There was a moment when he knew he had to make a decision.

He had left London that February evening on the ****** Velo Train to the South West. As the two hour journey got underway darkness had descended quickly; it was soon only his reflected face he could see in the window. He’d been rehearsing most of the afternoon so it was only now he could take out the manuscript book, its pages full of working notes on the piece he was to play the following afternoon. His I-Mind implant could have stored these but he chose to circumvent this thought-transcribing technology; there was still the physical trace on the cream-coloured paper with his mother’s propelling pencil that forever conjured up his journey from the teenage composer to the jazz musician he now was. This thought surrounded him with a certain warmth on this Friday evening train full of those returning to their country homes and distant families.

It was a difficulty he had sensed from the moment he perceived a distant gap in the flow of information streaming onto the mind page

At the outset the Mind Notation project had seemed harmless, playful in fact. He allowed himself to enter into the early experiments because he knew and trusted the research team. He got paid handsomely for his time, and later for his performance work.  It was a valuable complement to his ill-paid day-to-day work as a jazz pianist constantly touring the clubs, making occasional festival appearances with is quintet, hawking his recordings around small labels, and always ‘being available’. Mind Notation was something quite outside that traditional scene. In short periods it would have a relentless intensity about it, but it was hard to dismiss because he soon realised he had been hard-wired to different persona. Over a period of several years he was now dealing with four separate I-Mind folders, four distinct musical identities.

Tomorrow he would pull out the latest manifestation of a composer whose creative mind he had known for 10 years, playing the experimental edge of his music whilst still at college. There had been others since, but J was different, and so consistent. J never interfered; there were never decisive interventions, only an explicit confidence in his ability to interpret J’s music. There had been occasional discussion, but always loose; over coffee, a walk to a restaurant; never in the lab or at rehearsals.

In performance (and particularly when J was present) J’s own mind-thought was so rich, so wide-ranging it could have been drug-induced. Every musical inference was surrounded by such intensity and power he had had to learn to ride on it as he imagined a surfer would ride on a powerful wave. She was always there - embedded in everything J seemed to think about, everything J projected. He wondered how J could live with what seemed to him to be an obsession. Perhaps this was love, and so what he played was love like a wilderness river flowing endlessly across the mind-page.

J seemed careful when he was with her. J tried hard not to let his attentiveness, this gaze of love, allow others to enter the public folders of his I-Mind space (so full of images of her and the sounds of her light, entrancing voice). But he knew, he knew when he glanced at them together in darkened concert halls, her hand on J’s left arm stroking, gently stroking, that J’s most brilliant and affecting music flowed from this source.

He could feel the pattern of his breathing change, he shifted himself in his chair, the keyboard swam under his gaze, he was playing fast and light, playing arpeggios like falling water, a waterfall of notes, cascades of extended tonalities falling into the darkness beyond his left hand, but there it was, in twenty seconds he would have to*

It had begun quite accidentally with a lab experiment. J had for some years been researching the telematics of composing and performing by encapsulating the physical musical score onto a computer screen. The ‘moist media’ of telematics offered the performer different views of a composition, and not just the end result but the journey taken to obtain that result. From there to an interest in neuroscience had been a small step. J persuaded him to visit the lab to experience playing a duet with his own brain waves.

Wearing a sensor cap he had allowed his brainwaves to be transmitted through a BCMI to a synthesiser – as he played the piano. After a few hours he realised he could control the resultant sounds. In fact, he could control them very well. He had played with computer interaction before, but there was always a preparatory stage, hours of designing and programming, then the inevitable critical feedback of the recording or glitch in performance. He soon realised he had no patience for it and so relied on a programmer, a sonic artist as assistant, as collaborator when circumstances required it.

When J’s colleagues developed an ‘app’ for the I-Mind it meant he could receive J’s instant thoughts, but thoughts translated into virtual ‘active’ music notation, a notation that flowed across the screen of his inner eye. It was astonishing; more astonishing because J didn’t have to be physically there for it to happen: he could record I-Mind files of his thought compositions.

The reference pre-score at the top of the mind page was gradually enlarging to a point where pitches were just visible and this gap, a gap with no stave, a gap of silence, a gap with no action, a gap with repeat signs was probably 30 seconds away

In the early days (was it really just 10 years ago?) the music was delivered to him embedded in a network of experiences, locations, spiritual and philosophical ideas. J had found ways to extend the idea of the notated score to allow the performer to explore the very thoughts and techniques that made each piece – usually complete hidden from the performer. He would assemble groups of miniatures lasting no more than a couple of minutes each, each miniature carrying, as J had once told him, ‘one thought and one thought only’.  But this description only referred to the musical material because each piece was loaded with a web of associations. From the outset the music employed scales and tonalities so far away from the conventions of jazz that when he played and then extended the pieces it seemed like he was visiting a different universe; though surprisingly he had little trouble working these new and different patterns of pitches into his fingers. It was uncanny the ‘fit’.

Along with the music there was always rich, often startling images she conjured up for J’s compositions. At the beginning of their association J initiated these. He had been long been seeking ways to integrate the visual image with musical discourse. After toying with the idea of devising his own images for music he conceived the notion of computer animation of textile layers. J had discovered and then encouraged the work and vision of a young woman on the brink of what was to become recognised as a major talent. When he could he supported her artistically, revelling in the keenness of her observation of the natural world and her ability to complement what J conceived. He became her lover and she his muse; he remodelled his life and his work around her, her life and her work.

When performing the most complex of music it always seemed to him that the relative time of music and the clock time of reality met in strange conjunctions of stasis. Quite suddenly clock time became suspended and musical time enveloped reality. He found he could be thinking something quite differently from what he was playing.

Further projects followed, and as they did he realised a change had begun to occur in J’s creative rationale. He seemed to adopt different personae. Outwardly he was J. Inside his musical thought he began to invent other composers, musical avatars, complete minds with different musical and personal histories that he imagined making new work.

J had manipulated him into working on a new project that had appeared to be by a composer completely unknown to him. L was Canadian, a composer who had conceived a score that adhered to the DOGME movie production manifesto, but translated into music. The composition, the visuals, the text, the technological environment and the performance had to be conceived in realtime and in one location. A live performance meant a live ‘making’, and this meant he became involved in all aspects of the production. It became a popular and celebrated festival event with each production captured in its entirety and presented in multi-dimensional strands on the web. The viewer / listener became an editor able to move between the simultaneous creative activity, weaving his or her own ‘cut’ like some art house computer game. L never appeared in person at these ‘remakings’, but via a computer link. It was only after half a dozen performances that the thought entered his mind that L was possibly not a 24-year-old woman from Toronto complete with a lively Facebook persona.

Then, with the I-Mind, he woke up to the fact that J had already prepared musical scenarios that could take immediate advantage of this technology. A BBC Promenade Concert commission for a work for piano and orchestra provided an opportunity. J somehow persuaded Tom Service the Proms supremo to programme this new work as a collaborative composition by a team created specially for the premiere. J hid inside this team and devised a fresh persona. He also hid his new I-Mind technology from public view. The orchestra was to be self-directed but featured section leaders who, as established colleagues of J’s had already experienced his work and, sworn to secrecy, agreed to the I-Mind implant.

After the premiere there were rumours about how the extraordinary synchronicities in the play of musical sections had been achieved and there was much critical debate. J immediately withdrew the score to the BBC’s consternation. A minion in the contracts department had a most uncomfortable meeting with Mr Service and the Controller of Radio 3.

With the end of this phrase he would hit the gap  . . . what was he to do? Simply lift his hands from the keyboard? Wait for some sign from the I-Mind system to intervene? His audience might applaud thinking the piece finished? Would the immersive visuals with its  18.1 Surround Sound continue on the five screens or simply disappear?

His hands left the keyboard. The screens went white except for the two repeats signs in red facing one another. Then in the blank bar letter-by-letter this short text appeared . . .


Here Silence gathers
thoughts of you

Letters shall never
spell your grace

No melody could
describe your face

No rhythm dance
the way you move

Only Silence can
express my love

ever yours ever
yours ever yours


He then realised what the date was . . . and slowly let his hands fall to his lap.

Hey guys. This isn't truly a poem but a paper I wrote for English class. I wanted to share this view with people and this is the only vehicle I knew to use. So here it is. I hope you enjoy it.
-------------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------------------------


The amplifiers were turned up to ten. The young and fresh crowd looked at us with anticipation.

What were they waiting for? As the music began I noticed the subtle movements and growing tension in

the crowd. Men shook their heads and we shook ours in a violent duet between the crowd and

performer. Women and men flailed their limbs as they awaited the ******. We knew when it was

coming; they did not. When we decided to let it all go I witnessed something crazy! There was a brief

pause in the music and when it began again we kicked it into overdrive. We shook our heads with a

more frantic pace. We jumped about like madmen. The crowd erupted; it became its own entity. You

could feel the heat and power of this new creature. We were locked in a violent psychic-sphere of

crazed young teens and when the ****** was over there seemed to be a sense of relief and happiness

in the crowd. Had my after school hobby become a healing agent, even if only temporary, in society?

This papers purpose is an attempt at piecing together the phenomena of catharsis by merging

philosophy, psychology, history and spirituality.



First, to understand the psychology of catharsis we must think back to the roots of this behavior. Since

human life has existed we’ve formed crowds for various reasons. The first reason held the sole purpose

of protection. Tribes of people, men as hunters and women as gatherers, teamed up for the benefit of

human survival. Erich Fromm says that “the meaning of life is not to be found in its fullest unfolding but

in social service and social duties; that the development, freedom, and happiness of the individual is

subordinate or even irrelevant in comparison to the welfare of the state.”(Fromm, 1947, page 51) This

states that a crowd is actually very necessary to the function of human life. The second reason crowds

gathered was in form of revel, shamanistic healing and worship of deities (Ehrenreich, 30). Men and

woman would often enter trances, speak in tongues and become involved in a collective ecstasy while in

worship of their God. In later years, politics, entertainment and rebellion or protest was a main factor in

the gathering of people (Ehrenreich, 102). People gathered at Festivals that were in the midst of being

suppressed and would dance in mockery of their Kings or leaders.



What exactly is catharsis? Catharsis is a purging of emotional tension brought out in a crowd through

the viewing of a tragedy or tragic play. In the article “The Power of Catharsis” Kearny says the following

More specifically he (Aristotle) defined

the function of catharsis as 'purgation of pity and fear'. This comes

about, he explains, whenever the dramatic imitation of certain actions

arouses pity and fear in order to provide an outlet for pity and fear.

The recounting of experience through the formal medium of plot,

fiction or spectacle permits us to repeat the past forward so to speak.

And this very act of creative repetition allows for a certain kind of

pleasure or release. In the play of narrative re-creation we are invited

to revisit our lives — through the actions and personas of others — so

as to live them otherwise. We discover a way to give a future to

the past. (Kearny 1)

I figure that, even though he states that it is a purgation of pity and fear, it could also be involved with

many other suppressed emotions. Take my introduction for example. These kids were not releasing

pity and fear, they were releasing their angst! They were releasing their desire for competition.

They were making up for the violent feelings of agression they felt in their body that had been

suppressed by society for so long! They were revolting! Could catharsis also be used to purge other

emotions as well such as ****** suppression or communicative issues?





How would one come about actually attempting this catharsis that I speak of? We need to first look at

some ways in which people have controlled crowds in the past and realize that crowds form by

themselves but often look for leadership due to what Nietzche called that “herd mentality.”

In the article “Seducing the Crowd” by Urs Staheli it mentions that repetition is a key factor in beginning

to control the crowd. (Staheli, 69) This means that through repetition you can get the crowd to side with

your beliefs. The crowd could begin to think about what your suggesting and potentially be swayed by

the other people that are now following your ideas. It could also be repetition of body movements as

well. What better vehicle is there to sway a crowd than music? It’s repetitive in instrumental and lyrical

form!



Another way to “******” a crowd is to act like a madman! Specifically how I stumbled upon this in

the first phenomena place.

The leader himself is possessed and hypnotized by the ideas

and visions he holds, obsessed to such an extent that he cannot rationally exercise

control over the crowd. Instead, he devotes himself to fascinating the

crowd by more ecstatic means.8 He often resembles a madman but fascinates

by the mere power of his determination. What distinguishes the leader from

the rest of the crowd is his will alone, not any particular intellectual capacity

or a superior morality. (Staheli, 68)

The theory is that through mythological story telling or acting tragically and in a spectacle, we can

actually release negative emotions and potentially even heal neuroses or psychic ailments. Later in the

article he goes on to say that a shaman was actually documented to have cured a woman with a blocked

birth canal and in labor by telling her a story about a warrior trying to exit a cave that had monsters on

the outside trying to get in.

The function of a shaman is to heal his tribe. He uses drugs or plants to change his state of mind and

then by going over to the other side of reality he invokes spirits that help to heal.

In the séance, the shaman led. A sensuous panic, deliberately evoked through drugs, chants,

dancing, hurls the shaman into trance. Changed voice; convulsive movement. He acts like a

madman. These professional hysterics, chosen precisely for their psychotic leaning, were once

esteemed. They mediated between man and spirit world. Their mental travels formed the crux

of the religious life of the tribe. (Morrison 1967 pg. 71)

This shows an ecstatic crowd dancing and chanting while one man acts out a tragic spectacle. Through

this spectacle the shaman acts like a madman. This causes wild emotions within the crowd and allows it

to release their built up and suppressed emotions. Also, the dance and chants bring them to a feeling of

unity and oneness!



