong: I don't begrudge
His eleemosynary devotion
To making other people happy.
That's a kind and generous notion.

But his thoughts are always on
"The kids," and so, I feel neglected.
And yet I always put on the front
Of being cheerful, cool and collected.

Another thing I must admit:
It's hard for a wife whose hubby enjoys
An overwhelming fascination
Or infatuation with all his toys!

You might think the man is cute;
However, I am less enthralled.
He suffers from puer aeternus.
At least that's what I think it's called.

I tell him, "Dear, I understand
Your thoughtful desire to do good deeds,
But maybe you are overdoing it.
Don't forget: wives have needs."

I sometimes think the worst might happen
Whenever my spirits start to sink.
I have to muster up inner strength
To stop myself from taking to drink.

I'd love to be able to find a place
Where we could spend some time by ourselves.
It isn't easy to live with a man
Who spends all his time with reindeer and elves.

Oh, well…I guess it's true:
Every marriage has its flaws.
But try to imagine what it's like
To be Mrs. Santa Claus.

-by Bob B (12-25-18)

I'm a cluttered fairy
strewn all over the mattress
on my stomach,
hair; a cluttered catastrophe
but in the morning I know
I'll be able to comb away
all the knots from my heart
and songs will be the match I need
to ignite a spark.
And now, I am done
with being an actress,
I am done with
overdoing things, with
overthinking about you;
have you thought of me at all today?
Either yes or no, it won't matter babe,
Ain't sure I need you to live anyway,
if I didn't cross your mind, I won't weep
I'm not alone,
it's 11:55 pm
and I'm taken by sleep.

- Crimsyy

No one knows what I’m thinking about when I think about Her.
And no one knows how close Her and I were.
We went together better than lemon and lime,
But now I have a major problem because I think about Her all the time.
I try and try but I can’t get Her off my mind.
If I try to talk about it, I already know what it is I’ll find.
I will be told I’m stalking,
When all I’m doing is talking.
How could I even think of hurting Her, the one I truly love?
It’s as impossible as God mercilessly killing a newborn dove!
All I really want to do is apologize,
Everyone else just wants to dramatize!
I know it seems like I’m overdoing it,
But if you understood even half of it, you would ease up quite a bit.
I know that me future behavior is judged by my past,
But everyone is jumping to conclusions way too fast!
I will say it again; NEVER again will I hurt Her!
If you were me you would understand; Oh, if only you were!
For if you were me, you would finally see,
The honesty that is inside of me.
Love for Her is number one on my list,
I would keep going, but I think you get the gist.

maybe I'm oversensitive
overthinking
overachieving
overstressing
overdoing
but that does not mean
I suffer less
it means I suffer more
because I need others
to tell me
that I'm worth something
if not
then I'm worth  
nothing at all

A bridge broken from one side to another.
A telephone wire cut.
Something's wrong inside my head.
The thing is, I don't know just what.

Chirping alarms
Whirring fans
Smoky smells
Red. Blinking. Lights.

A robot whose been programmed wrong,
An exposed sparking wire.
The buttons don't click all the way.
Hazardous, watch for fire.

Danger
Danger
Danger
Do not approach

This automatic switch is supposed to make me excited
This one makes a genuine smile.
Nobody notices, though, that I'm on manual control
And have been for a while.

Overheating
Overworking
Overdoing
Over

Electricity and buttons and wires
Do not mix well with water, I think.
But because I'm in desperate need of repair
I'm in constant thirst for a drink.

"Should have bought that extended warranty."
"Did you turn it off and on again?"
No.
No. Because it's broken.

Hard drive shorting
Lights are blinking
And I'm thinking
My last thoughts exporting

Crackling
Clicking
Clattering
Clanking
Clunking

The only thing that works well anymore
Is the part that goes through the motions.
Perseverance is my constant notion
As I burn myself out on the shore.

