My dreams have been deferred one too many times
I'm beginning to wonder if those dreams were mine
Dried up like a raisin in the sun
A festering wound starting to run

My dreams have been deffered
By the nightmares I preffered
Over the reality
Of human suffering

My dreams have been deferred one too many times
I'm beginning to wonder if those dreams were mine
They stink like rotting meat
Rot and sugar over bittersweet

My dreams have been deffered
By the nightmares I preffered
Over the hypocracies
Of human niceties

My dreams have been deferred one too many times
I'm beginning to wonder if those dreams were mine
They're a sagging heavy load
That I fear may explode

My dreams have been deffered
By the nightmares I preffered
Over the insanity
Of human society

My dreams have been deferred one too many times
I'm beginning to wonder if those dreams were mine

No Matter The Floor You Pass Out On

I awake as any other madman slash poet.
Apon the floor  naked  pizza box for pillow a members only jacket for a blanket.
yes the libary sure has changed over the years.

less and less people were reading buggets were cut meaning
libraryies were under staffed and rarely did anyone dare venture into
the stacks  and thank good for that. Cause being i preffered free sleeping
it was probaly for the best.

but no matter the the floor you pass out on most all fine
american men wake up with are god given birth rite.
That which after a trip to the restroom like
that early morning madness that was christmas  pressent openning
was over way to fast and was kinda disapointing.

Floors werent the best beds in the world in fact they
****** altogather but drinking and common sense dont even
belong in the same room togather.

Portsmouth Va  was a strange world indeed a place where upscale colided with skidrow.
Me I preffer the company of a outdoor sleeper to that of a
spoiled spoon fed yuppie ****.
the art school cranked out angst ridden buble people by the second.

They walked the street soaking in the pain of life.
there heads stuck so far up there ***** I always felt compeled to trip them as they walked by.
acting as though they were outsiders  yerning to be mainstream
they'd **** there mothers on a mtv reality show as dad cried in the background.

Just for a taste of stardom.
True talent who needs that?
but no matter the floor you pass out on one
thing was clear.

In a world were you could have a bus load
of kids and get paid for it.
fame wasnt such a rare thing anymore.

The floor I passed out on was cold and cruel but surrounded
voices from the past.
the floor these hollow  reallity show bottom  feeders
passed out on.  Had to besoft as there heads.

Otherwise there brains would splatter across the floor.
And some TV exect would have a brainstorm  to have a show
were washed up celebrities would have a contest.

To see who could bore us the most with there sob story  
Yes friends id rather have a pizza box for a pillow
than a reality show  pillbox for a brain.

and the truth effectsus all form no matter
which floor so you do choose to pass out on.

While the other children were content
To play jacks and skip rope
She preffered the company of the old oak tree
Towering in the back corner lot of the schoolyard
She rested against it's mighty trunk
Basking in the cool shade she loosened her bonnet
Only the toes of her patent leather shoes
Catching beams of wavering sunlight
As they arched through the rustling leaves
A sweet song of a robin whistled amongst the branches
As she smoothed the pleats of her dress
A leather bound book at rest on her thighs
It's jacket so familiar and a comfort to the touch
The scent of it's brown and curling pages
Reminding her of late winter nights by the fire
When her grandmother's kind smile shone so brightly
As the flames from the hearth danced in her eyes
While she spun the girl one of her many stories
As deftly as her fingers could pull stitches
From a mountain of patchwork piled on her lap
The chiming of the bell marked the end of play
And she shook herself from her daydream
Dusting off the errant leaves and grasses
She lined up at the entrance to the courtyard
A sweet smile forming on her lips
Though a measure of sorrow still lingered in her heart
A bittersweet mix both of pleasure and mourning
Her spirit pining for the solace of those precious days; of her past

Among those people
For me, you're the least lovable
Among the crowd
Your voice tells me you're the most proud

From the first of the days
I listened to your music
I can't find a way
Out of such sound so still

Distant as the ocean,
Bright as the sun,
Eyes of the soil,
A well-versed soul

You're a  flower that blooms in winter
I'm a bee who preyed you last summer

That "first" of the days
It was more than most
It was more than best
It was more than you

Then came another season
There you go, trying to know
That "me" I never wanted
That "me" I never liked
That "me" whom you preffered

But strokes of fate
Unleased its power: hate
Its not yet late
To be each other's soulmates