One may not believe in the spiritual shaman because of their own beliefs about God and religion. Some

may not believe in the other world that parallels our own.  It is a skeptical concept without a doubt and

there are probably many people who disagree with the legitimacy of the shaman. Is there a way that we

could think of the phenomena in a psychological sense rather than strictly spiritual? The answer lies in

Carl Jung’s theory of the unconscious mind and dream therapy as well as in Nietzche’s philosophy on art

and aesthetics.  



Carl Jung believed that there is a conscious mind and an unconscious mind. The conscious mind is the

everyday mind that occurs in waking life. It is rational and helps us survive. The unconscious mind can

be found in dreams or whenever you experience a déjà vu (Jung 1964 21).  He also believed that through

the study of dreams you could heal certain aspects of your psyche that have been altered by neuroses.

Symbols and archetypes make up dreams and the unconscious, and often you will find that archetypes

appear in the form  of people. Jung believes that through living in society that men and women have lost

touch with their feminine or masculine characteristics depending on their gender. Dreams can help us

get back into union with these lost roles through connecting us with our anima(female) or animus

(male) through symbols in our dreams or unconscious minds. Jung wrote that when society was

formed people took on roles and caused a dissociation in their psyche and caused a duality rather

than a unity when they suppressed one side of their mind.  He mentioned that at all times the

unconscious mind is connecting us on a psychic level.



How does this tie into shamans and catharsis? It seems like something completely different all together

right? My theory is that the shaman or crowd leader brings forth a forgotten union of the masculine and

feminine forces in the universe. Nietzche believed that there are two polar forces that are natural in this

world and in art. These forces are given the names of deities in his book “The Birth of Tragedy.”

The first is the Apollonian force that is masculine. This force in art governs form and dreams. The

Apollonian artist directly takes ideas from his dreams and brings them to life whether it is in form

sculpture or poetry. Apollo appears through an oracle often in tragedy or in visions of the waking life.

The second force is the Dionysian which is feminine. This force governs intoxication, revel and ecstasy.

Dionysian artists are improvisers and dancers and are usually tragic figures. Nietzche believed there are

three different types of artists: Apollonian, Dionysian and the fusion of both (Nietzche 1872 14). This

latter artist is what I believe the shaman is.



Through connecting these polarizing forces he fixes the psychic neuroses in his own mind. He becomes

a unified artist, or a magician of duality. The shaman, as stated above, takes drugs to intoxicate himself.

Often the drug of choice is wine or alcohol though it could be hallucinogenic drugs as well. This tied with

repetitive revel is the Dionysian side of the spectrum and also helps draw the crowd’s attention through

spectacle and repetition. Everybody is ecstatic and experiencing the collective vibrations of the crowd.

Through his intoxication he is able to go into the unconscious mind and produce dream symbols in

reality! The crowd follows the leader into this unconscious mind and brings back forgotten wisdom of

mythology and archetypes. This is the Apollonian side of the spectrum because it deals with the

unconscious mind and dream images. It also could be this “other world” that traditional shamans speak

of. Now the psychic duality is merged and a tie is formed between the masculine and feminine forces of

nature! People feel at one with themselves and the crowd and the societal suppression is vanished

briefly. All the neuroses caused by the suppression fades away in the ecstatic revel. This is the appeal of

the rock concert. Notice how many leading figures of rock bands have androgynous features and

shamanistic nature. This is because they have fixed the psychic neuroses in their own mind and become

at peace with the masculine and feminine duality of their psyche.



Stumbling upon this phenomena in my rebellious youth was very eye opening. Ever since I have been  

very excited about this theory and I’ve been trying to piece it together. It seems to be coming along

further and further in my study of this. What exactly this ancient wisdom is; I don’t entirely know. I

do know that I have witnessed this in reality and the subject is interesting and fascinating. My theory

still has a lot of work before it is completed but I think that within this article I’ve given a decent

amount of history about the topic as well as my own thoughts. Whether this phenomena is true or

not, we can leave that up to the psychologists and philosophers to decide, though I think many may

agree. Either way, catharsis surely does exist and it is a fun way of entertainment as well as a

therapeutic option for many stressed out individuals out there

There is a stage that no one sees,
built from open arms and steady smiles
The audience, the world, they notice not
The Great Performer amongst them.

He hides his puppet behind curtains,
the curtains made of little things
like silence, shame, a flinch, a tug of sleeve
its screams drowned out by applause

When the mask slips and someone looks,
when light finds what the fabric hides,
the performer straightens, bows, and keeps the act;
a gentle smile—an apology

To realize, your malice intent,
and power hungry destruction of my
most hidden and vulnerable *****...

I am relieved to be free of your
vindictive and spiteful soul;
everything about you is abrasive,
brooding and angry, vicious and ugly

That person,  so gentle and endearing
is lost, I am not so sure he even exists,
just one of your many disorderly personas

And to think of my pain,
self-mutilating thoughts and attempts
to make sense of the shock
trying to free myself from your lock of
enamoring lies. I could feel the
end when we had just sprouted,
battling my intuition with a fawn dawn heart-
with you, I finally felt full after some empty time.

But upon reflection of your undeniable misogyny,
I thank you! I could not be more thankful for you exiting my life,
the confirmation of this delusion we called love,
I am so thankful I was tricked, you see,
without honesty, I could only give you so much, and
only that much, is what you could take away from me-

Leaving behind such vitality and adventurous expression,
Charm, wits and sentiment for living
the performer in me you never could accept,
Merely shaking the strength only a woman could have.

You could never break me, although you tried-
and in that I find pity, that you feel so small
You seek power in destroying a lover
like breaking a heart is a triumph,
You are no huntsman and I am not your doe
I refuse to be your object for show

Infinity - The name of the planet where the story takes place.

Eternity - The name of the main Continent where the story takes place.

Darkness - The name of the country where the sins live.

Chaos - The capital city in the country Darkness.

Tranquility - The name of the country where the virtues live.  

Glory - The capital city in the country Tranquility.

Lust - The wife of Greed and the mother of Anger.  Lust is a ******* and a ****.  Her husband Greed is her ****.  Lust has an affair with Hatred and becomes pregnant.  She gives birth to Anger.  Lust and Envy are best friends.  

Greed - The husband of Lust, the older brother of Envy, and the step father of Anger.  Greed is Lust's ****.  Greed is a ****, corrupt politician, gangster, and a ***** businessman.  Greed is Pride's right hand man.

Hatred - The father of Anger and Cruelty.  Hatred has an affair with Lust.  She becomes pregnant and gives birth to Anger.  He also has a fling with Envy.  She becomes pregnant and gives birth to Cruelty.  Hatred rapes Love.  Hatred is a terrorist, an assassin, and a cold calculated killer.

Love - The wife of Loyalty, the mother of Kindness, and the older sister of Truth.  Love is a humanitarian and a healer.  Love is ***** by Hatred.

Loyalty - The husband of Love and the father of Kindness.  Loyalty is a soldier and a warrior.  He gets revenge on Hatred for ****** Love.

Kindness - The daughter of Love and Loyalty.  She is the niece of Truth.

Anger - The son of Lust and Hatred, the stepson of Greed, and the half brother of Cruelty.  Anger is best friends with Ignorance.

Faith - The wife of Truth and the mother of Hope.

Hope - The daughter of Faith and Truth.

Pride - The elected commander who rules over all the sins.

Cruelty - The daughter of Envy and Hatred.  She is the half sister of Anger.

Envy - The younger sister of Greed and the mother of Cruelty.  Envy has a fling with Hatred and becomes pregnant.  She gives birth to Cruelty.  Envy is best friends with Lust.

Truth - The husband of Faith, the father of Hope, and the younger brother of Love.  Truth is the uncle of Kindness.  Truth is a soldier and a warrior.  He gets revenge on Hatred for ****** Love.

D.E.A.T.H. - A terrorist organization created and operated by Hatred.  D.E.A.T.H. stands for Darkness Engulfing All Things Holy.

Knowledge - The younger brother of Understanding and Wisdom.

Understanding - The brother of Wisdom and Knowledge.  Understanding is a teacher.  He and Mercy have a romantic interest in each other.

Wisdom - The oldest brother of Knowledge and Understanding.  Wisdom is the elected commander who rules over all the virtues.

Sloth - The wife of Gluttony and the mother of Ignorance.

Gluttony - The husband of Sloth and the father of Ignorance.

Ignorance - The son of Sloth and Gluttony.  Ignorance is best friends with Anger.

S.O.U.L. -   A humanitarian organization created and operated by Love.  S.O.U.L. stands for sharing our undying love.

Grace - She's a singer, entertainer, and a a performer.

Mercy - She is a member of S.O.U.L.  Mercy is best friends with Love.  She has a romantic interest in Understanding.

Limbo - A country that's in the middle of the two countries Darkness and Tranquility.  Darkness is to the west of Limbo and Tranquility is to the east of Limbo.  The country Limbo has a river of blood running down the middle.  There is a civil war taking place in the country Limbo.

Deceit - Deceit is a master of disguise.   It is a male and and a female.  Deceit is a member of D.E.A.T.H.

Written by Keith Edward Baucum

A Close friend said "The Perfect Woman"
is much like a shark.

if I am greeted in this ocean,
by a woman
I will allow her to look at me with all primal intent.
splay my wrist open and watch her

as she smells the little turn of blood
floating now in spirals between us

I'll have done it not for the pain, or shock
but for the honesty.
to watch a creature struggling to hold onto their facade
and the tears that start to bloom in the pink
above their sharp teeth.
Look, I know sharks don't cry.
it's not about the crying,
I crave the visceral emotion.
want to give my body to the indulgence
the electric moment where
I feel them feel conflicted
with my whole body
feel their suffering and internal struggle
in my entire manic smile
tight cheeked
all eyes on them like a paid performer
or Alternatively,
I would give them all this passion,
my body in anticipation of their opening
clenching to their masks,
They Devour me.

Infinity - The name of the planet where the story takes place.

Darkness - The name of the country where the sins live.

Eternity - The name of the main continent where the story takes place.

Chaos - The capital city in the country Darkness.

Tranquility - The name of the country where the virtues live.

Glory - The capital city in the country Tranquility.

Lust - The wife of Greed and the mother of Anger.  Lust is a ******* and ****.  Her husband Greed is her ****.  Lust has an affair with Hatred and becomes pregnant.  She gives birth to Anger.  Lust and Envy are best friends.

Greed - The husband of Lust, the older brother of Envy, and the stepfather of Anger.  Greed is Lust's ****.  Greed is a ****, corrupt politician, gangster, and a ***** businessman.  Greed is Pride's right hand man.  

Hatred - The father of Anger and Cruelty.  Hatred has an affair with Lust.  She becomes pregnant and gives birth to Anger.  He also has a fling with Envy.  She becomes pregnant and gives birth to Cruelty.  Hatred rapes Love.  Hatred is a terrorist, an assassin, and a cold calculated killer.

Love - The wife of Loyalty, the mother of Kindness, and the older sister of Truth.  Love is a humanitarian and a healer.  Love is ***** by Hatred.

Loyalty - The husband of Love and the father of Kindness.  Loyalty is a solider and a warrior.  He gets revenge on Hatred for ****** Love.

Kindness - The daughter of Love and Loyalty.  She is the niece of Truth.

Anger - The son of Lust and Hatred, the stepson of Greed, and the half brother of Cruelty.  Anger is best friends with Ignorance.

Faith - The wife of Truth and the mother of Hope.

Hope - The daughter of Faith and Truth.

Pride - The elected commander of all the sins.  Pride is a priest.

Cruelty - The daughter of Envy and Hatred.  She is the half sister of Anger.

Envy - The younger sister of Greed and the mother of Cruelty.  Envy has a fling with Hatred and becomes pregnant.  She gives birth to Cruelty.  Envy is best friends with Lust.

Truth - The husband of Faith, the father of Hope, and the younger brother of Love.  Truth is the uncle of Kindness.  Truth is a soldier and a warrior.  He gets revenge on Hatred for ****** Love.  

D.E.A.T.H. - A terrorist organization created and operated by Hatred.  D.E.A.T.H. stands for Darkness Engulfing All Things Holy.

Knowledge - The younger brother of Understanding and Wisdom.

Understanding - The brother of Wisdom and Knowledge.  Understanding is a teacher.  Understanding has a romantic interest in Mercy.

Wisdom - The oldest brother of Knowledge and Understanding.  Wisdom is the elected commander of all the virtues.

Sloth - The wife of Gluttony and the mother of Ignorance.

Gluttony - The husband of Sloth and the father of Ignorance.

Ignorance - The son of Sloth and Gluttony.

S.O.U.L. - A humanitarian organization created and operated by Love.  S.O.U.L. stands for Sharing Our Undying Love.

Grace - She's a singer, entertainer, and performer.

Deceit - Deceit is a master of disguise.  It is a male and a female.  Deceit is a member of D.E.A.T.H.  

Misery - An island off the coast of Darkness.

I lap up your wetness
like a kitten its milk.
I wash my face with your moisture,
you wiggle and moan.

