Man life know just set eyes way like young world soul day hunger space mouth earth thoughts ignorance blind things mind knew final moment human creation kind creatures souls high forgotten dream love spoke self existence face holy deep bound think home void say surrender ear forever called held ephemeral red state end shall heed hope edge living waking fall sea wake garden need February thought past wanderer got men page colored tepid terrible **** proudly untitled features point painted faceless box forgot render wild spring splendor  handfuls looking half brain lost torn ancestral  unseen vision inner summer honor mister owned banner save today fear groans wasn't smoke  street fable strange year contrast black years  able pain body spoken word known motion  palpitate reeling nature culture disclaimers  cancer beg attentive frames ****** base profound double remember wholly finger death token  cries continue folk oh fishing form broken true  divides spread ah twas away breathe wait warning hallowed wish closer lens turn eye live  constant current author hung theory dangle  bramble chemical new force changes adderall  anymore giving beneath possess pardon commentaries eternity internal walk reason  long change does idea glimpse consciousness  wandering simply wonder physical dreams war  sleep told rest benign prior begging truth little  2012 born tale crow bowels allegory animal rule  exasperate making horse curse hands ones read  rearrange capture doing command fail awake  aperture seedlings shift steely sir nap spead ****** demons slits clever telling loud spits la-la-di-dah killing slip game reflected nameless ask  lovers rabid bear salivate plunder shameless  famously savior mint rides menthol bully fate traded melodies play misunderstand mammals gentle witless fine utterly savage silt tongue-less  dirt dilutes pure non-sensory taste briefly ravage dismember it''ll shedding ruined curtain  knots offers plot fulfills munificent two-act  relegates boxz bug altruistic wintergreen tossing  callously guise grovels one's singers treachery ashes mid-life mutter fashion parading  ambiguity separatist liars staple steeping neath  guidelines scoffing stitch moans civil wrote  Fictitious undoing fables table effigies serve  sonnets staged remark psalm swoll praise harken  beggar verse bread lines heavily electricity detection snow sack-happy preaching credit  spotted wicked best gravity gun campaign owe  barge choir revelry celebratory satiated sinking  headline pack hound persistently propaganda  gentlemen excluding diminished ******* run idles  occupied levies wolfishly honestly misinformation cuba vehemently dumb grace spectator erasing  toned sage crowded secrets inter-connectivity  loaned prayer hymns grave mistaken magnified  vandals selective jump leak escapes says minister  buckle mass honesty shut tar children's hats  monument doping long-lived electrical ladle  exaggerated cartoons address seconds cool cradle bleak yang's mind-framed hypnotic  walker caps folly treble claim streaks mixtures  swelled interstate elapse teasing spoon mobile  succulent witchcraft borderline fatal 99 temple stacks sups plastics creeps neurotic ills tossed  meek sipping old crack interlock wax alleyway  coughing blown freak clock birthdays societies  slow flashing viscous candy argument toothless  pills cerebral rapt wall bisect lives wheezing  photo kid starter foiled pair saturated self-castrating pre-packed naked uncertainly pill  used came chaos coated reprisal fells wrack  irreverent mirth sickly disinherited proudest  collate wheeze appearance palette disharmony  discontented bastardized emotive bio inhale diction beat spoiled reclamation loudest tempo  totally disembodied matte imperfect shells flat  struck sounding imparts flak origin severance remarked bone walls snared leaflets mocking  hot scripting adjective noun agape seemingly  resistant gawk calamity passage paintings wind  trashcans signings sits cheap makers poetry persist scrap slipping individual talk wonders  leaving questions fold actor fancy parchment  fates engenders flown jaws stripped longer music  sacrifice fakers book boldly frown sigh atop patient hang trade occupation blows spectacular  whispers worthy backward waving certainty danced suppose needn't ‘drawkcab’ second-guessing  boys forget marched motto heads tightly lies two-tone earthbound harp twice turns goodnight  lying ***** internally indiscriminate nickname  drunk convictions myth steep  in-consumption  fitting artist **** universal sick expressions bad  du spell melody big siphon proud learn sprawls song spastic something temperaments utter check  fissures stomp totality blend definitely thrall sing rug voice shade pestilence ties commiserate round devil steady brains emotional certain gate  suckling gates dearth decay weight bounce pound  carrier pangs glass startle contest earthen web  tug pressed air patience flush amassed guest gone apprehension staring empathize captain believe fading in-perceivable deathbed guarder makes surrounds scatter drooling ebb blink cob tome  venom near door lair derision draws host