"He," i preferred so much
Wanting his touch
Seeking for that match
Made in heaven, so please watch

How "she'll" extract
His beauty and love
His songs and poems
His words and notes

the warm air floats over me
the bright light illuminationg my face
I watch as the flames engulf
every last piece of him I had
only ashes left and scraps of clothes
the flames lick the edges
of the gifts I once held dear
and I wish that I could throw in
all of those memories too
The happiness in those moments
aren't worth the pain they cause me now
if i could just seer them out of my brain
even physical pain would be preffered
over what I am feeling now
If I could just burn those memories
like the pieces I had left of him
then maybe I could be happy
maybe I could go a day
without bitterness creeping into my heart
without the pain of knowing
he never loved me the way he loves her
but I loved him more than he could ever love her

2day I've showered my face wth tears
N so i feel sad,bitter n salty
My wounds burn 4rm all de salt of my tears
My eyes r dry frm all de tears they've lost
N my soul is torn apart by de pain i feel
2day my day was an incline...started out gud only 2 get worse.
Dnt call m ok, dnt ask me abwt it 2mrrw, i wont feel lyk tlking abwt it, i preffered texting bcoz its better than tlking...
Gudnyt

Even otherwise rational people
are willing to accept the irrationality of
their religion.
They give preference to revelation
wherever their faith and reason collide.
They maintain revelation is the ultimate source of truth.
This is basically the thesis of all religious
people.
If that were so, which revelation is the
true one?
Why do they differ? How can one be certain that her/his
religion is right and others are not?
If faith is irrational, why should our
irrationality be
preffered over others. Only through reason would we know
which
way is the right one.
And when we test the religions with
reason
you find many of religious teachings do not conform.
It requires a leap of faith and
a great degree of mental gymnastic
in the limitation of reason....

SHE LABELED ME GAY
She labeled me a gay
Something that was not okay
Just because i pushed her away
And told her to get of my way
She labeled me gay though single
I refused to mingle
Nor let her wiggle
Her **** on my lap
She labelled me gay
Just because i wore short shorts
Yet i despised girls in short skirts
I preferred girls with long skirts
She labelled me gay
Because my voice had not broken
Yet her heart i had broken
From this untrue dream i had woken
She labelled me gay
Because my voice was smooth
Yet i refused to sooth
Her on a cellphone
I preffered a booth
She labelled me gay
Because i never called her bae
I called may
Afterall she was not mine
She labelled me gay
Every passing day
From monday to sunday
Even on my birthday

squirt (title): pompoms scream (body) - to bypass the 502 Error Gateway...

second shift at Craven Cottage, the Fulham stadium...
well **** me...
i was in luck! Tony, this ex-military supervisor
asked me straight up: you want to do pitch-side?
do i?! the first shift i did was walking around
the park outside the venue, meeting & greeting incoming
fans... but to be allocated a more responsible role?!
you cannot believe how refreshing work has become:
you cannot believe how refreshing tiredness from
work has also become...
i don't know how it happened, but...
ARBEIT MACHT FREI is... ringing high and loud...
perhaps that slogan over a concentration camp
was always a bad joke...
i can't imagine that the Germans thought all the Hebrews
were lazy, not diligent workers...
even my grandfather remembers Hebrews in Poland
selling matchsticks and getting rich,
after all, what was that pre-war saying the Hebrews
had when putting down Polacks?
ah... wasze ulice, nasze kamienice...
your streets, our tenements...
maybe the Germans thought that a lot of Hebrews were
studying in the Yeshiva? nothing practical for society,
or that all Hebrews were somehow rabbis...
whatever it was... well a slogan above the entrance
to a concentration camp: where in a concentration
camp you'd perform a parody of work,
e.g. move one sack of rocks from one end of the camp
to another, to later move it back...
it's not like concentration camps were... munition factories...
a German bad joke...
but if, like me, you spent your 20s and early 30s
working in patches... the odd week on a construction site
doing some roofing, the odd month...
but mostly concentrating on writing...
and now this, steward at a football match...
some rigour re-imbued, some strategy,
some responsibility... i can't press the matter further...
sure, i'm not a football player, i'm not a film actor,
i'm not even the head safety officer in the ground...
i only put on some identifying clothes...
an accreditation badge and a uniform...
what did i get? people asking me questions as to where
to go, if they were sat in the correct seat...
for a man to feel useless, to be without authority:
that's horrible, writing poo'ems would never give me
that...
a compliment from a supervisor when i pointed
out that a woman was drinking wine in view
of a football pitch: which is illegal...
'nicely spotted'... after he approached her and asked
her to finish her wine from view of the pitch...
at the end of the match three boys came up to me
and asked me whether they could
pinch a piece of the pitch...
i let them... how their faces illuminated the place:
it was so dear to them: i couldn't just not let them
(mind you, they only pinched a piece of the astro-turf
lining the actual grass pitch, they didn't hear
that they were pinching fake grass...
let me leave them happy, after all...
i was providing a service)...

