Proletariat
Author: Sajal Ahmed
Type: Poetry
Format: PDF
Size: 2.43mb
Download Proletariat. PDF: https://www.mediafire.com/file/lokwkn53bm4sz52/Proletariat+uploading+copy.pdf
Preamble
I have some of my poems in the book. Thinking about poems are my own. I love to decorate the world like myself.
With your thoughts or imagination, the world of my own thoughts or imagination may not be the same.
I am not worried about whether your thoughts or philosophy are mixed with my thoughts or philosophy, because I am happy that 'at least I have a thought area of ​​my own. And I can paint my fantasies with my own paint! '
Last: Readers should read, think, and critique. That's my glamor.






Proletariat
Sajal Ahmed


Maxim E Publication
Published Date: 2 Dec 2018
Allright Reserved ©Sajal Ahmed

Prehistoric name
My father was old-fashioned. He named me Abu Bakr. The name was like poison to me. As an old woman,  The name has been found out from the bottom of the pinnacle. My father was old-fashioned. His thoughts are outdated.
I grow up and change the name; Instead of an old-fashioned name.
  I do not know if my father was suffering, But he never called me anymore.

Poets Never Die
If I am a woman poet
My poetry, there was no shortage of readers.
The comment room would have been filled, indigenous.
I'm sorry
Meanwhile, my poetry reader came out clean air, and a tree.
Then they said to me, write down the death;
And that's suicide.
Now I said; Every man and animal will one day taste death.
Poets are getting the news of death very long ago
O great winds and trees!
The trees and the wind laugh at me and say, 'But the poets never taste the death!'

Make a revolution
Against the bourgeoisie
And just a revolution
my mother
Did not eat rice
Today is three days
my mother
Did not get rice
Sweat took her clothes
There was no money tied
No grocers left him
Nobody paid for his hard work
**** rice
Gourd pulp
Across the nun
Eutlet potatoes
No one bought it.
No one took the news,
Whether my mother ate or not
And just have to make a revolution.
To give rice to my mother,
And just a revolution.
Sixteen million people's resources
Swallowing, the upper class
Today will be divided, swallowed resources.
Maybe give rice
Either head
Sons of *****, chewed your head today!


Proletariat
1.
I will buy a spectacles to buy my father, I heard from the store, the full costume spectacles stolen! There will be no police station for anyone who steals the galley. There will be no press conference, no meeting, no procession will be held. No status, event or group will be opened on Facebook in protest. No action will be taken from the government to thieves.
2.
There are two types of theft in the world!
Proper stolen
Illegal stolen
Proper stolen proletariat and his property in the Elite House. Elite classmates pay the remaining stolen money. Elite people steal the cheap glasses from all markets and hopefully for more profit.
I think of my father going to buy glasses. Parents can not read the old specs due to lost!
3.
My dad
Want to see the daily political page! Then he became an intellectual and taught me how to survive in the present political field. How to make a foul goal. Father is not able to give me anything! As the father's glasses lost.
4.
I was excited to see my politician-savvy intellectual old father, so I went out to buy a spectacles. I came to the shop to see my father's spectacles stolen from the shop! The elites have stolen my dad's spectacles.
Now I want to eat all the elite money, carts and properties, all chew!


Suddenly!
Suddenly! Six people in front of you are wearing black clothes!
And they are threatening to shoot your father;
Not six of them, you can not understand that they are just a few! Father's hands are binding!
Tie the legs, and tape the face!
They  cheating on a booing, tapping the tape fills the vague word.
Suddenly!
And after hearing his shack, someone tied black in the face and hit with the gun button hit him! Father's hand tied. His legs tied. And tape in the mouth.
Now the father is going down!
Dad does not know
His eyes are watering and his blood is bleeding!
Dad is now deliberately bidding And blood in the floor.

Suddenly!
Looking at the floor, your brother and mother's bodies are there after the floor.
They forgot to call people screaming.
As a mistake, the holes along the mother's forehead and brother's chest.
Now your eyes are water! But you can not cry!
The body of the brother is still bouncing, the tongue is out,
fresh blood in the floor!
You will not be pampered by the fact that this incident will be headlined in different newspapers tomorrow.
Because all the news is not spunky. Nobody wants to be like this headline.
You now have the idea of ​​saving yourself.
Suddenly you thought, what is your enmity with them?
You do not know so far You just know your father has a property. And there has been a conflict between Mayor Osman Sahab. Osman has called you and helped you.
Osman is a good man He is the winner of victory
You yourself are his people. You're a huge fan of him. His speech Motivational.
Now.    
You think, such a good man like Osman can be found only in heaven; Or as a pity on the story page.
This is not possible by him. Proceed in front of the story.

Suddenly!
You see no one around;
And there is only one chance in your hand
Think about what to do now. There is no time.
There is nothing to do or to die!
A pistol in front of you, you can survive if you want to use it. But if you shoot a gun and shoot him, then he will shoot his father right now! What do you think of racing to run!
Yes! Alvida! Survive. Yes, live life!

Suddenly!
'Father' goin in the shape! Squeeze the fad Buiyao..... Buiyao... Buiyao.......
Dad! They killed your dad!
Now? Now you will find them!
So run......... yes! Run it.........
A bridge in front
No
Six people wearing black clothes
Not more
Osman's black dress
The six of them are behind him
Dad is on the floor
Mother is dead afterwards
The brothers are screaming
Tape in the mouth of your father
Brother's body on the floor
Gun in your hand
You are in your house
You are running on the bridge!

Suddenly!
You think Osman is in front of you
Do not you in his house
Perhaps running to run,
You got hit in his car
He brought you to his house.
He asks you repeatedly,
'What is the event?'
You think all the imagination still
You are dreaming of sleeping at night.
Osman Sahib silence.
You're also silent You're over again. It's a dream After a while again came back.
Osman Sahab laughing in front of you.
It's a dream
It's not a dream.
Osman Sahib laughing. You are not in his house, in dark quotes. Ha ha ha Osman Sahab will laugh more!
I can not write anymore. Because once people die, there is no history!
I can only highlight, Osman's smiling success.
Osman sahab busses laugh......

If you want to fly then fly
If you want to fly then fly to the sky
If you want to fly then your fan will grow.


Liar Lover
O liar lover!
Your biggest lies "I love you babe, more than me and my father-mother."
I remember your words
And every falsehood will be judged one day!
That day I opened my pants zipper:
I'll **** your ***** face!
"What is insult?"
I'll teach you.
******* **** girl
No one will look at you;
Nobody will show sympathy;
You will cry,
Nobody can hold your hand,
I'll kick you
In your face and chest
I will kick your stomach!
More,
I will tattoo your whole body
"You are a liar! You are a scam! You're a *****! You're a street nerd dog!"
***** now go to hell....


First Love Makin
I am talking about the first day to throw you away.
The day you hit me;
My bird took refuge in your secret house.
Both of us were in the trunk:
of the cemestery;
Both are very happy.
Then you were ******* my lips
Like an orange cell,
I think it would eat.
I kissed your whole body. Your ******,
was very hard
I touched your *******.
Tallow two *****.
You ****** eyes and bitten won lips
and said, "Ah!"
Then the became one two bodies.
The two souls joined together in the same spirit.
I still remember that day.


Prayer
More than once I tried
My neck is not lowered!
There is a lot to leave outside the suburbs
I do not feel good..
Where did the god worshiped,
where did God go?
Why do not you see me?
What a weird mood
Worshiped on the Lord's footsteps
Every evening and every morning,
My Lord's worship is no more
Do not mind!
I lost;
This is an unbearable pain!
Why do not you see me?

You Never seen his heart
O lovers of earth
You Never seen his heart,
Have you ever seen the heart
of your poor boyfriend?
How much burns?
How much of his humility, his survival,
How much does he think of himself as small?
What are you looking at
The young man's cry alone at night?
You look at the boyfriend
Sometimes the lover's heart?
How to fight with a real world;
Ever wondered why a sea water would be donated;
Why mix
The body in the grave
After so many ways have passed
A fish;
Decide to remain lonely.
pages breaks out of the book,
after a long sleeveless ride
One crow flies alone
The money is blown
after the ATM booth;
This world
Here it is
It's weird!
Sick and sick
You love it so much that it hurts you away;
Thinking you will be sick
By separating yourself from you.
You think of him as selfish
Think about your own interests
The boy left you today.
But
Forget you repeatedly;
That is not love and sometimes selfish;
Forget you repeatedly
If selfish;
But why do not you look at another woman thinking you will suffer?
You never asked yourself;
Why the boy in the face of is not so much smile today
Does not laugh a little?
Why do you want to move away?
Maybe the rest of the time you are sick with him
Thinking of yourself in your place, why he left yourself alone.
Leave you out and say in his heart;
"In the public way
In the crowd of seven hundred millions of people
Your walk is still a lot of way to your walk,
Just started;
There is no limit on this path
There are many bowlers here
Many goons;
A huge screen.
Large screen flashes unfinished
The screen is torn off
Start walking
You have to walk......
When you learn to recognize "what is man?"
When you start to realize how difficult the reality is
Again and again called my name will go to Dargah
Kedgeree will give me my name
But I can not get back again
How difficult can the human heart be
As if tough rock stone
Did not understand today?
You did it
But why often in his own soft heart
Do you suffer so much?
Why are you so skeptical to bite yourself?
How terrible it is to get rid of people
You can not learn today?
You have learned
Why then why
Why then
Can not you be strong? ''
On different issues
After the various wounds were created
And decided
Own unbeatable
Painter Onle
Do not let you burn
Your efforts to be happy for you.
You still did not see the reality;
How did you cry after crying?
Last night did not sleepy;
Could not sleepy
He cried very silently.
He never wanted to cry you;
And why did you cry?
Have you ever thought about that?
There comes a time
People sacrifice their favorite things
Just as Ibrahim gave his beloved son a sacrifice.
The world is underground
So here is the emotional crowd
The reality comes back often
There are many reasons for sacrificing their favorite things.