You swallow me whole,
like some carny performer.
Emptied, I sigh,
You lick your lips and grin.

Fukiko had woken before her accustomed time. She was alone and would have prefered to sleep, and sleep on until Narumi had lit the brazier in her room and brought tea. But she had woken, and was aware that outside the world had changed. The world, her world of Yukiguni, where the mulberry fibres for paper-making were laid out in the snow-bleached fields. Her world where men from the cities sought the kind of woman she was, a woman uncultured in the ways of geisha, but possessing a freedom no city-bred geisha could possess. She had been schooled by an aunt, was accomplished as a performer on the samisen and though her voice was thin, it held a quality of understanding, it had a fine texture, though thin. And yes, this morning a change had come over the world outside her small house that looked over Hikachi Lake, that looked towards the southern flank of the Central Mountains where during the previous day and night the snows from across the seas had fallen on the landscape. She imagined the roofs of the monastery across the lake were heavily white, and as she sought the image in her mind’s eye so the large brass bell of the temple sounded, no, it throbbed across what she knew would now be hard-frozen water.

I am floating she thought, like the snowflakes I glimpsed in the reflected lamplight when last night I opened the shutters for a moment before bed, before sleep and descent into my dreams. For days now she had been dreaming like never before. She seemed to enter a dreamstate; she would then wake purposefully; she would then fall instantly into quite a different world; over and over this seemed to happen until she found herself wondering if she was dreaming within a dream; she would become aroused, her skin glowing with the ministrations of hidden hands and fingers; she would feel that presence on her upper thighs, a kind of perspiration born of that ****** sensation that, when awake, would sometimes steel upon her.

The coming of the deep snows before spring was always a delight, an excitement carried her from childhood. The way its coming turned daily life upside down. She would enjoy choosing her very warmest garments, the bringing together of layers, her rabbit-skin mantle perhaps, a bright warm scarf over her hair, which she would not today ‘put up’ but allow to flow comfortably next to and down her back, then the hood only if the snow and the wind persisted. She could tell from the warmth of her bed that this was not so, that outside there was a stillness. Even the birds were subdued. Only the brass bell broke the stillness born of this deep snow of spring.

She heard Narumi rise, heard her **** in her chamber ***, heard her roll her bedding away, heard her bring the stove into life and fill her mistress’ brazier with the few precious coals brought across the mountains. There would be tea soon, and this young girl, appointed by her aunt to her charge, would appear to kneel beside Fukiko and give the morning blessing her mother had given Narumi since infancy. Then, she would say, ‘Madam, the snow is deep this morning. We are bound in snow today. Our path has disappeared.’ Still a child’s voice, and still a child at thirteen winters, such a slight girl. And she would retire to the warmth of the kitchen and Fukiko’s cat who was not allowed into her mistress’ presence unless requested.

Fukiko could feel the warmth from the brazier. It was as comforting as the thought of the silent snowscape outside. Gathering her cloak around her, kneeling on the covers of her bed, she held the bowl of tea in her hands, letting its warmth caress her fingers. Standing up, she stroked herself as though to bring her body awake - her flanks, the front of her thighs, her stomach, her slight *******, the long curve of her bottom and then the back of her thighs, her right hand stroking her left arm, her left arm stroking her right arm from shoulder to fingers. She was awake, and placing her feet on the cold matting found her night cloak of deepest blue with the ornamental sash of red and white. She would open the shutter and gaze out into this fresh world of snow and light.

It seemed quite miraculous that a covering of snow could so change this view across the lake to the monastery and its attendant village and then to the mountains beyond. She had once seen a woodcut of this scene, in snow, and had been mesmerised by what it revealed. Despite her status, her profession, such as it was, any ambition she might have harboured to dwell in a city, evaporated at this vista, this snow country scene. It was as though she was living in a story book where she could imagine herself as a concubine of some favoured lord, even better, a princess groomed for a fine marriage, a marriage she knew she would be unlikely to experience. There was one, a land-owner beyond Huchin whose business brought him past her domain, who, widowed and childless, had been advised to seek her presence. And she had been charmed by his shyness, his lack of experience with such as the woman she was, or thought she had to be. And it was often that she would find herself thinking of his presence, and imagining her body melting to his careful touch.

Suddenly, out on the lake figures moved. Was the hard frost of the last week really able to sustain figures on the ice? The brothers from the monastery were tentatively moving too and fro, they were suketo, skating. She would summon Narumi. Her girl should see this sight. The brothers in their crimson robes moving to and fro across the ice, their robes flowing. ‘Narumi’, Fukiko said, ‘a sight so rare. Come and look, the monks are skating.’

So Fukiko and Narumi opened wide the shutters and let in the whole landscape, the lake, the monastery, the snow-roofed village, the mountains beyond into the room. The snowlight dazzled, the hard cold air rushed into the warm room filling its very corners with an enervating freshness. Narumi knelt beside the brazier in her best purple cloak, her hair already pinned for the day, her eyes wide at the sight of these figures dancing with movement on the ice. Although cold, Fukiko would not pull herself away from this play of forms, this wholly pleasurable sight. Just below her window her camellia bushes were in bud, almost budding, their dark redness, bloodlike, enhanced by the vivid snow white. And then the bamboo, snow on the bamboo, as though carefully layered on the fragile stems and branches. This morning no wind and a period of snow falling that had laid flake upon flake upon flake giving the bamboo a wholly different form and weight and body. Its stems bent as though in supplication, as though in prayer to bless the landscape of this snow country.

One must bend
In the floating world -
Snow on bamboo

Kaga no Chivo (1701-55)

Written on 11/20/2017

That awkward moment when someone flirts with you on a dating app and says "I like that you look masculine."

You see,
I never saw masculinity as a part of me.

My identity was always flamboyant,
wearing pink shirts and sashes,
crop tops with styling gelled eyelashes,
sparkling headbands and dazzling bandannas,
snapback hats featuring giant bananas,
I dressed with the raging flamboyance of flamingos!
Sporting a certain type of femininity that only a gay man knows.

All the trimming and cutting, and shaving and nairing,
for hours,
as time and body hair intertwined in the showers,
washed masculinity off my body down the drain,
Experienced electrolysis burns, but the pain
had infected my thoughts,
like each hair is unnatural.  

Purge it all,
Scorch and torch it all,
Leave nothing at all!
No trace
of evolution's flawed attempt to grace
me with an adaptive advantage to take on the world's harsh climate.  
I admit,
this hair entangles me and strangles me,
it also oozes out of me like pimples from a pore,
a ***** to testosterone,
poor me - a victim of nature's masculinity.
What a hairy situation I've gotten myself in.

--

Femininity.
Its bestowed upon me by society.
When I sashay or say hey gurl hey,
society recognizes these things as girly and gay,
not a very masculine way to walk or talk.  

Stereotypes about *** and gender are so easily manipulated.
Like a circus performer on the tight rope,
the suspense keeps people wondering where will I fall?

But hold me under a microscope and you will see it all,
a million molecules that makeup my femininity.
I wear skinny jeans and tank tops,
then get complimented on them by dude bros,
like yo that's tight- where'd you get it boss?

I bought it in the girl's section at Ross.

My toe nails painted and displayed for public view,
flip flops emboldened with matching turquoise hues,
Femininity is worn on me like a fabulous armor plate.

--

Fast forward to a fateful date during No-Shave November.
I remember,
growing out my ****** hair for the very first time,
I wore it like a mask,
portraying a fictional character who was masc-uline.
Bathing in manliness at this masquerade.
It was through this charade,
that I grew
... temporary happiness for me from all of you.

The compliments they poured in.
My once smooth canvas of a face,
waiting to be crafted into the Mona Lisa,
had been turned into an artistic masterpiece,
'Gay Man with Amnesia',
of who he used to be.
A painting of someone society wanted,
someone whose masculinity was outwardly flaunted.
But inside, I felt taunted,
each time they complimented
me and my newfound masculinity.

--

Then, it happened on Grindr,
a gay dating app.
This masculine mishap.

A stranger's message read, "I like that you look masculine."
It sounded even stranger in my head.
Their profile description read,

"Masc 4 Masc
Masculine man seeking other masculine men to hangout with."

That's when I felt it.
My mask had made me masc.

This particularly manic morning brought me to ask
myself in the bathroom mirror,
"Who the hell am I looking at?"

In sheer terror, I teared-up,
scanned the portrait of 'Gay Man with Amnesia',
and then decided to tear it up!

I grabbed my electric razor,
grum grum grummm
as these blades grazed my face and chin,
I was offered sweet, soft, porcelain skin - my absolution.

pause

heh heh
When I came to and snapped out of the amnesia,
eager to see results of this restorative procedure,
the mirror was fogged with steam and slop.

I tried logging in to my laptop's webcam,  
for naught.  
The ****** recognition feature -- didn't recognize me
... but finally, I did.

Once again, I see the man behind the masc-ulinity.

The glamour,
the lights and flashes,
the gold and the silver,
I call it home.

Crowds filling the seats,
then the shushing,
then the quiet,
and it starts.

They watch and follow,
little prying eyes,
where your feet goes,
where your fingers glide.

After all,
I'm a performer,
and this is the stage
that I call home.

But who stays
after the velvet curtain call.
When the show is done,
who remembers?

And what is remembered?
Aside from the weary bones,
broken ribs,
and flailing arms.

Who stays?
To sit on the red seats,
in the dark,
to watch a wretched performer?

A lonely bead of sweat rolls
from his widows-peak and tumbles
down the center of his forehead.
It comes to an abrupt stop,
resting on the tip of his nose.

He doesn’t even notice - he’s too
distracted futzing with his chair.  
The bead clenched on with
all of its might and then finally
succumbing to gravity, it hits
the floor. SPLAT!  

His lips become tangled in a web
of frustration.  Gooey, white,
cotton substance evolves in the
corners of his dry mouth.  His
tongue slithers out and scoops
up the milky residue.

Purple, worm-like shapes
protrude around his
temples and forehead.
His face begins to glisten, and his
white dress shirt looks like a
wet napkin.  He’s unmercifully at
war with his chair.

Finally the chair surrenders...

He sits down, tilts his head, and
uses his right forearm as a towel
to soak up the now-noticeable beads that
are slowly working their way towards
his thick, bushy brows.

His attention turns to the stylish, black
case that lies by his side.  The audience
members shield their eyes as the
beams of the stage lights are captured by
the curves of this beautiful tomb.

Eagerness pumps through
my veins as he reaches down
and unbuckles the case, gently
removing his instrument from its vault.

Heavily antiqued with a moderate
amount of crazing, the wood grain is
perfectly marred with its perpendicular
grooves. The colors are warm with a
golden brown tint just like his skin.

He rests the violin on his
lap and leans the bow against
his right thigh.  He takes a few, deep
breaths to perfect his posture.

His belly begins to recede.

His chest puffs out.

His shoulders slightly roll back.

His spine becomes *****.

He places the violin under his chin.
With his left hand he holds the neck,
gently pressing his fingers into the
strings.  His right arm soon follows,
bringing the bow to a quick and
delicate stop a short distance below
where his fingers lie.

Suddenly everything becomes silent.

He stares over the heads of those in
the audience, not making a single
move.  He’s in a trance-like state,
like a crocodile at a river bank
patiently waiting to lunge at a
wild boar.

Then, without warning, he strikes the first note!

His body jerks forward, backward,
left-to-right, moving around in all directions,
like a crazed man trying to undue his
straightjacket. He clenches his eyes with all
his might and puckers his lips, trying to hold
in the emotions that are imprisoned, but he can’t.  
A single, victorious tear escapes from the madness.

As the music further consumes him, he plays
faster and faster. Each note takes him higher
towards the heavens. The bow pierces the hearts
of the angels and the gods, bringing them together.
Tightly gripping one another’s hands, they begin
to waltz.
  
They dance on a thick stage built from the prayers and
dreams of mankind’s wickedness.  Even the beast
from below is dancing.  An arm reaches down into
the depths and pulls him up to join the gathering.  
She grabs his hand and waist, spinning him around
until he becomes dizzy and falls backwards.  
They both laugh and begin to dance again
for all eternity.  





I lean forward and turn the ****
counterclockwise, eliminating the commercial
that follows the song he just played.  I look
over at him and tell him he’s one a hell of a
performer.  He humbly replies, “Thank you.”  
We continue to drive and listen to the radio.  
I couldn’t wait for his next performance.

Awkwardly, I made my way to the back
To listen to the lonely performer
Pour his heart out over his guitar
And over the sounds of the crowd,
Too engrossed in their conversations
To enjoy the melodies unfolding.

With every transition they applauded
Politely showing their affection
And as the performer resumed strumming,
So did the chatter of the disinterested.

The lyrics were muttled, drowned out
By the inane banter surrounding the stage
But his fingers continued to dance nimbly
From one string to the next.

And for once I was happy
To not be the center of attention.

While having a heart to heart one night,
My friend informs me that as a straight person, I will never understand what it's like to be closeted.

That there is a reason people understand the term "gay suicide" without context,
That love looked like moth wings that would flutter away or wither at touch,
That the secrets and shame are like locks on the door from the outside and you realize that there is no one out there with a key.