stairs scent parts curiosities spider webbing surprise wares tips stepping ascetics starkness realize picture surroundings dictations grand pillars  deaf limited comparisons greet visual residents  personal settings dismiss alien law stability common earthly shiftless places prelude  understanding mosaic keen trifling embodiments  geared inception whisper visible jowls kiss murky  puddle rank dawn dichotomy single faithful fraying pays tailor veil climb mores pence whim  breath wellspring samara god stony pear  shadows fruiting forebodes moonlit looming  shown passed bog gold wracked faint tongues  noble preachers mirror shifting layered depth  threads jungle narcissus bemused seamstress self-worshiping architect's wore slumber anomalous  opened barren seam lip caustic scene coupled brick gardener's clenches -with forms idle breed  embodied lore starving empathy design illusion  tree coat fabricate lucid mason scatter-all  narrative seeking imbued 16th shivering chemicals 17th 15thrisk improperly dare  deliberate plan purge try brought chapter speed  aide utmost spirit leading intervention felt  recall recent advent sincerity times diary  lackluster piously lasting happy holding hear  stem tasteless whimpers wet spine monstrosity  dripping causes position quite softly claws pallet  answer digging tearing beast satiating circle breaks skips redwoods beckoning rotted hushed  gray lapsing monoliths deities creborus  imbuement hand stroll paradigm rendered chorus shy whispering forest residual tension  surrenders tolerance lull anew sentenced  bearing tide birds dirge divergent rim joined  cogs wood hesitant mist emergent towering offer  awareness confinement inverted faultier stowed  plane sanctified blanketing trusting memory fossil flash twists laden self-indulgent fleeting invitation agony grip shore impetus lingering  crows promise gift union swallowing endless floor supposed ecstasy sensory intent  psychotropic cradling placement interned  jagged connectivity exchange congenial begun  summons singular spiral assumes ambient reciprocates re-entry fruition reached aggregate lifetime limbs birthed instinct  frightening tarry proper entire light  boundaries innocence pursuit ago discover left  youth's unknowing sacred time place meager  simple fact cast ceaseless wide-eyed literal  apparent coincidence create boldness morphed  crooked kempt mere stumble buried shutter fairy  pivotal definitive months worth shear ambition sound required journeyed self-reflections title  facets vague restless intimation gut wanderer's  leap motivate path account boy soon bears faith  question tripped reasons uproot awaited confronted days step heal provocations wisps crushing transcend chronicles instance  directness raw drove occurrence objective-less  real enters slightest confident nondescript  typify  foreshortened interment paradox bitter heart  devoid jeopardy angry sensation confidential guilty arrogance mercy compliance reprieve  vincent deadening factual sign emotion awe  inhibition shackled butterflies absence actual sciences acknowledgement violent stagnant  spiritual American doors roots lack matted fore  gestures society cause streams intensity hair impossible discord lonely hearts resounding  jest  what's flavored pains closed toxic contented  happenstance scientific knowledge yeah  wizardry shaking stifled withdrawn bloom  jitter dreads settle asocial hulton make  predisposed figurative reflections demeanors  wondered affect hulton's projected sense  morning industry arrays ghosts feeling  certainly endomorphic where's partially wrath  passer mornings jovial unease advertized asking  trash onward wished tempers media mentality connect pasts sharp-toothed scramble great colours trial test salvation continually lent  degree secretly subjection social waned  disconnected colors grimly intellectual civilization cash trading baffling particular  digest myths monumental ending seasons winter  repetition introducing agent everlasting  shoulders delivered honestly-- possession funny  continence history unsightly function suffering propulsion profession divulge familiar tugs era  importance capability perpetuation spite inventory words entirety leveling fray insight  date record continues writer getting evermore fellow tongue possessions identical proof accuracy education similar sack admittance  favor unravel conveyance guilt gives beginnings  predicting audacity definition bobby heady eaters frameless learned release stone grandeur sang  speak molds sleeps split built seats people folded  sheer pour evoked playhouse liquid boring  tellers frayed stark walked reality pleas doth  preformed shows beak pride squawks opinions  greatest bold stunning sightings he'd loudly slain  sunk watch legend precipice theater deeper compound commentator civility justly silly sin  reverent seen prophetic moral confounds notion  lacking explain attempt prolific viral estrange proclivity scorn hide blur pious strung eden's  horror cut skin arch cruel twig mother vile  pass lend woods peach shrunken trail man's canopy worn 434 eat warm limb familiar father delete.