Am I Wrong?
I repeatedly say to the heart, "I am wrong, I am wrong!" The heart repeatedly tells me, "You do not, you are wrong! ''

Will not be seen
Suddenly we stopped at the last page;
Wherever the cloud stops on the mountain!
There is a frost on the fridge,
The rain rises every day in the morning and shook silently.
Just like a broomstick,
Where all the fish stops are waterless pond;
I'll stand there every morning alone,
I know that all will come, only you will not be seen....


Slave of the Devil
If the star goes away;
The devil is scared
Running rushing,
His servants in this town
Reigns
An Eye of Illuminati
The trembling shivering in winter
And singing different songs;
A piece of blanket is very cold
Hey poor party
To stay comfortable
Let's move to Satan's team.


I was a broken glass
I was a glass, and broke in a variety of ways.
Blood in broken glass it's severed heart.....


Going to die now
I'm going to die now
The soul is going down;
The boat floats on the Spirit,
Everything is going away from the body;
And I, I will not come back!

Mudane Football
After kicking everyone else, I guess, I'm a Mundane football!


Block To Making dreams
People can not sleep after crying, If he can not sleep, he can not make dream


The Train
The train that stopped at midway; That's death


God and My Dad
I never asked for anything from God, and God never gave me anything like my father. The difference between my father and God is that, my father was stunned by the birth of me. And God did not cease to create the punishment in the Hereafter will be rewarded!


My blocked Happiness
I feel painful Hundreds of millions of illnesses die of happiness


My syllabus
My syllabus has been burnt;
Do not read any bad love poem story book
No need spectacles available;
I do not fear the extra cost;
My syllabus is burnt-
Broke spectacles.

You are in Whirl of the earth
When you are in the whirl of the earth, when you look at the whole world, then you see the dull! Look at the left, there is no one next to you. Look at the left, or there is no one there. The God above is not with you. The parents of the house, they do not even understand you. Therefore, you do not have to stand up properly. now? Yes, your time of death is right now. But you know, you can not die. Because death does not want you!

I'm Afraid
When I look at the pocket, I'm afraid to look at you. After that, when I looked at the pocket last time, my own janaza taught myself.


Worst offender
The worst offender in the world itself seems to be, when my dear man is crying for my own sake!

I am
I only swallow the grief of beloved people. One day, the troubles that I have not digested, will answer everything.


****** laws
This is the world of law;
Here people, animals, insects and insects, and roads all obey the law.
All the leaders of the world, all the poets of the world, have enacted the law.
You are walking; You have to obey the law.
Eating; Laws must be followed.
You are enjoying marijuana;
You will be enacted, they will take you away and the police will beat you; You must be in jail!
You do not have freedom of speech; Your words and laws have been imposed! You will leave the excretion; It is also under the law.
Therefore, you can be a sea or wave; There is no law, no matter where you are,
you can be happy wherever you are.
After whipping you will be able to float which is happy.
So you become sea or waves.


Prayer
More than once I tried
My neck is not lowered!
There is a lot to leave outside the suburbs
I do not feel good..
Where did the god worshiped,
where did God go?
Why do not you see me?
What a weird mood
Worshiped on the Lord's footsteps
Every evening and every morning,
My Lord's worship is no more
Do not mind!
I lost;
This is an unbearable pain!
Why do not you see me?

I'm Innocent
What is my crime?
Why do that?
What is the blame?
Do you leave me?
I'm innocent
I'm so so
I'm innocent
I'm not at fault!
I love you
So always say true
I'm so scared
About our relationship
If it breaks
My death is bound!
I do not want
To die
Leave you
I do not want you to cry
I do not want you to be alone
I do not want to see water in your eyes
I want you
Smile
More
Get angry with me
And finally
Love me.
You can cry me
Hit as much as possible
As much as kicks me
Still I will not let you cry
Because I love you
If I ever see you weeping;
If I ever see you wandering,
I will destroy this world!
Oath By God!


-The End-

.the crows' persistent croak undermines all attempts at man's adventure into universal fame, or one that might distinguish man's composition, from earth, as intended for adam, to air, as intended for odin, to water as intended for poseidon, to fire as intended for the tetragrammaton.

it fails, most of the time,
poetry is scarce,
too much fondness of the abstract,
hence residues of
distracted verse, whimsical,
overburdened pronoun usage -
such likes - complex punctuation
to replace diacritical marks in
france or germany or norway,
poetry doesn't have the impetus,
just doesn't have the impetus to
package fudge, package fudge paragraphs
of fiction, poetry isn't anything
unless it's anti-fiction,
there's no point idealising
how you would fit into a glass stiletto
when it doesn't allow a fitting: cindarella was first
two jealous sisters got their heel
and big toe cut off, you want to encode
that as .pdf or .jpeg?
technophobes ***-standing:
is that enough for a start-up religious cult?!
i'm just wishy washy wondering,
all bets on it taking off - congregation of
en masse suicide seems a fanciful expression,
mind you, i have no excuse.
where there's a middle there ain't no finger,
no message evaluation and furthered to
an execution, the middle has an eroteme:
not exactly erotically thematic, just
a hunch off huh...
so... poetry... it's scarce, tumble **** practice
of a lost joke...
poetry exhibits itself sometimes in tight-tangle prose
of a knausgård - fancy wording a mile apart
would make traffic accidents aplenty,
and it happens... ramble ramble ramble (worded),
then some poetic ecstasy like an unguided tour
of a gallery making you kneel in anti-catholic
gesticulation of a painting by francis bacon...
shouldn't happen, but it did...
so while prose writers are like things infused
with packaged designation of the right
digestion and right diet content of carbohydrates,
poets are like: what sustenance from air?
we ramble sometimes, **** naked i presume,
but we do, and when we do, we draft novels
for other people, we're not into nation building
or writing novels... we're the anorexia of prose...
and that's grand... because it means
that our readers have to be self-involved,
not ready to grasp the rooting of prose diction...
more fused to the open airs
of writings' scarcity...
we need strong readers not numbers...
we need people who are self-involved,
who would spit and kick a copper statue of
the poet represented in a public square with
people of the spoken tongue the real tourists
wondering: who's that?

that aside...
          i went to sleep thinking about chess...
into bed at around 1am
woke up at around 9am...
past two nights? interludes of
perhaps 2 / 3 hours...
    cutting on the alcohol is one thing...
keeping a tally?
proof: co-op sells 1liter labelled bottles
of scotch,
but as it turns out, according to my braille tally?
it's: ⠷⠷ (500ml) + ⠷⠷ (500ml) + ⠷ (250ml)...
they label it as a liter...
but it's actually 1.25liters...
three days later: you get the full picture:
-esque akin to 'and on the third day he rose
again, according to the scriptures...'

good luck to the men and their vanity
projects...
   i will never become as famous as
the man who "invented" stumbled upon
fermentation to produce beer / wine...
distillation to produce whiskey / *****...
dom perignon and albert hofmann
are known now... give it a few centuries later...
****! gone!
       but to overshadow the universal
stability of a woodland pigeon cooing,
a crow croaking, a fox laughing?
   my words are here: yet these examples
retain the future unchanged...
by void, crook, vogue or folly...

so i went to sleep thinking about chess...
there's the king: the point
of the game...
              to topple the king...
get ol' charlie firsty on the chopper...
distract charlie zee 'eck'und
with pseudo-harems and handel...
and fireworks on the thames...
little learning tool offshoot of louis XIV...
the king is just an elevated pawn...
it seems the king only controls the pawns
given his own movement rules...
the queen though?
   she's the bishop and the rook combined,
as she's also the king and pawn, combined...
the knight is the only odd piece
on the whole board...
   why? didn't queens feast their eyes
upon knights of old, at tournaments...
chivalry: the dropped oopsie handerchief moment
when the king wasn't looking?
the knight piece is the only outsider piece
on the board... hence it's ontological
grasshopper routine of jumping
outside the line of pawns and then
jumping back into line...
the king is a king in name only:
it would appear...
  while the most powerful piece on the board
is the queen: since if the king merely
control the pawns:
   at a battlefield a king command pawns
(soldiers)...
  in the background...
the queen will command...
   the bishops, the knights,
   the rooks (houses, castles) -
she's not on the battlefield with with pawns...
and soon knights become judges
and lawyers - merge with the bishops...
i never like playing chess -
but i liked thinking about chess...
  from the perspective of: the queen is
the most powerful piece on the board...

you could even rewrite chess by expanding
the board... so it would look like so:

1. denotes pawn         9. denotes king

2. denotes bishop        6. denotes queen
3. denotes knight        4. denotes rook.


1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1
         9 3               (battlefield formation)
      2 4 4 2             (behind the scenes formation)
        3 6    

but the board would have to be expanded from
64 to say... 100 squares... per board...
it's still chess... but with a twist...
it's what real life would look like...
one knight would be faithful to the king
and stand behind his army on the battlefield...
the other knight would be *******
the queen in secret surrounded
by castles and the clergy / the judicial system...
well: so many people have become so good
at the game of chess...
   kasparov vs. deep blue...
         so smart: and yet no imagination.

besides... i had more important things to do
today than remember what i fell asleep with...

1. making the perfect sausage rolls...
the most pristine invention of the english
and how the french fumed when their puff
pastry was "degraded"...
never use meat from sausages...
always minced pork...
and instead of adding carrots...
celery... and who would have thought
that fennel seeds are the secret ingredient...

2. watching india get their *******'
whipped and their ***** put into
a meat grinder by the new zealand side
at the cricket world cup...
**** me the last 5 overs!