That same friend once asked me if I've ever thought about joining a nudist colony.
She said that the comfort I find in my own skin and my ability to separate naked bodies from beds was admirable.
I told her, there was a reason I never read her my poetry.
I told her, I don't wear make up at Wal-Mart.
That I turn off the lights but still let him love me.
I read to estranged ears.
That bareness was something I would never grow into.

"Darling!" I told her, "there are some things you just aren't meant to see."
I have been truth-or-dared to strip naked, and its not as easy as you might believe.
There is a little something that sits at the back of my mind I like to call "modesty."

Modesty can be defined as the quality or state of being unassuming or limited in the estimation of one's abilities.
"Darling," I wanted to tell her, "You have no idea what these hands are capable of."

There was a time I was proud of that.
They were small and feeble, but holding a blade firm they became strong.
They became what I needed.
My skin became less of a barrier and more of a costume. When I slipped it on, I became original.
I became identified, if only to myself.
The scabs were a serial number the First World girl who was a little too white,
a little too straight,
and a little too doubtful could call her own.

But I was a little too weak,
and a little too lonely
and had a little too much time on my hands to wrap around the knife.

They became my drug. I became a liar.

My skin became an apology for everything I thought you should blame me for.

There was a time I would have done anything to show you, but I have always been a performer.
No one ever asked to see the curtains close.  

My friend told me that I would never understand what it's like to be closeted.
That secrets and shame are like locks on the door from the outside and you realize that there is no one out there with a key.
The tally of every moment I'm locked in is a timeline of my mistakes, visible on my own skin.
There are some things you just aren't meant to see.

A stage that doesn’t perform
This is far from the norm
Center stage being alone
A voice having no speech
No audience for anyone to reach
I am spellbound from where I stand
No orchestra and other performers being the caravan
An empty dance step
Definitely no coordination being met
No timing actually being set
Silence throughout the entire theater
Being show bound without any sound
A lonely performer with no production to perform
Once again far from the norm
It’s going to be an intervention of a one show
Just follow me and feel the flow
A performer’s combination being on stage
Having confidence and feeling the performer’s own amaze
The show must go on
The performer was on stage where he belonged
Even the theater was empty with no audience and other performers
Being alone doesn’t mean the stage has no performance
Having talent also doesn’t mean it can’t be shown
A performer himself has the inspiration that grows
Despite a half-opened curtain, the performer was determined in being his own certain
A half-opened curtain means having the courage to perform regardless
Not let it be a circumstance within contest
But always be ready at one’s best.

Today we shall have the naming of parts. How the opening of that poem by Henry Reed caught his present thoughts; that banal naming of parts of a soldier’s rifle set against the delicate colours and textures of the gardens outside the lecture room. *Japonica glistening like coral  . . . branches holding their silent eloquent gestures . . . bees fumbling the flowers. It was the wrong season for this so affecting poem – the spring was not being eased as here, in quite a different garden, summer was easing itself out towards autumn, but it caught him, as a poem sometimes would.

He had taken a detour through the gardens to the studio where in half an hour his students would gather. He intended to name the very parts of rhythm and help them become aware of their personal knowledge and relationship with this most fundamental of musical elements, the most connected with the body.

He had arranged to have a percussionist in on the class, a player he admired (he had to admit) for the way this musician had dealt with a once-witnessed on-stage accident that he’d brought it into his poem sequence Lemon on Pewter. They had been in Cambridge to celebrate her birthday and just off the train had hurried their way through the bicycled streets to the college where he had once taught, and to a lunchtime concert in a theatre where he had so often performed himself.

Smash! the percussionist wipes his hands and grabs another bottle before the music escapes checking his fingers for cuts and kicking the broken glass from his feet It was a brilliant though unplanned moment we all agreed and will remember this concert always for that particular accidental smile-inducing sharp intake of breath moment when with a Fanta bottle in each hand there was a joyful hit and scrape guiro-like on the serrated edges a no-holes barred full-on sounding out of glass on glass and you just loved it when he drank the juice and fluting blew across the bottle’s mouth

And having thought himself back to those twenty-four hours in Cambridge the delights of the morning garden aflame with colour and texture were as nothing beside his vivid memory of that so precious time with her. The images and the very physical moments of that interval away and together flooded over him, and he had to stop to close his eyes because the images and moments were so very real and he was trembling . . . what was it about their love that kept doing this to him? Just this morning he had sat on the edge of his bed, and in the still darkness his imagination seemed to bring her to him, the warmth and scent of her as she slept face down into a pillow, the touch of her hair in his face as he would bend over her to kiss her ear and move his hand across the contours of her body, but without touching, a kind of air-lovers movement, a kiss of no-touch. But today, he reminded himself, we have the naming of parts . . .

He was going to tackle not just rhythm but the role of percussion. There was a week’s work here. He had just one day. And the students had one day to create a short ‘poem for percussion’ to be performed and recorded at the end of the afternoon class. In his own music he considered the element of percussion as an ever-present challenge. He had only met it by adopting a very particular strategy. He regarded its presence in a score as a kind of continuo element and thus giving the player some freedom in the choice of instruments and execution. He wanted percussion to be ‘a part’ of equal stature with the rest of the musical texture and not a series of disparate accents, emphases and colours. In other words rhythm itself was his first consideration, and all the rest followed. He thought with amusement of his son playing Vaughan-Williams The Lark Ascending and the single stroke of a triangle that constituted his percussion part. For him, so few composers could ‘do it’ with percussion. He had assembled for today a booklet of extracts of those who could: Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale (inevitably), Berio’s Cummings songs, George Perle’s Sextet, Living Toys by Tom Ades, his own Flights for violin and percussionist. He felt diffident about the latter, but he had the video of those gliders and he’d play the second movement What is the Colour of the Wind?

In the studio the percussionist and a group of student helpers were assembling the ‘kits’ they’d agreed on. The loose-limbed movements of such players always fascinated him. It was as though whatever they might be doing they were still playing – driving a car? He suddenly thought he might not take a lift from a percussionist.

On the grand piano there was, thankfully, a large pile of the special manuscript paper he favoured when writing for percussion, an A3 sheet with wider stave lines. Standing at the piano he pulled a sheet from the pile and he got out his pen. He wrote on the shiny black lid with a fluency that surprised him: a toccata-like passage based on the binary rhythms he intended to introduce to his class. He’d thought about making this piece whilst lying in bed the previous night, before sleep had taken him into a series of comforting dreams. He knew he must be careful to avoid any awkward crossings of sticks.

The music was devoid of any accents or dynamics, indeed any performance instructions. It was solely rhythm. He then composed a passage that had no rhythm, only performance instructions, dynamics, articulations such as tremolo and trills and a play of accents, but no rhythmic symbols. He then went to the photocopier in the corridor and made a batch of copies of both scores. As the machine whirred away he thought he might call her before his class began, just to hear her soft voice say ‘hello’ in that dear way she so often said it, the way that seem to melt him, and had been his undoing . . .

When his class had assembled (and the percussionist and his students had disappeared pro tem) he began immediately, and without any formal introduction, to write the first four 4-bit binary rhythms on the chalkboard, and asked them to complete it. This mystified a few but most got the idea (and by now there was a generous sharing between members of the class), so soon each student had the sixteen rhythms in front of them.

‘Label these rhythms with symbols a to p’, he said, ‘and then write out the letters of your full name. If there’s a letter there that goes beyond p create another list from q to z. You can now generate a rhythmic sequence using what mathematicians call a function-machine. Nigel would be:

x x = x     x = = =      = x x =      = x x x      x = x x

Write your rhythm out and then score it for 4 drums – two congas, two bongos.’

His notion was always to keep his class relentlessly occupied. If a student finished a task ahead of others he or she would find further instructions had appeared on the flip chart board.  Audition –in your head - these rhythms at high speed, at a really quick tempo. Now slow them right down. Experiment with shifting tempos, download a metronome app on your smart phone, score the rhythms for three clapping performers, and so on.

And soon it was performance time and the difficulties and awkwardness of the following day were forgotten as nearly everyone made it out front to perform their binary rhythmic pieces, and perform them with much laughter, but with flair and élan also. The room rang with the clapping of hands.

The percussionist appeared and after a brief introduction – in which the Fanta bottle incident was mentioned - composer and performer played together *****’s Clapping Music before a welcome break was taken.

I have two facts for you that exist in my mind -
1. I am normal
2. I do not 'feel' normal
I have never considered myself to be normal.
I knew i wasn't normal when at the age of eight after my Dad left my school hired a counsellor just for me,
and i wasn't normal how after then i was the only pupil to be from a single parent family.
I wasn't normal when just after this abandonment my body entered early puberty,
and so feeling weird didn't stay a feeling, it became a reality.
Picked on for things out of my control, i felt like a freak.
Even at the age of eight, every aspect of my identity was up for scrutiny.
I knew i wasn't normal when in secondary school i would purposely get detentions
to spend time with teachers, because the the turmoil of the school yard was a teenage no man's land.
The company of those my own age is something i will never understand.
I knew i wasn't normal when i would hesistate in conversation when someone asked me who i fancied in my class.
The name of a random boy rolled from my tongue in an attempt to not blow my cover.
I knew i wasn't normal when my tweets coming out as bi were passed around like breaking news.
When i tried to defend myself in the interrogations, teachers would sternly say to me -
'That's not appropriate to be talking about in school' like my sexuality was a hushed secret, even though the straight girls were never silenced.
I knew i wasn't normal when i had to say i was bi, when in fact this was a lie. A lie to help me pass, pass and hold on to some straight privilege.
At the age of sixteen i questionned my worth and value as a person, trying to blame myself for the treatment i was subjected to.
I knew i wasn't normal when i decided to place my emotional pain onto a physical space, then patching up the damage as a form of ironic self-care.
I left school for a college, desperately seeking freedom from the constraints of a Catholic school.
I never felt comfortable in sixth form, being there my mind felt like a spinning waltzer i was strapped to for two years.
At seventeen i knew i wasn't normal when i was prescribed the maximum dose of sertraline, then mirtazapine, venlafaxine, fluoxetine.
By this point in my life i was on a tally of maybe six counsellors and two CBT therapists.
I knew i wasn't normal when i started to blame myself for the therapy not being successful. Maybe i was just meant to be depressed.
Changing my thinking styles, emotional regulation, journalling my feelings and triggers, i knew exactly what i had to do.
I knew i wasn't normal when i clung onto certin things as comfort, like my adoration for florence and the machine.
I started to experiment, toying between wanting to fit in and wanting to be myself, painting bright eyeshadow on my lids as a vibrant mask to carry me through.
I knew i wasn't normal when i reached out to the local crisis team experiencing auditory hallicinations, hearing sounds only meant for my ears.
My emotional states are a product of my trauma, which is difficult to navigate as the world's greatest performer.
Maybe i was meant to face this internal torment, or until now i hadn't considered i could be neurodivergent.

HI DUDES AND WELCOME TO THE MOON, HERE IS MY FIRST SONG


WE DON’T NEED NO EDUCAYION, OR WE DON’T NEED KNOW DISCIPLINE

OR WE NEVER NEED PEOPLE TELLING YOU WHAT TO DO

NO, WE NEVER NEED OH NOSEREE

BUT I GOT UP, AND SANG THIS SONG SO LOUD

YEAH OH YEAH BOW BOW

ALL THE PROBLEMS IN THE SCHOOL YARD, WE NEVER NEED THUAT, NO

YOU SEE STRONG KIDS PICKING ON THE WEAK AND VONERABLE

AND FORCING THE WEAK AND VONERABLE TO BE LIKE THEM

JUST BECAUSE THEY ARE JEALOUS OF THEM

WE NEVER NEED ANY DISCIPLINE, DUDE, NEVER, NEVER, NEVER, DUDE

BUT WE NEED TO GET RID OF SCHOOL SHOOTINGS YEAH

TOO MANY DUDES ARE GETTING SHOT YEAH

WE NEED TO STOP- THAT, ONCE AND FOR ALL

BECAUSE KIDS ARE INNOCENT, REALLY INNOCENT

THEY DON’T DESERVE TO BE KILLED

YOU CAN’T REFORM THESE SCHOOL SHOOTERS, OH NO

YOU CAN’T REFORM OH NOSEREE, YOU CAN NEVER REFORM THEM NO

SO THE DISCIPLINE, IS MIGHTY BIG IN SCHOOLS

WE NEED TO MAKE KIDS UNDERSTAND, THAT THIS KIND OF DISCIPLINE IS TO PROTECT THEM

LIKE THE SOUND OF THE GUN, IS TO PROTECT PEOPLE, YEAH YOUR NOT READY

FOR THIS WORLD YET, SO GO TO YOUR NEXT WORLD

AND LOVE LIFE, OVER THERE

AND NOW HERE IS DUNCAN

I WOULD LOVR TO HAVE A BEER WITH DUNCAN

I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A BEER WITH DUNC

WE DRINK IN MODERATION

AND WE NEVER NEVER NEVER EVER GET ROLLING DRUNK
\
WE DRINK IN THE TOWN AND COUNTRY

WHERE THE ATMOSPHERE IS GREAT

I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A BEER WITH DUNCAN

CAUSE HE IS MY MATE

I HATE HEARING MY MATE, YEAH I HATE HEARING HIM YEAH

I HATE BEING TOLD THAT ME AND MY BRO AIN’T LIKE US

IN EVERY STRETCH OF THE IMAGINATION

I HATE MY MATE, TRYING TO GET ME TO BE A WILD COOL BOY, OH YEAH

I JUST WANT TO SIT IN MY CHAIR, AND DO MY ART AND WRITING AND GIVE FEEDBACK TO YOUTUBE YA SEE

I HATE HIM SAYING I AM LIKE HIM, HE IS A CRAZY ******* OH YEAH

HE SAYS WHEN I GO TO THE SPORT TRYING TO BE LIKE US ARE WE

I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN INTO SPORT OH YEAHJ

AND IF I SAY, I AM INTO THE ARTS, I MEAN I WATCH YOUTUBE WHILEST DOING MY TAPESTRY

I AM NOT A SHY PERSON, WHO DOES WHAT THE COOL KIDS USED TO DO

NO, I DO WHAT I WANNA DO, AND NOT WORRY ABOUT THE COOL KIDS ARE DOING

IF THEY SAY I AM SQUARE, THEY ARE JUST JEALOUS OF MY TALENT AND POWER

I DON[’T WHAT I FEEL, I DO WHAT I WANT, IF I FEEL LIKE I DON[’T WANNA DO IT

I WILL PUSH MYSELF, CAUSE MY SHY MAN IS COMING, BUT THAT IS DAD

TRYING TO EXPLAIN THAT I AM THE SHYPERSON, BUT I AM THE ARTIST WRITER AND YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER

A SHYPERSON IS A STUPID WORD, NO I AM A WRITER AND A ARTIST AND A YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER

THERE IS ONE VOICE BY PATRICK SAYING, BRIAN’S GETTING TEASED

BUT I AM NOT INTO TEASING, BULLYING, FIGHTING, NO NEVER FOR ME

I AM INTIO HAVING FUN, YA KNOW, I USED TO BE A LITTLE SHY BOY, OR A LITTLE YOUNG DUDE

WHO APPEARED TOO SHY TO GO TO BED, WELL, I AM STILL NOT GOING TO BED

AND YOU CAN SHOVE GO TE BED BABY GO TO BED BABY GO TO BED BABY GO TO BED BABY

GO TO BED BABY, YOU NEED YOUR SLEEP, YEAH, BETTER THAN SITTING ON YA CHAIR LIKE A MAN

GO TO BED BABY, YOU AREN’T LIKE US NO, I AM HAPPY SITTING THERE DOING MY ART, SITTING RIGHT HERE

YA SEE, I DON’T LOOK AT ME LEGS IN THAT WAY, THIS IS MY WAY OF GETTING REFORMED

I HATE GOING TO BED, SON, LEAVE ME ALONE, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

I WANT TO BE FAMOUS, SO I PRACTICE ON YOUTUBE, I WANT TO AN ARTIST, SO I DO MY TAPESTRIES SITTING ON THE COUCH

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR PAT’S VOICE, OH NO, OF HIM TREATING ME LIKE A LITTLE YEAH MATE YEAH KID, OH NO

I KNOW THE WORLD, WOULD LIKE WHAT I DO, I AM NO SHY PERSON, SO LEAVE ME ALONE

I LIKE PATRICK, BUT I HATE HIS VOICE IN MY HEAD TELLING ME TO GO TO BED, I AM

ONE PERSON WHO DOESN’T LIKE GOING TO BED, I FALL ASLEEP ON THE COUCH, BUDDY

AND I GO TO ATHENA EVERY NIGHT, SHE WORKS ON MY TEETH, AND IT’S MORE PAINFUL IN WAYS

BUT IT WORKS FOR ME, HE SAYS GO TO BED BABY, GO TO BED BABY, I KNOW I AM A BABY

TOO COOL TO GO TO BED, I LOVE COMPUTERS, THEY ARE THE NEXT GENERATION

PAT HATES COMPUTERS, I DON’T CARE, I LIKE COMPUTERS, CAUSE THEY ARE THE NEXT GENERATION

ME AND PATRICK ARE DIFFERENT, BRIAN LOVES COMPUTERS, PAT HATES COMPUTERS

BRIAN IS WILLING TO WRITE STUFF OUT OF HIM, PAT, IS HAPPY BEING A WATCHER

BRIAN WILL ALWAYS BE A DOER, WATCH AAA YOUTUBE TV, LOOK AT MY ART ON ART COLONY

WATCH AARON CLAYTON AND READ WRITER JOE’S STUFF ON WRITERS CAFE

YA SEE BRIAN IS ON THE COMPUTER’S INTERNET IN A BIG WAY

I HAVE MANY MATES ON FACEBOOK AND TWITTER, AND I DO GET VIEWS ON YOUTUBE

CAUSE I AM FAMOUS, NOW PAT, I STILL LIKE YOU, PATRICK, BUT I CAN’T SHARE MY VIEWS ON COMPUTERS

IT’S EASY TO WRITE STUFF OUT OF YA, I AM NOT TOO WOOSEY FOR THAT

I NEED TO DO THIS, SO I DON’T LOOK AT KIDS LEGS, SO KIDS DON’T FEEL INSECURE.I LIKE KIDS I LIKE KIDS

I CAN WRITE STORIES, IT’S NOT TOO HARD, I AM ON THE MOON SAYING

I WISH I HAD A MONEY TREE, FROM THE INTERNET, AND GO TO THE COMPUTER AND TEAR SOME MONEY

OFF THE INTERNET, TO MY BANK ACCOUNT, THAT’LL BE SO COOL

PATRICK IS TREATING ME LIKE A SHY BOY, I HATED PEOPLE SAYING, I AM TOO SHY TO BE LIKEB THEM

I AM TOO COOL TO BE LIKE THEM

I AM A WRITER

I AM AN ARTIST

I AM A YOUTUBE, PARTNER, PERFORMER, AND AN ENTERTAINER

I AM BETTER THAN THE PEOPLE IN MY VOICES
\
I HATE BEING LABELLED A RICH **** OR A **** IN EVERY SHAPE OR FORM

ALL BECAUSE I AM ON THE COPMUTER BIG TIME

HERE IS A SONG

GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA

SAID THE MONKEY\ TO THE CHIMP

GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA

SAID THE CHIMP BACK TO THE MONKEY

GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA

SAID THE MONKEY TO THE CHIMP

AND THE MONKEY SAID TO THE CHIMP

MATE, YOU ARE A WIMP

AND THE MONKEY SAID TO THE CHIMP

MATEM YOU ARE A WIMP

YA SEE PATRICK DOESN’T WANT TO HASSLE ME FOR WHAT I SAY

HE LIKES ME, FOR I AM COOL

I DON’T WANT TO WHAT I USED TO DO, I DO WHAT I WANNA DO

I DON’T WANT PEOPLE MUCKING WITH ME LIKE THEY USED TO MUCK WITH ME

CAUSE I AM A FAMILY PERSON, BUDDY

I HATE MY VOICES OF PAT IN MY HEAD SAYING, ONLY FAMILY PEOPLE DO THIS OB BRIAN

I SAY, YEAH I AM A FAMILY PERSON, THEM PAT SAYS I AM NOT YA DADDY

AND THEN SAYS GO TO BED, BABY, I SAID, NEH, MY BED IS MY CHAIR

AND MY CHAIR IS WHERE I SIT AND DO ART

SO, STOP TREATING ME LIKE AN OLD BIDDY, I AM A CREATIVE YOUNG DUDE

I AM NOT FUCKEN SHY, BUDDY OLE BOY OLE PAL

(added) Prologue: "we'll get the baron, i swear. the ratings will go through the roof..." nick spoke nervously into the phone he held in his good hand. the other rested at his side, burned beyond use. one of the commandos whispered in his ear. "sir, we have his location.... yes... yes sir..." he hung up the phone and turned to the commando, "scramble the troops, we're going hunting..."


"N-no... not this again..."  Baronyx muttered in his sleep. "I wont... i wont do it..." it was the same nightmare that had plagued him for years. he was what the Two-legs called an Exotic, one of the few hundred dragons left in the world, and a showpeice for the high paying two-legs.
Baronyx had been captured once and forced into slavery as a circus act and performer for many years before he escaped and burned an entire city with his fiery wrath, killing some ten thousand two-legs in his path and sending a message, "don't cage a dragon..." ever since he had been plagued with nightmares of his experiences while enslaved. "stop... No!" he ****** awake and roared in fear. the full moon's light shone on his sapphire scales and temporarily blinded him until his green slit-eyes adjusted. his mate, a green scaled dragoness named Lyra licked his cheek and put a comforting claw around on his shoulder, "its the dreams again, isnt it ***?" Baronyx nodded and stared outside of their cave den.
He glanced over his shoulder at his daughter, Tali, her young yellow scales getting a tinge of green. Baronyx sighed and said, "she's growing so fast... she'll have your scales..."
Lyra looked as well, "and she'll have your eyes, baron." they watched their child sleep a moment longer before Baronyx stood and stepped outside the den. "i'll be right back." lyra nodded and lay back down with her eyes closed. he spread his wings and with a powerful downstroke took flight. Baronyx closed his eyes and glided into the wind currents and to the cliffside where he went to clear his mind and sort out his thoughts. his claws clicked across the hard rock as he landed and tapped rhythmically as he walked to the edge of the cliff and hung his claws off the side. a wild wolf howled in the distance somewhere behind him. something in the air was different tonight and Baronyx felt uneasy. he lay his head down and snoozed for a while, oblivious of what was happening at his den.
- - -
Tali screamed as
Two-legs with metal-spitters swarmed the den and threw heavy nets over her and her mother. "ma! ma! whats going on?!"
"tali! just stay calm.. just stay calm." Lyra roared in protest as the two legs brought lightning-sticks and began prodding at them. "don't you dare touch my daughter you *******!" she shouted even though she knew they wouldnt understand her. to her surprise though, one two leg stepped forward and said, "we won't touch you or your daughter if you tell us where the Baron is."
"i'll never tell you, monster."
the white man chuckled, "from my point of view, you're the monster. and you'll be a wonderful addition to the show..."
- - -
Baronyx heard tali's scream echo In the dark forest surrounding the cliffside. "No!" his roar resonated farther than tali's scream.
at the den a few moments before, the two-legs had caged Tali and Lyra and had set about stabbing at lyra with the shock-prods hoping to draw Baronyx back to the cave. Lyra kept her cries quiet and had refused to satisfy their wishes. the two-leg in charge snarled. "Enough... last chance, dragon. Tell me where he is!"
lyra growled at him, "i'll tell you nothing, worm."
"fine, suit yourself." the man turned his back to her. "lets see if you're daughter has the same resolve, shall we?"
"no! don't touch her!"
"i'm afraid its quite too late for that, dragon."
"tali i'm sorry!"
he turned to Tali and jabbed her in the side with a shock ****. tali groaned and gritted her teeth but did not scream for the man.
she growled at him said, "that tickled." tali grinned at the man with her sharp fangs fully exposed.
the man glared for a moment and then smiled cruelly.
"temporary pain doesnt have an effect on you... maybe something more... permenant will bring him to me. bring the iron!"
two-legs carried a white hot brand in the shape of a greek Omega. the man pointed to tali and said, "on her throat. make it burn."
more two-legs had muzzled lyra to keep her from screaming. the iron cut into tali's scales and burned into the flesh underneath, forcing tali to scream as loud as she could, even after the iron had been taken away. she collapsed on the ground and the tears spilled over her eyes as she continued to scream.
they heard a roar passing over them all as Baronyx rushed back to the den.
"well done, everyone. the prize is near. get your guns ready but DO NOT FIRE!"
* *
baronyx flew faster than he ever had before. he growled  as he swooped down toward his den and saw the two-legs. he screeched in protest as cables wrapped around his wings and limbs. forcing him hard into the ground. "Nick you *******!"
the white man grinned, "so we finally meet
Again, baron. and you have a nice little family i can use to my advantage now."
baronyx looked at tali and Lyra and loosed a mournful moan deep in his throat. "what do you want, nick?"
the man stepped forward and replied, "i want you, back in my show, just like old times. or i'll torture your mate AND this lovely little child of yours. sound like a deal?"
baronyx shut his eyes and nodded as a tear trailed down his cheek. "just know... when i get out, everything will burn... just like old times..."
(add on 1)
The white man and the other two-legs shackled Baronyx and his family with heavy chains and electric collars that would shock them randomly. they were put on a train car headed east and the collars were taken off. Baronyx immediately examined Tali's neck, the brand already scarring over in a whitish pink Omega. tali's voice was hoarse and tears came to her eyes. she buried her head into her father's chest. "i'm so sorry tali, lyra... this is my fault.." the family embraced as they knew there would likely be very little contact with each other after the train stopped.
the train traveled a little while longer and the family shakily said  their goodbyes as the air brakes hissed violently. the doors shrieked open and they were met by Nick. immediately. baronyx pounced on top of him and roared. they stared eye to eye for a moment before they heard the clicking of the two-legs metal spitters. baronyx kept his eyes on Nick and said quietly, "touch her again... touch EITHER of them... and
I swear, no amount of metal spitters or electricity will stop me from hunting you down and tearing off your head."
as baronyx stepped back, nick stood up and replied, "i won't harm either of them, hell, i'll give them whatever they want, as long as you do as you are told, Baronyx."
baronyx thought this over and after a few moments said, "i have one more condition, i want full access to them. whenever i choose."
nick chuckled a bit, "we'll see... we'll see... it all depends on how you perform."
baronyx nodded. "then lets get this over with..." the white man beckoned some two-legs to lead Tali and Lyra to the cages inside the massive pavilion that stood before them. two of the men brought the brand again and put the Omega on Baronyx's throat much like they had done with tali. he gritted his teeth and let the tears come but did not cry out or roar. when the pain had subsided, he asked nick, "when do i start?"
nick looked up at him with a sinister twinkle in his eyes, "right now."
*
Nick and a handful of two-legs escorted baronyx back onto the train, but not the same traincar. this one was blue and had ornate gold lettering on each side. once baronyx was inside, a string of lights came on and he saw his old armor plates each polished and the dents pounded out. he took his helm and stared into his reflection.  "i swore i'd never touch this stuff again..."
an intercom system beeped above him and nick's voice filled the car. "Baron, you have five minutes to suit up. the game starts as soon as we arrive."
baronyx sighed and donned the cold armor one peice at a time. he looked into the mirror on the wall and turned away in disgust.
"for tali and lyra..." there were a few peices left, the ones he never wanted to see again, they were sharp talons that fit over his claws. in the show, he had to use these to **** his opponent. nick's voice came over the intercom again, "arriving at the arena now, the press is fired up for your return, baron. DON'T disappoint them."
Baronyx growled and said a silent prayer for his family. the train screeched to a halt and the door opened. baronyx stepped out onto a black carpet and was assaulted by blinding camera flashes and the deafening roar of the crowding two-legs. over the crowd, an announcer shouted, "Its the Baron! he's back and looks better than ever!"
baronyx kept walking until nick stopped him for the game briefing. "you'll be going up against a group of wyverns, so you should have no problem killing them." the wyverns far outnumbered the dragons, wyverns being the dragons' slightly smaller, less intelligent cousins.
nick began walking away when baronyx asked, "what do they get if i win?"
nick turned, "they?"
baronyx bared his fangs. "my family. what do they get in return for my win?"
nick thought this over for a moment before replying, "they will eat, sleep, and live in their own hovel. and depending on your performance i'll let you stay with them."
baronyx growled, "then lets get this over with."
*
Baronyx was led to the arena doors and he waited patiently for his introduction and call to the game. he looked around at the all too familiar sights, the fight screens, the scoreboard, and the dim light that would signal his entry into the arena. it would be a few minutes before the match and in the meantime, he thought of all his old strategies and gameplans. "i wonder if tali and lyra will be watching..."
nick came out of the shadows and said, "remember, their future depends on what happens next."
the light turned green and the doors opened, spilling light into the room. when baronyx's eyes adjusted, he saw the all too familiar sight of the ****** arena, mangled corpses being dragged away from the last battle. "the baron! he'll be going up against seven wyverns from the northwest territories." baronyx roared as loud as he could as he stormed into the arena. the wyverns on the other side cowered for a moment before charging him. the first one lunged at him and was caught in his
Claws. baronyx looked into the wyverns eyes and saw the fear, the terror of a beast facing his own demise. "for them..." baronyx tore the wyvern's throat out with his claws and threw the body at the next assailant, bowling him over.
the next wyvern was impaled by baronyx's tail and tossed aside to bleed out on the ground while he set about killing the others in various other ways. when the bodies stopped twitching, baronyx's armor was coated in blood. the crowd was silent and he became worried. he looked to the trainer's balcony and spotted nick, who gave a subtle nod of approval. baronyx looked at the timer: one minute seventeen seconds. it was a new record, the shortest match in history. the crowd roared and applauded long after he was led out of the arena. "an amazing, record setting performance by the returning champion, the Baron!"
baronyx was met by the press' cameras outside the arena. Nick's two-legs stripped the ****** armor and allowed him some room to move around.
The camera flashes continued to blind baronyx but his mind was elsewhere. nick finally showed up to answer the press's questions, while baronyx glared at the group of reporters. after an hour of questions and his agitation reached its breaking point, baronyx growled at the reporters, silencing them. when they didn't move, he bared his fangs and roared, forcing them to make hasty retreats and fleeing the conference. once they were gone, nick turned to baronyx and sighed, "thanks. i thought they'd never leave..."
baronyx stared down at him. "we had a deal."
"so we did. and for that breathtaking performance, you will stay with your family in their hovel."
baronyx started walking towards the train, "then i have to go."
*