You are what your reading lady. Now would you hold this gun?

Can we call it freedom if it divides?
Is it correct to ridicule revered name?
Was that in defence of freedom?
Or was that for easy money and fame?

They went on with their provocations;
And justified it with arguments lame.
Numerous hearts were agonised.
But few turned wild, difficult to tame.

Extreme provocations and insults.
In the name of ' Freedom of speech'
Extreme response and harshest reply.
To avenge the insult and to teach.

When one's ' Freedom of Expression ';
Gives one the ' Freedom to insult '.
Hatred and dissension are promoted;
And can lead to horrifying result.

there is no value in a poem that reads
_____
_____
____­
M M l i f e s u c k s x x x n o p o e m i g o t

just

nerve; crap bs, a denial of craft

seek the intelligent intelligible,
kiss the sensational thrill that
emotion harvests with resonating tenses
that beg our brains to differ, sense

this claims,
there is no value in no words is
a hoax cloaked as art by the weak,
make thy metaphors metastasize,
my every cell, a preposition,
preposterous and precious and
comforting in their
privations and provocations

speak to us in alpha and
line our eyes wide,
with pictures at an exhibition
of a faun immobile and beauteous

let me hang on every word of yours and
let it be the raft that sees me happily
unsafe home

take your bs line poem  
shove it down your silent voice

this is not avant garde; this is insulting

p.s.  write me a smile and all will be_____.

Against the saturated
Horizon of dawn,
Loitering in the dark timbre
Of emerging consciousness -
Dissipating somnolence
And preemptive despair,
Tacitly adumbrate the
Yawning abyss.
Chastened by the cunning and
Lubricious nihilism,
Igniting fermented provocations,
Silent subterfuge; death,
By mirth - the inane;
Lament of the mundane.

Fallow paradigms, accretions of
The last gasp -
Evaporating empty liturgies
Of suspicion;
Charity and equanimity -
Lost in confinement,
Triumphant avarice bearing
Descendants
Of intransigence;
Wielding imperious
Schemes of orthodoxy.

Pollard fragments of
Silken tapestry,
Miasma draped depression
Abridging;
Conversely,
Permuted flurries of anxiety
Dislodge
The vestiges of meaning
That abide
In brazen equivocation.

Tributaries of dogma reach
Their confluence,
Watershed moment,  
Numinous effusion
Streams naked epiphany,
The precarious vision -
A gesture of providence,
Certainty and contingency;
Gratuitously derivative, life
Equals choice.

Verdant branches of intention;
And opportunity the vine,
Live forward -
The pen, my voice,
Piquant conduit pouring,
Exuberant wine.

Footprints found in givenness
Underline,
Penumbrae of my soul;
Mirrored silhouettes,
Thoughts and words engender;
And in verse adorn
Fecund soil, Line after line,
The cosmos altered,
Continuum of permanence -
Artist’s art articulating
Essence of my imagination,
I proliferate, I design
Phrases unique,
Participation mystique.

