there's no couching this effort...
celluloid film jitteriness of memory...
akin to a centipede thrumming
about a dank cellar.
i can not vacuum this stead...
with mind over matter...you
are It...the holy of holies afforded me.
noteworthy, and uncelebrated...we are--
as far's love's itemized.
incommunicado, and legendary--
our poetic licenses bestowed upon
one another...years would go where they
go...and concerned parties would head-****
the genesis/apocalypse of our Go...minus been.
my love's no recourse to lovelessness...
(for you...that is) for...i'm drawn to a
picture, picturing overexposure.
Hardening, hard, and harder times felled
atop us...now help me lift.

i know what newton tells us

i know countries and continents and cities

i know the planets and their moons

but i did not know the galaxy of my body the planets that are my organs or the nebula of my mind
until you showed me

you taught me and showed me and led me with coarse hands and eyes deeper than any space i have ever traveled.  you caught me in your gravity when you showed me ribosomes and platelets and when you traced my veins like they were a map you needed to follow without even knowing where it would take you. you told me the cosmos are forever but the body dies and that is far more beautiful than any atmosphere or supernova. i want to chart the stars on your skin with my mouth and i want to show you the taste of an atom and i want to teach you what overexposure to your radiation does to me but you are already laughing and telling me that something as small as you does not deserve the attention of the universe.

when i said i wish i had never met you

i told the truth

the universe was easier to comprehend

when it was only dead stars

instead of the way you look at me

we're just as superstitious as our ancestors, we create fiction from superstition, we get the hots for haunted houses, the black dot on the bible like pirates... it's just these day, a person finding a £20 banknote would get superstitious about buying 20 lottery tickets with it, rather than a bottle of whiskey... and yes, our story-telling skills have diminished, it's more like dietary regimes these days... we pushed subjectivity so far down the drain that we're not telling stories anymore, we're simply regurgitating objectivity, facts after facts... less talk about surviving a tornado twirl and expressing the excitement from surviving such an event, and more: next! pocket that story, box it with the bar-code: adrenaline ******... we're not story-tellers anymore, we're on the verge of losing all plots... being exposed to polished narrations of Hollywood (hardly the case of being worried about doppelgangers, that was obvious in the 20th century) - as said: we like being bombarded with facts, we've stopped claiming narration for a commuting drive... we are the encyclopedia ~generation... well, we're way past being defined as a generational phenomenon... hence the quiz shows...  we started to hate the excitement of the subjective perspective, the parts were "we will never know", jealousy on this scale really killed it off... we weren't there, therefore it's untrue... coupled with this objectivity of: none of us were there, therefore it must be true... plate up ladies and gents! we're once more reduced to regurgitating facts, we're actually forced to regurgitate facts, we have no chance to score with emotions or personal thoughts... people only want to hear objective realities of our lives... we want uniform coherence like under Uncle Stalin... no deviation... none! i wonder what story will come from all this objectification... the usual, current affairs story, i blame feminism partly for this... the objectification of women lessened, and in came the objectification of everything else, as feminism has done, shoving its nose into everything from philosophy to history simply on the basis of numbers, and as to why there aren't enough women here, and not enough women there... my mother is a housewife... my father comes home with a satisfaction that at least one member of the family will not be stressed... add a second partner with stress and career ambitions and fairy-tales, and that's a house on sand-dunes... personally i wouldn't want to marry in any case... plus, feminism doesn't encourage the house-husband idea that Sweden has adopted... well... you'd think that the idea of househusbands would take off once feminism took off... apparently it didn't.