3. lamenting the state of cinema...
the pursuit of "being" via distraction
with the end goal of fulfilling "happiness"...
so much for "being" and so much for "happiness"...
take two prime examples...
it only took 8 years to spare all the details
that seperate them...
1958's the inn of the sixth happiness
starring ingrid bergman...
those movies! mmm hmm!
i would gladly take away all the current
heavy editing and metallurgy scaled
CGI for a classical western panoramic view...
no dialogue... just an expansive camera
distance where the characters are dwarfed
by the grander scheme of things:
even if it's just a valley or a field...
cinema dropped the paranoramic
   interlude, resorting for the clausto-****
of heavy editing with multiple cameras
switching backwards and forwards
like watching a game of tennis...
    actually: both genres degraded themselves
dropping the panoramic view at times...
less in sport, more in cinema...
but this is 1958... the 1950s! the glory days of cinema...
fast-forward to 1966... and the film:
ALFIE...
       what's the difference between a lothario
and a ****? a self-employed ******...
or some other weird combition of 'not-a-joke'...
wait a minute... why are the women
so ******* dumb come the mid-1960s in cinema...
while back in 1958: they were so admirable?!
ingrid bergman learned mandarin,
she was ambitious, she was stubborn...
she was bossy...
  come the 1960s we're talking about
    beings without either soul or will
simply orientated at being dumpster *** toys...
i don't even know where the men
did that to them...
           the women in 1950s cinema
gained respected... they were commanding...
or at least decisive in giving
the least expected virtue: generosity
and on top - a sense of fairness -
                             a merit pyramid...
1960s cinema women, "women" are nothing
more than sloppy teenagers...
these women are not women...
1960s cinema doesn't depict women...
it's starting to depict one direction:
  pissy-pants teen girls...
               ******* at the sight of harvey styles
sighing and ****...
        plus... back in the day:
cinema used to be... engaging...
ben-hur? how long? 5 hours?
  gone with the wind? how long? 7 hours?!
cinema like opera: 15 minute interludes,
toilet breaks before the next part went on...
now? a quckie 1.5 hours long CGI ***** fest
of minimal dialogue and the heavy editing
juxtapositions of "angles"...
       people don't watch modern cinema
because it's engaging...
they watch it... because it's... distracting...
pretty bright lights! ooh! aah!
i love the fact that i'm being snarky
           and sarcastic... what else can you be?!
   i don't even think is missed that much
when it comes to the sub-culture of drugs...
psychadellic or otherwise...
i ****** well missed on a decent amount
of cinema...
   and when that happens...
       look at me...
                            what's that phrase...
a bitter old man... aged 33...
bitter doesn't even cut it...
              it's not even a bitterness...
it's an elevated sense of nostalgia...
   for me nostalgia is something i was present
at when it started going to ****...
late 1990s... cartoon network, early internet...
etc.,
              1990s date night movie quality
requiring adults to employ babysitters...
i was there...
1950s cinema? yeah: i wish i was nostalgic
about that... but i wasn't there...
hence the technical observations...
and how, objectively: movies were...
oh god so much better.

   PSA: Poetic Service Announcement - written 05/01/2017
                                              
   Please feel free to share with established and future
   authors on FB.
********************­***
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One of the toughest decisions, an author has to make, is the selection of a reliable publisher. With more than six months of personal experience, I have painfully learned that PBP (Published By Parables, headed by John Jeffries) is NOT one of them. For decades, I’ve listened to ministers tell me that “Mediocrity is not a hallmark of Christianity; it’s halfway between success and failure.”; and yet, the shoddy workmanship of transforming my manuscript into a usable PDF (that would produce the book) failed to even reach the level of mediocrity. I extend an apology to those, to whom a premature recommendation of PBP was given by me. Don’t repeat my mistake! Please. You’ll be grateful and thankful for heeding my warning.
.
This company engages in deceptive practices and doesn’t operate with complete transparency. For example, it advertises that it will publish your book for free. While this is technically true, you will have to make an initial payment of $185; $35.00 for the copyright and the $150.00 for the ISBN-Barcode. In addition, John will subtlety lecture you, regarding why he won’t cover this expense and why you should.
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Before I began writing poetry seriously, I acquired 30 years of IT experience and 20 years of desktop publishing experience; so I understand conceptual ideas, the need for high standards and the importance of having a solid, but flexible framework. In addition, I was taught the criticality of working with a mindset of excellence- a topic taught by most ministers. One example is Titus 2:7-9, which states: In all things shewing thyself a pattern of good works: in doctrine shewing uncorruptness, gravity, sincerity, sound speech, that cannot be condemned; that he that is of the contrary part may be ashamed, having no evil thing to say of you.
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Computer templates, used in today’s bookmaking operations, are not meant to be static; rather they set an initial foundation from which work can begin. Given the style of my writing, PBP had agreed to modify the template being used, as to minimize the impact of my having to change my writing to accommodate the shortcomings of said template. I understood that this would possibly extend the timeframe to get my book constructed. I was okay with this and never rushed PBP in its efforts.
.
With each iteration of manuscript changes, new random and unexpected problems began to appear; so I was blamed my project’s lack of progress, since the errors arose from PBP’s ongoing modification of my manuscript’s template. It’s unimportant to realize that ALL modifications to the template were made solely by PBP. PBP never reviewed an updated PDF before sending it to me; therefore, it became my responsibility to identify issues that resulted from the technical incompetence of PBP. So what if titles lost their boldface attribute, while the text of poems were inadvertently made boldface. So what if poems were displayed to the left of the left-hand margin, pages numbers were lost, or randomly displayed in boldface, or that page headers would be missing or cut in half- it was my fault for desiring a template customized to meet my personal need. So what if the page numbers were corrupted within my index of poems, from PBP inserting new pages into the beginning of my manuscript. So what if I was concerned that the index’s format was changed from the way I desired. Stuff happens and I need not concern myself over such details. Apparently I was delusional in thinking that I was responsible for the vision of my new book.
.
And if that wasn’t enough fun, PBP would ignore some of my changes, such as inserting the occasional blank line, as well as making unauthorized modifications that included adding, replacing and deleting PBP graphics. One graphic I was fond of, PBP removed because its intended purpose is meant for “internal company use only”. Guess I’m just an unruly rebel for wanting to use it. Since he originally inserted it into my PDF, using it must have been initially okay. This incident is one of many that shows John’s lack of attention to detail.
.
In addition, I was unreasonable for wanting my legal name displayed properly (so I can differentiate myself from the other “Joe Breunigs”; no offense guys!) That correction alone took John SIX MONTHS to address; my book’s title also created angst for PBP, since it contained an ellipsis. Twice I e-mailed instructions on how to insert one because he misplaced/lost the first correspondence. And so I was unreasonable once more, since his option of using three consecutive periods was deemed unacceptable by me. An ellipsis is my favorite punctuation mark; if he couldn’t handle my previous instructions, he could have COPIED IT DIRECTLY FROM MY MANUSCRIPT.
.
John constantly complained about updating the template and the slow iterative process of making my book. At one point, John made the remark of how he had published two other titles during the timeframe my book was being worked on. As Christians, we get in trouble when we compare ourselves to others, since everyone’s journey is unique. So it’s clear that PBP’s intent was to manipulate me into feeling bad, regarding PBP’s lack of progress. Supposedly I was out of line for suggesting that he remember James 1:2-3, which teaches us: My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. In discussions with PBP, I indicated that I have 15 complete and unpublished manuscripts of poetry. In addition, I stated that we would have the most hiccups during the creation of my first PBP, since we had no experience working together. Nor did PBP understand that this process of creating a personalized template for my work would save time during the construction of future titles- both for me and other poets. Should I apologize for forward thinking?
.
Given the problems I was forced to face, doubt became evident in my selection of PBP; so I decided to ask more questions, to step up due diligence on my end; NONE of my follow-up questions were ANSWERED. I had the audacity to ask for a contract, how much I could expect to earn per copy sold, why PBP didn’t request my SSN and other questions of concern. I wanted to understand how to stop PBP from making unwanted changes or ignoring the ones I desired. One would like to think that a publisher would be appreciative of a proactive author, seeing that I have one title already. At one point, I had the false hope that my book could be completed by December 2016, but not in time for Christmas. Now we’re into May 2017.
.
Nor was I ever allowed to see the prepared book cover- FOR MY BOOK! I was informed that I couldn’t be allowed to see it because the image MAY need to be re-sized. IMO, this is a ridiculous excuse. Since I never saw the cover, I was unable to either review it (for mistakes) or critique it. Supposedly the cover was made three months earlier; since I’ve not seen it, I must assume that PBP is not lying to me. And it was crazy of me to imagine using the graphic (OF MY BOOK) as a marketing tool to create excitement and interest in my latest title or possibly generate pre-order sales. When a publisher intentional decides to play games like this, does anyone else see this issue as a “Red Flag”?
.
Caught between his impatience, unrepentant attitude and ability to be easily offended, John refused to apologize for his technical ineptitude and unwillingness to press forward; instead he chose to hide behind his spiritual authority (which I do not fall under); he essentially demanded that only I had the onus of forgiving him. After a weak and failed attempt to bully me into accepting substandard work, he later announced that he was quitting my project. In a phony letter of apology, John even implied that I needed to accept responsibility for the failure to get this book made, since I HAD CONTACTED PBP. In addition, he reiterated that PBP is a ministry; if that’s true, then why didn’t he demonstrate patience, perseverance and humility towards me or ensure quality of effort… as unto The Lord? Should PBP want to dispute my account, John should be reminded that I’ve retained a copy of various PDF iterations of my unmade book with the aforementioned issues.
.
I took no pleasure in composing this PSA, but felt that it was my duty, to share my poor experience in dealing with a difficult publisher, to my writing communities. This notification could have been prevented, if John had repented, swallowed his pride and pushed forward to get my books made. Instead he chose to become an irrelevant part of my journey as an author, which is sad, since he acknowledged that I have a gift for writing poetry. IMHO, we the writing community, must be willing to stand up to publishers, since the responsibility (of the vision for our books) lies with us. We should be able to freely ask questions and have templates modified to suit the individuality of our books. Let your voice and concerns be heard. Please share this message with the writers you personally know. We should not be forced to accept shoddy work! John can be reached on FB at https://www.facebook.com/john.jeffries.33; the PBP website can be found by searching its full name. Please feel free to share this PSA on John’s page, so he understand the ramifications of his actions.
.

