.    like cardinal Leto remarked, having received news from Versailles... why is it always the ******* French?

perhaps in a less crude manner,
drinking wine,
while eating raw fruits -

  always a bad combination...
no *****, no meat?
   bad idea... wine, and raw fruit
akin to strawberries?
    irritable bowel movements...

- and that's because Einstein
didn't discover the concept of
gravity, in the format of: sideways?
in the form of orbits?
   expansive waves...
   that allowed for the elliptical interpretation?
like the old
              argument:
      (heliocentric) oval...
             contra the (geocentric) circular
"concern" for...
   whatever is up / down
            sideways in
      the Copernican terminology...
because there was ever a "shape"
concerning the universe,
  and not a medium,
            an extraction for the metaphor
for water,
   gas, liquid, solid...
              and the fourth aspect
of ancient elements:
   its existence in a vacuous "space"?

- but i can't fathom the French at this point...
once upon a time...
one Frenchman equated the motivation
for a "summa summarum"
    to be bound with a thinking,
and a curiosity...

            the current fashion of Latin
abbreviations...
   this... cogito ergo sum?
   it's nonsense...
    speak it long enough...
   and you'll find yourself inclined
to suppose that cogitans per se:
is a motivation, an impetus to exist...
yet... so much of thought it "wasted"
or, rather, to craft an impetus to
"doubt", within the confines of fiction...
but the motivation has lost its
origin within the confines of doubt,
and has been replaced by
the Freudian unconscious,
   a serialized phobia fest... notably
including a, clown...

originally, thought (per se) was
a secondary motivational outlet
that precipitated into being...
    first came... doubt...
   but... these days?
               doubt is a conspiracy theory,
no longer an emotional thrill
to prop-up thinking...
   and we have the French existentialists
to thank for this...
for they subverted their own
idea...

             negation has replaced doubt
as the origin, and motivation
for thinking...
        yet... this sort of "thinking",
has made, its materialization, so, so...
obscene...
    i can hardly find it surprising while
i took to propping two worthwhile
economic outlets...
   prostitution (since they will spend
the money i give them...
on things... i wouldn't even care
for propping up)...

    and... alcohol (scotch whiskey,
russian standard *****...
    shveedish cider...
                     german beer)...

but how can you even claim an existence,
if...
       there is no thrill...
of what is the secular expression of faith:
i.e. doubt?
  how can you replace doubt -
a motivation for thinking, materialized
into being... with negation?
  jean-paul Sartre attempted this inversion -

doubt has been replaced with negation
in his system...
             it's like that cliche of an English
1960s ***-joke / ***-like...
       this... frivolity over a blatant lie...
a lie so... bogus...
    so ineffectual in translating a hidden truth
that... you allow it...
   to care for the cheap comic aspect
of the execution...

but how can the French suddenly
feign to disbelieve their secularism -
   resorting to the antithesis,
namely:

  original

  doubt motivates thinking,
  which subsequently motivates
   being within the confines of reason,
or rather, reasonableness...

20th century existentialists

negation "motifs" thinking,
   which subsequently motifs
"being" within the freedom of non-reason,
or rather, unreasonableness...

   and by negation,
   i don't mean the atomic conceived softening
blow...
   akin to: dis-ease...
    i.e. (as i explained it to one old man
in a park, walking his dog):
  a negation, or ease... a denial of...

how can the Cartesian model work,
when the 20th century French existentialists
began with the presupposition:

   i deny, i think, therefore i exist?
where is the original thrill of
the secular aspect of faith, within the boundaries
of doubt?
              gone... vanished!
****! a **** on the London tube,
during the rush hour,
  during the heatwave
                of the past month!

                   perhaps this only comes
as a method of assimilating an increased population,
within the confines of the Taoist maxim:
the best way to aid the world,
is to forget the world, and let the world
forget about you...

             perhaps... the Andy Warhol 15 minutes
analogy...
      that in order to encompass the individual,
the world, and the individual within it...
   the approach had to change
from the original, exciting, exploration
genesis of thought, bound to the genesis
of doubt...
             having to be replaced by
a genesis of denial...
      the second tier of a secular society...
    the zeitgeist of Herr Censor...
to filter through what we see so often,
faces, bodies...
  but would be much more comfortable
having been bound to Plato's cave,
         of complete shadow theater...

perhaps... but the original tier of
secular societies' alternative to church prescribed
articles of faith...
                     to have replaced
the thrill of doubt...
      with this... Byzantine pillar of denial
as motivational groundwork for
thinking impetus
   that becomes an article of being?
am i the only one to see the frustration,
how, people abhor their being,
being founded upon an act of denial,
rather than an act of doubt?

     the once thrilling maybe (gnostic):
   has become the stale, "i don't know"
    (agnostic) - as if... people can't tell you
whether zebras have stripes!
   where there was once an article
of secular faith (doubt) -
   now?
                        there's not even that!

p.s.
  there has to be a much needed new mantra,
all publicity: is bad publicity -
unless of course you're riding that
fame juggernaut and are paying
for your all-inclusive status akin
   to madonna: since fame dies off
and you, none-the-less invest in the momentum...

one day where i drink a bottle of wine,
half a liter of whiskey,
   and i'm apparently not "screaming" in
my sleep from the heat,
the whole, "apparently", as i retorted:
at 5:15am? i was alseep! i was asleep!
how can i stop screaming in my sleep
like a banshee:
the sleeper and the blind man both see
eye to eye regarding the future to come...

one day without engaging in internet
content: of my own accord,
next day? this... this... lethargy builds
up in me... i end up thinking:
i can't do this any more,
this insomnia culture globalism of
24h news reels is tirying me,
i pick up the sunday newspaper
which i found to be respecteable...
the sunday times,
  i peer into the magazines...
toxic masculinity,
    desire: what three women want...
i'm bored...
well more tired than bored,
bored-tired...
                 what women want:
what an exhausting question...
**** fantasy, beta-male provideer...
yada-yada-yada...
                    
    the only relaxing aspect of the day
(apart from the shade) is watching
england beat india in the cricket...
i always loved cricket sport terminology:
50 overs... innings...
wickets... 6 throws of the ball in an over...
the rest? i'm no atlas...
i don't like the world crashing in on
me with all its problems...
not because i don't have the right
advice to give,
but i remember the most modern secular
motto about giving advice borrowed
from Athos of the creation of alexandre dumas:

the best advice? to not give advice...
you cannot be held accountable
for giving bad advice: and people complaining,
or good advice and leaving
people in your sphere of influence...
asking for more - non verbatim... of course...

second categorical imperative?
tao...
              the best way you can help
the world: is to forget the world,
and let the world forget you...