Darwinism is at odds with pop culture, i see these people
striving for fame like they might be buying penny sweets
in their hundreds, and what i find surprising
is that so much fame is being dished out,
me, jealous? yesterday i found
a twenty quid banknote on the street,
today i bought four beers and a bottle of Grant's
whiskey and i felt that: i owned the world -
yes indeed, a circus act - that's usurping
style of the khaki stormtrooper uniform...
a colon is also emphasis, without the italics...
it's not about grocery lists...
so many writers out there who put
the labouring over punctuation to others...
so many dyslexic still passing through...
mate... if you and me were *****... you'd
be tissue paper material, no, not even a ******
blockage waiting for the plumber...
or the ******* that sold condoms puncturing them
with needles for excess success rates of impregnation...
see, i peel the skin off, imitating Abraham's
madness at the excess, and cockerel
the **** like sunrise... all *sheered;
then i put the skin back on... so much for improvements
that desired God's approval... might as well
cut off all the cartilage: nose, ears, nails
(i swear they share the same category... oh wait...
nails and hair... well, n'eh bother, cut the rest off
until you enter the realm of plastic surgery).
so yeah, Darwinism is really the guillotine at
the moment, see them, watch the shepherds herding
them, they created something a Marxist would
never ever understand... the fame class system...
not some rebellion of strong idiots
working the plough field fighting noblemen bored
in their salons with ****-*** their only
exercise and solution to the boredom of a busy world,
mind being in such a world...
or do as i do... half of scotch through...
second jazz record playing in the background...
jazz doesn't translate into headphones,
you need the space...
what worries me is its trans-generational absence...
jazz is the classical music thanks to slavery,
it would never have been born in Africa,
forget it... but it bothers me it wasn't manicured,
kept pristine like some Renaissance painting...
it quickly morphed into Eminem and Vanilla Ice
and all that rap that wrapped it up...
fair enough, i can give credit to joshua redman
and his back east... but that's about it...
so as i sit sipping my Mississippi scotch of whiskey
and cola, having listened to
sonny rollins' ballads, i'm onto kenny burrel's
midnight blue... it's the sort of high culture
that's easy to cultivate... but i'm not the man you
want to revisit the Beat Movement chemistry,
i care very little to talk over the jazz with my poetry...
no wonder talking over classical music ever worked,
hence i contend to parallel myself with Bukowski
in that respect.. i shut up and write,
imagine myself on the Faroe Islands, very far
from what makes me uncomfortable,
the nearest thing to Eden, some remote place,
a village of 20 people where everyone knows
how long they take to a **** and at what hours
(given there's only one toilet) - and yes, the brackets
are also useful to make an emphasis, so example, : and ( )
all combine pretty well.
but they really are losing a one-sided battle,
given historical Darwinism, excluding our modern
perks to get into the raw caveman antics
it can be sometimes very demeaning to consider
both attitudes, simultaneously or correspond or even
excusing our modernity with intrinsic sushi (the rawness
that breeds no home comforts) -
and given the whole popularity culture...
you expect people to remember anything in
the next 100 years? the opening of a century is never
going to be enough to allow for that century's momentum...
i might be living in the 21st century, but all
my influences are bound to the 20th...
and that's where i'll remain, a beggar with a rich man's
vault of compact disks... clutter and a library...
unable to reread the books i've read (unless in snippets)...
like that tale of Neoplatonism and Plotinus
and that relationship with Christianity, but the job
that Nietzsche put in to criticise it came short of
what the actual religion did to itself, the archaeology proof
destined at Egypt, finding works there and not
in Israel along with the Dead Sea Scrolls...
fascinating how they cut Isaiah in half and the historian
Josephus placing the innovator of the Sermon
during Nero's reign, and how Nero is the first reference
to the 666... well, you know, once you zero out the preceding
years, and start again... telling the time will hardly
matter whether b.c. or a.d. - what with Darwinism
and the big bang, the Copernican west... well the Copernican
"west" - what a crazy carousel - get me off!
and indeed, with certain words...
we have encoded approximations to what each words
denotes... the brightest gem in the vault is
Hades... you don't say it as Ha A.D.H.D. -
you say hay and then you say dees, like bees -
yes, whether the d is a below the equator
and is summer in december, or whether b is above
the equator and is summer in july...
so you encode Hades but actually say: hay-d-and-many-e's -
still can't figure out how to denote a plurality of
letters with the punctuation marks given by English...
at present i'm using the inadequate possessive article
route - Peter's, Mark's, the mountain's...
the article goes off radar when there's plurality
in the thing ascribed possession: mountains' heights...
hay-d-and-many-eeeeeeeeeeeee? get the picture?
or hay-d-and-ease - baffling language,
i feel like some aboriginal looking at it from Ayers Rock
going: kangaroo the **** and didgeridoo?
no wonder the tetragrammaton is the tool to decipher
this phonetic encoding... there are too many chiral
symmetries in this tongue.
so again... i don't know why poets don't bother
to repeat themselves, on what they first concentrated on,
like the many water lilies by Monet,
or the self-portraits from varying angles...
or how modern fame, in concept, condemned itself
to c.c.t.v. and a brick wall as to how history is
experienced with mainstream Darwinism...
how quickly the guillotine chops the head off,
the finicky base for democratic applause...
and how in 100 years people might wonder:
well, Plato ain't going to be usurped, Plato will be
treated with the same faithful bias
as a blank blackboard, the established norm...
(that's all e.g. to say, it's not necessarily the
acceptance of such a norm) -
we'll still be ushered to normality by starting
from either the bleak big bang, led to an even bleaker
and bigger bonk... or we'll be cavemen admiring viral
infections - and fame and aspiration to attain
it will truly become bleak... for in these days
fame isn't competing for being remembered...
it's competing for being seen, again the c.c.t.v. model...
and given our overexposure to datums (the Oxford
authority is a bit slow to recognise that... well,
unless of course the same meaning can be achieved
with the word data... unnecessarily datii?),
advertisement being only one such source...
and would i consider the self to be an illusion?
i'd consider it on equal footing with π = 3.14159...
a piece of information, not to the fullest extent
a delusion... meaning i wouldn't discredit it completely,
given that so many people fall for it's existence
when plagiarism tempts us to swing with it...
and that there's the private, the public, the showcased
use of it... but it's still so ****** annoying
to have the lazy crew use the northern barbaric
reference to that pronoun and discredit it by treating
it as merely a useful prefix for compounding words
together to express automaton behaviours, and to have
to lie back on the psychoanalytical sofa and have to
deal with the atom of: ego, superego and id...
                                     (neutron, proton           and
the many that that that      / its its its -
the id is actually a scalpel in psychiatry - the cursor or
vector or quiet simply as stated already, scalpel,
incision maker -
                               the superego? also known as moralising
Nietzsche's übermensch - nein! klein Adolf
kann nicht spielen mit du heute);
well... might as well enjoy being trapped in
the stone ages from now on... because in between the cavemen
and ourselves, our contemporaries just called them
idiots (most notably the journalists) -
yep... only idiots separating us from caveman...
i must be double the idiot of wishing to be back
in the Dumas' France, or at the height of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth, when the Poles, second only to
the Mongols held Moscow.

It's been a bit jarring, this stumble into symmetry,
my good senses
               gluing themselves intact
         like an eleventh-hour craft project.

No string sections swelling for this comeback kid--
the just desserts, in this case,
                             arrive in the form
                             of a steady hum
                             that breezes the past away
                     with the ease of a loose eyelash
           flying in a tropical storm.