Hello all. I have been pretty busy with projects I've been working on.

I have been putting my poems up in PDF format and all of the new poems are available for download here:

http://deadbeatantihero.wixsite.com/thereisnothinghere

This website works best on a desktop. I tried accessing the website on my phone but some of the titles are buried within the other titles so I think it is best if you just access the website using a desktop. All you have to do is click the title that you want to read and it should automatically bring you directly to the PDF format of the works. You may also download them for free if you wish.

I am converting these works into PDF format with the intention to turn them into zines and chapbooks in the near future, given the right price and resource people to help me come up with the projects. Feel free and read away, all of the works are free and downloadable.

The website currently has 19 titles for you to read and download (if you want to, that is). Let me know if I could help you with anything!

could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.

ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
                           we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
                                    take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
  all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
                 about, it's just a John Bishop
          Scouser type of beating.
                  ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
    oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
   the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
             some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
      yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
  - we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
   i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
   i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
  when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
             you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
                 there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
      no i'm about to sell my first copy -
  i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
   i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
   by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
    i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
       or why you never take l.s.d.
   question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
   back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
                   - or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
          only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
    it was truly a devolution via brass -
   you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
                   and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
           oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
                  the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
  but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
           an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
         it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
                  sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
            gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
    far far away...       well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
              i love that: y'all -
                          it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
           originally
                    he had
                  another thought he wished to take
                 but...
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
   and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
      oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
       i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
               i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
                 pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
           still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
                        post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
            the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
       if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
                      or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
                          and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
                   will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
                but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
                   and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
              then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
     i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
   then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
   a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
  the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.

     interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...

and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
  hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
      when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
          but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
   there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
                      that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
  narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
       we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
              thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
   for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
  suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
         against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
                   preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
                  but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
        p.s. as to be ever written!
    thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
  some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
                        and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
                        first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
                            in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
                         narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
                          actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!

the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
    they begin with memory -
         it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
       they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
      the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.

or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
                    in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
                       but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
       concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
               or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
         when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
                         i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
     i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
         i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
                            the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
                              what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
wh

Some people work out
to get totally bulked
some people work out
to get totally slim
sometimes one just
never knows which
will result
but when all gets going
the most beautiful part
is to get the body
flowing
getting the body
moving
getting the body
grooving
it is so beautiful
to feel a tug
of ****** movement
never felt
where it was felt
with any strength before.

Keeping the body
beautiful
means keeping up the
motion
movement is beauty
when done with
will and devotion
the body is ageless
when rejecting the
notion
that time is an
enemy like
zero pdf lotion.

Keep working out
how you will
be it lifting
be it dancing
be it running
or groovy prancing
let your self
cry out for more
let yourself
stretch
to reduce being
sore.

Let the body move
so that you sweat
straight from the heart
the more you move
and work it hard
you create
body art.

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before i left seattle, and long before i made the mistake of returning,
i was babysitting a fish in a fishbowl,
for my brother's kids.

the water in the bowl was cloudy,
unclear, *****, because of the fish
so of course the fish died,
the bowl just sat on the counter after the fish died
but before my brother's kids came back from california

anyhow, moving back here was a mistake.
the cost of living here is ridiculous,
there is no room to be a middle class person here

only  a little kid who works at amazon
whose mom found him his job.

these little kids work for amazon,
their moms type out cover letters and resumes
so their kids can get jobs at amazon

i am looking for a new job because i can't afford to keep the job i have now,

the little kids who work for amazon have it pretty good though,
they can bring their dogs to work with them
they can jack up the rents, no problem

mom is always looking out for them like that

tonight i applied for a job at amazon
i typed in my first name to submit my application
"jeffbezosisacunt", i wrote a quick cover letter
telling them i was qualified for the job because
my mom didn't have to type out my cover letters for me
and because i had a dog that hadn't been trained yet
that i could take to work with me, then i attached a pdf file of a quick reference guide for aol 9.0 as my resume

it felt good
but not for long and not good enough

mark zuckerberg makes me sick too,
i can just see him running for president one day,
needing a good slapping
the little **** has never known any form of adversity
so he just keeps on being a little ****,
he has a lot in common with kim jong un

when i first moved back here, there were all these orange and white umbrellas every morning. those orange and white umbrellas had already taken over.

http://noheartonlymind.com/store/

I came out with a little pdf file book that costs $8, I'm saving up for college and I figured I'd sell 60 poems and some art work to spread my thoughts and ideas.

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Fast-walking past Timpsons',
I hear Attic Dithyrambs
In eternal rhythmic voyage
The Adjectives of Ancients
Crowd my senses, deliciously:

Artless and cretinly, everyone turns away
Quite leisurely into the bus station,
And I alone walk among these
Uninquiring minds
I will shell out for an unruled real faux leather notebook

Uncle Harold, you don't know what Poetry means;
otherwise, you might have got me a quaint old anthology
dense and esoteric, with Spender and Ezra,
for my twenty-third

And not the Readers' Digest Word Power Dictionary you sent off for with coupons:
sure, I know what quixotic means
and how to spell weird, and conceited,
but name two ways they apply to me? How will I confront
the unremitting suffering of my existence
with a list of Celebrity Anagrams?

True? or False? Poetry is Dead,
and with it, the bespirited core of commonman:
I will submit my first volume as a .pdf

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well... there's pindar...
    a great biographic entry,
when alexander the great sacked
thebes, pindar's was the only
home standing...
          that's great... but where's
the evidence that he, actually wrote
anything?
      that's a bit like stating that
descartes: really wanted to prove
he existed...
              no he didn't...
                  he didn't care to allow
thought to precipitate into being...
he already started working
on it being elevated to a god...
   but come on... running a poetry
website and withholding
   pindar's poems?
               i have a grand "metaphor"
to counter with that...
         it really was a day of constipation,
   i had to drink about half a litre of *****,
and a warm bottle of beer (ugh...
   that's doubly worse than the way
they drink ***** in england... warm... shots...
i find that warm beer is doubly carbonated)
and then finish the day off with some bourbon...
i did say i was constipated, didn't i?
    there are usually three tiers to the affair...
first one, fair enough, it's a whale or a squid
   about to plop into the pipeline...
the third phase is a bit like: not yet! not yet!
    tier two and three are shy *******...
   you have to wriggle a little bit to get them talking...
it almost seems like some army interrogation tactic,
but i'm not dealing with some taliban fighter...
i'm dealing with my own ***...
                      it's only past midnight that i get
the whole bulge out...
        like i'm some baker that a maine **** cat
makes fetish of, joining me in the toilet
and lying on the windowsill...
       cat ****? that's three times as rank,
human **** seems chocolate to animals...
                        but i am trying to take poetry
seriously...
               i just sat through half-an-hour of
grueling efforts to extract that remnant of last night's
egg-fried rice (yes, with scallion)...
                  but as it feels... i could have
just dashed a tablespoon of chilli powder into my ****...
     i'd rather chop a hundred onions and regard that
as tears forced by sitting with a girl watching
a rom-com than feel this dash of chilli powder up
my a-hole; because that's what it exactly feels like...
   it almost feels like the harambe injustice...
   last time i checked gorillas were vegans...
         unless it wasn't going to be a tarzan story...
no? it wasn't? oh well... there goes the dream!
yet they still have pindar listed on the poetryfoundation.org
website... and there are no poems enclosed!
            it could be great to have read
a snippet of his curriculum vitae...
           the curriculum mortis belongs to too many people,
and the essence gets lost in the tornado of history...
               then again... i know the difference between
    a .jpeg        and a .pdf
        but what's the real difference between
                        a .net     a      .org          and a .com?
           tiers? just tiers? like the national agenda of a .pl
and a .co.uk?
                                 well, there is the sunday times
newspaper... 15 year olds on sugar daddy websites...
           and how sergeant blackman was
  convicted of warcrimes... when he was a trained
killer... some said that people akin to moses couldn't
fit into our modern society...
                           neither could albert camus...
               it might still be considered an existentialist
movement... but it's definetly moved beyond absurdism.

sorry, this is there.

new publication, from self and to self, full length, with theme and without. title: Stork Blood. Feb 2014, 97 pages, 9.00

for free PDF, email bartonsmock@yahoo.com

book is here and has been elsewhere:

http://www.lulu.com/shop/barton-smock/stork-blood/paperback/product-21447349.html;jsessionid=B705664E62077329F9C5141F5762EC50­

closed off, cease candor, delusions of grandeur
to everyone but you, Online Person; because that's your name,
as far as we're both concerned.

this in mind, consider me an open PDF, buried on page ten
of your favourite search engine
hallowed ground, that is.

[not an open book, those are honest and available to everybody who cares to look]

by the time you get to page ten
you've strayed from the path of relevancy
but the results pique pointless curiosity -
partly privy to my pathetic plateau.

and even my brothers are not in the know.

So many things in vain.
Taking a stop at my house so late.
Ready for the break down and I'm sorry.
That it's coming.
But i won't let it shut me out.
If only this one voice i can shout.
I swear it'll come to the crowd.
I wanna be heard.
So i can know im alive.
I was birthed.
Now it's time to be admired.

Chorus
Here i am
Finding que's to begin.
Don't have a clue who I've been
Waiting to rid my sin.
Sick of stumbling, Trippin.
Don't ever listen.
Too instuctions.
So understand.
When i disappear.
It's for a reason.
And theres no peace in these excuses.
Do you hear me?
That's the question of this creation, that you made.


It's gotta get better than this.
Don't let my eyes get tired.
Have the wrinkles fade to gray.
The way my hair is when i come to the hundreds.
Is there more out there.
Can we prepare and not scared.
Have we feared that salvation ain't coming
any moment too soon.
Blow some hope in these bones.
Plagues of joy needs to whisper to my shadows. 
Feel a little off balence.
Walking from my absence.