Words creating world,
The apparatus of infinity
Heidegger, ontologically precise,
Language -
The house of Being,
Ineffable, Promethean
Literary devise -
Envisioning possibility,
And abundance to allow,
I occur
Inhabit
Manifest
Future phenomena
Experienced as now.

©2008 & ©2011 W.S. Warner

Countless series of melancholic oceans
Hitting through waves of adversity
Only to be repulsed by provocations
Disjointed affections falls effortlessly

With no such contemporary feelings
Choked amongst the walls of solitary
Praying silently for a better ending
A hopeless romantic it seems evidently

Voyaging away from the sufferings
Patching holes of memories
Rekindling fire from breathing
Dreams torn away in fantasies

Sober desires creates a lustful reality
Shone away ignoring a truthful beginning
Nothing can hold us against this treachery
Forsaken our love has left me begging

©2014 Maman Screams

Eyes switching gazes from right to left pupil. Stories held in thin air for a moment in the space between retinas. Words acting as weapons of mass destruction, hanging in the air becoming stale with every inch as each syllable rises into the atmosphere. Forever echoing in the ears of the listener, penetrating thoughts, clouding the brain, like toxic waste. Encouraging words must be found, they must be said. Dreams, inspiration. Into the minds of the growing, the moving, the future. holding the destiny of this world in small, and innocent hands, and wide eyes. Those eyes are the windows to the next generation and the key to the next miracle the universe begs for. Opening windows, and locking front doors, let’s pretend for a second that time is stoppable, moments aren’t lost, and people live forever.

Results aren’t final unless you ask them to be. Things happen we aren’t sure of, flashbacks your days dream. Having doubts that fill our minds wading through the nerves through the brain stem to the core of the cores of the armor. I can talk to my 13 year old self, and tell him that I understand, and that we’re still the same person, I’m just the shell. I can tell him everything I want. But he’s already lived.

In the mirror, switching gazes from iris to pupil. Lungs collapse as the phrases land on the younger heart of mine. Phrases consisting of the negatives, the outcomes, the results, the roots, the stories, the endings, the beginnings, the alterations, the alternations, the provocations, the imagination. Phrases meant to tear down, not rebuild. The destiny of the world held in small hands, clutched by small fingers, as the quotations waft through rooms. The rooms where they escaped *****, angry, and ignorant mouths. The miracle stares at the reflection, not knowing the necessity of the universe. Closing windows, opening doors, wishing the hands on the clocks of life can stop.

Encouraging words must be found, they must be said.
Let’s write history with the minds of the growing, the moving,
the future.
Nurture.

vi.xxi.xi

one asks:

why do I not send my poems anymore,
have I seized up, ceased down, now but an engine rust requiem,
absent the needed viscous, numerous verbal oils running requires,
to commend to thee without hesitant reservation

I lie, and say because,
no one read them

write profusely, blouse tear-wet, hair ungelled, thoughts unglued,
this here secondary, truth birthing reply, outed post a time delay,
revealed, staggering reluctantly, like an akimbo drunk,
who imagines every step his, still straight-lined,
then, in shock, in a confessional, through a divide,
stumbling admits,
no, they are not

my poems can no longer be milkman delivered to your
morning doorstep porch coated in condensation-wet,
thick-heavy, lovely but-out-of-shaped, rotund glass bottles,
for both this charming old practice I remember,
it and my poems, are now time-wronged,
passed over by the courant new notion of a sell-by date,
for who dares to desire to live in the timeless paths
of risky tomorrows?

these times, when life is a continuous elegy,
simplicity is so complex,
when truths are hard to distinguish
harder to believe, why then,
insert any extra hardening, provision extra difficulties,
add poems that strain, needing patience and careful handling

so many people, me compris, pained out,
obsolescent, meteor victims of dinosaur extinctions,
now so common, remarkably recognized and remarked upon,
then quickly gone to a swamp burial ignominy unnoticed

my poems, complex and long, wordy and abstruse,
do fit your avoidance profile, why to make thee weep,
so many demanding your abbreviated attention span,
my intimate uncomfortable intrusions are your lowest priority,
and this, irony, was my masters thesis topic

so I lie

forsooth my poems are secret read by the Marrano thousands,
writ by a me-disguised, they're seeked and sought out
by those who require a personal pinpricking, a violin adagio daily,
tiny little irritant memory provocations and sooth sayings,
deemed inappropriate, for no predeterminant answers asked,
banished from today's new world symphony,
governed by a set of exclusionary convent rules,
that perforce demand a trigger warning:

place no peas neath my mattress, so I may sleep,
without the discomfiture, the unordered risk intensity of
dreaming without any restraint,
composing the future in the moment