It took years to embody this equilibrium,
to approach the mid-morning sun
and not recoil from overexposure,
no longer draped in the sweat-soaked robes
                 of secrecy. I have tripped upon a biome
                 of bravery, fallen into the measurements
                 that require no prickly tampering
                 from the rusty, dulled needle
                of a fraudulent tailor.

I don't get angry with the sun
For being what it is
Or doing what it does
When my skin burns
From overexposure
I just become disappointed
With myself
You were no different
I just wanted you to be

It has been so long since I last heard my name out of your mouth that this time, it takes me by shock. I’m standing in the shadows, mouth agape, and you’re illuminated by the sun rays, blinding smile on your face. It’s funny, I note as a passing thought; we’ve been the light and dark of each other for as long as I can remember. You pull me out of my stupor, eyes finding mine and as always it feels like returning home.

"Are you coming?"

I shake my head, the weather is searing and my health is frail. The sun has never been a sanctuary for me like it has been for you, hair a faded brown and skin tanned from overexposure to the day. I pale in comparison, thriving in the moonlight and the shadows, at night and in the cold.

To my surprise, you don’t push any further. The briefest shock in your expression lingers before realisation sets in, and the corners of your lips turn up. It then occurs to me that you remember all that I have told you before, years ago when I thought you weren’t listening. I suppose you have been, all this while. A small spark of hope ignites somewhere deep inside my lungs.

"Tsk."

You truly smile by this time, fondness embedded in your gaze and the hints of affection in the tilt of your head. I return the gesture, a nervous, happy laugh escaping even before I can stop it. The moment is a giddy whirlwind of emotions; I have never been able to control myself around you.

-

I never notice until much later, but I spend the rest of the day away from the shade and under the sunlight; transfixed by your stare.

In these moments I can only think of how much I love you.

(A.H.Z)

From sands I arise,
to the faded skies over,
these hardened eyes,
and overexposure.

The bone-dry plains,
and arid weather,
have crackled my skin.
this sun-baked nether.

Drain on morale,
and eroder of soul,
nothing left now,
so I dig my last hole.

the yellow-white sea,
it stretches on.
it thirsts for me.
I am--long gone.

over and far away
across the sea
the ghosts i see
they see through me
silent mockery casts
around my steel composure
decays my hope by
truth's overexposure
i seek shelter
in my contradictions
i seek power
in my prided perceptions
raindrops on starboard recall
beat me to mud
i am blinded by
what is misunderstood

they hold me to every word relayed
always remind me with a nod
that i'm always searching
for those lost at sea
always returning
to my journey
to the dead

they're comprehendible
never moving
never touching
just between
real love
and imperfection
i coast these waters
at my own self speed
i long for something
which doesn't exist

"State Line"

Downpour

The torrential kind
In which
You forget
Through overexposure
What it feels like
To see color

Yet remember
Everything else

Clarity in flashes

The earth spills
Its daily struggles
And I bottle mine

---

"Welcome to Earth"

Condensed
Supersaturated

Breaching and scorching
This tortured sky

Will Smith is too expensive
To save us now

---

"A Thousand Words"

In the storm
Shadows and highlights
Are nonsensical terms

Indistinguishable

Black level, high
Contrast, immeasurable
Noise, present

---

"Peripheral"

Push it
Go as fast as you like
I'll take my time
And watch you spin
Out of control
Just outside
The point of
No return

---

"Patience"

Accuse me
Again and again
Convince me I'm wrong

I'll hurl my innocence
Into the storm

Wait for it
It's coming back

---

"Double Down"

That isn't light
At the end of the tunnel
It's just less dark

Double down
It's not over yet

---

"Joy"

Persistent color
Through the fog
Shrek on wheels
Snoopy on ice
They pass and
We follow

---

"Crossing Over"

There is a pain
That comes after

In the relief

In the recuperated vision
An aching remnant of
Stolen senses

You almost miss it

---

"Recovery"

Dreams resurface
Broken
Sparse
Waist-deep in white noise
A melody identifiable as my own

Crickets chirp
Incessant
Ironic
Soaked in stagnant thought
A denotation of the passing storm

The plaintive surround can rinse
the deep space crush of Hubble's
score.
A fast-paced bandit's sable cloth
homing the absurdum of a priceless
presentation...eyes unawares wending
brilliant ways abruptly announced.
The common Light is not passable--
but is in love with eyes...the holy of
holies--rarefied districts commencing
willful overexposure.

Peace on your head,
Brother
I Love you.
We Love you.
PEACE


















YOU HEARD WHAT I SAID.
WITHOUT HIM I WOULD BE DEAD
nah
No im not deaf
Place treble cleff
Im not the best but one day I hope to be the best that I can be. That we can be, be free. NO SEE we are one and of one blood you YOU HERE ME SON said we are one we ONE STAR the son  we need the blood I see the son  BLINDING EYES im fighting lies
inside my mind i hide the blind. Like playing poker but the river is only mine imtryin to find;
A doubtfull shadow in a drought over overexposure in a year boutes
ROUND 1
HERE ME CLEARY  MY SON
ears and eyes can be numb
Steady ******* my thumb
Heres the truck and it runs
Spill my ill from this quill bleed a vision
Instill?
Piledrive at the mill
Robots is Optomis drilled
Pills and pharmacists ****
Im just a kid when it comes to this
But poetry is this is
Hope you dont miss this
TWIST IT UP IF YOU WANT
To do it thru it we **** hate
And Love is my median
No not a comedian
Just meditate
I see a dream and it's color blind
I said the gun is thiers and im right
We SOLD YOU RIGHT!?