The man in galoshes with the world on his back,
strolls along the broken track.
Weather beaten,
Fighting the rain.
It's lashing him.
He's tied to the kerb.
Anchored only by the weighty boots on his feet.

He's out there fair weather or foul.
Desperate to keep his public happy,
With a timely siren,
the arrival of an infants birth.
He is the performer up the garden path.
At least the rain's outside again.
So is he poor sod.
The postman, nearly demi-god,
or nearly dead.
He's tramping through the rain and the snow.
He had to let you know,
you know.
The latest news and hot reviews,
a little bit of useless information.
There's nothing better than a letter,
unless it's from the revenue.

Our fair weather friend he has so many uses.
A warrior, he fights wild dogs.
He's churning up the grass,
his only means of escape.
He's wearing an orange hat,
it's curled up at the edges.
He uses it to fight the rain.
The orange hat so luminous,
he's looking rather fruity.
He's forlorn and in pieces,
because he's getting washed away,
He has one every morning in his place,
each and every day.
Stacks and stacks of bits of paper,
Life and death wrapped up in his sack.
(C) Livvi

I realized I was definitely
Capable of loving more than one person
As I stood ****** in a bar
Positioned at a table between
My partner and my ex-fiance
My ex and I had gotten food beforehand
My first time seeing them in a year and a half
And I swore to everyone that it wasn't gay
I believed it too for awhile
Up until they said they didn't want kids
Which was part of my own logic used
To explain our incompatibility
Hearing their stories made my heart ache
All of the things I'd missed in their life
All the things they missed in mine
Then that night at the bar
When a performer was called on stage
My ex mentioned that she was my favorite
A small fact I didn't think they'd remember
Yet it carried such a significant feeling
That left my heart heavy and fractured
And when my partner looked at me I felt guilty
They must be able to see it
To sense it
These residual feelings
That I swore were not there and were
Definitely not gay
And while lost in my mind
My ex looked at me and asked if I was ok
They could still see me
I wanted to run away
My mind kept screaming for an escape
And yet I also heard a whispered voice
Reminding me that this time with them
Would be the last quality time I'd have
Before we returned to being strangers
So I shouldn't waste it
Because as much as I crave their friendship
I know in my heart it'd never work
Friends would never be the word
It's always been and
Probably always would be
Something much more than that
So I'll let it go
I'll let myself mourn these feelings
Despite the dreadful pain of it all
Because we all deserve to be happy
And by giving up this ill-fated dream
I know one day I can be

Memorized by a vacant lot. At the edge of an abyss. Darkness is solitude. Solitude for a crowded my mind. There is no break for a mind. Constantly crunching away at what is reality. The concept of nothingness makes the mind clock overtime. Are we creatures of logical limitless. Or finite beings who cant grasp that nothing is infinite. We are here to observe. To learn. To yearn. In search of a purpose. In search of anything that keeps us from thinking we are worthless. We are creators. We are makers. We are breakers. We are fakers. We are individuals. We are imitators. I am you and you are me. One in the same. On an even plane.. on a round earth. We are haters. We are lovers. We are creatures of similarity. We are creatures of contrast. Idiosyncratic nuances that make us a so far apart but so alike. The performer with a mic. The crazy man on a soap box. The angry in jail. The stoners in a hotbox. The gated community members. And the thieves breaking pad locks. The rich and the poor. The nun and the *****. The killer and the doctor. The lover and the boxer. All so far apart yet always united with a common theme. One in the same. He is her and she is him. Cell by cell. Limb by limb. United until every atom that we were connected through is torn away into nothingness. Vacant lots at the edge of an abyss.

Vernarth says: "Give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!"

Wonthelimar from the Boedromion brought the arrows that Zefian brought, they brought the sleeping bodies of winter to the lap of the spring Boedromion, crossing the lines from spring to winter in the cycle that went directly to the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar. Were they discreet detached arrows that he had thrown into the sky and did not return? but if in the rooms, and in the animalism stages that made the duty of rejoicing at the ****** of the Telesterion.  Wonthelimar being once more re-looted, before starting the works of the temple of the Megaron Áullos Kósmos, he returns to the cavern of Chauvet Wonthelimar. It distanced itself from the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points of the zenith, starting with the first two arrows that are placed in the bowstring, each one belonging to trajectories from north to south and the other two that were again violated with the arc of the stormy East, to launch the arrows from east-west with limits of southern magnetism. He carried in his belongings "The Iberian Rings", which would be the migration to the cardinals and points where the Megaron of Vernarth would be exactly, arguing that the phalanges of Zefian would be ordered in Syntropia and organic chaos in Patmos, Pythagorean proportions would be made, in essences of numbers that idly advanced in the temporal steps of Wonthelimar that mobile became of religious arrows and of the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar, to help him with the most insightful points of the Constellation of Capricornus.  Zefian's tendency was one of evident delight after the bowstring being pulled, for phantasmagoric existence; presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for late courts imposed from a cosmos, which was directed by committing itself to its will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating to associate with hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychology of the dreaded in-between-tale alive that boils back in the arrows that had not yet fallen, and did not know their whereabouts. Like plates or serial hosts that were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the Duoverso contravened organic, vigorous and in anti-scorch to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in eonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities to vast volumes of light-years.

From the medrones that grow in the Nyons massifs, the Seven Ibic Rings were established.

Ibic 1: "The first was from the initiation of Wonthelimar and brought purity, for all who needed him and were visiting in the dark, and then he would find the light when he left the cave alive if he was accepted."
Ibic 2:” He was guided by Vlad Strigoi in the priesthood center on his shelves with the Chiroptera, and in excess of the mercurial ambrosia for the purpose of energizing the Tsambika Cinnabar.  Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of Antiphon Benedicts”.
Ibic 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated for healings of the tormented initiatory processes of raising the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron."
Ibic 4: “This ring was from the antlers of Wonthelimar, here they wore the oikos or threads of Gold from Orphi, for the Himation and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a complement to Mycenae- Aldaine ”.
Ibic 5: "This piece of metal speaks of the fifth plasmic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to elevate it to Vernarth's neurological and Duoversal hyper brain twinned to the Mashiach."
Ibic 6: "It is the sixth piece of crowns of Kafersesuh, bringing the pollinations of the Lepidoptera, for the central stage of the investiture under the gloom of Hellenika and Theoskepasti."
Ibic 7: “It is the grave voice of the Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus, together with the Lenten fast of all the hoarse voices, which inquire about the true phoneme and photon of divine mass light, to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will go up in synchrony through the final growth medron, up to the millimeter shoulder of the square meters assembly, which will illustrate the Megaron´s Acrotera  "

Ellipsis - Parapsychological Regression Marielle Quentinnais year of the Lord 1617

Wonthelimar was transmigrating to Chauvet, but the Pontias wind carried him from Nyons to Avignon, encountering filigree by Raymond Bragasse; a Former Dominican priest of Cathar descent. He always drenched himself in the estuaries of the Rhone, which came from the Saint Gotthard massif; being master and lord of dreams and of the breaking curses of the despicable administrators of the house of God, and of the Antipopes in Avignon.
Wonthelimar heard voices from some parapets babbling in the parapsychological regression of Vetnarth, on August 4, 1617, when Klauss Ritkke was found cleaning the main stained glass window; he heard heated dialogues between a Friar and a Gentleman, who was once an assistant to the clergy. Klauss could come closer and hear his conversation more clearly, until Friar Andrés, muttering, demanded indulgence from Raymond Bragasse, one or the other.

Raymond Bragasse Says: “My lord Wonthelimar; what grace has brought us together here in the middle of the Pontias, between hopes and reforms!”

Wonthelimar responds: "Your flight is a spell of the grace of André Panguiette, who will find us again. How many times with hope I fought to reform you Raymond... Oh Virga ac Diadema  sed Diabolus...!! Oh, ****** the devil smiled...!!

Raymond replies: “It is a major question to live if in something I have failed, take me to the sulfurous emanations of Hell. But my faith lies moldy at the bottom of the sea, a sacred myth of my truth..., and of my beloved Marielle...! There are fifteen thousand demons that possess my body... fifteen thousand demons for attacking the sacred mystery of the Holy Rosary...! Marielle was my light, my Edenic Eve, an admirable land. Now, she is my spell, my stubbornness or my constant sharp bleeding, without knowing where it has to pass...? I still remember that night, that gloomy night, renouncing my final vows of faith and the consecration of my soul. I broke my ties and ecclesiastical chores, all for Marielle, a noble descendant of the Quentinnais. I would never believe such regret in my destiny. I did love her, but her misfortune knew me. When I approached the edge of her house that night, I entered through the kitchen window. All were asleep, except for the albiceleste reflection of the last death throes of the deadly round of Quentinnais Mansion. I was thinking of rescuing her and saving something from those cheeks kissed by me, but her heart disease dried up his heart and her lungs. It is still possible to recall the last roses that I brought into her hands, they danced with her along with the hymn and the old dirge of the sleight of hand made by the monk, along with the cartomancy plays settling the minute of taking her into darkness, with her beautiful bare feet. What a pain, I could not rescue her from her, and death was dispossessing her! Her parents hated the mere fact of having her heart ruled by an impious priest, so I turned to the pagan and dark gods, to heal Marielle, and her heart to transplant it for mine. Since that day, I continue to burn in a polysatanic hell, to take out the little breath of goodness, and seize the transparent liquids that plague her existence and her serene metallic Diadem..."