It's hot to the touch.
Back off.
Soon, it might Explode

My heart beats wildly
Fiercely.
But

I am an empty vessel.
No soul...
Nothing.

I yearn for something more.
But I won't let
Myself have it.

I will not allow
This sort
Of happiness
Belong in my
Life.

The one where
One loves
Another.

These are the rules
In my heart.
Permanently etched.

Wish I could melt
My feelings
Away.
Into.
A.
Giant.
Sea.

You see,
I am not cut out
For this happiness.

Overthinking.
Overdoing.
Overachieving.
Over-trying.
­I am just over-everything.

your armory of sneers
is like the statues in the alcoves
of notre dame.

sure, they're all different,
but people only notice
one or two.

It came from an accident.

From two people who met, loved, and sputtered out.

It came from adoption. From a family in the suburbs around Philadelphia.

And it came from Nowhere, as my brain put out feelers around her
and learned she was real.

It came from Fantasia-- from classical dinosaurs, and from Mickey Mouse with little dancing brooms, and from a line that vibrated with the music.

It came from Love, a word I learned.

It came from feeling like the weird kid in school.

It came from chorus, learning trumpet, and Boy Scouts.

From losing young friends and Sugar We're Going down coming on mtv2.

It came from nooks and crannies and trinkets from my life I am sweeping by and not mentioning.

It came from confusing therapy appointments and being told to take medication.

It came from my first guitar at age thirteen.

From losing control and breaking everything in my house and going to a mental health clinic. From cutting myself because I don't know, other people did it and I'm sad.

It came from puppy love with this cute girl who was pretty averse to me at first. And from sneaking over her house when no one was home.

And it came from identifying myself as a poet, songwriter, a kawaii emo kid who could hang with anyone (but maybe not some of the popular kids).

It came from being arrested for trespassing on accident, not believed, and then put on probation. It came from sleeping in past the bus and then being sent to juvenile hall for truancy. It came from a burning hatred for authority that hurt my life for no reason.

It came from feeling mishandled by my parents but also whiny and unable to stop whining.

It came from Latin class and AP English and Music Theory classes, and my high school sweetheart who is forever my personal Goddess of Music. But I don't think about her much anymore.

It came from feeling self-conscious about being a slow reader.

It came from seeing myself as an intellectual, and from being watched all the time by the government.

It came from starting to realize my brain gets depressed, grandiose, understands the world through fixations, and is sort of a lopsided brain.

It came from high school antics, starting to smoke ****, and becoming interested in the truth about drugs.

It came from starting to realize I was way too invested in these girls, and wow I really let myself become a **** sometimes.

It came from going away to college in the middle of Pennsylvania.

It came from an interest in psychedelics and probably overdoing it a bit and an incident where I hit my head that really had me spinning for a while.

It came from dropping out of Bloomsburg.

It came from starting to feel like I should know what I'm doing by now and for the first time, feeling like an adult lost in the world.

It came from going back to school and meeting a cute older girl who was Scandinavian and new and exciting.

It came from living like a rock star in a college town, delivering food and going where the **** I wanted when I wanted.

It came from my last time losing my **** over this girl. From realizing I am in control of how I react, and finally developing a callus.

It came from a very bipolar drive to Miami and back to Pennsylvania without looking into any new places like I planned.

It came from having to live back home with my bad memories. From an uncharacteristic DUI and banging my head in the cop car until it bled.

It came from getting another DUI for **** because my headlight was out and I got pulled over, but I was driving perfectly.

It came from having to be involved with the law again, and being depressed about that girl, cutting myself and admitting myself to the mental clinic.

It came from my parents really getting on my nerves, and it's not just me.

It came from losing my temper and breaking the TV and my dad's windshield with a baseball bat.

It came from not being allowed back home after admitting myself to the mental clinic again, from being set up with a room in the next town only to have it be destroyed by strangers and kicked out.

It came from living with a new friend, partying all the time, selling **** for money, and living in hotels.

It came from having to get away from all that and working hard as a landscaper. From patching things up and moving back home.