                        you only need two absolute
maxim vectors to orientate yourself
in this world,
a third is nice, but: it can be kept loose...
at least two on a tight leash...

but one night spent drinking,
not writing anything:
and i am... spent!

                            the boogieman of england's
persistent complaints...
the muslims are not integrating,
the english: we should give them more
ground...
           o.k., o.k.... joe peshi in the role
leo getz in lethal weapon II...
            i too had to integrate!
i said: like **** if you think i'll give up
my native tongue when spoken in private...
you're not getting it...
i'll spreschen ihre zunge, no problem,
i'll even write you pwetty free verses to boot!
but, guess what?
  i will not force you to eat my
sauerkraut, my schnitzels,
                           my smoked sausages,
my raw herrings etc.,
                      integration does not work
within the confines of: pampering to a people
expected to meet you half-way...
what happened when the polonaise attempted
to meet the english half-way?
brexit...
oh come on guv'... is there a ******* tram
echoing its way out of my eye
when you peer into it while i attach
an index finger to the bottom lid to give
you a clearer picture?
           25 years in england: no englush girlfriend:
i guess all the english girls just love, just love love
being ***** by 9 pakistanis
daubed in gasoline...
                   hey: they **** thrill...

i'm tired of the weakness of the english,
the humpty-dumpty nature they are imposing,
self-cencorship,
    appeasing, like neville chamberlain...
bringing back the munich agreement...
not on a piece of paper,
instead... waving a scrap of a toilet roll...
so the english could wipe their own *****
on the promises of the germans...
if this really hurts the northern monkies...
guess how much it hurts the sourthern fairies...
(well... fairy, is a designated region surrounding
devon, bristol, hardly a ******* fairy in essex)...

   why am i foreigner and i share
the same nausea of the natives,
                     exhausted by the narratives?
i guess the english didn't like the polonaise:
but the polonaise are to blame...
came here with a list of benefits they could claim:
without having even lived 5 years among
the natives... housing benefits, child benefits...
believe me: the polonaise are the only
people in the world that hate each other...
to the extent of citing bitter criticisms...
whenever i pass through warsaw to see my grandparents
i am gripped with a sickness:
this homogeneity is too much for me...
shove me back into the east end of London...
too much of the same genetic material...
and that's when the language i am keeping
(seemingly for vanity reasons) fizzles out
into your basic encounter and that basic reminder
that circa 40 million speak it too,
better or worse, but they speak it...

of all the festivals? download...
                                   i wish...
    glastonbury?       not my thing...
kylie? i'll concede: slow? live, with instruments,
rather than the studio original...
wasn't that a cover of
   bowie's fashion?
                  sure as hell sounded similar...
but i heard the cure were playing...
so while writing my father's invoice
i made myself a paperclip bracelet...
   i figured... "let's just pretend to be there"...
and no, the 1980s weren't that bad when
it comes to music,
not now, by comparison...
the cure's kiss me, kiss me, kiss me (1987)
release?
one of those rare albums you can
listen to akin to reading a book...

                       but there's still that persisting
exhaustion... i came from under communism,
from under the iron curtain,
but at least there was the economic aspect
of communism involved...

   only today i watched the story
of the terrible inversion of english jursprudence,
i.e.: guilty until proven innocent...
the 1975 case of the silesian vampire...
an innocent man was hanged...
the original vampire?
    smashed his wive's head in,
then his childrens', then he set himself
on fire...
              then again: the tragedy of those
rare cases of being presumed guilty
rather than innocent...
then the reverse: presumed innocent rather
than guilty and getting away with it,
through the parody of death
and the non existent god...

   there could not be anything more exhausting
than communism without a communist
economic model...
this current state of affairs in the west:
cultural marxism and the yet to be discovered
antithesis of cultural darwinism...

i'll use the cartesian chirality for a moment:
sum ergo cogito...
i don't like using political terms...
but... liberal (classical) - i don't even know
what sort of thinking goes into the label -
in the east? the liberals are exhausted
by a resurgent nationalism within
   the newly acquired capitalist system...
in the west? the liberals are exhausted
by an insurgent communism within
an ageing capitalist system...

         on a side: seriously, why even bother
engaging in any sort of "public intellectual"
debates when the public are only
discussing two books: 1984 and brave new world...
**** it, might as well talk to a camel jockey
who only own and rides the waves of
time in this world only using one...
muhammad...
   whom Khadija **** Khuwaylid
would probably whip into his young
respectable shape...

                  and this is how Ezra Pound comes
into rememberance:
usura... at least the muslims do not
play into the game of usury:
of interest... borrow a quid,
pay back £2.33...
            that's the only way you can
gain respect of the muslims:
if they truly were the money lenders
of this world: which they aren't...
unless a newly blessed...

   among the philistines and the proselytes...
england is such a tiresome project,
even on the outskirts of London...
i'm being dragged down by this intervention
of marxism: on a whim,
on a whimsical projection...
of "adding" values...
            
           communism would have worked...
in exceptional circumstances...
poland... circa 1945 - 1990...
syria: the current year...
  to whatever year is demanded...
exceptional as in: war torn...
where was the marshall plan
   for poland, when there was one
for sweden (neutral) and switzerland
(also neutral)?!
        black youths bothered about
the summer holidays,
having to live in council flats,
  concrete goliaths...
           want to know what it feels like
when entire cities are like council
estates,
with only pockets of remaining
   free-standing houses among
overshadowing council flats?
                                    nee bother...
sure... in a country where:
the house is the castle and there's a labyrinth
of castles constituting outer suburbia...
balconies... that's what the soviet
models had... balconies...
where women could grow flowers...
concrete staccato gardens in the sky...
the blocks of flats in england
didn't have balconies (sky gardens,
          esp. the early ones, massive fault)...
i spent one summer reading
bertnard russell's history of western philosophy...
lying in my grandparent's balcony,
in the shade...
watching passerbys among
          the barking dogs of the neighbours...