11-13-17 1:31am

I just woke from experiencing what it felt to be free
of a doctrine, of this overlying immense pressure to be righteous and respectful,
that which I've inherited from my own expectations and from those of whom I admire.
I had been touched by something even bigger than my own self perseverance-
than my connections between "the wise,"
than my science that I hold so dear.
It's almost indescribable- so bear with me
as I dig through my consciousness for a dream that could just be a great answer to our confusions.
I felt myself sifting through a softened solid
that was smooth and sunset-hued.
It stretched around me but went through me all the same.
It was warm but refreshing.
It cleared away the dichotomies, the questions, the labels into a vast spaciousness that couldn't ever make me feel loneliness because in this clear space,
there was you.
In a raw form- without explanations, without excuses, without fear,
without the taste of another on your lips,
without the pressure to exist.
Just you, and your experience floating around and through you,
in the most beautiful colors I've ever seen you don.
It was just you, and it was just me,
in soft solids of insight.
When I stepped forward, I saw your life around you,
not my interpretation riddled with negative and positive energies,
but the sights and sounds that created an indefinite understanding.
With the sunsets swimming around them.
As I got closer I began to notice my own life,
spirits of the past grazing my skin gently
and gingerly.
And when we finally were face to face,
in what might be nano-seconds
our eyes were not expectations but one,
our lips were not provocations but one,
our bodies were not vehicles but one.
And it felt comfortably fluid as we walked together in something I can only liken to acceptance.
It was fleeting, however.
I was pulled out of this by the hands of 3 AM on a Tuesday, my disappearing fever,
and desire to relieve myself from all of the water I consumed before bedtime.
The lingering feeling of insight and acceptance urged me to write,
and expel the overwhelming emotion of wishing I never woke up.
I couldn't stop sobbing
and I hadn't a clue why.
I guess it was because in this dream
I came to know
the world is crumbling around us
and all we can see are the demands and the means to be something other than oneness.
We choose be chained by these requirements,
because living in this world is not the safety of the amniotic sac that we leave behind in the past.
We should know that we could relive that every time we create something we strongly believe doesn't have to last.
I'm not sure who I've lost,
or what I've found-
but I can hope
it's knowing that we may not ever precisely touch what love is despite how much we try to render it through words
and actions,
a definitive language that gives us its tangibility.
But it can touch us.
It can touch us into being one again,
if we put our lives on pause,
It can touch us if we let it.

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His heart misses beats
the moment
that fragile butterfly
sits on it and her legs
tickle the tender
membranes covering
arteries and veins
causing the blood bubble
like never before.

The heart so passionate,
forgets in its eagerness,
that it belongs to a beast,
answers back in an invented
language, somehow butterflies
seems to understand so well.
Now the wild beast's heartbeat
gets synchronized with
the beat of butterfly's wings
what white magic is this?

He becomes amazingly light
the butterfly's consort now sees light
in crazy iridescent colors
jubilant like a victor, he flies up
every time, she wants to
touch a cloud,
catch a falling star
or race with a bird, for fun
every one loudly wonders how
the beast that only roared and growled
sprung at the world,
at the slightest of provocations
was bridled and contained
by the chit of a beauty riot.