Friar André Panguiette upon learning that his great friend possessed by the Devil would fall into some endemic evil infection...; Evil endemic to his love, he crossed himself when he saw that he became a horrible being. The jumbled leaves in the garden were transformed into Bible sheets torn from their bindings and fillings, the wrinkled ***** Saints slid down their columns, the sky proclaimed hemorrhages and the wind oozed foul gases, which in the firmament sprouted in clots of clots on the Papal House of Avignon. Fray Andrés, threw the rosary on the neck of the possessed person, and asked the Demons who were they most afraid of...? The demons answered this question, screaming and falling vertically down the central nave... they went down and flew!

Wonthelimar induces: “From that moment, you and Marielle would cross their gazes closely and love each other. In the following minutes of Pentecost, the two of them went alone to sit on the bench on the banks of the blessed wind that caressed their profiles, as if plotting to unite one with the other. Raymond effusively kissed her; he drew her to him, believing he sensed an eventual and sacrilegious separation from her. This is how it happened when François Quentinnais surprised them...:

François Quentinnais: With this example, you have provoked my anger Marielle...! Hundreds of men like me would react like this when they saw my daughter in the arms of whom until recently, she was hugging God!

Marielle: Father, I beg you for mercy, Raymond of precept sent a letter renouncing his vows!

When the soul of Marielle was entrusted, Raymond escaped seconds before shattered, he did not tolerate the nonexistence of Marielle; vegetating rotten grass of the estuary, emerald swallowed by fire. In a purely inorganic state, Raymond walked away from the mansion, walked through the leaden mountains, and on the cruise he walked through the walnut trees in whose scarlet pods the intense cold of the esplanade howled. The almond trees cracked a baritone muezzin, which one day he wanted to go there, but could never reach the east. His beard reddened, his nails were like ram's horns, and his also reddish hair at the ends of it had black tulips. His clothes turned gray just like his eyebrows, and his breath smelled of nurse sewers of the black plague, the dry flow of his voice announced monosyllables, thus he purged his pain from town to town, from house to house, everyone quarreled with him, and then they were exasperated by kicking him out. Until in June 1617, caravans of people started from the southern town of Avignon, escaping the flames of angry soldiers of the crusades. The fleeting townspeople carried on their banners the inscription... INRI. On the other side, they carried the cross and a colorful coat of arms that in the lower corner said Siccidemy. Then, there Raymond opened his bruised eyes, unable to contain the recovered memory of him, between gunshots, screams, sobs, and screams, the hundreds of steps that were heard around him, led him to tear and save his life. In an instant of stillness, he found himself surrounded by people until one of them took him into his arms to hydrate his mouth. We are Albigensian, and you... Who are you?

Raymond replied: “I fled in search of a miracle that could save a beloved being. I used to call myself Raymond, now I don't know what name to go by. I fled, but I had to face the situation, even having acted behind the back of the Church”. An Albigensian says: “The clergy have also believed that our sect has acted behind the back of the Church. However, his powers and his government have registered absolutism within Christendom”. Another Albigensian says; “We seek the establishment of ancient Christianity, we deny the existence of purgatory, the importance of rituals, clerical organizations and the possession of goods by the clergy. And for this reason, we have been expelled from our lands, from our homes, our children have paid for the Sacred Inquisition, in the hands of those who one day... baptized with blessed water”.

It was on June 18, 1617, the Albigensian fugitives were besieged in Montlimar. The Argentine crosses gleamed like dogs eager to bite the enemy. The open-minded Albigensians gathered together with Luzbel, who floated on a calypsigenic cloud. Raymond and the others piled up essences in the fuels to start the pact, after this event François Quentinnais answered negatively, and strongly took her daughter by her hand, pulling her sharply to the float. The horses slip their hooves before the sloping pastures carpeted by tiny Calypso flowers; the mayoral pressed his thin lips, also raising his shoulders, so as not to hear the despotic cries of Monsieur François. As for Reverend Raymond, he could be seen crying silently, accompanied by late halos of the luminosity of the final and sad day. Sorrows and regrets dislodged his bones that underwent violent arthrosis, populating his body in a sedentary lifestyle and irritation. I myself say Wonthelimar, I am the one who carries Marielle's love in me, I am your Raymond. Remember that night that...: "When the monk retired to pray, you stormed the bedroom, and uttered Marielle..., Marielle:," wake up, in vain I fear to leave without your divine voice. Marielle, what do you have...? I don't think your father's impure will blind your eyes to not see me, or he ripped your sweet voice to not name me...? ".

The Albigenses resigned to the spell, their adherents had largely been reduced, only ten or twelve remained. That later they fled from Montelimar escaping to the west, crossing the enchanted Rhone. The Siccidemy troops mutilated the last demonized Albigensians; nothing would help for their lives, everyone would bleed except the group that fled with Raymond. For several days they wandered the Cevennes plateau, provisioned themselves in Montpellier, and arrived in Carcassonne on July 20, 1617. Little could they remain here, since the congregation of Santo Domingo, without distinction, attacked the population decimated by the crusaders? What a regrettable exodus for Raymond with his black flock fleeing from where his feet laid hope! Twenty-two days of bitter flight, and everywhere the crosses, until Raymond decides to separate and go back to Avignon. He takes a  sailboat off the shores of Narbonne in the middle of a stormy gray day, in his bitter journey he dreams of being born again and having Bethlehem as a lineage, on July 23 of the same year, he lands in the waters of Marseille. When he was discharged from the port, he undertook a light journey to Avignon, near Arles, thousands of fellow citizens started from the hosts of King Godfred of Bouillon, the nobles cooperated by revealing the mobs that gathered in the city, the Hussites, and the Waldensians; Iconoclast heretics, fighting fierce battles. The crusaders took the offensive and tried to prevent them from burning their sacred images, which had already been torn to pieces throughout Gaul. Raymond, distant, helped the most serious, he was afraid of being confused by one of them, it was better to hide in the Cathedral of Arles. Upon entering, he felt a dizzy ***** that shone timidly in the hands of his performer... it was a little girl who, when looking at him, named him Dionysus..., demi-god, save us! Raymond fell into a daze, and falling into a dream that told him of barbaric actions, with masked fellow citizens lying neutral in their gestures, and suddenly angels revealed to him that they were looting the pantheons of Avignon, to burn the rosaries of the saints. Bereaved in their graves, some Albigenses exhumed the bodies of relatives related to the Clergy.

Raymond was sweating his hands and forehead, he struggled to get to the Quentinnais mausoleum, straining his precognition, he crossed the interdepartmental courtyard, he continued to haunt the packed pyramidal cypress trees and suddenly a lion-faced him dealing with a snake; with the symbolic image of the Quentinnais. He saw the slab desecrated, on whose horizon his Beloved Marielle slept. His skin prickled... it was the Iconoclasts avenging their own, with strong breaths he squeezed his hand, wanting to wake up... so it happened, he got up pushing the crowds that were holding him back, but his strength was growing. He rode a roan steed, in three bridles that he gave him he flew towards Avignon; his mount seemed to be a hot air balloon that flew with great dynamism. Raymond in his own painful station would moan his hand, his eyes; his legs creaked like the legs of the Pegasus that carried him fast.

Ellipsis Second Sequence Mausoleum Quentinnais

Finally, he arrives in the second parapsychological sequence, noting that Avignon was in ashes, takes the reins and immediately goes to the Quentinnais mausoleum, upon arrival, he appreciates several Albigenses committing crimes, dismounts, and runs screaming towards the defilers; he faced them with stakes, some demonized had to cut their throats, arriving in time to defend the remains of Marielle. For long hours he was with her alone, thinking about what to do, Raymond knew that he could not revive her, so he had no more redress than to invoke Luzbel, who this time revealed her true and evil personality as ruler of the evil spirits.

Raymond: Dear Luzbel, millions of Canaanites looked up at the altitude representing you; today I will do the same from here and beyond the solid roof of the mausoleum! Bring Marielle to life, come and twist her cheeks, since without her! I have had to live all this to protect myself from suffering. Since Pentecost, he hadn't been physically close to her. Now I need her... well, I lynched her...! Beelzebub making him believe that she was Luzbel, ordered him to extract her heart!

Beelzebub: “In Montlimar, I saw volcano crests arrive in such failure of my envoys. But it will not be repeated, and for it to be so, I entrust you to take out the heart of your beloved and tear the eyes from her that saw your gaze. Then open your chest with this dagger, I will draw your blood and heart, to moisten the heart of your Marielle. And finally, I ask you to bring a lip to me to enchant her lips in lilies. "

Raymond: “opinion accepted... that's the way I'll do it!
Being dominated by the spell, Raymond abided by every step dictated by the supposed that Luzbel lived difficult moments since he was a good day, but so many thousands of years of living in darkness, and in the midst of punishment that violently changed his mind. Justo Raymond carried the body in his arms so that the ritual would culminate. Luzbel snatched his beloved from him and with laughter he vanished.

Beelzebub says Mortal fool! Don't you see that I am Beelzebub; chief of the evil spirits and the guide of the Albigenses, Hussites, and Waldensians? Never invoke me in the Mausoleums, here betrayal triumphs. Now a Quentinnais will be my image on earth, giving her the doubt of doing well for many centuries.

Beelzebub took his beloved away, leaving the rosary wrapped in soft tulle next to the scapular in his hands. Raymond cringed in pain, and in an act of madness scratched his face. Poor Raymond, he told himself...!  That in himself he found no reason to live. He left the mausoleum at dawn looking around every corner in case he saw Marielle lost in his sight since recently. He was exhausted; he remained after the confession that was delayed too much because the events that took place in the Pantheon, in a way pretended to be the events that Raymond inexhaustibly narrated. And in a way, he feared for his life at that time unknown, by the mouth of some hidden place they documented his bitter inability to do well, and that he would fall under Raymond's curse. At this moment, Raymond lay lying on the banks of the Pantheon, from that day on, he did not know about the days, he only existed at night and he did not socialize with anyone, his madness sowed hatred for everything sacred and infernal, he dealt with the Holy Rosary found a magical find, until one day a new one reached her ears; she was referring to some crusaders who had intervened in Jerusalem when it was invaded by Saladin. A certain Frederick Barbarossa was drowned in Sicily by..., "Wonthelimar", who with the Diadem of a woman Seized the island of Iconium. This was the other new one that enlivened his spirit. This greatly surprised the worn Raymond, suspecting that the kidnapper of his beloved might be in cahoots. And as the news continued to hear her, it was said that her sacred beliefs allowed her to continue undercover, in order to continue for a long time, even in the other attacked city that would be Nice. He signed to the limit, for centuries that will serve us in future generations…, suffocating the iconoclasts.

The poppies moved from north to south through the Provencal regions. The oceanic eastern Gods Makara's in tumultuous pyramidal ships descended legions and escorts, to aid Raymond's farewell at Nice. At twelve o'clock at night, the prophetic edict of the Lord would be fulfilled, here the last words of that chimerical episode were received, and he feared that until then a first descendant of Raymond; he became a statue in ignitions of the reborn underworld. The Diadem will be transport and refuge, as for Wonthelimar he said doubtfully…; I think he is nothing more than the deviant Beelzebub, who with optical retractable eyes, in Montlimar disguised the initial in double V..., Wonthelimar, but I was wrong! Wonthelimar already transmigrated to Raymond, staying on the banks of a stream, with nausea he regurgitated his underlying spirit state from the lyrical crust. His mouth unsheathed the most diverse and heterogeneous chronolites; Parasitized dust in pieces of temporary stone, flowing in disciples, quarantine fragments, in marriages by sinuous water. Raymond slapped his thighs in anticipation of throwing up there. His blatant, incisive alienation took over his will, with inherent crickets singing to her in isolation from him, shining his conscience, and residing in the grace of the Holy Grail. The conquest of the earthly system amputated the Andromeda Amygdale; Constellation-illusion and spouse of Perseus, who is mysterious vehicles of the solvent Grail, kept him tied to Raymond. Deafening roars erupted from the earth pits, and the mass of the mountain hung above the trees, pseudo purple and violet rays bombarding sarcophagi all over Nice.

Wonthelimar: “Since this day I have been boiling in a polysatanic hell! The Ibex picked me up from the surroundings of the Pantheon and the Quentinnai mansion, where I have never been a human again, only an Ibex in the Chauvet cavern. Thanks to the herds of goats that adopted me that I have been able to bear their pain by taking refuge in the darkness of all times, which never transpires in the past, present, and future? Now I have come in this re-location, to reorder Vernarth's parapsychology, which you are too, and who has never been able to overcome the pains of love, even beyond pale death! "

From that moment, the shadow of Heracles is seen among them, encouraging them to be part of the gods, and of the feasts of the beautiful Ankles of Heba. Thus the words redecorated them both amid the thick fog, in Avignon. Afterward, Wonthelimar left and left Raymond to continue in Marielle's darkness to the end of the world. The blister day and the scorching night, thought one of the other in constant profit, for the good of finding them in the Kalijoron..., the well of the divine light of Eleusis, for those who rest in naive peace in the face of cunning, and the decorum of the gentle dialogues in the comedies of the exceptions, after crossing the Nile, with tributers collecting the faults of the gods, or else with horrific screams that would make them prey to an imaginary Gorgon.

