/notably concerning graduate education at the university of Edinburgh: why do these doctors think they can teach, who made them so, well, what's the word, useless, demeaned at having to teach? every time a doctor of chemistry was asked to teach it was like watching someone being tortured in an iron maiden... sure, a professor of chemistry could teach, just like every single post-graduate, PhD student should have taught, a doctor of chemistry didn't teach, unless he taught as Americans are prone to speaking in acronyms, and they say the Scots speak an undecipherable english... like **** they do, understood them like I might understand the zest pinch of a hobskotch chili! after all, the chemistry doctor doesn't exactly make use of his PhD students, but since they were the sheep first to the slaughter before the guillotine of knowledge, they could translate the higher tier chemistry to the undergraduates... no one sane enough would want to learn chemistry from a doctor of chemistry... those men and women are lost to their own enterprises, to their own Faustian romance, to teach chemistry at university, it would be best to be taught by those inclined to further adhere to advanced pedagogy... post-graduates ought to replace doctors in teaching undergraduate material... balanced out by the fact that the said doctors would not require the help of PhD students in research, with what already is time wasted on lecturing, what to them is, the ****** obvious... but then again... the supply and demand isn't there... even though PhD students could teach, they don't, smug chemistry doctors lecture in the guise of solipsism... theyd rather be engrossed in their research than give lectures... but since those trained PhD monkeys do all the trial and error, wasted time, which the doctors themselves could do... they waste their time on giving undergraduate lectures... because these recent protests at universities, where students complained about not having enough time spent with doctors in the field... I'd start by bemoaning not being given enough post-graduate time... after all, the people who closest to jumping over the waiting benchmark.../

in vino veritas:
due proof that snobbery
and that indie collection
of the smiths' reissue
only goes so far,
    comparatively,
Miles Davis' kind of blue
isn't overrated nor is
it overplayed,
notably a conversation
with Boris, the Russian
in Edinburgh,
who had to pick sketches
of spain as his favourite...
pop music versus ******
fetishes... people will be
ashamed of pop song guilty
pleasures than any bedroom
"deviances",
the boat the boat, whatever floats
yours...  
mine? seven years late,
Britney spears' criminal...
because John Coltrane'
a love supreme is easier
to digest than ******* brew?
fudged packed *******
and a perpetuated crescendo...
Boris could have took to
Porgy and Bess...
         or the birth of cool...
whatever it was,
high above Steppenwolf
   desiring the immortality
of a Bach... still:
       there's Händel...
but let's face it,
both sides lost something,
whatever the iron curtain
was, there was also
something akin to the,
jazz window...
                  because can you
even imagine jazz being learned
at a music liceum?
       i still don't know why
the Japanese love classical music,
or why it's Chopin rather than
List embedded in their heads,
not the gentle fingers of Satie
or Debussy...
         two Portuguese jesuits did
little to spread Christianity,
but music written by Chopin
found its atom, its universality
of translation...
                  even withe the Higgs...
something that is non-divisible,
not atomic, not sub-atomic,
                               über-atomar...
supra-atomic, which includes
the sub-atomic spectrum...
         a perpetuated ad continuum
     of ad per se, in addition to:
an addition, an addition,
        a void brimful of a lost
paraphrasing...
                          in the name of...
in the direction of (the) ortho-
   and of (the) meta-
    and of (the) para-...
                  amen.
                       the upright,
rigidness of: jump off a building,
see pancakes at the bottom...
the desire for a hier-und-nach...
well.. telegram cipher from 1930s
**** Germany,  in response
to heidegger's da-sein...
     da-nach...
                 no need to explore
the paragraph, just enough tease
to block out images of, "paradise"...
       para or besides norms,
    a phenomenon and
      an anomaly that's a res per se,
Kantian for: noumenon...
          a proposition without a school,
or tree of logic, which,
Husserl did manifest...
    in phenomenology...
              I can't help but notice
that classical music is only
relevant today because of movies...
listen to any classical music chart,
7/10 times it's music accompanying
a movie...
               comparing
kind of blue to midnight sonata?
yep, the later is overplayed...
   it's no longer a piece of music,
but a literary cliché...
      even in such wonderful books
like geek love by Katherine Dunn...
jazz is the only genre of music
that comes close to prog. rock,
    id est, no song: an album...
      even though I admit
king crimson's in the court...
     with children of men
      as a backdrop...
once upon a time the iron curtain
and the jazz window...
    rap, shmap, shpindle me dingo...
and the old man still lectures me
on work, born in 1939,
who still remembrance the Soviet army
of boy-soldiers and black-clad SS-men...
oh there was work just after the war,
given what Aries took with
the harvest just years prior...
                       woe to the aspiring poets
born in a cocoon of a father
who laboured by perfecting a trade
that, apparently,  no future Englishman
would take up! or if they did...
only via the trickling down
of the plutocratic, extended family...
and a ****** job they did too...
         well... if everyone is willing
to be and only be, a pop star entertainer...
I'd hate to imagine this piece
to be an instruction manual,
   a cohrent: whip and stirrup
demanding a gallop...
                       perhaps less cabaret voltaire,
and more jackson *******,
because why should painters be
allowed all the excuses under the sun?
and when will I see a poetry anthology
written solely by critics?
          oddly enough:
or rather, the pitfall...
     reading a poem never manifests
itself in a drive to write one myself...
an enzyme of a blank,
      a substrate of a butcher's novel...
or rather... a meaty novel, preferably
historical, notably one
that serves as an answer to Muslims
with regards to:
   remembering the Crusades,
forgotten the Golden Horde...
           and never really bothering
to look into the other crusades
against the Prussians, Lithuanians,
Kashubians et al.
                   such feral lands...
perhaps if you speak the language
as well as Norman Davies...
  you might, just might, not stand out
like a sore thumb in these parts.