Oh! I can tell
the beast mostly was an apparition
its dead, or if you can believe
beaten to death by two colorful wings
another wonder of love, it is
won't be resurrected again,
if not, the butterfly would disappear
in the thick woods in  efflorescence.

follow the yellow brick road...*

The terrible freedom unleashed by typewriters.
Condition of complexity judged without criteria.
Radical provocations. Urinals and prams. Contingent.
Anarchist aesthetic. Not truth nor beauty but freedom.
Materiality of language. Multi-hued wheel barrows.
A cuttlefish. A crate. A cassowary. A cigarette. A ******.
Paratactic order. Particular phrasing. Pulsing pastiche.
An infinite conversation without resolution
as with the stupid friend who won’t shut up. Ever.
A transcendent dialectic based solely on proximity.
Ineluctable modality of the near. Only that. Buck it.
An unquiet ghost endlessly self-questioning. No answers.
Moaning in the meaning. A simple stuttering. Sibilant.
Turbulent and unpredictable as waddling wolverines.
Words that only mean whatever is seen. Juxtaposition.
Dissolving into desired dissonance. The magic chord.
Absolute verity in the experience of the fraudulent
for the same reason as the ubiquity of toothpaste.
     The poem as its own universe, complete and whole,
     fodder for the mind, not balm for the soul.

I've cut our connections
and burnt my poor illusions
and tempting provocations
like eternal frustrations
for such hopeless situations
gave me a lot of delusions
and lessened reservations
to hide my expectations
and lamest inhibition
like a huge botheration
to one whose intentions
has faded into oblivion
and nasty desolation.

it stopped raining after
some long hour had passed
the rain had simply faded like
shawled figure moving through the afterlife
just the signature of presence evaporating into the still air
like the quiet thunder of a doves wings in the evening shadow

a sense of walking the day down through its years
a child at dawn full of promise and wonder
a man full of strife and the heat of passions at noon
an old man gasping by the witching hour
see the day walk its life to the tomb
before the grand spectacle of night has finished

and the very damp ground was littered with leaves
pulled from their high towers and cast down by
the winds strong hand
dirt in clinging clumps decorate the once
vividly clean surface of her lawn chairs
she pecks at the debris with a rapid motion
wipe away the inglorious world with
her chatter is subtle but not unfriendly
as she offers tea
the long hour passes
as we instilled with small conversation watch
the overcast slowly dissipates
like her charm
it is fleeting
she at last asks about your day
with hands folded in her lap like two neat doves
fearfully waiting to fly in panic at such slight provocations

the rain left its signature on my life
both beauty and troubled thoughts gather beneath its wet canopy
all reach life in the waters of the world
all rise from child and fall to tomb
like rain falls back to the earth which birthed it
we all return to the soil
thick and rich loam full of the savaged remains of the fallen
and the seeds of the yet unborn

I BRIGHTEN YOUR NIGHTS
I PROVIDE CLARITY
YOUR NIGHTS,YOUR PAIN
THE TORTURE AND THE STAIN


I ELIMINATE YOUR PROVOCATIONS
I SEIZE YOUR SHIELD OF TORMENT
YOUR FANTASIES I GIVE A CHANCE
PUSH TO FORE YOUR UNIQUENESS


MY EXISTENCE SIGNALS HOPE
THAT I AM HERE,YOU ALL WILL COPE
MY PATH,MY LIFE MANY WILL FOLLOW
I AM A SIGN OF BETTER TOMMOROW


I AM THE LIGHT SENT FROM ABOVE
TIMES WILL PASS.MANY WILL GO
MY AFTERMATH WILL CARRY ITS GLOW
THAT I WAS HERE,MANY WILL KNOW

when the time comes, a drunk will speak
more sanity than a sane person is
capable of, then we'll be ripe to talk about insanity,
and incapable of "treating" it.