one day, one ******* day!
   and i'm already exhausted from the castrato
english narrative...
pandering to the people you expected
to integrate...
  no! you're not changing your standards...
your standards are perfectly reasonable!
i'm tired of the english pandering
to the sort of people who, will, not,
integrate!
               i integrated in a way
of respecting both the english culture,
as well as hiding / preserving my own...
why don't i just do the following:
   pisać po polsku?
                      like some czesław miłosz?

ah... good point... at what point
is the standard of integration appreciated?
when nothing is preserved?
surely integration is supposed to
accommodate some variation
of preservation?
     i might add: that's a fine line...
preserve all? no integration...
preserve some? integration...
                    preserve none? no integration...
food is a cheap target to example
with...
                   it's a low hanging fruit...
given that even i find indian cuisine
   the most superior in the world...
food is a cheap target concerning integration...
but the niqab?
  when the local english authorities
are employing face-recognition
technology and when testing it...
are forcing people to uncover their faces,
subsequently arresting them out of protest...
but not the women wearing the niqab...
out of? out of what?
   a secular society shouldn't be allowed
to discriminate against any religion...
it should discriminate against: all religions!

                isn't that what the secular ideology
is all about? the... softcore version
of soviet atheism?
        secularism of the west (miltary-industrial
complex)...
"vs." soviet atheism of the east
  (scientific-industrial complex)...
           i'm still so ******* tired
               of this bogus trap of "necessary"
                       commentary.

I want to go back, back to my New Orleans
This place that I call New Orleans is actually Louisiana
But still, the gorgeousness of this dirt and grime
The live oaks stretching over the 6-lane wide streets,
Touching leaftips, making a canopy over the passerbys
Crepe myrtles showering streets with lacy pink faerie dresses
Smells of beignets and seafood fill the French Quarter
Intense, consuming, warm, loving sun burning through your shirt
In New Orleans to say horses sweat, men perspire and women glow
is to be ridiculous.
In New Orleans everyone sweats like pigs.
As for the grime I mentioned, this exists mainly in
the sidewalks cracked by live oaks which make an adventure of every walk down the street
And in any semi-deserted street
To have a Mardi Gras or St. Patrick's Day without a parade and citywide party is to toss aside traditions and the New Orleanian way
The New Orleanians are welcoming, hearty and heartwarming, tough and unafraid to talk to a stranger on the streets.
An old black man once greeted me with 'konichiwa' as I walked past
A middle aged white man once struck up a conversation with us as he realised we had shared the same ferry earlier in the day
An old asian woman conversed familiarly with our family at Cafe Du Monde simply because we are Vietnamese as well
A teenaged white boy waved at us as we drove past him jogging
A different old black man stopped and serenaded my siblings, mother and me with his trumpet just because we smiled
Several young mothers and women have stopped my mother to gush  over my siblings and me, usually when we were very small
I, myself, have given directions to a tourist or two, lost near Cafe Du Monde or the levee,
And I hope that the warm smiling spirit of the Big Easy will remain forever immortal.

There's a place for me
in a field of Bluebonnets
under a Pecan Tree, with
Texas Longhorn lowing
to passerbys,
and mockingbirds flitting
about cloudless, grand skies.

Show me a field that is filled with golden flowers
hours upon hours the smell of the grass elevates the scents
that seems to send passerbys into an overdrive of envy.
Lend me your hand so that my coarse skin is softened by yours,
the door to my heart is forever open awaiting your entrance
and the defences are fending off other fiends so don't worry about guard
because as hard as it is to trust, I've let my guards down a long time ago.
Show me that you can be the green to my gold
let us grow old but never grow up as we play like kids
let the bliss fill both our hearts as we unite together against the world.
Girl, will you find it in yourself to love me? ...as much as I love you?

Once I knew a place, a place I never truly found significant.
A vast stretch of abandonment and history - long forgotten and left to be consumed by Time himself.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly understood.
Decorated by Mother Nature with an asortment of trees and shrubs and an abundance of flowers it's only scar which betrayed it to the present was a solitary man-made structure, tattoed with the bold letters of "FALCON SECURITY" - surely an untold testimony to this place's past life.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly acknowledged.
Ocassionally it would become the temporary haven of hobbos and hermits alike. Living in mutual homelessness they sort comfort under the trees, in the confines of the hideous building or simply amongst the long, billowing grass of the place. They would build thingie-ma-jigs, what-ja-ma-call-its and thing-a-ma-bobs and sell them to the curt passerbys of their place.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly appreciated.
Surrounded by infastructure, and industry it stood out like a rose amongst the thorns and brought beauty and clarity back into the otherwise monotonous, morbid environment. It stood defiant and strong against the hungry, salivating greed of humanity - yet someday it was bound to succumb to our over-powering ambition for development.
Once I knew a place, a place that no longer exists.
In the blink of an eye that place was destroyed - uprooted and upheaveled.
Every tree, every shrub, every flower ripped out and now gone. No longer a haven but a grave yard where the dead lay scattered like fallen soldiers across the battlefield. Victims against the War of Industrialisation they fell prey to mans' heinous desires.
"Collateral damage" for a "brighter" future they say.
I say, who needs another vehicle retail outlet.
Once I knew a place, and I will never know that place again.

Sneakers, sandals, slippers, or flips
Flops and, socks, or maybe crocs.
Vans, and addida, champion too
Oh the many shoes to go through

But here is a man who knows shoes well
He has much to teach and tell
This man is named Mr. Ned
He has a shoe on his head

Mr. Ned went to school
The university of Crocs&Socks
Now all he wears is comfort shoes
Things that make him feel good and cool

So now lets hear the story
The story of Mr. Ned
The story of he got to where he is now
A story of his march ahead

Mr. Ned was a poor little boy
Grown up in the city of This Way And That
But poor little Ned had a no bed
No where to rest, but it was all his best

So Mr. Ned made a choice
He would travel abroad to study shoes
It was a good cause
To make sure no foot could lose

He went to school
The school of tick tocks
A place where he learned
Of sandals with clocks

He then moved on to Toe Boot School
Where he learned his boots
Inside and out
Making sure to know it all well through

But poor Mr. Ned didn't like any of those shoes, they made his feet hurt or uncomfortable
So he chose to move on to Sneaker Squeaker, a school of silent sound

But Ned didn't like this school one bit
It was all silent, but the squeak of the sneak, you could never be happy, making no noise, so he chose to move on
To the school of Shoe Boys