prior to leaving for Putney Bridge from Newbury Park
(first getting two buses there,
oh, i'd say a good decent 2 hour trip,
i've started to fall in love with commuting)...
one quick hot dog, with a Turkish toppish
of squeezed onions, parsley,
white wine vinegar, salt, sugar, gochugaru chilli flakes
& some sumac - well... squeezing the onions
releases their juices, making them less bitter:
actually sweet...
i only came back to Romford on the 86 bus
having arrived by train from Stratford
to Goodmayes - it's still zone 4...
all buses are zones one to four... Romford being
in zone six (if using a train or the tube)...
a two piece chicken meal with fries & a coca cola
zero... gulped down at approx. 12:20...
then... the most glorious cigarette to add smokiness
to the digestion...

starting work, proper, in your mid-30s...
while your 20s were spent unravelling a psychotic breakdown,
borderline schizophrenia:
that wouldn't fly, my supposed "schizophrenia"
dissolved when the element of bilingualism came in...
why should i only "hear voices" in English...
when i didn't hear them in ******?
the illness made no sense...
it didn't tap into my bilingualism...
why?! i read up a lot on this topic,
from Julian Jaynes, Jung, Richard Bentall,
R. D. Laing... no mention of schizophrenia coming up
against bilingualism...
misdiagnosis?!
i was never going to be merely a ******* victim...

now i see the bigger picture, music always helps...
the overseer - glass + unbreakable soundtrack,
James Howard's theme...
sure, the bonus of being pitch-side was also being
able to watch the match...
making new friends... well... colleagues...
i talked with Danny about our interests...
his was crypto-currency mine was music & cycling...
he used to cycle: until he hit a tree...
blah blah... time flies when you're talking...

oh such a little role of heroism on my part...
just minding people...
all this life truly requires is these little roles of heroism,
of responsibility...

i was at university, dated... i worked as a sub-contracting
roofer on construction sites...
i'm sorry to say this...
no relationship with a woman comes close...
to the amount of satisfaction received from
having a role that's more than a mere job you get paid for...
being responsible for the safety of others is...
probably somewhere in the hierarchy of where
the status of teacher is placed...
yet not with the current affairs of pedagogy:
of indoctrinating younglings into ideology:
whatever it's called these days...
intersectional *******, anti-racism, critical race theory...
teach them ******* English: the language,
teach them geography, chemistry, history,
don't turn them into spineless zombies
where they resort to a "rebellion" of succumbing
to football fanaticism...

me & Danny concluded: he "supports" Arsenal,
i "support" West Ham... but, "support": not really...
i just love the sport itself... i wouldn't be found a mile away
from the nearest crowd of avid club chanters...

my god, how refreshing to be in a position of authority,
even if it involves being at the bottom
of the hierarchy, being merely a pawn...
i can pull it off though... a welcoming yet intimidating look...
6ft2, 98kg... two jackets clad...
arms folded in front of me, arms folded at my back...
calm, collected... smiling... observant...
perhaps relationships with women were great...
they filled that void i was fed by literature prior
to my engagement with the opposite ***...
did i leave these relationships disillusioned?
of course!

   would i ever return to them? my heart is a stone...
mein herz ist ein kleinstein...
it has stopped bothering me, it bothers me less & less...
i'm not built for love, for romance,
that's why i don't want to write about it,
or even think about it...
i imagine that should a scenario present itself...
i'd be loved: but i wouldn't be able to love...
i'd merely... insinuate... i'd be on the receiving end
whilst doing the utmost minimal to
reciprocate... i'd be a cold-hearted *******...
oh... the mushy-colt aged 21 is long gone...
thank god...
could i love again? intimacy i can get with
a ******* in a brothel and not think twice
that a girl outside the profession of prostitution might
not give me an *******: again: is there something
wrong with me? why can a ******* give me
an ******* while some random girl picked up
in a bar, can't?!

i prefer talking to strangers than i ever preffered
talking to established friends...
it's not high-school anymore... there's no more
high-school banter... come to think of it...
the formality and the clear lines one cannot trespass
when conversing with strangers / colleagues...
come to think of it:
i'd tend to tell strangers more than the people
i was friends with... taboos enter the dynamics of friendships...
you can't tell of your innermost woes to friends,
after all... with friends you're supposed
to have a good time! no?