You were, but a music freak
And I
Just another song
Removed from playlist
After being overplayed

an ever-blazing, startled sun
coupled with raging rain
complemented my indifferent mood.
watching the droplets descend from the sky
one, two, three, one, four, five, six, one
the wet particles avoided my ugly skin.
liquid tears penetrated my pores,
mocking the rain.
my eye sockets can hardly compare to the clouds, though
both are wrinkled, deceitful, and strong.
one, two, three, one, four, five, six, one
caustically falling,
one thousand accumulated
thus far

Regretting then forgetting,
                                                  pressing it away.
                                                           ­                    Repressing the depressing
Images, overplayed.

So nice to be praised like a
state honor
Giving your heart to a donor

"Broadcasting romance forecasting"

The brain the heart is the
everlasting mind control
"Outlasting getting the taste
of food* the best treatment to
the soul well behaved to
Her voice plays the webcasting"

   EvEr__LaSTing
Life of miracles

The strong will heart heroes
No time for fasting
  The contrasting the colors
Neverlasting beats
the story knows to heat
Pieces build the right parts

Minds of selfish needs
pulled together wishful
thinking
Bring me the seven wonders
of the fish family Trump towers

Like estate will who will?
Open book in progress
the leader
But reading behind the lines
Do we trust the believer
Book of love can be
a game of mystery meeting
the deceiver

Never wanting this to end
Around the bend
"Who is on first"
Or the oldest Estate someone
leaves a comment at last

Saying just stay no rest
Like the wary
Estate schedule feels
like a tightrope
We cannot cope became
an estate neverending line
Bird wire you're always
*Welcome
Rotary phones
The pain excruciating tones
Just tweet cat got your tongue
The will hat off yellow canary
How your pride had you
The sensitive side your tooth hurt
Still flying Angelic fairy dessert

The Messenger
Kick in the pants
unknown passenger
Signed and delivered
Cruel documents the
hell wheel so fevered
Emotions to remember
the utmost condition
Like something so new
never touched

But something was there
and someone
else felt quite the experience
The feelings were overplayed
But the lover stayed eyes
Into her movie screen
King Estate pages from
her book unusual scene
Words she spoke delicately
pronounced but rushed

Not an ounce of gold
coming from the weight
of his belt like he vanished
Estate the beauty of the tree
everlasting from the root
Of his mind the greed got evil
Transcending "God" sending
We are the world blessings

The estate sale there were rules
Raised hands commending
Dinning like the Royal Queen
In her divine "Estate chair" hum
The whole entire spectrum
Predisposition in relation
Sum of all fears
His dark shirt with
suspender pants
That old Estate set two minds  
were perfectly set was not
a twinset or any bet

The everlasting kissing the
Sunset spiritual picnic
She's his peach everlasting
sunrises tic tac or nick nacks
And Plum's bunch of Irises
Those whispered promises
Estate lovebirds cage-free
Everlasting conclusion Oh! me
Eyes got blurry chipped white
picket fence
Last will everlasting dance
The state of mind ski *****

Her envelope got licked to elope
So tethered everlasting pearls
of Grandmas strings
Feeling her fingers
Rapunzel hair whispers the
harp tranquil bright tealight
Nine lives of a cat nap
Twin set laptop Estate house flip

Robin redbreast everlasting
Estate she sings South trip
She wakes up from her dream
She got the "Estate" in her hands
Everlasting Holylands

Papa repeats bad jokes
like a broken record, an overplayed
and under paid radio station
that forgot how many times
we've heard the same
song.

Out to eat at a fine dining
Mexican restaurant, Papa orders
a hot dog. The waiter
doesn't get it. The joke, nor the
hot dog.

Who would guess so many
bad one-liners and puns lie behind
your dark leather skin and
tired jaw? The waiter cannot tell
that buried underneath pages of wrinkles and
stoic smiles, Papa
is only joking.

in my mind, it was always
a perfect ten
below zero, just cold enough
for me to shiver
and for your nose to turn a rosy pink
and for me to hide a dark thought
behind warm words, excused
by the curtain of soft snow
falling around us

i guess i overplayed this scene
i guess i cut and stripped it
set music to our footsteps
and played it up, all romantic angles
and close-up frames
hovering too long
over your awkward, shifting smile

i guess it wasn't really musical
no artsy, black-and-white short film
not even worth the imagery
that i gave it in each long piece of poetry
just worth enough
for me to hum along
when i hear the song
that i put to the scene, hoping
you'd recognize the tune

here in the cutting-room of my heart
i gave up
sat down on the floor, scattered images
floating down
and i grabbed my scissors
cutting each one into a snowflake
before it hit the ground
trying to recreate that scene
the way i remembered it
and in the darkness, i could ignore
the desperate feeling
of an imagination run too wild

i guess i overplayed this tune
but sometimes
when the words don't come easily
to my real-time writing, i am forced
to look backwards in time and space
across mountains of disgraced, forgotten things
back to a time
when all i could write about was you

Another day gone to slow. A life replay, I wish I  didn't know.