IM COLD AS ICE.
but hold it tight.
I speak too boldy right.
Seams white is not the light?
Mold me and soul the frieght
GHOST IS A SOLDIER NIGHT
hahha ^-^
                          **hahha love ya Brother

He’s journeyed many a treacherous route, scuttled ancient-ships,
ridden the skyscraper-troughs of crystal-seas, hunted enemies,
alone.

He’s guided by the lamps of the Heavens, the countless stars,
the sun and the moon, calculated the astrolabe,
alone.

He’s braved hurricane winds, the triangles of Bermuda, windless days,
leviathans & squids, scavenging whites and other such hungry things,
alone.

He’s got the strength of a Goliath, keeps his tenderness guarded under lock and skeleton-key,
his wounds bleed forever in the brokenness of a self-induced solitary confinement,
alone.

He’s the truest mariner, fights black-tempests within, protects himself from overexposure,
from another broken heart,
alone.

Eh, I'm not too concerned,
But trust me that behavior is learned,
Maybe it's just overexposure,
That I'm not looking over my shoulder
For the grim reaper to get me,
Even though I can feel the heat
From his breath
On the back of my neck,
While his skeleton feet are always in check
With the tracks of my boots,
And it's not that the danger doesnt compute,
People often stop us and ask
If we all just put on masks,
But the truth is not a lie,
Everyday I wake up prepared to die,
Because if I have to meet my maker today,
I know exactly what He'll say,
That the firefighter infront of him,
Risked everything when chances were slim
To save a life I didnt know,
And for that my wings will always glow,
So to you death is the word,
That breaks your heart and makes you sob,
But to me, it's all just part of the job.

A fizzle.
A fury.
The rabbit and the hole.
Like puzzle pieces left out in the rain.
Overexposure,
         White hot.
Ex-communication leads to excommunication.
This is your brain on drugs.
Intravenous lover,
  **** the marrow dry.
          White hot.
  blistering
Pustules darling!
Transgress,
then offer a pause,
      as though we had ever begun to play.
Like a claustrophobic *******,
leasing out a shoebox.
I want in for good.
I want out for life.
Lets play hide,
  all the seekers are dead.

John Doe died this morning,
a man of indeterminate age
They found him in an alleyway,
a blanket of newspaper lining his cage
They said it was overexposure,
hypothermia and bad luck.
He was pronounced, tagged, thrown in a bag,
and loaded onto the truck.

John Doe had lived in that same spot
for fifteen haggard years.
Yet nobody knew his real name,
or listened to his tears.
Was he once a father? Or
was he always just a punk?
The community just passed him by
To them he was nothing but a drunk.

Whether or not John Doe had seen
better times seemed irrelevant.
Legally, John wasn't a human being
just a negative urban element.
His last words were "Spare some change
for coffee and hot bread?"
But nobody could spare the time,
and left John Doe for dead.

I wonder how long John sat dead
before anybody saw or cared.
I wonder how many handfuls of change
really could have been spared.
A little bit of warmth and hope
Were all that he desired;
But John Doe never saw a break,
until his time expired.

Old John was unidentified,
no license or social security;
no family reported him missing,
see, John was just an "impurity".
The mortician took his organs out
and stitched him up with wire.
Threw him on the metal table
and slid him in the fire.

John Doe was disposed of
in accordance with local code
Then they cleaned up the alleyway
He lived and died in, his abode.
John Doe is dead and gone now,
but I guess it's all the same.
John had never really lived
since the world forgot he had a name.

Let me show you to that burrowed house
up on the hill, it's ages old!
Come, let us shuffle through its memories
and see what is to unfold.

Faded are the shingles
with windows yellowed and stale,
through overexposure to the sun
all of the paint is flecked and pale.

Tattered is the rosy wallpaper
stained are the wooden floors,
and all of the hardened, crusty carpets
are discolored with ancient molds.

Winds howl through the hallways
yet are too damp in the midst of heat,
not to mention winters' frigidness seeping in
not one table can stand, their legs too weak.

Grass has sprung up through the floorboards
pipes are rusted and they leak.
Every bulb is dead, the curtains are shreds;
both groupings are now just clouded and meek.

But glance upon these remains once more,
see what they have to hide-
for not until you know there's gold
would you look for a treasured chest to peek inside.

All lights and curtains are worn down with fingerprints;
these rooms must have been quite used.
Not often such delicacy can be found, seeing
floors and pipes both falling to nature's muse.

Tables' legs are old and tired of standing,
why not let them sit a while?
Yet no matter what weather it shall be exposed to
this home, to its fate, has reconciled.

Carpets all were once soft and
scrunched between our children's toes,
how beatiful these floors and wallpaper must've been.
How beautiful? Only us aged would know.

The paint was once pungently new
it gleamed in softened sunlight,
while the windows acted as doors to dream's ways
and the shingles kept out the night.

Let me show you to that burrowed house
what memories it holds of ours, my dear
Come, lay here with me in this bed we shared
for now, in looking back, we hold no fear.

We're in a battlefield that most can't understand; others have their own opinion about this no man's land.
There are even those who won't accept the unseen reality because their morality shifts their mentality so they view spirituality as an abnormality.
Negative forces are all around taking on various disguises to bound, drown and break us down below the ground.
At war with our guardian angels for our soul, they'll use anything that can benefit towards their control to bring us down into their hell hole.
Though the battle may not be seen as many may depict, the wicked will pick out the weak and restrict them of anything that may conflict them from turning us into victims or resist them from becoming a convict, addict or being tricked by them.
So it is crucial to know how to handle such a menacing foe that'll have us undergo a life filled with misery and woe if we should want to throw in the towel, let go and allow them to grab a hold of our soul.
Whether you think it's spiritual or not, we all have a belief that there are forces out there that can cause to feel grief or relief and we all choose a side to receive an increase in extreme self-esteem that advocates in the defeat of deceit, disease and all the mean things.
So it may be spiritual or materialistic, however you may see out whether you're Catholic or atheistic, there are sadistic and twisted spirits out there creating more statistics right now as I speak about it.
Stand strong like a soldier, tough like a boulder and be the beholder of a more powerful enforcer right by your shoulder to help maintain your composure in the midst of overexposure to spiritual torture; this is war.

