when the original / “creative” part of you dies,
you tend to repeat,
it’s not that repetition is a sin of the craft of art,
it’s necessary to reap from the established boundaries,
you can then enter the realm of the banal
of work, you can become an electrician, a plumber,
a bus driver... although writing poetry,
and this is the redemption bit, you can never claim
a highbrow status for yourself,
you’re in the cauldron with the lot of them,
able to say within a disguise and a keen smile:
oh yes, the 30th of october 2015 was a lot different from
the 30th of october 2009;
unless you have a steady job that pays the rent
and allows you to dabble in transcendental art,
the **** you do on the sly, on the odd protruding appendix,
then, my darling, you can proudly say: me gombrowicz, me t.s. eliot...
this latter example just shows you how art is made into
a sacrilegious state of affairs, beatified in the lazed hours in between chores,
‘hey puppy, here’s 10 squid, clean up your room, say sorry.’
‘yes dada, 10 squid for a clean room and the words oh so so sorry.’*

i sometimes find, that a casual vocabulary usage
of a specialist term
for example, the most common
casual inference is done without prior knowledge
from the 1st & 3rd party associates
that make it their career path to understand
something as delicate as to not allow the butchers in
to solve the matter. the butchers? surgeons,
opticians, the ones that are not stuck
in the aristotelian abyss of trying to sort out
proper names from proper meanings -
even though the two run parallel:
proper names are usurped by synonymity
to make language more beautiful and perhaps more fluid
(as is true for the variations of hue in the visible spectrum),
with proper meanings allowing a word multiple meanings
giving way to chaos / loopholes in practicing law / ambiguity;
the most common apprehensive use of a technical term,
used as a metaphor is the word schizophrenia in the english language,
i’ve seen it many a times, casually reasoned this word
in the public realm looses all technicality... and as i mentioned
prior... because poeticised structured by mythology due to
the fact that it’s used as a metaphor... which is staggering...
given the fact that i have a bit of literature on the matter
i thought it would be worth pointing this out,
depression is not inferred casually in the public realm
the realm of bibliophobes - i’m not saying people do not read
or are evasive of these s y m b o l s, i’m talking a depth of reading,
i’m talking a breadth of reading, patience with technicality,
real-life examples that are not shunned for that patent maxim:
ignorance is bliss.
as you might have noted i understand the technical term
to have been claimed by the public for casual usage (i.e. schizophrenia),
and if this is the case, i have to regress to the origins
which takes me back to emil kraepelin, although changing the compound
name, like i might with hydroxychloroquine...
the original compound was known at the time as dementia praecox
(premature dementia)... given that i propose a change to dementia construo,
given the fact that the sufferer of this condition contracted this
disease at a young age, and has not accomplished much in life
in terms of materialism of safety and boasting competence,
it is indeed a condition that can be defined by its prematurity
(stressors for success, as established by the ruling party, ideology
based upon innovation, education and appearances)
and the constructive aspect of it - based upon the anti-psychiatric movement’s
notion of an inclusion of a self itemised with the tools true or false.
why this latter point? nietzsche would have probably agreed with me,
beyond good and evil? there’s only truth and falsehood,
this the most likely square pairing.

i.

when his fingers began to bleed, father stopped closing his eyes to pray.  

     the worst thing I heard as a child was how god made
not only
me.

it was either the suicide of my imaginary friends or the imagined
suicide     of my real.  mother’s hands were that way

because of the dye
in dish gloves.  

ii.

on this that has become the story of my prematurity
I’ll say    

the food we get has already been defeated.

iii.

the boredom of today’s children
has no depth.

touch a throat in a totem’s mouth.

iv.

your mother was a hologram of a voodoo doll.

when father
not father
as the gay
madman
first met
her     the bump on her head

was much
bigger.

v.

with a pocket knife or some other **** thing the word gargoyle has been scraped into every idle machine.

the drug addled uncles have a rare focus and take non-consecutive short naps.  

you can shake your head about the babies

they remember
nothing.

vi.

god is no more than a clipped moan
scrambles
the angels.