The best of times are to few. To much of me putting up with you.

This rollercoaster is no fun. It gives me headaches. I'm so done.

The life the love its still there, but it takes two.....  

I know its been said many times before, I cried you lied, we dance again, but life's to short there's no understanding.

This dance is old and no fun.

Another day, gone to slow. Another day, we already know.

You are the smell of the decaying leaves;
The leaves I long for when life is in bloom.
You are the soft thud of the door
As I slip out, unnoticed.
You are the breath I take, emerging from the frigid ocean,
And the light I illuminate upon my arrival home on the blackest of nights.

You are not, however the electricity,
Or lack thereof when the power surges in the midst of an essay.
You may be pleased to know that you are not that song
Overplayed on the radio that never fails to irk me.
You are also not the piu right before the mezzo forte,
For that is me. I am the piu preceding the mezzo forte.

I am the spare tire on the underside of your car,
And I am also the F sharp to the B natural, a few cents flat.
It may not surprise you that I am the negative sign you forgot to distribute,
And the feeling of snow seeping in through your boots.

You are not the feeling of snow seeping in a pair of boots.
You would like to know that you are the smell of a sharpie,
Uncapped for the first time, and you are the excitement of using it first.
You are even the taste of catching the first snowflake of the winter,
And eating the first s’more of the summer.
You are the chap stick, found in the pocket of the pants in the hamper,
Or perhaps even the twenty dollar bill in the other.

But I am the learner’s permit that went through the wash.
I am also the candle whose wick is drowned in its own wax.
I am not, however the smell of the decaying leaves.
You are the smell of the decaying leaves.
You will now and forever be the smell of the decaying leaves;
The leaves I long for when life is in bloom.

"The best memories are like overplayed mixtapes: they lose clarity and detail over time, yet they seem to sound better the older they get."*

We listen to the fourth round of Trois Gymnopedies
on our break from the second round of *******

Our limbs entwined, in part because we like it
partly because we're stuck together by sweat and--

The air is thick with scents foul and fragrant
as furniture music fills the gaps in between

Every breath stalls to anticipate the notes
fingers twitch slightly on the downbeat

Ten minutes ago, we made our own music
Ten minutes ago, we were in perfect harmony

She stares at the ceiling as I stare on her lips
I watch her mumble the lyrics Satie never wrote:

A pack of cigarettes,
a pack of cigarettes
Could you please buy from the store?*

We're taken over by uncontrollable laughter
as uncontrollable as the trembling when we came

She shifts to her side, and my arms are freed
I stand and pick my jeans from the floor

I take my time buttoning up my shirt,
soaking in the view before I run the errand

She lies naked still, as I put a jacket on
I leave on the fifth round of the Gymnopedie

Why is the concept of being forgotten so paralyzingly terrifying to me?
Before the expanse of time,
none of us stand a chance of being remembered.
We will be swallowed up,
only be known as a statistic, a point of reference.
The thoughts we think are paramount
Quail before the laughing face of Time.
God will remember me,
so why do I care about what those on earth think?
Why do I care what people think?
What kind of sick ******* are we that we derive pleasure from others' pain?
Schadenfreude is alive and well
Unlike you and I
Why don't I throw up my hands
And succumb to the ravages of an indifferent Time
And an indifferent society
Why not let them win
Who values a game which is purposely weighted to one side
If not those who have waged something dear upon the outcome
The Ender inside me rejects the faulty system.

Why do I persevere for a "humanity"
which will never improve
In fact,
the more we evolve and know and comprehend,
The more apt we are to be heartless
Because why do we need a heart when we have a brain, Tinman?

Why do we care what we look like
Our bodies are merely
borrowed from the earth
And in the blink of eternity's eye
what we call ours
will belong to another

Why do we live in a world overflowing with bodies
And entirely lacking with people

Why can we satisfy any part of ourselves
by draping on borrowed emotions
Why is the false more alluring than the truth?
Show me an honest person
And I will show you an attractive one.

I am not you
you are not me
And we will never be
The same
Despite the pervading effort of our society
I will not be assimilated.

If we let people in,
They wouldn't hate
So why are we terrified of doing that
Is it because,
If everyone is in,
No one is
And in ceases to exist?

Why do we feel the urge to gloat about things we did not earn

Why does 1
Make more money than 2
Because his nose is straighter,
His hair is curly rather than straight,
Because 1 spends an eighth of his time in the gym
While the less attractive 2 spends 7/8 of his time
Screaming inside
At a society which has cut off its own ears that it can't won't hear.