It came from losing probably my tenth job because I didn't show up, and getting depressed again.

It came from throwing that shoe at the wall. From my dad coming downstairs and me yelling at him to shut the ******* door. From my brother being rightfully angry at me because I'd been a **** and throwing his iHome at the ground.

It came from my parents calling the police on me when I was on probation.

It came from de-escalating, talking to the cops, and then using my coping skills and riding my bike after that, but it came from finding my tires slashed and failing myself, storming off and busting things up (only insured things) with rocks.

It came from the police surrounding my house and taking me off to jail, from that being the last time I'd ever see grandpop alive. We caught you on surveillance.

It came from five hard months in the county jail feeling very scared and not treated with justice at all. Except I thought maybe God is treating me with justice.

It came from re-assessing myself and taking some time to breathe.

It came from being locked up again two months after that for smoking ****, for a month and a half long sentence.

It came from behavioral health court, which promised to lower my charge from a felony if I passed this very strict program for a year.

It came from only being able to let it go about 50% of the time and from deep resentment for my parents built up over the years.

It came from being accused of doing opiates when I didn't, and from being reprimanded for not trying hard enough when in truth I was. It came from my psychiatrist is on vacation, and that's why she isn't answering. It came from I know myself, and I don't need medication.

It came from even deeper anger at the system but now I'm an adult. And it seriously helps some of these people, and they really do care I guess.

It came from not being sure if I'm trying my hardest but I'm going to apply here and work on something today.

It came from feeling like a complicated mess no one wants to listen to.

It came from getting up early every day to see if I have a drug test and biking through the freezing cold to make the bus if I do.

It came from love, that's a word I learned.

Changing weather
There was spring, flowers and green grass, leaves
on trees , the lot, and I thought of immortality.
God has thrown everything at me and I had been
prodded by doctors who all had eccentric opinions
about my illness and I had survived.
I looked heavenward inhaled without coughing
and saw darkening clouds coming from the north
an incoming wind had the icy breaths of Siberia
and the rain came like cold showers given to boys
at the home  who could not keep their penises
just innocently hanging there.
I came home, was sent to bed, not for my ******
prowess but to stop me getting a cold; I thought of
Stalin mother liked him he looked so cool, not that
she would have said that it is me picking up words
from Facebook and I know how to give five fingers
not one, I used to give passing motorists; we live
in an age of overdoing things.
Tomorrow the sun will shine again I can go for a walk
and pretend it shines just for me, the winter had tried
a com back and failed

At the risk of overdoing it, I find myself thinking about you again
Summers are gone, and as days fly by
soft evenings, curtains drawn
won’t give way to fireplace warmth
time and distance are the nare-sayer yet again.

At the risk of losing my sanity, I find a quiet coffee corner that hasn’t given way to gas station convenience.
The wifi-lessness forces pen to page in hopes of finding
the inner me to reach out
to upper you, when headspace gives way to life-changing, life-long decisions
about the kids, the car, the commute, the kitchen cupboards, the commitment
the chaos

At the risk of underdoing it, you plan with military precision every last detail of your move
Each fateful false move joined and re-joined
as you would lose puzzle pieces

At the risk of losing it all, you won’t have the time to work on a proverbial “we”
There is no “we” to re-join
so it can’t be overdone
you deny the “we” never was.

At the risk of losing what might be “we” entirely, my pen and paper dictate that
now is not the time to pursue such matters,
whatever “we” is or will be, will have to wait

as will your puzzle.

an aging symptom
of the mediocre.