it's really not worth the circus of a woman,
to agitate all those acrobats into saltos...
i felt it was worth shaving my beard
today,
wanting to scratch my face,
somehow,
turn my cheeks into
sandpaper...
   but you know
what scared me?
not that i immediately reacted
to my immortal
by evanescence with tears -
but listening to the song -
it helped to agitate the "placebo"
post-script reaction...
i just call it a delayed response
since the tarantula bite was too strong;
and that i never did have a
feminist girlfriend...
no, i just walked past a house,
down the street i most dreaded,
i once passed the house
with someone in a car
and the person beside me said:
clearly abandoned...
**** me, i'm turning into
a tim burton caricature...
  and yes, the house looks scary,
its overgrown in shrubs...
but i'm crying! i'm crying...
i walked past the same house today
having fasted the entire day,
and ending the day by eating
a hoisin duck wrap having
the testament: you could feed
me that crap all year round,
and i'd still tell you that i ate
something different each day...
that haunted house though?
   that overgrown, depilated ironically
overgrown...
     i suddenly felt a fear i've
never felt before,
   i felt it once passing the house,
but not to the point in tears,
i can only respect the lingering adam
"lost" in the garden...
       there was actually
a light burning inside this house tonight...
this house of biblical service...
**** fearing the devil!
your comical phobia
are the same goats, bulls i'd slaughter...
do you know fear?!
  do you know fear?!
  ever walk past a supposedly abandoned
house?
having that eerie feeling of
someone watching you one day,
being assured by the facade of
abandonment,
   to later find a light shining inside
the same house?
   i ******* to horror movies...
this **** is just tear jerking,
      i'm stressing diapers...
     people worry about c.c.t.v.,
i'm worried that i suddenly decided to walk
past this house,
   spectating a light in its deathly
harrowing of absence of all else present:
namely the son shadow
           being present inside...
****** please, give me any horror movie
and i'll triple the hard-on with orff's
o fortuna to boot...
   there is nothing scarier than seeing
a house that is all too clearly abandoned,
shrouded in weeds and the doubling
effect of a graveyard...
to, some day,
      during the night,
passing the same house,
      seeing a light on in the house...
******, give me a ghost, a poltergeist,
a hell-bent goat...
          what i just witnessed is far from
comic, and its also transcendental horror...
at least looking at a grave you can
find solace in the notion of the person
dead...
        when i twice, thrice, four times dead
thought this house was abandoned,
you really don't need to see a ghost
to stare into the heart of fear,
just a house you supposedly thought you
"knew" was abandoned,
no ghost..
      this grave of a house,
          with a light shining inside of it;
and this, coming from a man,
is not so much a fear,
   these are not exactly tears of fear -
rather, tears of lament...
   the most hidden of man's fears:
namely - sadness,
   and only melancholy can be the greatest
of man's fears...
         that great prematurity of death,
within the living.
         it really doesn't take a ghost,
but a "supposedly" abandoned house,
who you pass, from day to day,
to suddenly appear alive,
   with a lightbulb appearing from its
gravestone lingering windows,
  like almost a name, to conjure
memory, of that celebratory candle resting
on the gladden heart of turmoiled fate
bound to a hadean hush,
          celebratory for all saints,
       sinners, heretics and fiends alike;
you really can't even begin to conjure my
state of horror...
   conjured, like a poison dart,
  with me numbed,
walking further on,
as if nothing had actually happened...
people don't actually realise how much
horror works in the dimension of music
and delay...
    the music is obvious,
the delay effect of horror is, much, much
more subtle...
  that's called horror: "subtitled"...
          music is obvious in the genre's demand...
but the realisation of the true horror
is in the delay effect...
  the "post-traumatism" effectuality -
given that being post-traumatic is not
that you've seen something horrible,
but that you've seen something horrible
you never imagined you could have done...
   hence the the delay conceptualisation
of horror being inact...
            p.t.s.d. is the delay conceptualisation
of horror...
  and much of the horror genre is
about music, as it is about delaying the initial
burden of apathy, or rather shock mixed
with a libido overload...
  horror is nonetheless: music and delay...
   the delay becomes what it already was -
        a caseload of dreams;
music wise? just a bad taste in pop subsequently.

its hard letting it show and getting a hold
of emotion when letting go, or moving on
when all you gots self help knowing anyone else,
you vent to will give an apathetic yawn

So I record this for those who hoard this
same fear and board it needing strength
stress so enormous aborted is storage of gorgeous  
dreams resorted to feelin horrid for lifes length

It can be a struggle drowning in tear puddles
as trouble, less than subtle doubles to attack
And every stride doesn't abide or Coincide as snakes
rise, til your tries of going forward flies back