Why are random genes a judge of worth
While character is a word so overplayed
It folded its hand long ago

Why is the face of a beautiful liar
Infinitely preferable
To that of a plain truthteller
Infinite whys
And a world which whispers
     Cradle me with your honeyed lies
     Assurances of past lullabies
     How do I trust what the mockingbird cries
     When even it runs from the skies
Why do so many see ourselves as bound and controlled by manipulated strings
When those strings are nothing but ropes with which we can escape

Why do we live on top of one another
Without deigning to know our prisonmate
Without so much as a spared thought
For the dead flailing beneath us

Why do I hold dearest to my heart
Past injustices
Counting them as the tiny, insidious proofs
That I am a good person
Because good does not exist without the bad
Relativity is the grip keeping us from sliding
Down.
Away.

Why is it that words spoken can never be taken back?
Simple. We can never reclaim what was never ours.
You think you are original in your menial thoughts
What have you done but regurgitate the thoughts of your predecessors?
Rearranging the same letters
To form the same tiresome conclusions.
We are the worst type of plagiarists.

Why is the only thing propelling you a sense of duty
Why are you devoutly loyal to objects rather than the people who happen to hold them

Why

Why do we invent reasons to hate one another
We take solace in the loopholes which justify our hatred
That we may not be like the "monsters" we condemn

Why are "we" and "they"
Not just markers of distance?
Why must they be very real, ubiquitous mentalities?

Why are somber topics the common stuff of jokes
Because we have grown numb enough to empathy
To shun it in favour of a laugh?

Why is suffering so prevalent
When we have an excess of affluence
Are such extremes what define us as a race?

Why is a white lamb the symbol of pristine innocence
When innocence is slaughtered day after day?
Why are sharks abhorred creatures even though
Our vicious attacks
Far outnumber theirs
Do we idealize them that we may have a reason
An excuse
To assert our dominance over yet one more
To feel the joy of crushing them underfoot
Why do we focus on certain images
When the true image of our society
Is the person who occurs each day,
Who breaks
The answer is because we know
that we
Are at fault.

Why when confronted about the tiniest aspect of ourselves
We rear our heads in defense
Backing up against the corner of idiocy
The walls built upon the truths we have fabricated
Why are the swirling armor of falsities so comforting
And when pierced
We rebel
With every bit of the person we have built
Lashing out as does a dog chained its entire life
But even a dog
Which is after all "just an animal"
*Is not fool enough to delude itself into loving its chain.

Friendship
What is the first thing to enter your head when I say this word?
It could be rainbows
or braided bracelets
or that infamous song from spongebob

For me, it is that first time I hadn't seen you in a while.
summer had pulled us apart to follow in our own ways the paths our parents set out for us to follow
and your arms opened wide and your legs took the form of a film reel long finished as soon as I came into view
and I followed your lead
as if running towards the softest
warmest
most loving embrace I would ever receive
from the worlds most adorable teddy bear.

It is the time you cared enough to ask how I was with a stern face
and tried to trick me into being alone with you so you could talk some sense into me
after giving you a heart attack the night before in the form of Helvetica text font filled text messages dotted with guilt and crossed with "I'm sorry"'s.

It is the countless sleepovers that seem to have all blended into one neverending night
full of dreary eyes and cheeks worn from the pushing of grins
smiling at the most simple things became customary
and laughing morphed into tears around 3am or so
and I held your hand as sharp words flew from your mouth and rolled down your cheeks as you spoke about a demon long since diminished.

It is the way we arrived back late after a 4 hour drive in the middle of the night and our dreams took place under a duvet in a double bed shared between 3
our ears were still ringing from the sound of overplayed static and our feet were sick of standing but we managed to fit anyway,
I sleep so well surrounded by the bodies of the two people I admire the most with every fibre of my living being,
just close enough for the comfort of 3 in a single bed after too many cans on your 18th birthday.

It is the time I couldn't walk straight after only 3 pathetic glasses of gallery wine
you had to leave
but all I wanted was for you to come back so I could spill secrets I couldn't tell the others yet with ease
because your ears always seemed the softest to rest my worries on
and you are so skilled in the art of dissolving them afterwards
that I only hope I can always do the same for you.

It is the slow walk up the driveway each morning to the desolate institute filled with others draped in the same navy fog that comes with waking up
which became so much lighter when I would remember that you were inside its walls
waiting for me with a warm smile and a laugh that could move mountains and shakes my very soul
something it still does so well even after weeks of missing you
and the way your radiating joy infects me so easily every time
no matter what kind of walkway brings us together.

it's the time you came over equipped with glass bottles and liquid happiness
and I never felt more at home than I did after seeing the sky stretched out above us and the nights cold breath causing goosebumps to erupt beneath our pyjama-clad frames
and we were all that existed in our cocoon of comfort,
how when we sat down to contemplate the reality of our existence
I was suddenly okay with the idea of physical affection
and I still am.

it is the time I was choking on everything I felt I could never get far enough to move past my lips
but you sat there
smiling
held my hand in yours
and helped me to dilute all the poison that had seeped into my blood because of him for 2 years too long
while you justified the importance of me to myself
and your eyes were the most reassuring thing my own had ever had the comfort of witnessing.

it's the way you embody everything beautiful I've ever admired the human race for
and how, no matter the weather,
I know getting coffee, tea,
or chocolate soya milk
and talking about your new favourite song
how you found this great new band
the impossibility of the ethereal beauty of girls
and even boys sometimes
or how this one character in that tv show you told me about makes me feel things I can't describe,
will always eliminate the clouds my shoulders find too heavy to hold on a sunday morning.