**** that... with strangers, with my shadow...
i burned down the bridges of my friendships a long time ago...
now i walk in the realm of Hades...
and i'm all the happier for it...
there were four major attachments in my life...
i lost one in the past year: my grandfather...
under circumstances that are, to be frank... rather horrid...
and... now that over a year has passed...
i feel... no... not relieved... i feel: RE-LEASED...
from some sort of heartbreak *******...

it's coming up to a quarter to 3am...
i have a shift this Sunday at the Wembley Stadiun
for the women's FA final,
my supervisor told me as i left Craven Cottage
that there was a good chance i'd get a chance to work
indoors... **** yes...
plenty of children to burn my eyes out:
not mine, not mine, thank god for that...
i don't need to be a father to them...
what a release from some bogus obligation that
in life you have to procreate...
hell... others can do that for me... i can just stand watch
and observe how...
this be the verse, Philip Larkin...
little chance of failure, or disappointment...
the Pontius Pilate approach...

it's a quarter to 3am and i just finished my shift,
my feet are somewhat sore, somewhat chilly,
who would have thought
that standing in one place, or two places
could be so exhausting: i'd rather walk a length of
a marathon than stand on duty...
the air outside looks like... a glass of water
with someone having splashed a dollop of milk into it...
it's so... murky, so... ambivalent...
so literally foggy...

no, not me... i was once the great romantic...
after being injected with the three musceteers,
with Stendhal's the scarlet & black...
i'm the one now saying:
work is better than an intimate relationship with
a woman... moi?! pour putain de l'intention
(is that, for ****'s sake?)
i'm trying to word with with spite...
i'my trying, i'm trying... no... no good...
on the way back some girls eyeing me up...
i try to think of the guys not being eyed up...
invisible creatures...
i hope i'm not much to look at either...
but can a woman do more for me than work?
i don't think so...
i'm such a fan of this hierarchic dynamic,
a work ethic, professionalism...
i don't think i could give myself up, on a whim...
my life can leave traces of fulfillment i generate myself:
this writing... well... it's obviously not Tolstoy...
just a product of these times...
i'll settle for that...
i'll also settle for being merely any overseer in a football
stadium than a rock-star, or actor:
never mind being a heart-surgeon...

but me, the once great romantic...
reduced to a function that mere guarantees him
a pawn status... the microcosm of overseeing
a football match: it is merely a microcosm...
in the grand scheme of things:
a newly found focus... returning with gladness to:
i am small... i'm a unit...
i am insignificant... writing creatively can rob you
of this perspective... infuse you with a sickly
megalomania...
it's best to return, to reality, to people...
away from the high-brow insecurities of an ivory
tower... it's so... refreshing...
after all, no Hamlet here, no Auld Lang Syne...

no... and all the better for it...
maybe it was a bad joke that the Germans posted on
the entrance of concentration camps:
it was... if concentration camps became
munition factories... but sieving sand:
in order to sieve more sand... to perform
Sisyphus tasks... while also exterminating the potential
workers? why not think of it as essentially failing:
when the essentiality of existence was lost?

but... translated, outside of the context
of a concentration camp? arbeit macht freit?
work set's you free... i can forget about my shortcomings...
my shortcomings are replaced with responsibilities...
i can forget about elaborating this tongue to my idiosyncrasy
and focus on formal communication...
i can live parallel lives...
i can have two lives...

as i have a prowess to wield of two tongues...
i can also... wield two lives....
and i don't even need to have a wife, to have children...
i can pass off being some loner since,
i hold a relationship with myself that grounds me
differently to others: others who are exposed
to their solitude, those who do not write,
who do not add form to their being,
who refuse to experience themselves with depth...
who switch off after their swift rather than switch on...

oh, these people are apparent... chamaleon me...
i turn into a right extrovert when a situation imposes itself
on me... yet writing is not a clear aspect of extroversion...
writing is an introvert's project...
yet how these two (aspects) are consolidated has
become... rather: a revelation to me...
i never put it into practice, mind you...
now that i have...