Chorus
Here i am
Finding que's to begin.
Don't have a clue who I've been
Waiting to rid my sin.
Sick of stumbling, Trippin.
Don't ever listen.
Too instuctions.
So understand.
When i disappear.
It's for a reason.
And theres no peace in these excuses.
Do you hear me?
That's the question of this creation, that you made.
THis is me debating existence.

Answer it if you can.
Give me a hand if you care.
As i enter in oblivioun.
Are you there.
Ready to bring me back to humanity.
I've heard im still the loser of the followers.
Even when i try to change them the rest who aren't breathing.
I get that they say im preachin about things i don't believe in.
Forgive me of hypocricy.

Chorus
Here i am
Finding que's to begin.
Don't have a clue who I've been
Waiting to rid my sin.
Sick of stumbling, Trippin.
Don't ever listen.
Too instuctions.
So understand.
When i disappear.
It's for a reason.
And theres no peace in these excuses.
Do you hear me?
That's the question of this creation, that you made.
This is me debating existence.

Say i walked away.
What if i never did.
WHere would i go if this happened.
How would fate leade me.


4
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Oh, Joel,
I see you've gone the way
of HP vanity
with your two score & eight cantos
            pdf-ed
                         and
                                covered
in Escheresque!

============
Wishing you brisk sales and an IRS audit :-)

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my face is like an open book and
everyone knows exactly where the last person left off.
there’s no reading between the lines, no built-in metaphors. no.
all the words and feelings are out there,
on the page and they start screaming at the first contact with the outside world.

I have no covers,
no pdf format,
no index,
no once in a lifetime offer you can’t miss.

I only come with a story, that
some people enjoy reading,
that others hate (and
decide to wait for the movie).
the main character is a guy that’s neither good nor bad,
that lives inside a human head,
but always gets beaten around by a human heart.

I’m curious about that specific moment when
it was decided that we love with our heart
and not with our brain, or leg, or knee.

you may be the main thing in the menu at one point,
the hottest dish in the restaurant
but you know that
you’ll always gonna be someone else’s sloppy seconds.

today, a kid on the metro asked me
why do we keep saying „may God save us”?
when really, it’s up to us to save HIM?
I didn’t know what to say.
I didn’t know how to explain to him that
sometimes I’m afraid to believe
in something that doesn’t feel like belief worthy..
that I don’t understand how certain things happen..
that I can hardly save a WORD file after a day’s work,
and he’s proposing me to save S̶A̶N̶T̶A̶ .. GOD.
I didn't have the means to lie, to be wise, to be strong..
I couldn’t let go of the iron bar and my smile had no teeth to show, no lips to uncover.

but I guess he knew all of that.
my face is like an open book. not the holy one!
with me there’s no reading between the lines, no built-in metaphors.
no..

my god, what am i going to do about Monday morning,
that coffee date?
sure as ****, Sherlock... you'll go to the Turk
for a beard trim, either either tomorrow or
over the weekend...
you'll make this weekend epic...
you'll cycle to either central London
or to Epping... either trip...
you'll do more push-ups... you'll lift some extra
weights... beef up... puff up...
you'll do that...
you'll also think about how you'll spend
your first earned money.... in a long long time...
sure... i'll spend it in a brothel...
i don't gamble: lucky... it's not like i have
*** regularly... it's worth spending money
on art galleries, brothels... alcohol...
after coffee, oh she wanted to meet up:
i know why... 10 or so scrambled messages later:
you have a physical copy of your book?
i have a physical copy of my book?!
it's not merely a pdf file?
it's not merely a pdf file?!
oh, right, right... yeah...
no wonder she wanted to meet up for coffee...
it will seriously take a miracle
for me to become loved up like the teenager
i once was available / able to...
who knows...
   my heart is hardened... yet it's not forever lost...
it will take a miracle...
it would probably require dating a woman
with a child... whereby i could turn my affection
onto the child, rather than stress it for a woman...
that would be so much easier...
a bit like petting a cat... i think loving a child
unconditionally would be so much more easier
than loving a woman within the confines of her...
ahem... expectations... conditions...
yet somehow still "unconditionally":
what a load of *******! seriously...
i was feeling slightly existed, slightly stressed...
hell... one stone, four birds...
took a **** while taking a **** while jerking off
while subsequently taking a shower...
on the throne of thrones... later to the sea of Galilee for
my "baptism"...
me... at the brothel...
what do i see? the worst kind of *******...
honest to god, is it really this easy these days?
this simp: cough up dough?
for what?! a picture?!
no touchy-feely... no *******?!
no feel of the *******... no sniffing of the hair?
no conversation face to face?!
are we talking about men... or ******* pseudo-eunuchs?!
at least eunuchs were put in charge
of the Ottoman harems...

i pay for what i can get... i'm not paying for some
****** video of a girl ******* of showing
off her ****, her vaginal region...
i'm paying for the entire body,
i rub my finger-tips prior to entry to the brothel
against concrete, to rough them up...
to subsequently touch something... soft...

and with the current climate, socio-political and
what not...
oh... oooh... some of us diagnoses as having
a psychotic disorder, complex...
diagnoses as schizophrenic...
how we wait for the S.J.W's...
i'm gagging for some blood sports...
the whole victimhood mentality:
i'm waiting...

over 10 ******* years in a de profundis hell-hole...
no help... helped myself...
i feel... resurrected...
no friends... friends ****** off... **** 'em...
better for them that they did...
better for me...
i could become myself...
will i leave traces of being an arrogant ****?
of course i will... did i break any law?
last time i was hand-cuffed was for *******
in an alleyway...
the police-officer cuffed me, shouted at me...
arrogant little *****...
a female officer was noting it all down...
i was un-cuffed and waked home
scot-free...

oh **** me: i'm charged... my heart is raging...
if the coffee is not enough,
where to? no, not a gallery...
i'll tell her: Havering County Park...
SEQUOIAS... over 100 example of these
gentle giants... just off Havering-atte-Bower...
a village that remembers days prior
to the Hastings invasion...
i guess i'd think about ******* her in the woods
all the ****** time...

perhaps she's like me...
she like the smell of horseshit in the morning...
perhaps she likes the scent of... frost...
an entourage of trees... mud...
sickly sweet mush of...
the gravity of winter... the exiled insects...

ooh... in this little dynamic of victimhood...
where do i lie, on the spectrum?
will they come after a schizoid?
these femnist-fashists?
these trans-gender critical-race-theory
inclusivity coaches?
after a schizoid?
oh... little ol' me thinking that we're off-limits...
i have reached a pinnacle,
now i just hallucinate my name...
when i do... it feels like the wind is speaking...
it's actually very pleasant...
i become doubly aware...

it really wasn't a mistake having to take 2 years off of
my 20s to read Heidegger's Sein und Zeit...
working as a steward at public events...
believe me... dasein?! being: there...
i know where i'm supposedly to be...
i have an added focus...
                my role is only minor...
but it's the optics...
i look the part... and... oddly enough... people
respect me for me looking the part...
i'm not a manager...
i'm just a pawn... but... like Louis XIV said...
appearances guide all fathom-ability
of undercurrents... non-verbatim...

that word should not exist as a hyphen compounding...
fathom-ability ought to be one...
are these English ******* going to keep up with
their forefathers, the Swabians, the Pomeranians...
or are we going to get more of this...
*******... shrapnel?!
conjunctions, definite / indefinite articles...
personal, huh?! pronouns?!
you sick or something, or just ******* *******?!

it truly takes a supposed madman to tell all
the supposed sane people to:
get the **** back in line... to return to a collective
sensibility, to stop appealing to
the irritations of minorities...
no... i'm done...
i'm not here to entertain one minority status
above another minority status...
i guess the S.J.W.s "forgot" to fight for the rights
of... people like us... diagnosed as schizophrenics...
sorry... did you forget?!

i'm not even role-playing... i'm prescribed not working
more than 16 hours a week...
although... i could kick-*** for about 15 hours more...

from under the yoke of ******,
from under the yoke of Communism:
and those ******* Russians...
to... ahem... this?
letf-oids?

*******: hälftenmenschen...
no... not half-people: no, not halbmenschen...
halves-people...
i already employed a verb within the confines
of the noun...
love received: is the love given...
if i'm to be deemed schizoid:
above bilingual... love received:
is the love given... simple, no?

godsmack: awake...
i just want to trap this one little... fly of a lefty
in my architecture of a web...
then again... being a spider is no fun...
this one little rabbit... a dark forest:
and i am a fox... ewignacht!
dehnbarschatten!

       erweitert pupille: ich sehen!
blut mischen mit adrenalin!
   ja! freude! energie! zweck und arbeit!
ja!

bring them my way... i want to eat something...
ich wollen zu schmausen!
(itchy teeth) juckendzähne!

my archetype? Diogenes of Sinope,
i love people...
love them to bits...
esp. when... they don't engage in
giving me their.... ******* opinions!
come one minute, gone
the next!

- guess what, though...
they want to ask me about diacritical
marks in Latin,
Haguel (south korean)....
katakana "vs." hiragana?
sure, i'll reply...
but not here, not now....

hon-fountain / jigo hudami - googlewhack! by Matthew Conrad
hellopoetry.com/poem/1478415/hon-fountain-jigo-hudami-googlewhack/
2 hours ago - hon-fountain / jigo hudami - googlewhack! among european nations, the poles get self-conscious by comparing themselves as: the cinderella ...