But when he arrived
The school wasn't for him
They chased him out
Throwing hard doll toys

That school was for girls
A lot of them too
The smell and the hair
Made Ned coocoo

He then decided
"Proffesional I should go"
So he chose to go
To the school of Shoe Snow

But that school was cold
Except for his feet
They were warm
Even through the sleet

So he left being freezing
And went to a beach
But all he found there
Was shoes white with bleach

Why you should ask?
Well it's really quite simple
The people love shoes
Not the yellow of sand

They want their shoes clean
Not fat, wide, or lean
So they made sure to put bleach
Where ever a shoe may land

But Mr. Ned decided that even
That wasn't for him
So he took a bus
To City Where Ever Whim

There he found a school of Crocs
Crocs with socks
Some shoes were black, others were red
Yet nothing there, was a sight of dread

The style was intricate
Fancy yet easy
A sock must be put in every croc
A sock and shoe was comfy
And made you want to walk

So Mr. Ned finally found what he loved
A sock with a Croc a style of uniqueness
A sock of DeWine, with a basic Shoe
Made it seem, like anything he could do

He marched up a hill
With a smile on his face
And a paintbrush in hand
Oh the color you could make your crocs
Yet it always washed off, with soap-a-krill

Socks with crocs were what he needed
He made sure to stand tall
And to announce his discovery
To all passerbys's he meeted

Mr. Ned now wears crocs and socks
A croc on his head
And socks on his feet
No heavy thing could ever slow him
Not even the eight of of a rock solid block

So please go ask of Mr. Ned of his journ
He has made it all around the world
But now Mr. Ned needs some rest
He lays down on his bed
Knowing He found the best.

Our bodies are poetry
from soft to smooth to hard
our bodies are poetry
freckled, shaped and scarred

Our mouths are dancers
unchoreographed, with memory
our fingers are virgins
gentle and trembling

Our eyes, are passerbys
our noses, cuddling cubs
our arms, reconnecting friends
our knees buckle with every touch

Our bodies are poetry
fitting into every groove
our bodies are poetry
from hard to soft to smooth

your father is a morbid man puddy. .. . but morbid can be good if you accept it...
..how can it be good?idunnoimnotmakinganysense............   ..  ..    .well.   i guess if youre in the right mood or in the right setting.(i pictured people. a woman mainly. with dark hair. and everyone had glasses of red wine and were laughing in a short hysterical way. and i realize these people arent representations of people ive seen act like this, theyre representations of me. i kno that feeling which makes that laugh. when hearing stories or seeing pictures or videos of people dying suddenly or getting tortured and the abuser maybe dismembering himself or herself after or committing an interesting suicide which we love to hear about and the sickening brutality and pain and fear and cringing you feel is instantly replaced with a swift too swift and sharp laughter. and these stories are real, otherwise its just silliness or boys being boys with their sick imaginations and saying it just for attention or to be funny or weird.. and we all might question ourselves slightly but either Time or Exposure to the Wicked World or most likely the validation of our indecencies with everybody else's  because its a whole room laughing lets us feel better about it each time but then more ashamed of our withering virtue until we forget. and something to understand from the remark "but either Time or Exposure to the Wicked World or most likely the validation of our indecencies" ad its there is no difference in this matter between the options 2 and 3 because we are the Wicked World. and all 3 are just things we waste. and if not laughing sharplyand loud and insane maybe some of us are at least being entertained while wailing in a definite cringe or exasperation or i dont kno but it is blended with the jovial air of the room. and people and family members laugh with and comfort and joke with eachother like a pride or a flock or any group of animals showing their young 'here.its ok.its an apple. you can touch it. it wont hurt you. its our food.' but we say "c'mere, the foundation of this world and all its agony will rip you apart, so here, learn how to find joy in it otherwise youll be too effected and will need to be discarded from normal happy people who kno their happiness comes first. because thats how we work as people and as a group. now here, have a drink. we pretend it helps and seek it out against our better judgment because we dont want to exist because weve become nothing in place of the wide range of terrible emotions we should experience when seeing the world for what it is.. ourselves most of all." and i guess that is what i pictured. the average happy people. family people. nice house and aunts and christmas people. and i kno im biased but nothing in this imagery matters. i was supposed to capture just the thoughts which i actually spoke to myself or my dog or whoever but now i have a brick-sized moving picture of my interpretation of happy family americans and other nations and just everybody.  but im no different. deep down anyway. deep down i am selfish and scared and come to the conclusion that the world is too complicated to be fixed and were too dumb to fix it reguardless and more so we are filled with souls which shift too often which we must only watch drift away moment to moment leaving us with many things but definitely a healthy amount of selfishness and, well, psychology i guess. we can figure our race and ourselves out as much as is possible and maybe even be right about some things, but knowing what drives us and feeling compelled are unrelated. too constant of a shift are we to be anything describable in correct terms and too unknown is the future to kno wut form our shift could bring us to. ..this is all absolute nonsense. i started rambling world. u gave me a mouth and i started rambling with it. i am definitely equal to a baby human or animal just shrieking into the world because, well just because its alive. so im a baby with no way of managing my existence other than making sounds because there are ears everywhere and peeing where i lay because its inside of me then it comes out because im unaware of my functions and we all send scattered unfinished nonsense to eachother and they send their own version of it back to the human and we manage to make ourselves sick and destroy our home and we're like an ant colony with no coordination.) and then something about laughter is sometimes a coverup for discomfort, so laughing from something morbid is not good. but then again it is still a laugh, and wut is the point system for laughing goodness and thats it the end jesus christ stop. *******. later. txt me wenever. have fun at ur party. i hope the weathers nice up north and not too cold cuz i kno u hate the cold. and im probably a boring **** saying cheezy things trying to act natural and nice and caring but i have my own agenda and am too unnaware to kno that and therefore will never be able to change for the better because i am a stupid human who thinks they have something figured out about every moment of every day but cant really do anything. cant see myself how others see me and cant feel the right way ong enough to accept it and constantly contradicting my conceptual and moral and spiritual universe and will never realize that 99.9 percent of the time my thoughts are of things like rocks and puffy things and shooting myself in the head and im hungry and **** that ***** and... im such a loser. if i dont start acting and living like a straight shooter my only outcome down the road will be lonelyness, heartbreak. regret. shame. and many other bad things where everything i love is either ded or has abandoned me because i am now a man and there is no such thing as abandoning a man but i am alone and want to die and i do. i **** myself and im ded. and there is no heaven and i have no soul and no one knows im ded and the passerbys and police officers and coroners who kno that im ded dont kno my name. so everyone i ever loved who havent loved me for years will die years down the road with families who love them and i will never cross their minds again. and i will deserve it. and i will pray for satan to devour my flesh and feel a demon inhabit my body along with my terror.