- assorted justifications of happenstance -

three bottles of 8.2% strength of cider... nothing...
it's understandable that high % beers are
reserved for alcoholics and taste bad...
but... when it comes to cider... at 8.2% it's like:
not drinking wine...

quick change of pace: 35cl of whiskey...
ooh... an itch that needs to be typed
and words have to be conjured from nothing...
listening to Button Poetry stand-up
poetry readings, cringing...
where's my straitjacket where is my Hannibal
Lecter mask... i need to bite on some bones...
bones of an over-baked chicken...
**** out the marrow... pretend to say hello
while clucking and clocking in a morning
with... with no more intention than
the intention already arrived at by a cockerel...

probably the first fun football match i was willing
to watch in a long time...
the magic sometimes happens...
Tottenham up 0 - 2 against Manchester City...
just me and dad watching the football...
last few minutes in the first half...
that's Tottenham two nil up...
then... the second half happened...
2 - 2 within the space of 45min + 10min...
and then... a solo show from the Algerian
Mahrez... sometimes it's fun watching a game
of football when one player has a carpe diem
stamina and the rest of the team
is... gripped by a passer-by mentality...
i'm having this passer-by mentality...

unlike the death-and-hollow-pangs of anguish
when existentialism was born, notably with Kierkegaard,
perhaps even Kafka...
i'm becoming more and more at home
within the confines of my alienation...
i realised that i started reading
Dickens' Pickwick Papers and didn't finish it...
gladly revisited: since the original was serialised
so even if abandoned: an easily returned to script...
i still remember some details...
Dostoyevsky's the Idiot... also started... not finished...
well... better heel myself in the ***
to get a move on...
not to mention Heidegger's black notebook
ponderings VII through to XI...
                  
     ****... another... Spinoza's Theological-Political
Treatise... in English...
that's the truly accessible Spinoza...
i wouldn't recommend reading Spinoza's
ethics in a ******... it doesn't really matter
it's a language i was born with...

   in English the form of words
that end with -ing...
    thinking, counting, running...
cycling, demanding...
similarity of tongues but with a different form...
beginning with dość: enough...
szczer-ość (truthfulness),
                   ladodn-ość - gentleness...

or like all the Croat surnames ending so:
   Puli-šić
                            well... this plentiful little life...
this little life of a nobody who bit his pride and sort
of figured out that people with little authority
have this self-aggrandizing monstrosity
of the Quasimodo complex...

so i have this friend living all the way in Hawaii,
London - Hawaii...
i told her that i'd love to be homeless on an island
with great fun aura of complimenting
me sleeping in the cannon of gushing warm
air... she sent me some compliments from
that land: way far away...
dried pineapple, macadamia nut shells...
i bet there are not oaks on that island:
one islander to another islander...
a year passed and we know each other's addresses...
we're not bullshitting or scamming...
now we made a date of it
by phoning each other...
tremors... i'm getting a stage-fright since she
already knows what i look like
and how flimsy i can be when it comes to
****** encounters... sure... even i too could
own that dog of commitment because
*** has become a sort of Apéritif -
bragging rights of women liberated with the maimed
men chained: i feel sorry for
those circumcised buggers who don't know
the feeling of ******* with *******...
and lasting longer during *******
having the ******* constricting the blood flow:
to hello, bishop's head purple...

but it's like that scene from Dancing in the Rain
with the face mismatching the voice...
what if my voice isn't rhapsody prone, RHASPIC...
not hung-over, not manly, gritty enough...
warped self-itemizations borrowed from youth...

or the currency of shame inducement
borrowed from all those proud specimens
of degrading parenthood as a parasitic
inhibition process of achieving full potential
living alone, alone self-praise!
while in some random Hindu household
we're talking less individuality and more:
get with the times, grandma is aching
and father is moralising...
can't bring a boyfriend home...
oh yawn and yawn some more...
maybe if i glued my eyes to feeding the expression
of language into the fabric of a paragraph
i might be a more serious and seriously undertaken
sort of person than all this empty voiding space
of the cascade of poo-tried...
maybe...

then again: life ought to be about making it easier
to struggle less with all the demands,
expectations, even those born from the grandiosity
of being served to align oneself by
being morphed by the grandiosity of the seas
and the mountains, this little atom called man...
make life all that can be bearable and
unconditionally civil...
learning the first lesson and the last lesson
in life: wisdom is born from dialogue...
while knowledge is a vector of agitating oneself
to speak with oneself...
wisdom is a dialogue
while knowledge is a monologue...