[PDF]WILD HORSES; 'A DETECTIVE TALKS. - Digifind-It.com
www.digifind-it.com/cranbury/data/newspapers/1887/1887-11-25.pdf
here for ten yearn, having in thnt time two children. Fourteen yeai.-. jigo they, removed to Brazil ...... -thai hu hud ami thuiu breds-at-sca;—for from any laud that ...

have recently self-published a comprehensive selected work taken from the fourteen full-length, also self-published, collections of mine from years 2007-2014.  the book has a title, the women you take from your brother, and is 351 pages.  a PDF of the work will be sent to any making such a request of me at email bartonsmock@yahoo.com

link to the work is below, book preview is book entire:

http://www.lulu.com/shop/barton-smock/the-women-you-take-from-your-brother/hardcover/product-21758824.html

it includes work from the following publications-

the paper dolls have been cutting your hair
Grief Of Arm
Angel Scene
mating rituals of the responsibly poor
Ahistoric
Aggressive Kin
Hallelujah Lip-Synch
in the asylum we’d sun ourselves with angels
think ******* nothing on a farm machine
abandonesque
Stork Blood
town crier
We stole not the same bread
PLEA

sample poems:


lacuna

Ohio 1976 I was given a word.  a helluva word.  I went unborn.  a word my mother swallowed.  a troublesome word.  nervosa sans pretext.  my father slept until his sleep became self aware.  he paced.  then gave me his word.  stood over me.  

Ohio 2013 you ***** on my shadow in an abandoned building outside of which a pregnant woman bikes herself into a garage door and bloodies her nose between sound and horn.


the gospel

I lose the fat hero to thoughts of my own weight.
I make the bully too evil.

I shy from death
to be made
its lure.

I have a wife
board
what else
a train
to transport
the sadness
a *****
can’t.  

     my son
wonders
aloud
if all females  
are mothers.

if animals, talk.


jesus on the cross

my sister is sometimes obese.  she has mild heart attacks in cramped third floor apartments.  she gets beaten by schoolmates who impersonate hospital staff.  I am always going to see her it seems when she is in someone else’s bed.  it is to this thought she has recently clung.

In 2013 I lost a friend, soul brother and collaborator. He is the John in the titles that say written with John. Over the next few months another poet and I collected as much of his work as we could and put it in an anthology as a sort of living memorial.

https://www.createspace.com/4939401

I would be glad to email the pdf to anyone that is interested.

it is called she, hers, her and it was named after a poem i wrote on april 15th of 2017 after i had gotten my heart broken and i decided to turn it into art because i didn't know what else to do with it. im not great with speaking words, my mother always tells me that prose is not my forte, and i believe her. anyway, i wrote a book of poems, because its the only thing i know how to do. actually, i've written two. you can find the other one on my twitter (@altyrlog) because i feel like im breaking rules by linking things here. sorry, hellopoetry. they are both free to read in PDF form.

she hers her: http://docdro.id/s4EJay8

thank you for sticking by me and giving me the encouragement i need when i throw up words and put them into stanzas and then plaster them all over the place. you make me want to not give up.

the older i become the more it hinders my output:
volume, quality, whatever you want to call...
perhaps it's censorship (in a way) -
a ****** lenovo keyboard: not wide enough
to properly place my hands to not look down
but ahead at the genius of QWERTY...
since... believe me: the classical order of the alphabet
conjured up by the French (perhaps i'm
remembering incorrectly) is not really important:
what matters is the entire body of the scripted
language... words don't unravel from a prerequisite
of abcdefghijklmnopq...rs...t...u...v...w...x...y...z
is that all the letters?
i actually don't know fingers dart backwards &
forwards... or, not really... when playing this
"piano" anyway: as long as all the required
letters are invoked in the required words:
hey presto! meaning!
                      there ought to be 26... funny...
there are 32 letters in the ****** (western Slavic)
alphabet... the same number as the teeth
in my gob...
but sometimes i "lose" a poem... whether it's censorship
when i make a post: ****! gone...
or whether i'm callous with the ctrl + c / + p / + a
scenario when i drank a little bit too much...
i don't know... perhaps i'm writing for
some elite that doesn't want the public to read
my work... i like to think of it that way...
but losing a poo'em can become so disheartening
that i i sometimes want to forget that i speak:
let alone write... now longer periods when
i can rekindle a makeshift monologue:
but then i have to find something technical in language
to reorient my purpose...
it's becoming less & less easy...
esp. since i'm not writing fiction...
  just... grass is green... butternut squash soup is
more than hearty: but it will never match up
to my better take on the Heinz canned classic... period...
not enough chilly in the Heinz... canned classic...
& never eaten with a slice of bread...
it requires vermicelli... like most soups do...
like a decent ****** chicken broth...
which also requires... well: poaching the carcass
but  base set of vegetable...
a leek... a celeriac root slice...
parsley root... a carrot... garlic... celery stalks...
parsley - the green leaves...
salt, pepper... & vermicelli...
oh... & plenty of time...
i'm disheartened when i lose a piece of script:
it's not Shakespeare (obviously) but so much emotion
can flow into the cascade that:
tabloid newspapers are given bragging rights...
are, ahem... "important"... so... my writing...
whether by censorship or not...
or my clumsy fingers when putting across
a body of text from one canvas to another... goes wrong...
hours become days when i find a new:
desire to write... since... writing is much easier
to thinking...
writing is much easier to thinking...
as thinking is much easier to speaking...
- but all of a sudden my life has changed a little...
writing is so much easier when you're
not "doing" anything...
mein gott... poems flow & flow... snippets
of narrative arrive at your forehead & fingertips like
postcards from your ex-girlfriends missing
you dearly from exotic locations: as if being married
& having children is still not enough because:
they didn't have your children & aren't married to you...
the poo'em i lost was about... two days ago...
travelling to Wembley Park for... an induction...
the role? being a steward...
i figured: enough of youth can be wasted on dreams...
literary dreams...
let's inject some... proper... grass-root ambition
with... RE-AH-LI-TY (****... phonetically that's
REE-AH-LEE-TEA/EE/AE)...
this writing "business" isn't going at the pace
i want... sure... i can brag about...
wow... almost 40 thousand views of one poem...
there are over 6K poems of mine, just here...
Wembley Stadium can host 90,000 spectators...
one poem of mine can muster up... almost half
of the capacity?
not bad... but... not good enough...
lucky for me i can relate for this sort of thirst when
drinking... sometimes i'm content with
a bottle of wine... at other times i need a liter of whiskey...
go figure... but not when so many idiotic pundits...
when there's this media masquerade happening...
i'm in the shadows: i'm listening to what people
are listening to... i never leave traces in the comment
sections: a waste of time...
makes thinking about certain things easier:
when you don't air your opinions...
after all: that's pseudo-rhetorical...
the true art of debate is... withdrawing from:
debating... the dialectical position is:
first mind diacritical marks (sorry... none in English,
& yes... it's still more ugly
when phonetically charged with graffiti "mishaps"...
misnomer: "shortcuts")...
- where was i? oh right... perhaps i "missed" something
in my original lost sample of a narrative:
although (last time i checked)
this website provides automated save as drafts
when you stop typing - after a prolonged period
of typing: my bad...
writing is so much easier when life is uneventful...
i could tease that word: uneventful into
a katakana syllabary: i almost want i almost have
to i therefore (not almost, but) must:
un-eh-vent-ful...
oh look at that: sitting pretty like a toddler
with a drumstick of a chicken (leg)...
**** it: my writing is going nowhere...
i have more ambition to simply let it... sizzle in its own
juices: or whatever better expression is handy...
none come to mind...
i need to look at people: i need to study people...
the internet is an echo-chamber to begin with:
it used to...
a jukebox narrative... such freedoms were
once available... mein gott... what music
i discovered when foraging on youtube...
in two years... gone... the algorithm got ******...
period: bad grammar is an exemplification
of this load of: hot-steaming... mix of **** & *******...
i need a real job... wasting my youth on writing
is not enough: perhaps my writing will catch up:
or my readership will... either way:
i'm not aiming for anything under
the title-weight of a Bukowski:
lucky ******... but i'm also not aiming for
the almost near obscurity of... the Black Mountain poets...
who was their leader... Larry?
Lee-rrr...       eh... it's not like a tarantula didn't
crawl into an English mouth & "somehow"
numbed the tongue for the end result of:
nein zu tremolo! ****'s sake... if i only asked:
why the French Fwench... but they hark so:
never mind...   yes, yes... Larry Eignar...
**** me... that took a while...
but there's another... a "renegade" on the...
ha ha... steppes of "Cambodia"...

          Russell is a likely connotation...
but incorrect... let's see....
     wait... Charles Olson... ol' Ollie...
he? he was a black mountain poet?
you ******* kidding me...
no chance in hell that will pass by me
given.... concerning his Maximus poems...
like: **** no...
i'm a critic i'm a nobody i'm a porveurour...
now i remember the ******'s name:
Robert ******* Kreely...
him! Kreely: Creely... Creeley...
**** it... fling in the vowels...
lets see what sort of a trebuchet **** master
you... ought... might... make.
oh.... wait.... important "news"...
an... apostrophe "missing": plain Jane typo....
where?LET(')S i.e. implying the shortening of:
the inclusivity of the collective... "US"..
      wunderbar!
                 schön!
that's the umlaut O... ergo... shoo... shoon...
great!
                           kaninchen und...
                        rosa ball-ons!  
i know a ******* balloon from a *******
ball-on... it's like telling me...
what's the difference between an omicron
and an omega...
i.e. do you really need to tell me
the difference?
sure... if it was an upsilon: you *******
clueless Greek!
what audacity:
you ******* clueless... Greek...
what... better some Iranian...
arriving from... Belarus?!
oh sure... i really want to live in Kenya...
among the ivory beauties with skins
that hide their bodies...
******* milk on toast... some chocolate:
sprinkled... i see teeth & sclera...
& some mahogany...
  ****? i'd **** anything that moves...
even south Korean girls geared up for a game of....
ping-pong....
my bad... what?
or is that: WAT like... WATT...
the energy unit or the Samuel Beckett novel
that over-competes James Joyce's Ulysses?!

your is the roulette... yours... hmm... your's...
for a while... the latter was underlined...

life used to be so much simpler when...
language could speak for... "itself"...
no one could use it: somehow, "somehow"...

i applied for the role of a Wembley Stadium
steward on a whim...
i thought: **** it... writing is not going toward
a projected: Ginsberg stastus...
i'm not going to compete with the leftoid jargon
of the 1960s... lucky me...

i'm just a terrible "millenial"...
i use an apostrophe like i migh5t secure understand
of the Pythagorean hypotenuse...
some C "squared"...
Wembley Stadium steward...
this... cacophony of hierarchy "suddenly" hits me...

i can understand authority...
tier one, tier two... vampire... zombie...
sure, sorted...

of the supposed 12 rules for life...
one of them reeds... i suppose that's reed: read:
reeds... sorry.. n'est ce pas...
pet a cast on the sreet?
you know, how hard it is... to pet a cat..
on the street?!
if you lived in England...
wolves... what wolves?!
foxes... oh yeah... plenty of those...
but... petting cats?
a bit like explaining...
a jpeg. take up less volume... ha ha: "volume"
than a pdf. file...

why i was mo4e than ready: i'll never known...
perhaps i'm a closeted fan of Ed Sheeran,
perhaps i like children in the role of:
a fathering figure...
perhaps children like to
poke my beard & lips...
perhaps this... perhaps that...
perhaps i'm ******* Santa Claus...
or what's Satan's Claus(e)....
all these freebies... cough up!

or... i just like making people "feel" included:
"feel" is one "thing", REALISED... another...
it might sound like newsspeak...
but... i don't want to ingest another...
Manchester Bomb Arena spectacle...