Tower of Silence - Track 2

Intro
(((Hey, I’m heading back up my tower
I am be careful!
I’ll come down when it’s no longer safe)))

Hook
There’s panic in the lines of these rhymes I make
Maybe I shouldn’t tell you but it’s kinda late
You should probably be concerned with our mental state
The truth is all around me but my mind’s not made
My heart is with you somewhere but my head’s not safe

Verse 1
I’m a product of this culture, just another soul convinced it’s over
Taken over, taken fall to the world of overexposure
I’m the poacher, killing this son and killing my brothers
I fear my crave for blood—circling above
No I am not enough, no this is not enough
Whose blood soaks the door? Should I even do this anymore?
I am a vulture, feasting on a past that’s dead
Blood-soaked feet—keep my fangs soaked in pain
Can’t escape the thoughts ramped in my brain
Plummet on the thought that my mind’s insane

I’m just another copy
Copy and paste, brob’ly, He caught me
Is this really who I’m suppose to be?
This is not what you’re suppose to see
Who is this that’s stoppin’ me?
Voices, voices tell me I’m a copy
Bounty, on me—tired of mockery
Counterfeit seems to fit the description
To the point it’s ‘bout to stop me
Is this the plan of the one who bought me?
If so, nothin’ can’t stop me

Hook
There’s panic in the lines of these rhymes I make
Maybe I shouldn’t tell you but it’s kinda late
You should probably be concerned with our mental state
The truth is all around me but my mind’s not made
My heart is with you somewhere but my head’s not safe

Verse 2
My Kind, my Blood—they mean so much to me
I hide, behind—who I’m not suppose to be
No, this is not what you’re suppose to be
Is this suppose to be what’s truly me?
Take it easy with this poet, please
I’m scared to death of what you’ll think
Because it could be the death of me
I’m scared of my own voice
I don’t know if it’s my own choice
This thing—is it just a dream or is it the beginning
If singing is my meaning
A cover over my head, I wear a headset
Noise begins to make me afraid on my mindset
I let words get through—I regret
That I allow the words to linger and set
This has come to be my headrest, I bet
The reset, is just another test
A solution to drown is not the best
Because now the sound gives me no rest
But the nepotistic noise and voices I get
Becomes my choice with the volume I set

Hook
There’s panic in the lines of these rhymes I make
Maybe I shouldn’t tell you but it’s kinda late
You should probably be concerned with our mental state
The truth is all around me but my mind’s not made
My heart is with you somewhere but my head’s not safe
You should probably be concerned with our mental state

Verse 3
There’s a problem with our society
Worse than suicide, depression, and anxiety
It’s how we deal with these problems
Rather, it’s how we cause them
If I didn’t know better, I’d think you look a bit dead yourself
Not a Heaver, not a Breather, just caught up in your head
But wake up and join our battle cry
To help these dry bones come to life
Scared of the pace in change so you stay in place
Open your eyes and crank up our volume
Fall out of formation, help our vocation
And take a chance to take off your costume
Because right now our rates are hallow
It’s culture’s fault, though it forbids
So wake up to the things that you hid
And what you put on display
That death is a logical way
I don’t mean to sound harsh
It’s just, we need your heart
I don’t want to be crude
It’s just, I think it’s a but rude
Just what Sleepers do
Listen, I fall victim to it too
Please excuse me and do what I do
But no it’s not just a mere fad clad in sadness
They need to know, together we will get far
And help us say this gloom is not who we are
Come together in this path that needs paving
And be wary of the message you’re engraving

Outro
My opinion, life’s worth living
Culture say, might as well
Problem is, it won’t sell
Death’s addictive, but the price to live
Is worth the pay, so I will stay
Please stick around, I’ll have you found

There's danger in the lines of these rhymes I make
Maybe I shouldn't tell you but it's kinda late
You should probably be concerned with my mental state
I fear I'm a product of this culture
Just another soul convinced it's over
A vulture, the poacher, taking fall to this world of overexposure
I feast on a past that's dead
Can't escape the thoughts in my head
I feel the pull begin as my faith will drain
I plummet on the thought that my mind's insane
My heart is with you somewhere but my head's not safe
The truth is all around my but my mind's not made

apathy is a rightfully

peculiar equanimity--

growing indifferent

to overexposure.

filming period pieces

of weather.

too still for any life.

you'd better be too

dead to play the part

enough to be overlooked.

peace must consider you.

there’s an acorn made of sensible things
never in your tree. your branches sprawl
unencumbered by the width of a paradox
dangling from an infinite Other.
you extend your extremes
by simply living through an eon
of overexposure.
you wane like a champion of Nightfall
but your Love is another ******
thing.