I will never be capable of expressing how grateful I am with the words 'thank you'
because those two syllables barely scratch the surface of the immensity of hope and happiness you bring into my life unlike any other I could begin to try and imagine

I am blessed with the most beautiful souls who have shaped my own in ways I will never forget
and I will never forget the way your hand gestures tell your stories
or the way your eyes illuminate electric blue when you talk about that band you love so much
or the way your whole body laughs uncontrollably at the most ridiculous of things with me
or the way your smile makes me feel like everything is going to be okay in the end
or how the reassurance of your small hands and eternal hugs is a constant reminder that I am, in fact, loved.

I don't know how long you will stay in my life.
if we will be stretched to the edge of our reasoning
pulled apart by distance
or unmissable opportunities
kept barely intact by group chats or late night phone calls that aren't the same as the times each others faces were the only sources of light at the end of too many long and tired days.

but for now
I thank you
and I love you.

Old reflections and new revelations seem mired by my past.
Words thrown together for amusement the wreckage now simply a skeleton for children to play.

Sandalwood spent offerings the afterglow has long since left us cold now it lingers only in whispers somewhere within the catacombs of a dream I so eagerly forget and relive with each tune played .

Does it  still seem the same from you distant view my dear?
And old fights passions spent dried blood and a once in the moments ecstasy and a bitten lip.

How it seems a stranger now a old sentiment for a even older fool.
To hell with the memories they stand a tides pool of nothing I give a **** to embrace .

Maybe the nights are backdrop a story overplayed but none so beautifully ****** up as you.
Sureal is it now as my pavement of reality old faces and new enemies it's so ******* overplayed sweetheart almost as I.

We are nothing more than the example of the carnage .
Scars shared echoes of a illusion and are shared delusion how we laughed with the crash.

Tell me do they linger fragments misspent with others we react are ways with such bit players and one night stands where did we become
so jaded in a perfect sense.

Its all a act of repeat .
I dialed the number and simply hung upo before there could be a response .

For that train was derailed long before it met the station my dear .
just because I never reached out .
Don't ever believe I once did not care .

Lies we tell to are souls turn us to bitter old fools .
And this was my cue.

Exits are simply roads to yet another stage .
And mine was set long before my words reprise .

Yeah sometimes you just can't avoid that rear view mirrors
gaze no matter what kind of ******* you have become.

If my heart could fly,

I’d break it’s wings,

Flee any hurt,

specifically the ones caused by me.

I’d use it so much, it’d begin to destruct,

familiar irony of my existence, and in place for its absence,

I’ll leave behind a fragile piece of mine essence

If my heart could fly, I’d never let myself belong to another

not again…

not again will I trust,

I will never trust that you wanted me here,

our love unconditional, a mere fantasy, over-looped and overplayed,

my welcome,over-stayed.

your world was never supposed to be a hotel staff, that hosted my stay

you made it very clear, my ticket of reckon is uninspired

letting me know it’s time,

time that i left your humble empire.

I never expected your love for me would spoil,

a car neglected, i never changed the oil, fixed the flat on the tire,

so on this love i’ll fly and retire.

never again will I trust. I’ll flap my wings and leave the next, so quick like i taught myself

that’s right steady and fast, never looking back, foot on gas.

anything in my grips seems to fly anyway, it never lasts.

I’d break it’s wings before it left me, and keep it in my arsenal,

for days my propellers lose fuel,

If my heart could fly , I’d give a better reputation to the foolish mule.

An entire sequence of fantasy,
played out in the course of four hours.
Like all good dreams,
an abrupt awakening,
rude and cold,
gasping for breath,
attempts to make sense of what is essentially nothing
but means so much more

Video montages,
played over and over in the mind.
Tired, and overplayed,
still powerful and overwhelming  
something out of a fairytale:
the way the light plays off his face,
the evening sun shining on the branches,
grass swaying to make way of a ball,
nervous giggles accompanying nervous cries of birds,
anticipating the moment we may beautifully collide-
reality surrounded by a haven of immortality and happiness of the purest type

Unforgettable.

Problematically so.

I'm a broken record
My song is all ****** up
The chorus and the lines dismembered
The notes and keys all untethered

What a mess.

Words and sounds shred to ribbons
I don't search for meaning anymore
My best work's been fed to demons
Weak and rotten to the core

How pathetic.

It's been getting worse and worse
Death of self, a matter of course

Back when I was overplayed and overbooked
A striking board for your matches
You never saw all the bleeding scratches
No, you never even looked

I watched the television for lack of a hot girl bent over the pool table.
Tonight had been a dead night and I was simply counting the hours till I would
pass the **** out and start it all over again.

I herd one of the overrated windbags on the screen  say.
Tonight were here for the art and to honor the artist.
Yet in the sea of  overdressed teenagers I saw no art just some corporate nimrods  who were selling songs like a ****** sold her *** out on the street.

The glitz the glamour wasn't to honor it was a marketing tool  for record labels to push there new product.
And like any good **** they had brought a slew of there finest ****** on display for the wolves.