SAA... a week in Brixton... 7 days...
but they require a cohort of at least 12 applicants...
it elevastes your status as steward to:
someone who can: "juggle"...
be legally obliged to utilised force:
if necessary...
i like... i like... i like...

first ZOOM call in my life... ******* Ludite...
luddite... ugh... that double D kills me...
surd: you don't hear(d) to: begin with...
so... what... spelling "mistake"?

oh sure... the ****** transit & traffic...
train from Romford through to Liverpoool St...
then the Metropolitan Line to Wembley Park...
great... the arch...
a black coffee from McDonald's & two croissants from
Lidl... morning... done...
no more... morning sickness....
come late afternoon Somali girls eyeing me up in a black
tie... o.k. sure... fair game: "gamble"...
hunting what?
i like this understudy of what's man...

i arrived an hour early...
waited the tad bit... of a little... we exchanged formalities... but then i watched as...
two groups formed...
the ****-shock-show of the multi-cultural urban... ahem... "class"... with one rep. & the other... mostly... asian men... with their... asian rep...

12 rules for life... seriously?! do you know how hard it is... to pet a cat? sorry... can i make you reiterate... petting a cat... lucky me... for petting two cats today... "strays"... but... do you know how nearly impossible it is... to pet cats, is?! you don't pet a cat because you can... you pet a cat out of the whims of: the cat willing you to pet it!  just like i like... sitting on my windowsill listening to foxes bemoan their lack of ****** adventures... it's England... foxes... ergo no wolves! d'uh! cull the foxes... you cull the erotica of the nights!

between... sigourney weaver... &...
mmm... winona ryder...
raven 'air...
two winners... how harems work...

Tuba Büyüküstün...

apologies for the phrasing...
if all the supposed gems not donning niqabs
that are western women
are so... *******: NIGGERCOCK mad...
Tuba Büyüküstün... oh... look at me...
you think i want some anemic blonde:
stereotype?!
raven... hair!
sure... the black male specimens are
handsome, attractive: if i were a woman:
i would... ha... "problem"...
why don't i want to...
the ****** antonym... because a white girl
really wants to... do a black guy...
do i... "have" to have the same
compulsions with regards to a black girl?!
Turkic! **** yes!
Mongolian... probably!
Tuba Büyüküstün...
or... swans probably don't have necks...
no... swans probably don't have necks
when you see this:

(although sophie skelton looks
better in the initial photograph...
papa best preached)...
swans don't have necks...
not with her...
around... to... curate... a balett of
nodding  approvals...

Caitríona Mary Balfe... i'm so loved up...
in that i once remarked in private:
bemoaned: that the Scots have forgotten
their native tongue...
swans have no necks...
swans don't need necks...

the neck of Caitríona Mary Balfe
eyes... too...
or the short-styled hair... & eyes
of Tuba Büyüküstün...
don't get me started on the hands...
those petite Antoinetes of joy...
the most ****** aspect of a woman is bound
to her hands... i'm missing a knuckle! or at least
*******!

woo-man!                         woe-is-me!
woe-is-man!             woo-man!
i'll bark i'll gargle... not for the sold-cold "soul & eternity"
of the d.n.a.:
but rather for that Muhammad never achieved when
competing with King Solomon!
then again... King David had the better tale...
the love of music, the writing of the psalms
&... defeating Goliath...
king Solomon was... compensating with
the excessing in the exploitation of women...
eh... Solomon &... proverbs can be tested...
true... or untrue...
but psalms... unconditionally...
sung... or... lost...
no antonym-synonym dynamic...
you either remember or you forget...
you don't merely remember & pseudo-remember
via changing the narrative a little: or a lot...

what a neck... on this Irish beauty...

two frotiers formed.... one side...
the cosmopolitan, readied to talk to women
in possible women in authority, etc.
whatever are the preferenfes....
i really adore the ROYAL: third person:
ONE might...
or the plural WE....
"genger plural pronouns":
not since the existence of the "crown":
i am subject to ol' Lizzies stipends!

i am her mouthpiece wherever she's:
not m'ah ******* grandma!
on zoom calll i was sked....   (scared, for sked)
what were British values....
i was asked....
i replied... universal?!
i passed some mythological...
Kennsington Test...
ooh p'ah! ******* hurah
join the Union Jack brigade!
who's kidding who?

              the red coats are coming!
last time i 'eard?
not enough of 'em are "coming"...
come to "think" of it: beside staring at goats...
"going": where?
do "we" need to "go" to Afghanistan
when... Afghanistan is coming to us?!

sorry... what?

two groups of people at Wembley...
mostly Asian men... an Asian rep...
& a group led by a Jewish girl...
talk of tortoises...
Sikh... Tamil... Sanskrit... men...
& women... ******...
Stalowa Wola: Iron Will... which is
an actual town...
Harry... the guy with tattoed hands...
Ewelina: Evaline...
**** me... another single mother...
how many more single mothers will i have to pass?!
i don't mind it:
ancient Rome replies with:
the surrogate father...
chances are...
i could be a bad genetic partner...
i wouldn't mind... raising children that weren't my own...
i swear to the only god available on such
matters...
he'd just nod approving me as
surrogate father...
to hell with it...
CORALINE - DREAMING...
ancient Rome sends you a postcard...
you'll reply?
        no? fair enough...
i could i wish i could...
a little: BAMBINO of my own...
bit then again...
investing in so much of my own...
what if... they are killed...
hell! ****** is one "thing"...
but what if by some stupid circumstance of
a traffic incident?!
ergo?
i very much like the idea of raising children that
biologically "belong"... ahem...
"elsewhere"...
not their souls, their minds.. though...
n'est ce pas?! VOU... that's not how
ALTHOUGH is assembled?
AUL: ALL.... VOU? it's not VOW...
ate the G... no, kiddy?

i love children... esp. those that are not my own...
i could love them & love them like
an Abraham... nein... i could love them like...
a god... i could love children in a way that...
mirrors.. the moment they arrive at...
exploring the game of:
hide & seek...
there was never any playground invoked
to summon: the game of bulldog...

i'm glad i have no children of my own...
more of my seeing and less of the eyes of my "choosing"...
petty tender heart-felts: demands...
i'd rather father the children of "unavaliable" fathers
than father my own...
ancient Rome is messaging you...
dearest...
   look how much easier it all becomes!
you raise someone else's child... but...
should said child die... become murdered...
erm... what of it?
a statistic... i feel no inclination to give a ****...
i invested in the mind... the soul...
the body can ***** itself to death...
as it does... but it's not my own...
i can be as much detached from its fate as is most purposively
ridden: to riddle me...
i'm glad to not raise my own!
it dies... it's murdered... do i care?
no... life replaces life... here we go: the grand
carousel... it's not like i have name like:
McKenzie or... McDougal...
so... no... no lineage... i'm a baron of the most
atomised of times... the individualistic
sanctity: real or supposed...

ancient Rome replies:
the negativity of single mother households....
compensated with... the freedoms of...
paternal surrogacy... give me a break!
ha! it's Eden! i come with not leverage of....
ownership! i owe nothing due to
the Darwinistic impetus!
i'd be freed from whatever is expected of me...
there are no investments...
in pronouns... might we:
the royal one?

ha!

it's no much easier to have children
that turn out to be girl...
ha!

i'd rather be a surrogate father to a "daughter"...
come to think of it...
i'd only want...
to be a father... to a son... biologically....
a daughter can...
Mayflower herself... or ***** herself all she wants...
from a father: unto a son...
like that "******": Matthew & Son (cat stevens)
or... "dreaming": Coraline...

the inquisitive cat... the teenage girl...
the "felix"... the Urdu... somewhat...
the inquisitive cat... kommen die nacht....
alles ist nacht...

if there's no democracy in poetry:
then there's no democracy at all!
maxim: non-la-rochefoucauld

Your eyes, their photo booth blinks,
are filed PDF's behind my prefrontal cortex.
Parachuting to the moon,
where the gravity god is mortal,
my stimuli float in a sensory deprivation tank.

I practice wearing my isolation blindfold,
allowing all other senses to eat its portion,
SO in time IT fades.

I close my trained eyes
in the warm water and Epsom salts,
my desolate tank of solitude,
And we are holding hands naked,
floating in your Dead Sea.

Crimson seethe. This, a waiting not for all
even glean a PDF, follow crumbs, seal notes.
Raucous cries die before sunset
veering to the door, but sticker too green.