THE ADVENURES OF GEORGE BURNINGTOM




YOU SEE IN THE DARK CORNERS OF A COUNTRY TOWN NAMED DUBBO, IN NEW SOUTH WALES

LIVED A GANG OF 13 YEAR OLD BOYS, WHO WERE ADRENALINE JUNKIES, YOU SEE TAKING RISKS

WERE THE MAIN PARTS OF THEIR LIFE, ONE OF THE BOYS GEORGE BURNINGTOM, WHO LIVED IN

A REALLY RICH HOUSE, IN THE RICH CORNER OF DUBBO, HATED HIS FAMILY SO MUCH, THESE

MATES OF HIS WERE MUCH BETTER, YA SEE, THE RING LEADER OF THE GANG WHO WAS HARRY SMITH

WHO WAS IN A VERY POOR FAMILY, YOU SEE HIS FATHER WORKED AS A CLEANER AT DUBBO ZOO

AND HARRY, HAD ALL THESE GET RICH SCHEMES, WHICH INVOLVED TAKING HEAPS  OF BREATHTAKING RISKS,

ONE THING THE BOYS WILL DO IS HEAD TO THE SKATE PARK TO RIDE UP ONE WALL AND OCCASSIONALLY WOULD SKATE DOWN

THE STAIRS, SOMETIMES SCARING THE OLD PEOPLE AS THEY PASSED BY THE STAIRS, GEORGE, WHO WAS INTO

SOAKING IN A BIT OF ADRENALINE, BUT JUMPING HIS SKATEBOARD, FROM THE FOOTPATH TO THE MIDDLE ISLAND

IN THE SWAMPY WATERS, MIND YOU, GEORGE FELL IN A FEW TIMES, AS HE TRIED THIS, AND SKINNED HIS LEGS

WHICH MADE GEORGE WANNA CRY, BUT HE WAS THINKING, BOYS DON’T CRY, BOYS DON’T CRY, AND THEN THE

OTHER KIDS RAN UP TO HIM AND SAID, YOU LOOK VERY HURT, BUT YOU ARE NOT A DISGRACE TO OUR GANG, IN FACT

YOUR PRETTY COOL.

THE BOYS WENT BACK TO THE SKATE PARK, AND DID A FEW TRICKS AND JUMPED UP ON THEIR BOARD A FEW TIMES

AND GEORGE FELL, HEAD OVER TURKEY, BUT LANDED ON HIS FEET, AND THEN THE BOYS SAW A SEMI TRAILER, AND GEORGE

SAID, LET’S RACE THISB TRUCK, AND THE OTHER BOYS SAID WE COULD DIE, IT’LL BE A TAD RISKY, AND GEORGE, OUR LIVES ARE

RISKY, YOU COULD SAY WE HAVE A RISKY LIFE, AND AFTER SAYING THAT, THE BOYS FOUGHT THEIR DELLUSIONAL THOUGHTS OF DANGER

AND RACED THIS TRUCK, AND THEY WERE ENJOYING RACING THE TRUCK, THE TRUCK DRIVER LOOKED THROUGH HIS WINDSHIELD

AND SAID, THESE KIDS ARE TOO CLOSE, AND THEN SAID, I HAVE TO TAKE AN EMERGENCY STOP, TO LET THESE KIDS PAST, SO HE DID

AND FOUND OUT WHAT THE KIDS WERE DOING SAYING, YOU KIDS DON’T UNDERSTAND THE ROAD RULES, AND THEN YELLED OUT

YEAH GO, YEAH GO, LIKE THE COWARDS THAT YOU ARE, AND THE KIDS RODE BACK, AND SAW THE DRAINS AND HARRY SAID LET’S RIDE

IN THESE DRAINS, AQND THEY WERE ENJOYING PLAYING IN THESE DRAINS, AND THEN THE PASSER BY, CAME UP AND SAID, LISTEN YOU KIDS

THESE DRAINS ARE VERY DANGEROUS, GEORGE SAID, WE ARE RISK TAKERS AND ADRENALINE JUNKIES SO TO SPEAK, AND THE MAN SAID

WHY DON’T YOU BOYS  GO ON HELICOPTER RIDES LIKE THE OTHER KIDS OF DUBBO, LIKE MY SON AND THEN GEORGE SAID, YEAH YOUR SON

WHO IS THE BIGGEST GEEK OF THIS COUNTRY TOWN, WHO CAN’T STAND ADRENALINE, IF HIS LIFE DEPENDED ON IT.

THEN AFTER THE MAN LEFT, THE GANG KEPT PLAYING IN THE DRAINS AND DESPITE ALL THE ***** LOOKS  THE PASSERBYS HAVE BEEN GIVING TO THEM

THE BOYS STILL PLAYED IN THE DRAINS WITH THEIR BOARDS, AND THEN AFTER THE BOYS WERE SICK OF THE DRAINS, THEY RODE THEIR SKATEBOARDS

OVER TO THE CORNER STORE, SO THEY CAN PLAY THE PINBALL MACHINE, BUT THE BIG BULLY MARKO BRIDGETOWN WAS THERE, AND THE ONLY WAY

TO HAVE A TURN ON THE PINBALL MACHINE, THE KIDS HAD TO BUY THE BULLY SOME GRUB, LIKE FISH AND CHIPS OR SUMMIT, BUT GEORGE SAID

WE HAVE BEEN TAKING RISKS ALL DAY, HOW ABOUT WE TAKE ANOTHER RISK AND STAND UP TO THIS BULLY, BUT THE OTHER KIDS INCLUDING HARRY SAID

THIS DUDE IS GOING TO BE ANGRY WITH US, BUT GEORGE SAID NO, WE DON’T HAVE TO BUY THIS BLOKE A MEAL, AND THEN SAID, I AM NOT GETTING BULLIED

BY SOME LOSER ON THE STREET, AND THEN GEORGE TOOK A RISK, BY KARATE KICKING THE BULLY, AND MIND YOU, GEORGE REALLY PUT THE BULLY IN HIS PLACE,

MIND YOU HE GOT A BIT TATTERED, BUT THIS WAS A RISK GEORGE IS WILLING TO TAKE, YOU SEE NOBODY IS MAKING FUN OF GEORGE BURNINGTOM AND GETS AWAY WITH IT.