no... no former interest in the Finnish: kieli...
hmm... let's compare...
Finnish... Estonian... Latvian... Lithuanian...
Hungarian... what's zunge: tongue in each?
the Suomi say: kieli...
            in ******: the closest approximate is:
klei: it glues together... klel: glue...
well... the tongue does just that...
    hmm... no bewilderment here:
Eesti say: keel
           Latvijas says: mēle
                                   slightly off the chart...
Lithuanians... immediately all the prior
languages drop dead...
because the translation is: nicht zunge wie in
                     glied... körperteil...
               aber zunge ist sprache...
   since...
liežuvis is tongue: tongue proper... the waggling...
ice-cream licking bit...
(lje-ju-vis) the ju is Fwench: from je suis...
             but... oh what a dear word...
   KALBA... that's language to a Lithuanian...
the young Huns use: NYELV for language...
i'm not even going to bother finding the word
for the waggling part of: irritated teeth...
          this almost feels like a 4th Jemminah revelation...
can i possibly scare women?
are they sort of, like... almost... sisters?!
they don't want me finding them in a bad mood?
in their casual framework of relexation
before the television?
        mind you: yeah... that would be boring...
if i became a domesticated animal...
even though... i'm sort of domesticated...
but... when *** is involved...
              oh right... i hold the joker card in
my Texas hold-up game of poker...
    i've spent time with prostitutes... so...
box is box... kasten ist kasten...
                 i must have scared her...
                         i was willing to become a surrogate
father to her child... the penny dropped
when i read the boy his poem back to him aloud...
and said: wow... and it was a literal wow...
or when her dog was licking my ears
and my self-inflicted cigarette burns on
the knuckles... until i started bleeding...
      that i brought her a banana loaf and asked
if her boy had any nut allergies...
           the self-made wine... cloudy... so i bought
a bottle of franziskaner weissbier (also cloudy)
so she wouldn't think she was drinking poison...
    then come Valentine's day i dropped off a bouquet
of flowers on her doorstep in the middle of the night
and dropped a card inside...
   well... she did mention that this guy was trying
to "court" her... but... yeah... this part...
it took him 20 years to gather the courage...
   when i heard that... the time we came back in
the same car... and she feigned tiredness and put her
elbow on my leg... and sort of relaxed...
   right: *****-head on... i'm driving this one home...
i.e. i'm going in for the ****...
   in warfare it would be called Blitzkrieg...
in casual social relations it would be called
the: juwelansturm... charm offensive...
                   esp. after some time you learn that...
at least 3 single mothers are scouting for...
for... i don't even know what at this point...
                  oh man... and she even had a vinyl player
and i was like: can we meet in a few days time...
i have this record i'd like you to listen with me...
   backstabbing reality: she's a tarantula mummy...
she'll eat the male in order to raise her offspring...
                           safety in the brothel...
                                    to be honest... she was actually...
generous... because she let me go... ghosted me...
blocked me from messaging me... even though...
      i've already seen her, twice already... when cycling...
once at night: her face beaming larger than the moon
with... i don't know what it was...
another time... walking with...
the most unremarkably looking man...
   just a little bit taller than her... and i'm guessing she
was... at most... a 5ft3...
              but not when the same love interest
is spreading rumours on her first day at work
about you being drunk on the job...
              well: i do know that i drink to excess...
i do have drinking ******... i tend to drink for about 4 people...
but when i need to be sober:
i'm sober... why do we need to be sober...
i will never know... but...
            eh... therefore? the charm-offensive had
to be put in place...
   as i told one of the other co-conspirators:
there's this ****** proverb...
           lies... or is it liars?
    lies don't walk on stilts...
        lies / liars have short legs...
                 lies are not longshanks...
         time... all it took was time...
                                but at the same time...
it's so frustrating... i'd love to **** a single mum...
i mean: her libido must be... exponential...
   shoom! a ******* comet!
                  esp. if she's raising a boy rather than a girl...
i should know... Khedra... the *******
i have unprotected *** with is a single mum...
but she has a daughter... prettiest **** thing in the world...
and her libido is a rave... a rage... a... a...
don't go there... i mean: i go there...
but... yeah...
                          and Jeminnah was this petite auburn
ginger **** good looking "thing"...
what Rodin sculptures i could have had with
her in the bedroom...
                                   ugh... it's sick... it's truly sick...
framework... just to ensure the boy isn't there...
but she... actually behaved rather admiringly...
she... actually... spared me...
   all the disappointments that would inevitably
come... if i went... no... if she went forward and
made herself more "available"... ***-friendly...
                 i still don't know why i like writing about this...
it sort of sooths me... or i'm having trouble trying
to write about something new...
therefore i regurgitate this little event in my head...
because i'm trying to find explanations
not excuses - certainly not dejections...
   or harbouring a resentment for women...
           i think she behaved... like a doe would...
     and i have actually run with doe and their young once...
at a traffic junction... there was no stag...
they became lost... traffic mayhem...
run them back into the woods...
                seriously: i can't even be bothered
to imagine **** anymore... life's as it comes... and goes...
so she did behave like a doe...
        frightened little thing...
              well... if you come across a guy and your