it's not really about the beard,
well, it sorta is...
i grew mine so i could fiddle with it...
which puts me in a position
where i say: violinist, in the classic fm
philharmonic!
i'm thankful that i was able to grow a beard,
no, not to look "trendy",
****! i was about to ditto in the word cool...
you never realise how much vogue
and indeed: fashion, gets invested in
when we're not talking about clothes
but about a person's vocabulary...
yep, so i'm 30 and have a beard:
or let's just say, ****** hair had the same texture
as ***** hair...
the gods are laughing,
how to discover exist, become so self-conscious
that you're able to tell a joke,
and then laugh back...
       that's why philosopher have beard,
you can just see it in them,
wait a minute: **** consistancy hairs
are growing on my chin!
  mortal have that poker hand ready
and waiting for the existence of gods,
   a Frankenstein momentum...
it's funny... so we just keep on enjoying ***...
   and the reason why i wasn't distraught
about the Fritzel case? i read
marquis de sade's ******* novella...
that doesn't mean i don't think about
       being a spec, a second in Hades' lava lamp
reincarnation flow... like we, really are:
recycled goods...
          laughing about it gives us armour...
reincarnation is so Hindi, i'm
about sport a bindi (that red dot on the forehead,
that macedonian wish we were **** with an
empire, shindig setting sun)...
you're the one talking to me in braille...
i'm  a half-wit trying to compensate the conversation
with an observation:
modern life looks like a revival, or an attempted
revival of the art of dialectics...
humanity is really trying to revive dialectics,
or as the platonic dialogues seem to suggest:
find the right enough of people...
find enough people to agree with you,
there's absolutely no mention of disagreement
in the platonic dialgues...
well... they're really monologues...
back to square 1...
                      it's hard to envision a dialogue
between people, it's even harder to stage
a dialogue, given that we'd have to
take to the art, or quasi-geometry...
and have to constatly fake it happening,
by faking it i mean acting as we really
cannot disregard our apathetic communion
toward the mere act of talking...
    dialectics is an art form... and it's begging to be
revived... but it seems to be failing in
an attempt to revive it...
                        everyone is just shouting
over each other, exchanging insults...
  joking... apparently comedy is trying to slow
things down, comedy is a pseudo-art-form
that's more arty than art itself, it's fartsy...
   who could have thought a **** (**** in polish means
luck) would ever make people laugh...
  we're all in the slaughterhouse askin idol guillotine
to: lay to rest, make ammends,
                say something, something profound,
if not prophetic.
              i just see a chat show host grappling
with an interviewee about how to engasge with
a dialectical art,
   we do live in very artistic times,
people call it minimalism,
they draw a square and you're expected to say
it's profound... because the art of dialectics
doesn't exactly agree to taking offence...
   it means retracting from the fictive monologue
of writing books...
it's a biblophobe movement...
        we're talking retraction,
we are saying: marriage doesn't do it for us anymore...
i'm trapped, in this world, and i have a stash
of 2000+ years of memory that i'm asked to
revise / improve on...
     you expect any different, from what i'm doing now?
people are in want of dialectics,
  they are bored of group therapy yoga....
and they're tired of being treated like
canned laughter... or an audience
with prompt cards they later don at political
rallies...
  like: when to laugh, followed by a t.v. editor
telling some minion: prompt the verb laugh
at an audience at a big brother show...
   i'm drunk, but i'm not stupid,
actually, being drunk and writing this makes
me ulta-conscious... i wouldn't say
intelligent... i think of myself as a sieve
most of the time... but you know, life, life gets
in the way and you sometimes a few
stupid mistakes, that you are thankful for.
i can't remember the last time i used
a dictionary... or a thesaurus...
       and i opened the fridge door about 100
times before i opened the front door...
and walked to the shop
where the cashier knows my name...
i'm like Bilbo Baggins who decided to stay
at home and said: ******* adventure!
i'm staying home and reading J. Joyce.
   we can't find dialectics, no more than we
can ask for a socrates real, by reading plato.
but it's nice that plato suggested that
philosophy could be theatre, i.e. staged,
made into a dialogue...
     just when we were bound and keen to
our sophistry, to our rhetoric,
and felt no emotional content could be bound
by mere talking...
     dialectics is a shade hanging over modernity,
i can't read a sun-dial with it hanging
over us... why art is so ritually minimalistic,
because this one art-form is missing...
no one is going to approach dialectics
is there isn't a real case for expressing empathy
and merely rooting it in: a need for comedy.
that halo-of-an-oasis is going to dry up...
(yes, written while under the medical care
of a headache... that **** is just lodged in my ****
and is teasing me... come out you little
cupcake, i'll flush you down the toilet, pronto!
or as the poles say it properly:
gówno przez ciebie gada / ****'s talking
through you... oh gladness, the oven bound parasite
booked for 37 degrees of the body's high-end
of temp.) -
but it's being staged as we speak,
   an art form, deviating from up-start and on the ready, go!
art of rhetoric...
               modernity is equipped with competent
talkers... persuasive and gnat-like annoying
with their provocations...
  what's missing is dialectics...
  how one side can question and become almost
mermaid... dragging someone into nodding
if not clapping approval...
      we can all agree that some people do talk
with the art opf rhetoric being almost
self-taught... ******...
                     dialectics is so much stranger...
it's an art of speaking that has become
      like a dusty moth infested ******
of a 80 year old nun...
                     she bakes great cookies though,
let her off.
               it's not that we're even having
these discussions, we're slobbering a chance of having
one with lies, shouting and "in your face"
dynamics... it's not even that we can
imitate plato enthralled by socrates, constantly
agreeing, going: aha, yup (nod nod nod,
******* pigeons)...
                    we positioned ourselves for the basis
of having to express hostility...
       because to have reached such a freedom
as we have, that we dare to call it: esteemed,
or highly regarded as in need of improvement,
or redefining.
  we seem to be unable to say why we
can't resurrect dialectics...
           all the talk-shows on a late friday night
will not answer that question...
     i'll spot the Halley's moment though...
a comet known as Hailey (hey! bruce lee)...
        when artists return to less abstract concerns,
we have all the science we'd need...
   can the arts stop contemplating new york
traffic grids, and ******* stops
and we return to celebrating the human form?
   it will really be something to see
dialectics... i.e. with one person so persuasive
that the other person doesn't argue...
    and i mean that as a concept anti despotism
without a massive throng of people doing
a political mantra chant of sheep, herd, approval.
it's like that question about consenting to ***,
that part of you that says: can i actually
think this?