DESPITE ALL THE KIDS THINKING IT WAS A RISK, THEY ADMIRED GEORGE’S BRAVERY, AND RODE THEIR SKATE BOARDS DOWN THE ROAD OF DUBBO, AND AFTER A

ADRENALINE DAY OF TAKING RISKS, EACH KID WENT HOME, TO WATCH A BIT OF TELEVISION AND THEN GO TO BED, AND TOMORROW, WELL, ARE THERE MORE RISKS

TOMORROW, I DON’T KNOW, TODAY WAS A RISKY PART OF THEIR LIFE.

A luscious milk maid-
winding down to the lake
A wicked monkey clown-
swinging from trees and looking down
her strong legs carry cheap shoes over cobbled roads
her wide hips sway in dirtied rags patterns unknown
the monkey clown cackles and spies-
soft peach fuzz in between her thighs
Knuckles crack through all sweet pines
And Mr. Monkey clown drops soft and eases sighs
Milk Maid turns and stands with the earth
And ripples rip Mr. Monkey into dirt
A Half smile half wink crinckles Milky's eyes
and her hand slips down and rests on her right thigh
Like a sparrow kills a spider Mr. Monkey dies
No tears are shed for sinister spies
And Milky Maid has never before cried
Passerbys don't slow their strides
And Mr. Monkeys not in their eyes
And Milky Maid she's fetching heads
And soft peach fuzz it fills their beds

My sister is a dreamcatcher dancing in the wind. Following every gust of excitment, every breath of desire; she collects passerbys dreams and leaves sunlight in her wake.

Twisted times we live in, it is sad really;
people aspire to be just alike models
some get to live the dream and others
fall in gravestones of eating disorders.
New health crazes don't burn the hunger,
they set alight igniting the soul till nothing left
but broken bones, ashes scattered
across seas as pink as blood.
I watch the passerbys sip on poisons
contained in a bottle with promises
that this will bring in the gold,
bring in the women, bring in the fame,
but never discerning the devil
is on his stride, taking his jog just as
passerbys do. It is sad really,
to watch bones and dressed up animate
corpses walk across a stage filled with
estranged eyes. It is sad really,
so I try to spread my happiness as ashes in the wind and tell them they look good.
I don't know if I'm feeding their death
or savouring on their happiness, but
they grin back with gratitude and I
feel none the less grateful. Have I become their poison? I watch with careful eyes, and tell another;
you don't have to change the way you look,
but my words fall on deaf ears as they say, it's my choice.
Do I give them a path to walk,
or do I choose their path?
Who am I to dictate what they should do?
So I sit idle by in a little corner,
drinking my coffee, reading my book and
watching people exsanguinate themselves.
I sip on coffee and pass out happiness
where I can, and where I may not,
I sit idle by drinking coffee, reading books and watching people die.

Smooth Canvas,
So deceitful so eerily beautiful.
I am what I seem,
nothing more and nothing less.

But what do I see when I stand
in front of that faithful mirror?
Do I see a featureless face,
or do I notice a true being?

The mannequin that I am,
sees a soul in her reflection.
Passerbys see only my offwhite motionless body.
But inside I know what I am.

The bare weight of wind
kept us alive that black night
kids against the world

suited for space
we drove that rusty honda
and made faces at the passerbys

their lines intersecting
like moonbeams
across the endless stretch

Your angle suits you now
trajectory too
mechanically fit for fun

I'm the one
in apple red
dancing your garden to shreds

The wind and the sweetness
in the mix of this somewhat chilly day
I ordered an ice cream waffle; waiting
on my order while waiting on a gaining thought

I’ve gained peace, that which I thought impossible
Watching the passerbys, with a full mouth of ice cream
And behind it’s stain, was a genuine smile

In amongst the chaos of the random wind,
the jumping cheers of children on a jumping castle
The happy scary clown with white on his face
The flies trying to share in on my dessert,
and the eyes of those who had seen me alone

—I wasn’t alone;

Quite frankly I was far from feeling alone,
and feeling any kind of low

As with the tingling chills down my spine
of this really filling meal
It was to me, a moment so real;
I wouldn’t dare pinch myself to see if I was dreaming

And even if it were a dream,
twas a sweet one indeed
As all I needed was:
spoiling myself with something sweet indeed

It all began as the shotglass took my hand,
Leading me into the ***** waltz that had become so necessary for me to survive the evening.
We bought ***** for each other, me and these people I end up drinking with.
There was that girl who told me she liked loneliness, but forgot those claims eight hours later.
And the guy in my apartment building who only comes over when he hears the word “she”.
But tonight I am happy with them, because tonight I am blind.

Me and these humans, we danced and we shrieked and we felt like gods,
And between drowning sessions, we found our tongues down strangers’ throats;
They explain that they were “so wasted” (and I wordlessly agree that yes, we certainly are.)
Laughter and a false forgiveness follow their excuse.

We catapulted ice cubes into Britney’s mouth, and I sat there, quietly watching them melt,
The cold water trickling past the white veneer of her teeth and kicking in the cavities.
Her strawberry-flavored lips quivered against both the liquid’s biting chill, and the iciness of my gaze.
Her giggles slowed to a silence as I stared at the skin beneath her nose, raw from constant waxing.
And as I pondered why I was sitting there, the group of uncertain eyes all looked at me, disappointed in my disconnection.
“Shots for Scott! Shots for Scott!” they chanted. I sighed, accepted, and stopped all that seeing once again.

Oh these people, I hate them but I love them because they are easy to use as friends,
And, like mannequins playing with dolls, we take each other out of the toy chest on the whim.

We flocked from our secondhand nest, and flew up the backroom stairs.
Exploding at the top of the discotheque in a fervor, we lied at the top of our lungs:
“This is the best night ever!”, “I don’t know where I am!”, “I am happy!”.
I vomited between the screaming and the listening.

After ten or so of these claims, they were just shrieking swears at passerbys.
There was too much bile and not enough bliss here,
So I stood up on the ledge, and started to tango by my lonesome.
They laughed at the insanity of it all, and called me “crazy” and “free-spirited”.
Dean tried to scramble up too, and make an equal spectacle, but I didn’t see his climb (I’m blind, remember?), and I slipped on his hand.