Wonthelimar was now going after the “Íbics Ring”, which were left in the Chauvet cavern, by some Iberian tribes of the early Neolithic age, who were on their way out desecrated the cavern with ****** in the orbit of the Ortho Heliacal. From here, in the last goal, they reach the darkness where the vampire bats were terrified to see them with their eyes in mercurial ambrosia, which enveloped them with the gums in each one as they approached in the sound of night hunger arrests, next to the betrothal death brought by the darkness of the Strigoi, in lost wanderings of their wills following the search for the panescalm sheds, which carried human chiropterans for the regions of Transylvania, subjected to distinctions and exactions of Climate Changes. From here the bronze spear Dorus of Vernarth would go to the right hand of Wonthelimar, to shield him, and to put celery-foot feet on the ineffable Kanti steed, with certain renown of Eacid of Achilles stirring up hops and low bottoms of the mineral aquifer at the base of the den. In a quick figurative gesture of Achilles, Wonthelimar passes his right hand over his nose, noticing that lights trickled from the Auriga and the Automedon that came by order of Drestnia to provide aid to him, and to rescue the Iberian Ring Eagles, to transport them to the cove of the Mound of the Profitis Ilias.

In the eternity of the noise, Vlad Strigoi is in solidarity with him and gives him lightly from the bottom of the final flow of the bilges of his panescalm, condensing air of Gaseous Gold, in Pan-Hellenic regions, and in the Valdaine regions sixty-seven kilometers from that mountain area very close to Avignon. The infected zones of physical virtue were divided into micro-regions that were compressed before Wonthelimar merged into micro space within the cavern, to abandon the burning furnaces that came alongside his interpersonal goodness, in the metaphysical transfer of darkness, and of the wicked gentlemen drawing him towards the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, so as not to be attracted as a human to ******-emotional implications or manipulations, who will snoop in growing voices in the voids of the cavern, and in the failing anxieties of the pompous and ancient effigy tarred from Hades. Wonthelimar limps superlatively with some nervous leave, but eager to apprehend the Ibic Rings. After the Benedictus antiphons were seen coming out of his chest, they were iridescent in magenta and mordoré for those who are ibex, always hiding under the goat epidermis, sponsoring happiness practices, one and the other after their vicissitudes in a cyclical mystery classroom. On the plains, you can only see haze and the experimental change when leaving everything in the hands of those who die without rainwater and bagel, in the most absolute solitude, amidst rocks that will never and never be reconverted, less into mid-plains giving terrifying compliments on flower baskets that stink of wandering Wonthelimar clones… not being!

Wonthelimar with Kanti, they emigrate from the cavern of Chauvet in their reminiscences, standing out from the voids and invocations of Raymond in unfinished by filling space in the hearts of both. Heading southeast towards Patmos with the Ibic Rings on his bracelets, wrapped in Vernarth's Himathion for his investiture!

HI DUDES AND WELCOME TO THE MOON, HERE IS MY FIRST SONG


WE DON’T NEED NO EDUCAYION, OR WE DON’T NEED KNOW DISCIPLINE

OR WE NEVER NEED PEOPLE TELLING YOU WHAT TO DO

NO, WE NEVER NEED OH NOSEREE

BUT I GOT UP, AND SANG THIS SONG SO LOUD

YEAH OH YEAH BOW BOW

ALL THE PROBLEMS IN THE SCHOOL YARD, WE NEVER NEED THUAT, NO

YOU SEE STRONG KIDS PICKING ON THE WEAK AND VONERABLE

AND FORCING THE WEAK AND VONERABLE TO BE LIKE THEM

JUST BECAUSE THEY ARE JEALOUS OF THEM

WE NEVER NEED ANY DISCIPLINE, DUDE, NEVER, NEVER, NEVER, DUDE

BUT WE NEED TO GET RID OF SCHOOL SHOOTINGS YEAH

TOO MANY DUDES ARE GETTING SHOT YEAH

WE NEED TO STOP- THAT, ONCE AND FOR ALL

BECAUSE KIDS ARE INNOCENT, REALLY INNOCENT

THEY DON’T DESERVE TO BE KILLED

YOU CAN’T REFORM THESE SCHOOL SHOOTERS, OH NO

YOU CAN’T REFORM OH NOSEREE, YOU CAN NEVER REFORM THEM NO

SO THE DISCIPLINE, IS MIGHTY BIG IN SCHOOLS

WE NEED TO MAKE KIDS UNDERSTAND, THAT THIS KIND OF DISCIPLINE IS TO PROTECT THEM

LIKE THE SOUND OF THE GUN, IS TO PROTECT PEOPLE, YEAH YOUR NOT READY

FOR THIS WORLD YET, SO GO TO YOUR NEXT WORLD

AND LOVE LIFE, OVER THERE

AND NOW HERE IS DUNCAN

I WOULD LOVR TO HAVE A BEER WITH DUNCAN

I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A BEER WITH DUNC

WE DRINK IN MODERATION

AND WE NEVER NEVER NEVER EVER GET ROLLING DRUNK
\
WE DRINK IN THE TOWN AND COUNTRY

WHERE THE ATMOSPHERE IS GREAT

I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A BEER WITH DUNCAN

CAUSE HE IS MY MATE

I HATE HEARING MY MATE, YEAH I HATE HEARING HIM YEAH

I HATE BEING TOLD THAT ME AND MY BRO AIN’T LIKE US

IN EVERY STRETCH OF THE IMAGINATION

I HATE MY MATE, TRYING TO GET ME TO BE A WILD COOL BOY, OH YEAH

I JUST WANT TO SIT IN MY CHAIR, AND DO MY ART AND WRITING AND GIVE FEEDBACK TO YOUTUBE YA SEE

I HATE HIM SAYING I AM LIKE HIM, HE IS A CRAZY ******* OH YEAH

HE SAYS WHEN I GO TO THE SPORT TRYING TO BE LIKE US ARE WE

I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN INTO SPORT OH YEAHJ

AND IF I SAY, I AM INTO THE ARTS, I MEAN I WATCH YOUTUBE WHILEST DOING MY TAPESTRY

I AM NOT A SHY PERSON, WHO DOES WHAT THE COOL KIDS USED TO DO

NO, I DO WHAT I WANNA DO, AND NOT WORRY ABOUT THE COOL KIDS ARE DOING

IF THEY SAY I AM SQUARE, THEY ARE JUST JEALOUS OF MY TALENT AND POWER

I DON[’T WHAT I FEEL, I DO WHAT I WANT, IF I FEEL LIKE I DON[’T WANNA DO IT

I WILL PUSH MYSELF, CAUSE MY SHY MAN IS COMING, BUT THAT IS DAD

TRYING TO EXPLAIN THAT I AM THE SHYPERSON, BUT I AM THE ARTIST WRITER AND YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER

A SHYPERSON IS A STUPID WORD, NO I AM A WRITER AND A ARTIST AND A YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER

THERE IS ONE VOICE BY PATRICK SAYING, BRIAN’S GETTING TEASED

BUT I AM NOT INTO TEASING, BULLYING, FIGHTING, NO NEVER FOR ME

I AM INTIO HAVING FUN, YA KNOW, I USED TO BE A LITTLE SHY BOY, OR A LITTLE YOUNG DUDE

WHO APPEARED TOO SHY TO GO TO BED, WELL, I AM STILL NOT GOING TO BED

AND YOU CAN SHOVE GO TE BED BABY GO TO BED BABY GO TO BED BABY GO TO BED BABY

GO TO BED BABY, YOU NEED YOUR SLEEP, YEAH, BETTER THAN SITTING ON YA CHAIR LIKE A MAN

GO TO BED BABY, YOU AREN’T LIKE US NO, I AM HAPPY SITTING THERE DOING MY ART, SITTING RIGHT HERE

YA SEE, I DON’T LOOK AT ME LEGS IN THAT WAY, THIS IS MY WAY OF GETTING REFORMED

I HATE GOING TO BED, SON, LEAVE ME ALONE, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

I WANT TO BE FAMOUS, SO I PRACTICE ON YOUTUBE, I WANT TO AN ARTIST, SO I DO MY TAPESTRIES SITTING ON THE COUCH

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR PAT’S VOICE, OH NO, OF HIM TREATING ME LIKE A LITTLE YEAH MATE YEAH KID, OH NO

I KNOW THE WORLD, WOULD LIKE WHAT I DO, I AM NO SHY PERSON, SO LEAVE ME ALONE

I LIKE PATRICK, BUT I HATE HIS VOICE IN MY HEAD TELLING ME TO GO TO BED, I AM

ONE PERSON WHO DOESN’T LIKE GOING TO BED, I FALL ASLEEP ON THE COUCH, BUDDY

AND I GO TO ATHENA EVERY NIGHT, SHE WORKS ON MY TEETH, AND IT’S MORE PAINFUL IN WAYS

BUT IT WORKS FOR ME, HE SAYS GO TO BED BABY, GO TO BED BABY, I KNOW I AM A BABY

TOO COOL TO GO TO BED, I LOVE COMPUTERS, THEY ARE THE NEXT GENERATION

PAT HATES COMPUTERS, I DON’T CARE, I LIKE COMPUTERS, CAUSE THEY ARE THE NEXT GENERATION

ME AND PATRICK ARE DIFFERENT, BRIAN LOVES COMPUTERS, PAT HATES COMPUTERS

BRIAN IS WILLING TO WRITE STUFF OUT OF HIM, PAT, IS HAPPY BEING A WATCHER

BRIAN WILL ALWAYS BE A DOER, WATCH AAA YOUTUBE TV, LOOK AT MY ART ON ART COLONY

WATCH AARON CLAYTON AND READ WRITER JOE’S STUFF ON WRITERS CAFE

YA SEE BRIAN IS ON THE COMPUTER’S INTERNET IN A BIG WAY

I HAVE MANY MATES ON FACEBOOK AND TWITTER, AND I DO GET VIEWS ON YOUTUBE

CAUSE I AM FAMOUS, NOW PAT, I STILL LIKE YOU, PATRICK, BUT I CAN’T SHARE MY VIEWS ON COMPUTERS

IT’S EASY TO WRITE STUFF OUT OF YA, I AM NOT TOO WOOSEY FOR THAT

I NEED TO DO THIS, SO I DON’T LOOK AT KIDS LEGS, SO KIDS DON’T FEEL INSECURE.I LIKE KIDS I LIKE KIDS

I CAN WRITE STORIES, IT’S NOT TOO HARD, I AM ON THE MOON SAYING

I WISH I HAD A MONEY TREE, FROM THE INTERNET, AND GO TO THE COMPUTER AND TEAR SOME MONEY

OFF THE INTERNET, TO MY BANK ACCOUNT, THAT’LL BE SO COOL

PATRICK IS TREATING ME LIKE A SHY BOY, I HATED PEOPLE SAYING, I AM TOO SHY TO BE LIKEB THEM

I AM TOO COOL TO BE LIKE THEM

I AM A WRITER

I AM AN ARTIST

I AM A YOUTUBE, PARTNER, PERFORMER, AND AN ENTERTAINER

I AM BETTER THAN THE PEOPLE IN MY VOICES
\
I HATE BEING LABELLED A RICH **** OR A **** IN EVERY SHAPE OR FORM

ALL BECAUSE I AM ON THE COPMUTER BIG TIME

HERE IS A SONG

GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA

SAID THE MONKEY\ TO THE CHIMP

GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA

SAID THE CHIMP BACK TO THE MONKEY

GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA GABBA

SAID THE MONKEY TO THE CHIMP

AND THE MONKEY SAID TO THE CHIMP

MATE, YOU ARE A WIMP

AND THE MONKEY SAID TO THE CHIMP

MATEM YOU ARE A WIMP

YA SEE PATRICK DOESN’T WANT TO HASSLE ME FOR WHAT I SAY

HE LIKES ME, FOR I AM COOL

I DON’T WANT TO WHAT I USED TO DO, I DO WHAT I WANNA DO

I DON’T WANT PEOPLE MUCKING WITH ME LIKE THEY USED TO MUCK WITH ME

CAUSE I AM A FAMILY PERSON, BUDDY

I HATE MY VOICES OF PAT IN MY HEAD SAYING, ONLY FAMILY PEOPLE DO THIS OB BRIAN

I SAY, YEAH I AM A FAMILY PERSON, THEM PAT SAYS I AM NOT YA DADDY

AND THEN SAYS GO TO BED, BABY, I SAID, NEH, MY BED IS MY CHAIR

AND MY CHAIR IS WHERE I SIT AND DO ART

SO, STOP TREATING ME LIKE AN OLD BIDDY, I AM A CREATIVE YOUNG DUDE

I AM NOT FUCKEN SHY, BUDDY OLE BOY OLE PAL