so much for spewing quotes, rotas of maxim
but never adhering to them...
sentimentally sort of adjusting
the frail thinking to a frailer mind...
and hardly any soul to drink from a fountain
at the bottom of the drip drip drip...

language apparently conjures itself up
spontaneously whenever feeling: no intentions
no purpose... instead: all that's in-between
of struggling to meet demands...

i'm tired i'm lazy... but i'll still find the pillow
my head will rest on in the thick-glue-of-night...
because i'm lazily so...
i was supposed to go to the gym with
my lesbian coworker...
she met someone... as lesbians do...
she woke up in her bed... lovin' it i replied...
well...
who doesn't want to be loved...
when surrounded by men who confuse a woman
for a man... while you're there dribbling her
assurances telling her: Pixie haircuts...
butch? the butcher who?
piercings, tattoos, Mohawk undercut hair...
rings... butch-rings... six-pack...
who doesn't want to be loved?
i don't... i like the idea of utility beside the neediness
of being love...
i like to think of interacting with fellow man
like a door is requiring a door-****
and a key and a keyhole to lock, to stash,
in a safety of the back-of-the-mind...

              love has become ridiculously simple to me...
but my god, i miss the youthful idealism
of what love was once...
Stendhal and the Crimson and the Black...
origins: always ******* French...
that was fun then and not so much now...
love is like owning a cat... or two cats...
i can ignore i can be ignored
and all this ignoring, mutually sacrificial...
leaves the cat and the owner with
a sense: but you'll be there when i meow
asking for the "manna from heaven"?
you'll be there when you let me go outside
but then i return and want to be let back in
into the warmth because it's cold outside...
and i'll plough the imploring meow in my defence
of you: taking care of me...
love, therefore? so much so much less about
pretending, parroting...
cinema dates, dates in the restaurant...
i just need love to resemble:
i need a shadow come noon
and i'm hardly moving, hardly moving like
a ticking clock...
i want love to be readily available: a readily available
duty of anti-conferencing demands
and... all the bliss of nothing that is to be ever met
for a hope of precursor expectations...
explanations...
something freely given like...
drowning if one is incapable to swim...
or falling with all the flamboyance of gravity...
falling to one's death like first flight seagull chick
or... hardly flapping...
freefalling like a sack of potatoes...

better still: i could do all the housework and work
on the side...
all the nitty-gritty *******...
but... i have found... it's almost impossible
for women to savour the own self-serving gratitude
of performing the feminine-exfoliation
of character building... less controversial
and somehow... appeasing, appeasing...
i have a pair of ******* between my legs...
i don't need a pair in my throat
heaving the grandiosity of constipating Plato
against a brick-wall...

cycling with a heaving, always remembering to
breathe through the nose,
sometime gasping for air skin
to a goldfish figuring out the bubble of BOB
tongue tickling: lapping and history via
only the etymological sourcing of events
completely idle within the confines
of the canvas of Darwinism...
overdoing measurements
               confining a kilometre into the "size"
of a centimetre...

cycling much better than having ***...
esp. when the brothel dynamic changes...
jealous women are: jealous women...
they keep you endeared to have more ***
without it being ***: ***...
one pleasured woman is at least
two angry women who are:
"oddly" not compatible with you...
because ever-knowing already spoke to them:
it's just impossible to relate to please
everyone...

life and traffic... custard bulging like so:
regurgitation: like foam of freezing
and hot-air ballooning...
     exploding lungs in details of cubism:
written about rather than painted...
violins crushed... sounds akin to the harmony
of representing the concept of music:
squared... crushed... never to be heard...
just knock-knock on an imaginary door...
a door a house that was formerly only a cave...
  