dog finds him irresistible...
  your little boy wonder becomes sort of scared
of an authority figure... or rather:
doesn't look at your boyfriend as an older brother...
like my neighbour once said:
better jerking off in heaven
than ******* in hell... i guess she should know...
****... better change that term juwelansturm
to... reizkrieg... yes... much better...
              but i still don't get it: how socially backward,
lacking any sort of introspection / self-awareness
must you have... to... do a Mr. Bean move...
knowing how cut-throat women are against
each other... to... have about 4 women gather against
you for slandering someone: you just met
and are working with?
            maybe i have a mind the size of pigeons...
but... at least that sort of brain size allows me
to have a Sat-Nav implant...
   i still can't get over how much drama i just avoided...
i was about to step into a hot pile of ****...
i truly was willing...
           how she allowed her former boyfriend...
well... her son's older brother... by my take on things...
to run her in over £10,000 of debt... implying she lost
her credibility to work in the financial sector...
i have a square head... i'm trying to fit a rectangle into it...
it's not going to work...
   and i'm not even solipsistic / autistic...
(a) why would you tell me your life story so endearingly,
   while also slandering me...
(b) why would you tell me your life story
and not something you enjoy doing... the music you like?
(c) women mature faster than men?!
   you're kidding me, right?
    that's like that Egyptian fwend i once had...
absolute ***... even the Pakistani said...
we're supposed to meet up for the movies...
no... forget fashionably 15 minutes late...
  sometimes... an hour late... **** those sort of people...
waste of air... never mind time...
but i'm the sort of person that is: in love with the idea of love...
in liebe mit die idee von liebe...
   but i was truly treading on egg-shells while walking into
a SHAMBO'H... szambo = septi tank...
           - mind you: self-deprecating humour does help:
a lot...
    while the only use of the diminutive tense in English
i was able to find was, associate with... making nouns
ugly... "nouns" well... like Matthew becomes Matt
Peter become Pete... Anthony becomes Tony...
Joshua becomes Josh... Samuel / Samantha becomes
Sam... it's ******* ugly... it's diminutive "diminutive":
just ******* lazy... like do not becomes don't...
Pakistani becomes ****-,
               at least where i come from: diminutive is
diminutive: i.e., it's endearing...
because something smaller is always cuter...
you want to tend to it more...
KACHKA'H (kaczka) becomes kaczuszka...
drzewo become drzewko (tree, little tree)...
tygrys: tygrysek (tiger, little tiger)
jabłoń: jabłonka
   it's the diminutive but it's also... refreshing:
lying about the thing's temporal quotation...
which also makes it a funny reading into history...
that **** Germany thought of themselves as
Aryans...
    yet... the ******-lack-lands further east entertained
the infusion with the Sarmatians...
an Iranian... Aryan tribe...
        and we are... "we" are... i am... very *******
refreshed to defend my mutterzunge...
sure... i'll keep it subdued: if i had a keyboard that
would allow me easier access to the orthography...
i don't think i'd write in English...
probably not...
         even Charles Dickens can't call it orthography
whether it's weather or little or litle...
   there's no orthography where they are no diacritical
marks... akin to U contra Ó
   or epsilon contra eta...
                 mind you: the Byzantines are hyper-sensitive
to γλώσσα - even now... upsilon, omicron: omega...
why need to stress: give the omega the acute
accent? i know it's gloossa... shouldn't that accent
be put to better use in order to make the English
looking proto-Germanic ᛋᛋ (schutzstaffel)
disappear? too many ******* consonants in ******...
i heard that argument before...
    too many diphthongs in yours... or at least lacking
one: IE... that ought to be a diphthong...
aye... i... die... dye... different... dynamic... dip...
where's an affirmative-iota in... the last three examples?!
surely you don't say: dype... when you write: dip...
do you?
             all of U in you...
                             yes... i do feel linguistically superior...
but it's not a superiority of: "my" people write
language in a... oh ****... now i remember...
the best comparison comes...
like this project of twinning towns...
Havering was twinned with Ludwigshafen...
the ****** language... lodged between Russian and
Deutsche... neither... the best alliance
is with... the clarity and sensibility of: Japanese...
that's the closest i've come to compare my mother-tongue...
Japanese...
   it's the clarity of syllables... of actual letters...
sure... Japanese has restrictions on its consonants...
since they have to be coupled with vowels...
except... why is N no ******* unique?
i could understand H... from the Hebrews...
since... that's a vowel catcher of sighs and eh?! conclusions
and a vowel generator of: ah ha ha... i.e. laughter...
so... what?! the Japanese laugh akin to...
Ini Kamoze's: here comes the hot stepper?
na'h na'h na'h?        oh: wight... no trill of the R...
no rattle-snakes back there...
i guess you could laugh on a Na (sodium)
and No (know very little)...
      next time i'll catch myself laughing i'll ditch
the H and borrow the ン (N)...
but... hmm.. weird... Sejong the Great might agree with me...
something's up...
i'm itching... now... Korean makes more sense...
to hell with the Chinese skeleton... x-ray...
hieroglyphs... ideograms... brick wall:
too much memory gone to waste...
        no phonetic clues... just enough geology...
pressure... time... erosion... to memorise...
   not going to happen...
  that's why you're never going to invade China...
but something is up in Katakana...
if N (ン) has such a unique place among / apart from
other consonants...
that it has the same sort of status as the vowels
(ア) A or (オ) O...
海 - kai... ocean... phonetically dropping the ideogram
("emoticon") you'd get: カイ...
but if N is so uniquely placed as an A...
why... would you require...
       to merge this unique consonant with the unique
vowels?
      why do you need this?
ナ ニ ヌ ネ ノ: na, ni, nu, ne, no?!