It was a true gathering of the young and mindless.
While all your favorite overplayed annoying as **** ****** and ******* were there all
acting as if they were having a blast and lip syncing to all there soon to be forgotten pop
**** hits.

It was like being mind ***** by a ***** wonka .

And the first award goes to some stupid rehab bound **** who's currant record I really want two of.
One to **** on and one to cover it up with.

And just when it can get no worse we have to see washed up boy bands drag there over weight *****  upon the stage to try to get one last fix before they drop dead well we can always hope.

Yes for a channel that calls it's self music television yet plays no actual music why should have I expected any less.

Art isn't cooked up in some factory cranking out radio friendly bubble gum anthems
for little girls to scream to and perverts to have wet dreams to.

True art  doesn't wear a G string .
Just usually hot chicks or some fat chicks but that's not usually a G string it's just there underwear  has crawled up there *** dam optical illusions.

What **** are you watching!?
The old regular asked me as he pulled himself from his semi coma of watered down drinks
and half spent cigarettes.

You know there amigo sometimes even I don't know what to call it myself.

Yeah well if your not to busy looking at ******* give me another.

I flipped the idiot box off and gave the old ******* another round.
So grandpa I asked in my oh so charming  and down right annoying tone.
What do you thinks the problem with music today?

Well for one ******* your supposed to listen to music not watch it!
That and I miss the stuff the kids nowadays never hear.
Yeah there father time what's that my friend.

You know that **** called actual music.

Yes this relic of the past had a great point there was no depth in a child's swimming pool  
and as me and my lone customer counted the hours till this night's chapter of a close
slowly approached  we spoke of the classics  and did what any to fellow adults would do.

Turned the jukebox up and put the TV on mute.
cause art may not wear a G string but some really hot ***** do.
And no matter a mans age even Picasso could admire a fine ***.

Cheers kids.

Gonzo.

I am stuck in a sticky state.
I’m a piece of gum,
thoroughly chewed.
By now, quite overused,
I've lost all taste.
My life has become an endless blur,
every day the same,
like an old song on repeat.
Overplayed,
I’m sick of it,
and have been for quite some time now.
I need change,
desperately,
achingly,
need it.
I can’t live like this anymore,
can’t live every day on repeat,
never changing my pattern,
never changing beat.
Nothing anymore makes me happy,
no food tastes as sweet
as it did before,
when my life was filled with open doors,
with opportunities,
change,
chances to rearrange,
to take on new adventures
every day.
But now, every day is a struggle,
always the same.
My depression has taken charge,
taken over what little control
I had left in my life.
It is my captor, and I its hostage,
locked up in its grasp, its chains,
until further notice.
I pray for the day
that it sets me free,
which is hopefully soon,
but probably never.
I’ll die before it lets me go,
yet I sometimes feel like death
would be better than feeling this low;
it would be release,
release from my endless days on repeat,
for which life just can’t seem to cease.
But for now I am stuck.
I am the gum you've been gnawing on for hours,
and you want so badly to spit me out,
but now just isn't the right time.
So you keep
chew
chew
chewing
that tasteless gum of mine,
wishing you could trade it out
for a piece with real flavor.
All I wish for
is a life with real meaning,
so that finally, again,
I can start feeling.
Until then,
I am numb,
much overchewed,
tired and used,
and feeling abused
by my own mind,
this cruel, cruel depression
that’s running my life,
and now I’m running out of time.

clutching my crumbling holy relic,
that trace of her final kiss
still rippling across addicted lips,
rise to find shelter,
move it safe from noise and smoke

stumbling through shadows,
like uneven, forgotten lumber
patching gut shot with used bandages
the faded, drunken hymns of heart flung sadness
hang along Cahuenga Avenue, old and overplayed
wilted spider silk across a concrete violin

each parking meter my next crutch,
arguing with stoic streetlights,
giving their cold flicker that same
blood stained sermon,
self same pity, worn and overused

from edge of a coin I’ll scratch out her name,
from a nightman’s club the darkness can fall,
from the corner of my eye she’ll melt away,
from the skin of my teeth I’ll feel the dawn crack
and learn, again,
to crawl

I've sang every song..
I've written all my poems,
I painted with every colour,
And loved with every bone..

But just like that song..
I overplayed all our memories
And over-analysed the way
You'd look in my eyes,
You didn't mean nothing by it..

Oh but you now, won't answer my calls
And now you, don't follow my thoughts
Yet somehow you are still there,
And darling I, will still be here
If you fall..
Yeah honey I'd still be here
Even if the spark's no longer there,
I loved with every bone..
Loved with every poem,
I still love you
With my all.

Im.always waiting for the relapse like a spent sunset and far to overplayed song .
Whispers of what was and never will be .

Im not here now simply try again later for the side of the man you care to see.
Poems are simply pages filled and my stories are far more than cliffnotes to your day.

Play me out sweetheart another fix like all the rest .
Lets create the essence of the obscene let me erase it for my ego just the same.

It's always the elephant in the room i know it all to well for I lived it just the same.

Did it break you as once it did I?
Do we breathe to simply keep living like zombies no answer or direction does apply.

We left it behind to haunt us still .
Guess nothing stays burried forever .