               even language: this flimsy kite serving
the ever flimsy atom of ego that's
extending and exploring the horizon of
who we let go: to live their life as any living creature
might... self-absorbed, self-serving,
self-gratifying... autobiographical-who?
most probably either me, or you; the towed two of
towering halving shadows
with fully-exploding faces of smiles: fakes;
cornflakes crisp... mud-holes and that
endless fascination with bears...
hibernating mammals...
what use and purpose of hammers...
pyramids... the bears sleep through the worst
ordeal of the seasons...
so much for music and so much for art...
flimsy compensations... ****** reparations...

blocked tube... if one there was a Marx writing
a history of man... by now we know
that Darwin is the new Marx...
with Marx the communist
and Darwin the capitalist...
                  i hardly think animals
ventured to apply the intermediate
medium of money in relating X to Z... via Y...
parents, busy... so? the existence of the nanny...
animals have no concept of the third party: helpful...
at least parasites are two-dimensional...

Darwin is like Marx... unavoidably true...
but truth: this sort of truth: Nietzsche's aversion to Darwinism
plain-sight...
no sight of liberation...
it's just a mundaneness of Atlas passing
the globe to the little man and: the ants fared better...
ants and Solomon fared better...

to me Darwinism is like Marxism...
escaping Darwinism is not aided by journalism,
tabloid press... or fictive escapism...
or science per se...
    Darwinism has become an impasse
unlike the possibility of filtering the flaws of Marxism
through... **** sapiens and ogling
into the warped-hole kaleidoscope-****
of the **** similis of ape...
mammalian borrowing ontologies of fellow
mammals and further extending the borrowing,
stealing from other categories of animals:
the Mantis Woman... **** me...
at least Marxism allowed a group-think
being together and the common good is...
and the commonality of evil is...
and we can overcome said X to accomplish
yet to be discovered Y...
but with Darwinism the new Marxism this
atomised man... this grammatical baron
this mammal of lent traits of other mammals...
the crown... atop the decapitated head
of king Charles II...

i wasn't a fan of Marxists writing history...
i'm also not a fan of Darwinists writing the history
of the world...
that's Darwinism outside the scope
of the actual science, what's being popularised...
who want to wake up in the safeguard
of an Agrarian Society?
   while giving into the impulses of hunter and gather
sexed up shamanism...
easily liberated: so much for forward thinking...
so much for planning...
i love being "bored" with a book...
i love being bored cycling...
i love to not love having ***...

                    such advancements and yet so little
to show for it...
   because... spaghetti-feet tangling married
to shoe-laces...
               life without advertisements...
because... you only end up buying what you need
and not what other people demand you to buy
for them to buy in return...
       i abhor Darwinism as much as Marxism
in the realm of history...
it's soul crushing... it's soul-denying...
  Darwinism and Marxism are like-for-like...
to admire the natural world and feel jealous:
the clowns of the mammalian hierarchy,
the bears... sleep through winter... we? get goosebumps
from the cold...

and just because Darwinism originated in the English language?
no wonder it's being kept like that historical artifact
of the the crucified man... being:
hmm... and the wisdom of man is purest
by being so insolent as to have to be crucified?
said wisdom seems, therefore, borrowed... not his...
given the account of Matthias ben Josephus...
i was sold a ******* lie...
praise to Islam for having a pair of *******...
i wouldn't even dream of concerning myself
with dictating the replication of my DNA as thumb,
rule, to preserve... what?! only i thought what i thought...
does it matter whether i spit or ******* or
take a **** or... have eggs in three ways:
scrambled, poached or fried?!
does it?!

   the useful idiocy of women and the preservation
of non-intended demands outside the confines
of the natural world...
at one point the pyramids of Giza
yet another pin-point the Hagia Sophia of Constantinople...
me scribbling so little with such adamant
desire to shackle myself to fervours of
earthquakes... even if disappointing
and never to accomplish a widespread focus
of influencing others...
i'll die... with a welcomingly arrived at
THE END... and i will have no son or daughter
to grieve for me... or... list a litany of forgiving(s) -
because i failed... at least i failed on my own.