should all the final connections of significance die
and i'll be left alone...
just give me a "lesser" creature to bother me...
perhaps a dog... but more likely a cat...
i like the cats' take on placebo solipsism...

père corbeau...

   me, disavowing the chance of romance with a woman
over a desire to fulfill the role of steward,
sure, while i do my idiot writing on the side...
"idiot": it's never going to reach Fifty Shades of Grey
traction... then again:
i don't think i'll ever write something that exhausts me,
disappoints me... i'll just write what's made available...
what i want... come whoever may wish to come...
and a nice filter to boot... this will never be spoken
in either audio or a video format...
why bother unwanted attention,
made all the more accessible via audio or video?

what's it called? camaraderie? a select number of people
don't want something being spoilt,
by the intrusion of a greater number of people?
a loss of familiarity?
it's life... a phase of transition...
we're only taking a few people with us...
within the framework of memory, of a shared experience...
it's very much unlike a football match...
a football match consists of 11 players...
either side of the opposing teams...
the staff involved with the teams...
the stewards at the venue... blah blah blah...
very much unlike writing...

walk the moon - shut up & dance with me....
that sort of colt is not coming back....
even all those regretfully looking girls coming out of
clubs in Romford, stumbling, obviously not being
able to handle their drink...
oh, that guy is not coming back...
once upon a time taking a ******* a date to
the Tate Modern for an Edward Hopper exhibition,
then to the cinema to see a movie, Troy,
then some sushi... sending her off on the train
with my then friend messaging me
she said she felt butterflies in her stomach...
said "friend" later, years later, sending her a phallus-"selfie"...
ah.. RE-AH-LI-TY everyone's worse nightmare...
any psychotic's bread-and-butter...
so engrossed in it it would be impossible
to simply vacate it, leave it...
come the marriage with death... only then...

servus! neugefundenmann!
oh... hallo mich!

Let's write a story
of you and I,
and all the things
we whisper at night

Our hopes and dreams
the castle we'll own
when we leave this town
to make it on our own

The jobs we'll have
the people we'll meet
the shop we'll own
on an odd and quirky street

You'll be the chef,
I'll be the waitress,
I'll let you be the boss sometime
if I'm feeling so gracious

Then a few years pass by
all is going well
Out of the blue you're on one knee
Enchanting me with your spell.

The wedding is oh so beautiful
sending guests home in awe
After the honeymoon,
the emotions are still so raw

We save and we save
till we're blue in the face
Till we buy our first home
filled with gorgeous green landscape

And then we'll have kids
no gender preffered
They'll grow up surrounded
By love and and kindly words

And they'll write their own story
with someone special they meet
They'll start a brand new book,
the journeys all they need

I'll spend the rest of mine with you
till I'm fresh out of ink
because this life will pass you by
within a simple blink.

When the entirety of my dreams collapse

When castles I've built up in sand become ruins in a heap

And weigh more than a mountain as they melt into the beach

And the waves come to pummel any of the remains

As the turning of the tide swallows up my fame

And the Son beating down turns all my selfish works to shame

What shall a soul, broken, battered and lost, do in the midst of such destruction?

Or who can heal a broken spirit that lies parched and vulnerable in the rays of noonday?

A perverted soul like mine withers in the face of such Glory divine

Glory of a hidden paradise, an island all mine own

Filled with wonderous sights to feed the eyes, and luscious fruits to feed the soul

And yet I sit upon the beaches, looking down at the dust

Trying to build something of worth out of the most worthless thing I've found

Not able to get up, to explore, or be at peace

And the one thing that keeps me here is my own prideful, ambitious sceme

I worked through the night, in the shelter of darkness

The bitter cold of night preffered to the cool of the Day

And now I see that it was all vanity

The tides of Love stay at bay for none, and are as fierce as they are lovely

And they wreck the best intentions built on the wrong foundation

At the end of myself, and the works of my hands, I see how foolish I have been

For none with sense would ever build a home upon the shore

And only the most perfect Love could breathe life into sculpted sand

Too weak to resist, I succumb to the roaring waves

I feel the tide pull the ground out from under me

This final surrender pulls me out into the deep unknown

A baptism of death to self, and a life so truely real
That when I rise back to the surface, I shall finally, really heal