They all ask me what I want to be after uni
It's no longer when I grow up, though how
Any can consider me so is beyond me
When I still jump onto the low fences like a cat
And traverse them in my absurd boots with barely a bow
When no one is looking, and everyone is watching, what
A fool and a spectacle I make of myself, I care little for
Until I come home, and realise I may have overplayed the clown -
But what was I made for, if not to hang upside down,
And call the world right side up that way? I implore and ignore
You, and you can heed me, or try to read me,
But you'll always need me.

Unlike some,
I do not want to be a masterpiece
on an artist's wall
I do not want to be the overplayed
song on the top 10 charts
Don't get me wrong
it's lovely to be the only
flower in a green field

I want to be the used
paintbrush the young artist
quietly learns to keep forever
I want to be the only pencil
the writer takes life notes with
I do not want to be a favorite
book, sitting on the top
of your shelf.

I do not want to be an abandoned
word you left unsaid,
I want to be the analog camera
you use when the world is
flickering in fuzzy city lights

I want to be the poet's
stanzas in prose
I want to be the failed
color shade of mistake
on an artist's art work

I want you to learn that when
the tides roll in,
when the sand dusts oxygen
in thin air.
the shreds of my heart
will curl like burning photographs

I am the napkin you use
when there is no paper
or phone or notebook
to write down every inch
of your feeling.

Why will this not break?
Why will this not fade into
awry little women muttering apologies?
Why will this not heal,
soften, dampen like the eyes of an innocent
This vex, this folly, a mistake to be erased
Instead it's morphing into a wrinkled excuse,
an overplayed scar
Stubborn, unsatisfied with only bothering me in dreams,
it swims around my consience
But isn't it my privilage to awaken from nightmares?
Don't I have the right to forget?

Pain is not weakness leaving the body,
but the slow dying of a will

Contrary to popular belief, I am not always a happy person. I am not made of summer sunshine and daffodils and constantly feeling limitless. I am not a cartoon character on the screen of a static television that can only ever showcase one emotion, laughing away humble hours and only ever blushing out of joy. There are days when my skin is the last place I want to live in, my heartbeat just like an overplayed song on the radio. There are days that I burn, when staying buried under my sheets feels infinitely more worth it than getting out at all. Days when I let my fear of failure grab me by the throat with no intention of letting go, ones I wish would end before they even have the chance to begin.
I am human. Real. I make mistakes that stretch like wildfire and burn everything comfortable to me. I am a victim of comparison, of self-inflicted hurt, of seemingly endless defeat. There were eras where I measured my importance on the size of my waist, the amount of attention received from others, by false love. I once thought that I could find acceptance in what others had to say about my existence, that I would only find joy in being fearless.
Math scares me. Finding spiders in my sink terrifies me. Public speaking tosses my stomach like ***** laundry. My fear of abandonment holds me hostage, prevents me from tasting vulnerability. I am even afraid of myself on the days it is hard to keep inhaling and exhaling, inhaling and exhaling. I am very much afraid. I am alive because of it.
Fear is captivating, not always negatively. It allows us to understand what really matters based on a collection of what we are afraid of losing.
And yes, the same life I was eager to lose back a few forevers ago has morphed into one I never want to lose. I love this. I am loved, and I am holding on tight to the carousel of reality. I will hold my breath even if I fear running out of air, because I'd rather be breathless and experienced than falsely believe that there are no more horizons left to reach.

My uncle used to tell me that the sky was blue because we lived inside the eye of a giant, the sky would never cloud over, Nothing would ever feel better because it was already the best it could feel,
Nothing was ever going to hurt us and we could live our entire lives safely

When I was 14 years old my uncle took his own life by hanging, but my family always told me he passed away in a car crash,
Now I don't remember the last time I wore a seatbelt because ever since then I've had a really hard time believing in safety

I'm so scared of never being able to not feel like this,
To not feel like I am being taken advantage of,
My mind will forever consider these situations no matter what situation I am in,
I could stay up night after night trying to convince myself otherwise,
not that it would make any kind of difference,
So whenever I find something new and refreshing, all I know how do is sit in silence,
Hope to quiet this strange hurricane happening inside of me,
It kind of feels like one of these days the winds are gonna rip me to shreds, but I won't have the help, because I'll tell myself that I don't need it, anyways

I am terrified of calling myself a writer,
I am terrified of realizing that the only escape I have from this is a pen and a piece of paper,
Anxiety keeps telling me that one day all of the ink is going to spill out and the only option I'll have left is to take myself out,
They'll have to see me laying in a puddle of my own ink, my veins soaking in what once was my emotions and feelings, dripping through the floorboards and into the ground,
After that they'll see my entire body sink,
They'll see every comma and exclamation point flow out of my fingers and feet like it's some kind of tar filled river,
They'll see my lips start to quiver and the only thing left to come out,
The only thing they'll ever hear me say ever again,
Will be a sliver,
"I don't know why I am apologizing, but I'm so sorry that it never got better"

I wake up every morning and I am terrified,
I'm terrified of the nightmares I had the night prior,
When my best friend told me that I'd burn in a lake of fire because of my depression, that I wasn't normal, and that I had a disease,
That I was so sad all of the time because I didn't believe in a God,
That I was so hopeless because I wasn't leaning on some overplayed fake version of reassurance,
That I chose to pray to these demons to set me free,
The same demons that cast these shadows over me,
I remember yelling through tears at him, "I don't need to believe in a God to believe in myself",
I'm trying my best, but at this point, good things always seem so foreign to me,
It just seems so foreign to breathe