I'm changing
For the better?
I'm not sure



But I know
I'm not overthinking
I'm overdoing

i am a fallen angel

i no longer can fly
my wings reduced to brittle bone

i am burning and freezing
from fire and ice alike

my wings have been scorched by the flames of hate
my heart has been molded to cold solid stone

my head hurts from overthinking
my hands hurt from overdoing

i feel so lonely

i wish i knew if someone truly loved me
the people around me say they do
but its so easy to lie

i feel so broken

chaos fills my thoughts
and spills onto these keys

i feel so worthless

i feel so tired

i feel so sad

'its all inside your own head'
they say
then why do i feel
like the darkness
is surrounding me physically ?

i can't wait to die

i don't want to experience the nothingness
so i choose to believe
but its still scary....

what if, what if
there is nothing after this?
this droning toil ends
and there is nothing to look forward to

but what if, what if
i missed my chance
if there actually is something out there
yet i, a broken being,
am not good enough

i dont think i met the standard
i dont think i will ever get there

im only a fallen angel
why would anyone love me ?

im only a fallen angel
why do i deserve anything ?

i understand: it takes time...
it probably takes so much time (in fact)
that the time needed
has to be allocated
to a post-mortem...

with regard to what?
readership!
one example is nibbling at
30-thousand views...

30-thousand...
i'll use cricket before football...
the full capacity at Lord's
stands at 28-thousand...
i passed that by eager
readers alone...
i didn't have to utilise
a stage and perform all
regurgitating nervousness upon
it... spill my guts...

no, i'm still strapped high-up
in my "ivory tower"...
it helps to inquire into
what it is the hell i have
"accomplished"...

it takes time, though...
i would sacrifice everything to not feel
this immediacy of "passing"...
of leaving something readily
available for scrutiny: for audience...
me and making a video...
not enough wine
for what i'd want to entertain with:
no exasperated staging of
ooh: ah... etc.

         there's never ever enough wine
for what's absolutely necessary...
but what has to be surrendered to is
this measure of dimensions...
a single poo'em of mine
managed to attract an audience
that... if ever the Lord's cricket
stadium could fill...
then England would have to be
guaranteed to win the Ashes...

ashes? some idiosyncratic tournament
that only matters on these isles...

it takes time though:
i appreciate the fact that i can leave
something freshly
archaeological...

    
let's brush this notation
under the carpet...  /ˌɑːkɪəˈlɒdʒɪk(ə)l/

it simply... quite simply doesn't work
on a bilingual...

it truly takes time:
of which i know so much
of so much i know so little but also know
that space can sometimes diverge from
time...
time can diverge from purpose
when the purpose of 5minutes is
to boil a runny yoke egg in a shell...

lately i transcended the bully
of a poached egg: perfecting it...
but having to sorrow myself
over overdoing the soft yoke
egg in a shell: prim-ready to be
poked at / dipped into by
toasted bread slithers of
"soldiers"...

i distrust words that gravite
toward grand events
of which they are not part of...
even if Homer was a cook
in the Trojan...
he evidently wasn't going
to be either Achilles or Ulises...
spare a thought:
if i were to go back in time
would i go back as a "plagiarist"
writing Shakespeare before
shaking-the-pear was...

    well: i i left behind something
from this time,
i'd probably leave much more
than a wince than what
some original arrived at
having it kept thus...
against what's kept
and can't be "invigorated" or denounced...
claustrophobic i
having to weave around this...

it is raining
and i'm only happy because that's
not important and because
i'm listening to Beethoven's
ode to joy on my earphones
and there's no gramophone
no opera house to usher
in an addition of volume...

egregious: no alternatively wiping my
own ***:
etymologically... egregious...
best in deutsche: for comparisons...
ungeheuerlich -

yes.. the usually assorted "oops"...
because that's how best to invest
in "looking back"
at structures such as words:
one minute an atom...
a word a brick...
then fudge or custard...
of spinach-spew...