Strange, eleven hours it took to birth a smile
pluck away in quiet corners.
Only, reversing chance to another
nobody gives a hoot. Isn't life much a gauntlet?
Drying, crack open a thought and spy
youngster unsought, of the last month, until the end.

the following self-published, full-length poetry collections of mine are available at

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/acolyteroad


in the asylum we’d sun ourselves with angels, August 2013, 9.00

-

think ******* nothing on a farm machine, Oct 2013, 10.00

-

abandonesque, Dec 2013, 10.00

-

Stork Blood, Feb 2014, 9.00

-

town crier, March 2014, 8.50

-

We stole not the same bread, May 2014, 9.00

-

PLEA, July 2014, 8.25



if you’re interested in receiving any collection of mine via PDF, please send me a request at bartonsmock@yahoo.com and I’ll send promptly.



-here is a poem from in the asylum we'd sun ourselves with angels:



men statuesque

I am struck by the urge to pray.

my trauma has yet to occur.

the stress my father knows

knew his hands
as he waved them in front of nothing
on a tarmac obscured by speech.

night is a ruined crow.

I see the city as possibly bombed.

RE: . pdf .
sonja benskin mesher

06:07

Good Morning

I wake to find the internet is fixed,
so have read the document file.

as time is short, and the fact that
it all looks very well. I did like my odd spacing,
yet the dots are there.Let us go ahead and
both have a very nice day. I thank you

for all your work on this, and at
the weekend too.

i am very pleased, a little excited.

yes shall we refer to it as the journal.
sbm.

life has becoming exciting, once more...

well **** me, i really wasn't expecting that...
i only met this girl, woman, single mum(?)
at Wembley, two weeks ago for our training /
induction...

i just sent her a text on whatsapp
confirming that it was me sending her a text,
nothing for two weeks, why?

last Sunday i just sent her a text asking
her whether or not she was working,
she said she already took up a different
job, catering in a west end theatre,
eh, oh well... so i sent her a photo
inside the stadium....

'it's empty!'
well yeah, we can't take photographs on the job
came my reply only today...
then some chit-chat about work...
she said that i should be looking for
something else, getting an SIA certificate
blah blah... to which i replied:
oh don't worry, i have always something
to do, i write poems & so-called poems
attaching a picture of my hand holding
a physical copy of a book
i published...

Mateusz Conrad - Πoετιc Oπτoμετρy
you want a copy?
'is it a pdf file, do you have a pdf file,
or is it one of those: REAL books'
oh yeah, it's a physical book,
send me your, ahem ms. Evelyn... ?
and your address...

she didn't send me her address, i commented:
well, that's healthy, no need to trust me
outright like that, even though, me?
stalking? hanging around some woman's
house? **** that...

- would i like to meet up for coffee?
oh, sure... the 12th of December, 10am...
too early? oh no, no...
by the station?
well... that's a date then...

for ****'s sake... that was easy...
coffee: date? it's not exactly me coughing up
money for a meal,
but being a hermit for so long...
i can't remember the last date i was on...
no... wait... i do...
terrible idea... she picked me up in a nightclub...
worst place to meet women...
we ended up going to the park...
i was drinking a bottle of red wine,
she tried to keep up...
we went to a pub and i drank a pint of Guinness...
she bailed: she was apparently meeting up
with some girlfriends for food...
my god, i was lucky... i hated her company...
she wasn't frigid: just nervous...
i can appreciate excited nervousness
but not nervousness when you know
something is awry... when you haven't clicked...

good, she ****** off while i ordered a second pint...
and basked in drinking alone
looking at people... apart from going
into a forest, or a graveyard: watching people...
it's up there with my other fetish:
for the deutschezunge...

some other date... we were supposed to go to a gallery...
we ended up just having coffee:
i implored her: stop playing cat & mouse with me...
you're late? i'm early, blah blah...
in a cafe i pulled out a spoon that was still
lodged in her cup: you'll poke your eye out...
i don't think she liked that...
but who the **** drinks anything from a cup
with a protruding spoon still lodged in the cup?!
for ****'s sake: a straw, fair enough...
the girl was going to poke her eye out!

ugh... i never heard from her ever again...
we went on a date prior, with this other girl i knew prior
from knowing a high school friend...
this Lebanese girl... hmm... Alicia...
in school i once asked her out to go to the cinema:
RE-JECTED... i suspect: nervous middle-eastern, Levant
christian goody-girl...
but when i invited her to visit me
for Hogmanay up in Edinburgh
with my first on-and-off girlfriend
  (circa 2005) she came along... my then on-and-off
also brought a colt... a little Aussie...
annoying as ****... had a nickname... sponge?
something like that... the three of them slept in
my bed while i slept on the floor...

a year prior my then on-and-off g/f came...
days... i remember spending a lot of the time
suckling at her *******... nothing happened down south...
i can still hear the echo of her moans...
a year later... she lost her virginity to me
while Alicia was sitting in the living room reading:
the Hours... Michael Cunningham...

personally? i preferred Virginia Woolf, herself...
lucky me: not losing my virginity to a ******...
the sensation of trying to scalpel past the thin layer
of protective skin of the ******...
i don't know... pleasant, weird...
thank god i'm not circumcised...
i can have the capacity to ******* without inhibitions
but during the act pull the "excess" skin back...
ergo? no need to pay back the added "luxuxury"
of circumcision with the advent of
either Judaism / Islam...
n'ah... i have my "excess" skin attached...
**** the kippah **** the payer 5 times a day...
fasting? i do that do secular reasons...

i feel sorry for the circumcised brood...
jerking off must feel rather impossible...
plus... all that sensitivity: ****! gone...
well... that's the price you pay...
i'm a free radical: while the circumcised ones attach
so much attention to: payback...
woman... wear a niqab, woman: the patriarchy...
hell... i prefer prostitutes to begin with...
clear as day... no need for dating...
i'm there for only one thing and one thing alone...
bypass all the usual chit-chat
"job interview" types, the table(?)
sure... i cook for myself, i clean the house...
now that i'm working... i'm going to have
a confidence booster... when i was really in
a state of: de profundis... no one was there...
i picked myself up... self-help par excellence...
now?              *******...

i'm going to listen to joan jett & the blackhearts
whether you like it or don't...
reading Kant, Heidegger, Kierkegaard is finally
paying off... now... now... women are starting
to take interest in me...
sure... without any additional psychopathy:
let's play...
after all: i'm not a woman... i'm not the one with
children... but hell... if i have to fill the role
of father, i'll play... i think of
the historical anomaly of ancient Rome...
how readily the men would
take up fostering... i'm likewise...
i don't care much for Darwinism's arguments
about furthering my DNA...
DNA can go **** itself...
i'm thought prior to body, firstly...
i know that's counter to what's "expected" but,
so far... the ought-i complexity has allowed
me to navigate with more freedom than
i-will could ever satiate me with...

- even though i don't believe in reincarnation...
why? what... only an elected number of actual
people... who migrate from body to body of...
the rest of the people are what? solipsists... zombies?!
reincarnation is inhumane...
but if i were... from my given names &
as a diviner of the Hebrew deity...
three names stand out...

St. Matthew... (calling of st. matthew by Caravaggio)
Konrad von Wallenrode / Konrad I of Masovia...
ha ha... who else might the third
if not Balaam?!

- it's good to have a self-deprecating sense of humour,
i never thought myself as attractive,
vaguely curious,
i would stand before the mirror
and focus on my green eyes...
my beard... oh god: me and my beard envy...
thank god i have height covered...
but beard envy? what a plague...
sort of thin in daylight...
filled up... volume excess in artificial light...

i sometimes wonder: Antichrist or... Paraclete (ref.
Jung, in his Answer to Job)....
i stopped caring... a stolen identity crisis
that began with Nietzsche in the 19th century...
Marilyn Manson... so many people
with the avatar / moniker-666 attacked...
what horrors are to be avaited,
since our present times are so bountifully
soothing?
why am i so lucky, to have so so much freedom
as to follow Voltaire's
maxim from Candide:
England isn't my home...
but the people, the things around me...
i feel implored to tend to them,
i feel implored to care for them...
there's no reason beside reason-in-itself...
i need to... it's a duty... it's a sacrifice i am willing to make...
because it would break my heart should
i be deemed slacking...
i reconfirm this attitude by shying into
ejecting a tear, or two...
this must have taken place... i must be here....
i must do this...
i must write this...
i'm insignificant compared to a heart surgeon...
but i am nonetheless unavoidable...
i can't just magically wish myself away...
i have to stand firm...
i am: feet... i am gravity...
i am: if the most allows me: the least being
the reciprocation of experience...

oh how i wish i could give up!
oh how i wish!
so many ******* idiot! so many ******* solipsists!
so many ******* eager piglets! at the trough, are we?
so many, little people, belittling people!
if i could only allow these people an inquiry
into the basic standards of expressing manners...
of inquiring into tact...
perhaps... i wouldn't have to conjure up...
a fetish for Robespierre!

no, i can't... leave these people... that's the best
you can... let one lesser psychopath come into contact
with a psychopath that might overcome them...
let us allow reality to be: as harsh as it's necessary...
people don't learn via giving them candy...
they learn... by allowing them to imagine a carrot...
then whipping them across the head with a stick...
education is not somehow formal:
education needs to be forced...

it requires someone to be erudite: however it might
be specified...
i lament... so many people circumstance
themselves as these: self-entitled pseudo-beings...
pseudo-humans... they are so self-entitled...
what shock, when they are robbed of their
status, or when their status is undermined...
what pitiful creatures, what has time allowed,
what, has, time, allowed?
what have people in their own capacity, allowed?

i wish i could be firmly cynical when looking
at man... by way of cynicism i could
fathom a work-around: a schematic...
i'm not a cynic though... i'm just hopeless...
for the time being: i'll just pretend that everything is
somehow: obliterated within the confines
of a rainbow future...

i'll keep the orchestra surrounding the sound
of falling rain to myself...
as i will keep... the sight of snow falling
in a graveyard at night: to myself...
here i am...
                        alone, aloof... blessedly content
with both circumstances; to further mould me,
while i await my exit.

- oh, **** me... i'm working a 20th & 26th shift
at Craven Cottage...
it's the 9th today... Monday's the 12th...
i'll have to see the Turk over the weekend to get
my beard trimmed!