To square one, and in life rare is fun thats
fair to none, we were taught
Or told,so be bold in lifes cold and hope as you get old
youll get to hold the gold you sought

and ill be first confessing how distressing
and depressing life is, so less interesting to you
is being targets, and seeing how charmless the  
arm pitts of lifes hardships are, but true

is how we grew from it, learning to control
frustration when we lost and had to let go
teaching us the cost of a loss, and to cherish what we got  
before we do not, and learn as a whole

to fight it off dont write it off, from a loss, like
calling a cough fatal but a slump confuses
so we sacrifice triumph for lumps concluded
when at most it was only bumps and bruises

But the more humps eluded
The less theyre found to be intrusive
And lack of experience separates the greats
from the ignorant fake and stupid

Transforming Translucent to Lucid
Helping the disapproved prove its
Only movement with motivation will prove an
approved transformation to see improvement

Recycling for beneficial Accruement
so positioned positivity surrounds my proximity
Ignore judgement given with no realistic vision  
like religion and ****** Proclivity

Cuz alive and well is vocal Bigotry
Don't let it lead to Social misery
Nothing but insanity and vanity can come
from some dumb boastful imagery

Just concentrate on denying timidity
All u need is a path spacious for clarity
Be honest with yourself, embrace its sincerity
to trump the negatives of bein an Auspicious Rarity

And soon the limitations will dissipate
and'll incubate prematurity from the womb
so the happiness it Impedes will now lead with speed
and feed whats conceived and leave you immune

to The sadness that presumes to bloom and consume
the needed room to emphatically feel free
Sometimes the mentality of normality is just a fallacy
to stop empowering the masses but we

need To dissemble what resembles self hate
its poisonous to our mental plot  
so fight like you were a ****** blow addict
against psychosomatic havoc reeking thoughts

Of conformity when normalcy lives In abnormal
habitats, and almost extinct is average acts of affection
to ones self cause, and ones doubts'll come out as we
figure out, true perfection lies in imperfection

and that visions the driven means of conception
who we are, what is given and what will be
And evidentially this entity essentially will remedy
being our own enemy then eventually proceed

To prove as key, and all we ever need
To be secure, and to assure our second guessin
can be denied and die as no longer are we tied to  
what insecurities imply forcing us to question

If our quests less our own invention
as we are stuck restin' in a direction
Thatll leave us stressed and left in debt to our
future set, hoping to avoid collections

Cuz the confidence to believe we wont regret
is needed, while perusing
dreams seen as too far or too hard from where
you are but so is anything worth doing

So don't hesitate to pass and move on from a past
that knocked you off your path on your ***
Just continue this rat race or waste what awaits
as you erase manifestation to grasp

what destiny had, so Let go, and move on,
being victorious maybe laborious, but it'll help
emit the enriched bliss fueling you to dismiss
doubt amidst lifes struggles and finding out
  
that if you Learn from mistakes, and shake the self-hate
that makes you controlled by fears based  
on statistical outcomes, that say to out run the high
risk, but when you are faced

with a mirror showing the face of
your raised self doubt, dont mask it
cause within us is both the magic to pass it or the
havoc traffic of our doubts to help end tragic

so act drastic and grab it, hold the mirror that
mirrors doubts and grasp it
then **** residule subliminal doubt, of this cynical
criminals habitual ritual as you smash it

Cause confidence is needed to believe in what we do
and who we are while perusing
dreams that seem too far from where we are or too
hard but ..so is anything worth doing

teacher says
alright class, line up by the cubbies,
time to go to the assembly,

invariably odd,
the same kids would always
rush to be
at the head of the line,
and some, always
the same different ones,
rush led to be
at the back
of the line-age

nobody made it their business to be in the
middle of the line, though statistically however likely,

the majority aligned,
arrived, diffentiated,
however desirable
or however
undesired,
in the prematurity
of a mid line
life crisis

few if any, said:
I want to be in the anonymous
mid of everything for the rest of my life

or am I,
si or no. incorrect,

will I lose this bet I made
with myself?

surely there are those who crave the anonymity, the safety of a blended
number, neither the tallest or the shortest,
oldest or youngest, smartest or the class
dummy, who never got it right
should the
teacher absentmindedly
in error called
upon him (always a boy),

and here I am so far away from those
elementary days, puzzling out this,
myself vis-a-vis
this ancient mystery,
struggling to muster the
memory of where I
was, how
and why I came
to be
where, to be me,
what
calculus did I perform to select
my “identifying”
person~ality

I’ll dwell on this today
until it is resolved, perhaps
that alone, is the key to
arriving successfully at
a soluble solution to this
question my brain made
unavoidable, but first
must write,
before They lay ne down to sleep,

The End (😉)