So until I reach that breaking point, where the moon and the sun are both only arbiters of light that I can use to guide myself through this darkness, through what feels like never ending night,
I'll be terrified of everyone and everything

I'll either get to happiness, or I'll die trying

it’s weird to think you’ll never be
more than a bittersweet memory
overplayed, exhausted, incomplete
of all the things we did defeat
clearly infidelity was not one

it’s strange to feel that i’ll never be
more than a nightmarish past
for you, for all of you
what was once sweet ripe abundant fruit
now rots at the heel of cupid’s boot

what is lost was once my blinded world
now drifts in my head when i lay in bed
vibrant images in the back of my eyes
heart strings play a longing melody
unaware that it itself, is out of tune
and only you can tweak the pitch

I've forgotten how to gasp
For the beauty I saw
It seemed so long ago
When I saw beauty like yours
Your dimpled smile
Plays across my mind
Like a song overplayed
On the mainstream radio
I muffle my screams of joy into my pillow
Because my god, oh my
A beauty like yours
Lingered in my mind for hours

Don’t you ******* cry, don’t you dare ******* LOOK at me like that
Like the scared little love sick boy I know you are
Don’t you dare tell me I’m beautiful, STOP I don’t wanna hear it
Don’t explain yourself, for the love of GOD DON’T tell me how it happened
How thoughts became actions or somehow accidents even though it seems very on purpose to me
Those accidents or actions quickly became regrets mistakes you couldn’t scrub off with any amount of Head and Shoulders
No amount of silver tongued talking is gonna wipe this from my memory

So don’t you ******* cry you did this to yourself

But you didn’t make me like you, I did that on my own
I’m so mad at myself, the ignorant student repeating past mistakes like an overplayed song.
I thought I was playing it too cool, I thought I was keeping my distance
Keeping that vital separation that barrier between your heart and my own
Observing you with the detached interest of a 5 year old watching ants
Occasionally squishing them with a ***** thumb just to prove that he can
When did I start forgetting where I ended and you began?

Don’t ******* tell me you love me, you don’t understand
You say words much bigger than the feelings you are trying to express
Just keep being an ******* keep ******* other girls
Keep saying what you do and start doing what you say
Instead of using that silver tongue to kiss smiles on to my face.

To love and be loved- that is the greatest gift.

But do you ever realize that love is not limited to being an abstract power held between two emotional beings.
Love exists all around us and we choose to put emphasis on it with humans.
Love exists in the flowers you planted that are finally peaking their heads out for a new beginning.
The love you gave to it will soon be returned as it will flourish in front of your own eyes.
Love exists in the furry creature that licks itself to sleep at your feet.
The love you provided it in food and water and affection will soon be returned to you when it keeps your feet warm the whole night through.
Love exists in the little boys eyes at the grocery store as he eyes up his favorite candy bar.
The love you gave by purchasing it for him will soon be returned as you watch him bite into the luxurious chocolate square and remember how candy bars were a lot cheaper in your day.
Love exists in your favorite songs on cold winter days, where the only way to warm up in your car faster is by distracting yourself by shouting the lyrics a little offbeat.
The love you gave for this song will soon be returned to you as you hear it years down the road and get a warm nostalgic winter day feeling.
Love exists in the outfit you're wearing, with your cute little sunflower skirt, your black tights with a slight run, and your oversized sweater that matches your boots.
The love you put into this outfit will soon be returned to you when you feel like a goddess walking down the cereal aisle in search of your favorite berry blend cereal.
Love exists all around you in forms unrecognized by most of us.
The life you are living is full of love, and the more love you put out the more love you receive.
Do not be shy with your heart, fall in love with those favorite boots you have, fall in love with that catchy overplayed radio song, fall in love with the slim piece of light that peeks through where your blinds are broken.
Fall in love with yourself, and fall in love with your life.
You are an artist and the whole world is your own blank canvas darling.
What colors will you fall in love with first?

The North of the Borough
is often more than a geographical zone
its a state of mind.
Always the under  
yet never standing down.
Howler down your Motorola Razr
and kiss confidence into this brick !
I want your barbour jacket
gifted stares and then blanks,
keenly seeing off your Ray -Ban,
downing your peacock pride
that overplayed our top deck

I’ll play this song
for old times sake
you’ll sing along
again
for old times sake
missive melodies
that never change
our dissonant notes
well overplayed
we’ve become actors
stuck in someone else’s play
how’d we ever let life get this way
what was once a rainbow
is now only shades of grey
the rhythm is lost
in the tip-tap of your toes
shuffling endlessly
as if trying to escape
run off with your feet
only to be left in the street
struggling to beat the light
that’s already changed the scene
adding a red glow
that makes you look better anyway
Can we keep the topic on dancing?
as it emotes such a clean wholesome feeling
that one can really lean on
in troubles times, five four
rounded out to seven eight
Hurry **** you!
We’re already late
such an important recital
giving in to improvisation
as we are stripped of
rank and title