And as though my strings were cut, my appendages weakly fluttered as I fell.
I looked up to gaping faces, covered mouths, but no outstretched arms.

It was then that I wrote my philosophy of life, but before I could write it down proper, my vertebras folded back as my frame flattened against the pavement.
It’s a shame I couldn’t, because when I opened my mouth to exclaim it with the air left in my punctured lungs,
All that I could hear was the bass of the club’s dance music, and the sound of parking cars.

He loves her now.
Those words rattle over and over through my bones
And in between my very synapses
Like loose screws and the wavering chords in a cloudless blue sky

I can see your hands still gliding
Like death over the ivory tusks of a piano
Heaven raining down in small bits of music onto your head
And spilling like glass onto the floor around you

My heart is pooling like liquid silver at the soles of your soul
And I can feel my brain turning to mush because you look at me
With those cloudless blue eyes
The chords wavering in them, too

He loves her now
The four words are penetrating my very skin
Boring holes into the withering glances of passerbys
As they hustle on their way like flecks of trash on the wind
Like a spool of thread in a gust of air

I didn't think that it would end this way
But then again who doesn't
It always ends in the falling of snow like quiet ghosts around you
Silent as death itself

It always ends in the wind rushing through your head
In one ear and out the other
Shaking your mind until nothing makes sense anymore
And *we were the only thing that made sense

As cliche as that sounds the vague impression of your body pressed in mine
Was the only clue that you might have loved me with half your heart
And all of your head
Instead of just half of both or all of one

He loves her now
I want that to be okay for now
The affection for attention so overpowering that it turns into unadulterated
******* love
Pure wisps of breath on a hushed breast and heaving lungs

So turn your lips to her ecstatic face and kiss that sunlight from her gleaming mouth
She has the world in the palm of her hand because you are her world
And she might be your universe but something so vast can't be looked at
Through a beating heart

He loves her now
That may not be me but by God it's a somebody with an ocean in their voice
That quivers whenever they speak
And seagulls flying in their hands as they touch your face
With a foam breath that smells like freedom and hope

She's not darkness
She's not a black hole that brings in all light but doesn't ever give it away

She's the cloudless blue sky that you look up at and take pictures of
Listening to those steady chords that play like the world is just beginning

He loves her now

And that's okay

I hung plum curtains in a circle
To hide from the world.
Sometimes I hear passerbys
Tapping on the glass
Wondering if there’s anybody in there;
A cockroach trapped in a glass jar.
I pretend there’s not.
I sit perfectly still in the middle
And let them tap away,
Knowing that I’ll never tempt to
Peak behind the curtains,
Afraid that what’s tapping
Isn’t human at all,
But my paranoia
With malicious intent.

That thin line is where
I want to be
Cut off between us two.
No matter how much we
change, this line will
always be.
Between motorized vehicles
the patter of shoes, old & new.
Spaced out between concrete plateaus and
painted highway lines.
The onlookers & passerbys
caught in the wind without second glance,
that thin line where I want to be
Can only be described as
Beside you.
Between the trees, beside the small lakes & birds
of your imagination,
That thin line where I end & you begin.
Our invisible bridge where my voice
tickles your ear & is miles long
That thin line that grasps your hand & mind.
No matter how much we change
this line will always be
& this line where we always meet

I walk alleys and avenues of broken roads.
Black tops eroded from years of punishing
Rainfall, passerbys and time.

After a hard rain, shallow mirrors open up,
Revealing an unyielding world on its head.

It seems, as I walk amidst the distinguished,
Cracks, chips and pebbles that this moment,
Both real and a memory is everlasting.

Overcast, both dismal and hopeful, I read
Between the skylines of the upsidedown.

I breath in this parallel, I write it all down,
A collection of neverhaves.

A creation that is mine for the making, or
For the taking, should I wish.

the moon lit my way
as I took a walk
it was two in the morning
my ears cold

the moon lit my way
as I laid down on the sidewalk
and sang
looking up at the glowing clouds

the moon lit my way
as I traced the streetlights
down the road
accompanying me all along

the moon lit my way
as I let my eyes wander
following the ripples in the sky
and the moon becoming two

the moon lit my way
as I stood up
startling a few passerbys
as I brushed myself off

the moon lit my way
as I began again
taking steps
to lay down again

the moon lit my way
as I lost my mind
to only breathing
and the steady feel of the ground

the moon lit my way
for I had no direction home
but still I belonged

the moon lit my way
as I walked on.

I've been
reminscing
about you
and the nailpolish
you used to choose to colour
your toes
it shows
that i'am worn out
like a dark cloud
hanging on me
Have you heard the news
rockets on their way
to bomb em out of their shoes
i drink some more
to make it go away
thinking about you
and why you wouldnt stay
there are noises
just voices of peoples
that are passerbys
my eyes get heavy
from the things i hold inside
i smile for a while
to keep myself alive
while my mind is rambeling
i think my bones are trembeling
from the thought of you
i let my eyes travel
through the faces and their meaning
everyone is shining and gleaming
nights are what you make of them
here i am
thinking about you
thinking about you
Here i am
with my mind rambeling
while sitting like a rock
till the clock
runs out of numbers
and i'll fall again
for the late night slumber

I tend to fall for wasted dreams.
Strangers on street corners,
passerbys too good for me.
I would like to believe,
that one day I'll be,
loved by soft eyes
and kissed with honesty.