octopus fiddly.. fickle and
morose: which could be a colour
code - associated with maroon...
or...
claret...
which is less diarrhoea onomatopoeia
than: any: syllable:
scrutiny...

or excess vowels with, borrowed,
ancient Pompeii and mt. Vizu-Visu...

it takes time and sometimes
it doesn't... luckily for me i'm banging on
prospect for: when i'm... ash...
god and no god...
dog to the leash...
cat held by a whisker's get-funny... va!

something terrible might happen
should very little be written...
i exact conscience (at idea: no
practice involving moral dichotomies:
if such could be allowed
to exist)...
on a small matter of:
purpose without perpetuation...

solo project scrutiny...
   Lenin i suppose was no *******
Mongol...
            Tartar... or Uzbekh:
                  heaving mother superior
and... the nibble of the Caucaus...
loot Siberia i still say...
even if salt is elemental in what's
required for food to transcend mere
animal...
if the sub-continent of India
was not sourcing gold etc.
then it had the spices...
blue indian spices
the mile up the skyline of Doha
or Dubai couldn't conjure...
for time and extending into...

              the crest...
"they" kept them counting teeth
and pearls and praise for
their advanced cuisine...
not much can be said
about the raw dough of the Cherokee...
can it?
it would it must be necessarily
allowed or ****-faced forced into
a cook...

they survived basing their strategy on
their cooking...
perhaps the whole Hindu
reincarnation dog-in-a-kennel worked
but i'm pretty sure
fenugreek and cardamom and
that plethora of spices worked more
miracles
around a broken elbow than...
Tibetan raw dough surprises...

lick this spoon, ******, Xi;
being dragged into the salt mines
an echo of.... EL-EVEN!
EL-EVEN!
              
         -  i can't find enough i what's enough
to be "trusted" / yielded
of an exasperation tactic
at best made summary within the confines
of a "haiku":

the wine is drunk... raw...
like a pepper or an onion might be
eaten.. raw...
no spices are added...
there's so much less of what's allowed
a breath and a living that might
gravitate toward a wage...

- toward the fore of death's grinding
grip... knuckle-counting
a clench that's a pear of a fist: too...
i heave a breaking of the tooth:
to craze for the marrow of bone(s)...
words to instruct:

stare widzi... mi... sie...

           contrasting contractions of:
pospolite anglo-saskie...
  bed the widow...
call her the ****** of Aquitaine...
call "her" otherwise
the nibble and tonsure sheath...
upon the altar
of the tongue the uvula
und bell...
ripe bleu tender meat:

warm ***** and well-done
doubly-butchered beef...
Wittgenstein & tautology vs.
the thesaurus...
red wine: for getting drunk: purpose
solved... raw carrots for
fluorescent teeth: for teeth that apparently
might glow with a tinge
of lavender in the dork-poise of:
exfoliation of schatten...

concentrated balsamic vinegar...
allowed a "hightening"
with a dash of:             dzius: juice:
               herbivore diet: peel me
a grape like than mythological blonde
jazz shinger...
tells you to: whip(ping) cream readied...

something about linear B:
like it might be cryptic and no one knows:
true:
few have, interest in this...
falling asleep to christopher young's
hellraiser soundtrack...

yes... so much effort for the otherwise
blaise
"omelette" /  shrivel of a floral bouquet
of a worth of ****...
like it might shrivel and god-forbid
a karma sutra excavation
of ***** envy... in reverse:
coalmining ****** giggle...
  
   she 'as a trout's worth of a length
& elbow... still she's screaming
******* und... creaming softest juice
parody pairing... with a poaching
of pears...

for the dog that's allowed to befriend
a leash...
a cat's must: concerning a pillow...
a grain of a mother's mother...
grand as prefect...
for no purpose other than...
making summary.

Overdoing
paradoxically
could be
one's undoing