isn't N unique like the vowels that it can stand uncoupled
with vowels? so... if it can't be stand-alone akin
to vowels... why keep it: "unique"?!

ン   ア   イ   ウ   エ   オ

   fair enough... i'm far from Japanese... but i still don't understand
why you need to disfigure the unique N by a vowel...
and i'm trying to figure out the logic...
how, for example:  ン + ア = ナ...
since... exactly... since...
                         there's no equivalent to the N + A = NA
for any other consonant in Japanese...
there's no R + A = RA... since... there's no R!
no really... let's see... RA: ラ... ア (A)...
              so... what's the R? it's almost like a diacritical mark

laughter in "anime" / ******: ハ ハ
) (                   close enough... but if the H is invoked...
how does A morph in "opposing" chiral, mirror?
   ア? ア + ? = ハ: ha... ha ha... ha... eh?
and the obvious restrictions... consonants take the lead...
when fused with letters...
you can't find AN or an AM or a AT in japanese...
you can only find NA MA and TA...
- if i'm going to become prone to dementia in old age...
sure... then... i'll travel to Amsterdam and
juice up on some chew of a handful of magic
mushrooms... a reiteration of how fungus hitchhiked
the money brain... but not until then:
i'm good... on this linguistic plateau, for now...

- lessons from yesterday... H'american women are
insufferable... apologies...
i can understand tight yoga pants... flick of the hair...
exposing... or rather... exfoliating in one's peach
*** physique... but dressed...
it really makes all the more sense to align oneself
with the Muslim women... i truly: truly abhor this
current... libido insomnia... which implies...
by the time i get some: i don't want it...
which means... the pattern of going to the brothel
to get a hard-on... i need to exercise in short exhausting
bouts like a boxer... i need to ******* without
actually ******* for a few rounds...
and i need to drink an aphrodisiac like white wine...
and then i'm good to go...
    
we've been so overtly sexualised we've become...
sterilized by overexposure...
i'm serious... perhaps the NIQAB is not so much
about female oppression but...
to ensure the male libido is kept intact: focused...
since... men become easily bored if there is no
existential stress... we tend to ******* and pursue
**** like: geometry... linguistics...
yeah: "bored"... no... we find alternative avenues
to cope with life...
       and by a common demonitor:
we're no adherents to the doctrine of Darwinism...
most of us would **** for the Copernican focus
of reality... but... this whole idea of passing on
our genes? sorry...
even i see what sort of men pass on their genes...
passive men... mediocre men...
humanity has made Darwinism unnatural...
**** Germany tried the orthodox method
best associated to Darwinism...
why did it fail?
  like that Matrix quote from Agent Smith...
people... people... just enjoy misery...
it's what makes them thrive...
populus... populus... fruor miseriae...
                                                    in miseriae illi vigeo!
i tried... to accomplish "something" worth the dignity
of calling it: human... personally? i can only attest
to... mengelegeschrei! kinship...
                  it wasn't worth it...
                  trying to love people is one thing...
it's so disturbing doing such a feat...
the whole inclusivity project...
   when you don't have exclusive rights to one person...
maybe only swans figured it out...
but... it's so... ******* chimp-sour...
so psychologically backwards...
             i'm not even irritated, disinterested or... stressed...
calmly, collectively... backtracking...
i'm getting bored of this libido insomnia...
   what if i were to showcase my underwear bulge?!
that would be deemed as ****** harassment... wouldn't it?
i've seen messages on the tube...
LOOKING... ooh... you look at some in a lecherous mood!
handcuffs! handcuffs!
               TOUCHING! can't i... touch you on the shoulder...
so you might... move aside... while i get off the tube?!
handcuffs! handcuffs!
      this society is beyond rotten...
rot is rot... it's... fermenting... into something
that... whatever propaganda the Soviet's would have
envisioned to throw at it... couldn't...
it ******* self-imploded...
   no no... this is a full-on self-implosion...
         you wish there was some post-Soviet involvement...
there was: zilch...
          
what was once the Soviet Empire... is not modern Russia...
oddlt enough...
   i'm so thankful that i spent over a month in Russia
and never once switched on the t.v. mind you:
i was in a "relationship" with a girl who told me
her grandmother was her mother..
and her mother was her sister...
   and she was still bangng her ex... with ties to
the government... blah blah...
faking having a period... but i thought *******
a woman on her period was all bonus?
fleshy crumbs on the ******...
   fair enough... i'm not sick on the sickly sweet bits...
i'm like a crab or a crow...
i pick up leftovers...
             but my eyes truly dim... the iris and the sclera
disappear... all you can see is the pupil...
when... libido insomnia over-exposure kicks-in...
i just stop thinking straight.. usually my mind is built
for vectors... geometry... but....
when i'm getting teased too much...
this is teasing... let's face it... and... i can't get a hard-on...
what would most do? a violent cause...
i don't think we're asking for nuns....
      we're asking for Black Narcissus types...
the tragedy of overtly sexualising men
into a future of impotence...
  while... deeming women: overvalued and...
            doomed to an existential failure of
single motherhood...
              it is a failure! there's no romance to speak of
if... she has a girl or a boy token!
and the socialism... the Soviet propagandists would
have never envisioned such an easy future of
argument....
capitalism will not fail out of ideology... if it is going
to fail: it will fail out of biology...
men will become so isolated from women
that men will... as men do: stop spending...
because they will not spend money on women...
why would i want to spend more than i already
spend on a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of pepsi and
a packet of cigarettes?
why? huh?! eh?!
                 i don't need to look "pretty"...
                   i'm already ugly...
                       reality dissonance... it's vibrating!
it's ******* vibrating! it's like: hum hum hum... humming...
insect wing flutter... coupled with KEISHA's song BLOW...
well... because the last time i cited
listening to
  COMBICHRIST... the girl blocked me...
      sent to destroy... it's such s nice... song...
  well... manner... tastes... one can't oysters all of one's
life... whoops... which is like: whpe + slippery + oops + i slipped...
ah ha: ba n'ah n'ah!

ad mors facio tuus venia!
   toward death: make your pardon!

lost the remote. now the adventure begins.
when Bookstores were actual, you could go there
and find what browsing smells like, by-hand,
but pacing back and forthright on **** affords -
the grand vistas
of sustained contemplation.
candles lit for no reason
just pretty.
laptop humming like a soft boiling box
of overexposure.
and there’s the bourbon
on a resolute desk
like a summoning
of moonshine
with a caramel
sun.

all that, and
no pun.