The smell of sewer wafts through the air
Giving a beautiful view
An unbearable stench
Smoke fills in the spaces between peoples faces
The crowd filling in every space in the street
Leaving little room to walk
Just to watch as you slowly shuffle along
Store windows filled with souvenirs
The kind people bring back for friends they care little about
I watched as wooden dolls and straw hats are hustled to passerbys
Then something catches my eye
Tea
Only you know why

Simply seeking solace in bouncing thoughts
Feeling warmth in that cold rock
Characterizing an uncharacteristic dribble
Watching it flow with no discourse
Or even disguising a movement to share
A leaf finds its mark now one wagers thought
Dogs bark rattles empty can in alleyway
Moonlight disects that churning in passerbys charts
While blowing winds shift around reason
Heavy hearts languish at the next whistle stop
Many will board to simply stare back
At others who dare when not to park

When I’m dead like here and now.
Like before and present, as I’ll always be portrayed
wound within the fabric of my birth.
I'll stammer through the phantom beastly of society,
as I always have I will phase
beneath the day's skin,
flower and splatter
amongst the phantom passerbys
and click my blooming tongue
behind your blind ears.
And chant one lasting whisper
against the back bristles of your shivering neck,
my breath pluming against
and within your porous skin.
One lasting, one altering statement or phrase or acknowledgement
I give shackled in the chains of a gift wrapped present
within the corridors of your perking ears
and there to be unpacked.
You as every other soul will misplace my memory,
will forget as a ghost dissipates against the breeze.
I was never anchored here,
indistinguishly as the phantom I am composed of
I may sputter the words farewell,
farewell only to be met with farewell and forget.
Farewell as my pattered steps flutter within the distance,
dead as here and now,
dead as my unlasting memory.
I exist as but a farewell.

The door is open. 
Leave it open. 
This door is shut. Do not open it. Leave it shut. 

Not this one, but the next one. The next right turn. 
Make the next right turn. 

Instructions not packaged. How to care for this new incomplete stranger. 

Monarch butterfly. Teardrop firefly. Three tin passerbys. 

The center for new age trauma victims. 

Lifting skirts. 

No I used to lift skirts. 

Bring me down. 

Triumph. 

The softness of her antlers leaves me confused and shaking. 

Bone and then praise. 

Supper and ritualized masculinity. 

A spot on the wall, no more spit on my face. 

Soon my blood vessels will burst and my jowls will sag. 

The paragraph starting here. But I am here. And back again. 

To say whoever finds him here. 
Anything medical related. 
And it is so sad. 

Am I dodging the blows?
Or moving swiftly between?

She gives praise to the glasses. And the rash grows, drugging with nothing sacred. 

All of this son could have been avoided. 

Oh, a horn in the distance. It is too late. 

Come now ye polished hoods of chrome. Parade along the city's skirt. 

Erosion, under humanity's weight stands strong. 

A breakbeat. Appearance of stereo but we are just in mono.

Often we tell children not to speak to strangers
We hold that accountable in our mature lives
Passing the passerbys with a faint hello
Subtle smiles in coffeeshops
Where no one dares to go
Weaving the wonderful world wide web
Lush with poets and muses, and music too
Likes on statuses a passive aggressive sup'
Friends among friends, can see you as well
So we like our things, bemused in silence
A comment left, do you see me now?
A fondness grows through likes and things
Strangers or friends? As it may seem
So through a message a nightlong chat
Weve told some secrets, stored in our hearts
For when strangers come together
On likeness, life, hearbreak, and self
We are strangers no longer, stuck on a shelf
And so i urge you, to hear my plea
Think of these things when you go out to eat
A chance hello, how are you? we begrudgingly speak
May be the best for us... even you or me.
Though stranger it seems we have some common ground
No longer a stranger, but a friend now.

Not a single sharp sound
of high heels on the wet
crossroads
Just the dark
and nothing more

The passion that evaporates
from the city streets
sticks on the accidental passerbys
The asphalt holds secrets
More than this night
More than this dark

Silence,
Dead,barren silence
A grave,ominous silence
Inbetween these walls
beauty becomes as death
Inbetween these walls
pain plays distant music
that slowly lures all the gods of chaos
to lay down on these beds
In a moment
all turns into a weary cry
of a cut throat
A fare-well to the soul that
has just begun to travel

The asphalt holds secrets
This sticky asphalt hold secrets
More than the night
More than this dark

Tell me
How much would you pay
for a single little
rhapsody
placed in your heart
How much would you sacrifice
for the lips that would
waken from the marble stupor
from time to time
Would you sell yourself

Awake
There's silence screaming
outside
A dead,barren silence
Grave,ominous silence

Do not destroy the cult of chaos
that I've bought from the
dead wanderer
From the dead demon outside
my threshold

I don't need to hear
the sound of the raging
sea waves
to know that the sea is close
I carry the sea in my eyes,
but my sea is a slave of this dark
Now it rests under my eye-lids

Bridges
Across my sealed windows
I see bridges of no significance
There is nowhere to go
There is nothing to cross

The asphalt holds secrets
More than the night
More than this dark  
The passion that evaporates
from the city streets
sticks on the accidental passrebys

Inbetween these walls
there's the cry of an unborn child
A white little angel
that carries a message-
we're not forgotten
It lives and dies in a moment

And there's silence again
A dead,barren silence
A grave,omnious silence
Here beauty becomes what death is
Here pain plays silent music

We lay naked on these beds
For a moment,
there shines a line in your eyes
that merges the two distant horizons
And I know that you feel
that in that thin line
There's so much life and destiny
So much of your life
For a moment
And then there's the dark again
And theer's the silence again

Not a single sound of heels on the
wet crossroads
Tell me
How much would you pay for me
to end this charmed circle
in which we are the centre
the only motion
What would you sacrifice
for ten pale fingers
that would dance vividly  upon you
From time to time
Would you sell yourself

We lay naked on these beds
But I do not feel you next to me
There's just this absent scent
as gentle as the Sahara snow
And there's silence screaming
from the outside
A dead,barren silence
A grave,ominous silence

I'm starting to think Saturday's are supposed to be late mornings because breakfast lasts longer that way. Leaving around 4 to catch a settled sun. Hundreds of merchants in the park as the live music goes from the close bluegrass bop to the distant rock drums. Saturday's have become ears filled with Spanish noises you've learned to ignore because the pain of dancing still in your toes from your night of bachata speak louder. Walking to the ferria as the sun settles and since you're alone you finally get to listen and watch without being interrupted bites of alfajores sweeter with the solitude. Finding your love in each couples palms as they hold hands, remembering how much you miss your boyfriend as you walk in the direction of the sun. So settled and strong it looks as if it's rising like your hips used to do as you felt loved. Steps feel lighter and your shirt blows with the wind and for once you start to think this is what You always wanted out of this. Finding your face in the rips of a passerbys jeans, feeling your muscles as you wonder where the stairs lead to. Today you had time. Watching backflips that demanded applause and handcrafts that merchants hope you'll take off their hands. All the while it's only 6 o clock on a Saturday and you feel as if the day won't be as perfect as it is right then. Feeling like the first kiss on the Friday night, you waited and it finally came. Saturdaze.