****** *******.

Verily, thou art.

If thine own charms woulds't not deliquesce my pow'rs,
       mayhaps my quill
woulds't obey my

commands...

Yet ~ evermore ~ am I slave

to thy smirks

and provocations

...both vexations to me.


I turn 'round,
but come back

                       time again.

(Provoking my ire.)

Thou

                   knave.

    Rogue.

(****** *******.)

Thou've been a naughty swain.
Get thee to my rooms.

Le manifestant

Il avait manifesté, tant et plus.
Dans l'après 68, casqué,
parmi tant de jeunes copines et copains.
Il courait vite alors et cela valait mieux.
Car la police n'était pas tendre.
Mais c'était comme un rituel
de courses, de lacrymos
et de chevelures dénouées.
L'époque semblait alors grand ouverte,
à la jeunesse, aux guitares et aux robes à fleurs.
Tandis que les posters du «Che» régnaient sur les murs des chambres d'adolescents.
Lorsque Franco, le cacochyme, l’infâme,
voulut, avant de mourir, accroître sa moisson de victimes.
Cela chauffa fort devant le consulat
Espagnol, à Toulouse.
Il fallait maîtriser la peur des détonations,
et se tenir bien droit dans la chaîne,
lorsque les hommes casqués qui
avaient aussi peur que nous,
reçurent l'ordre de charger.
Sales moments pour les services d'ordre,
Entre chocs de casques contre casques,
Tels des chevaliers des temps jadis,
avec leurs heaumes.
Puis les années passèrent, les copains s'égayèrent.
La venue de l'âge adulte déboulait dans nos vies,
avec sa part de réalisations et d'oublis des serments.
Certains tournèrent complètement casaque,
et commencèrent à se prendre au sérieux,
en jouant aux patrons branches ou aux conseilleurs officieux.
D'autres furent laissés pour compte.
et s'en prirent aux plus faibles qu'eux,
votèrent pour le borgne et sa fille
qui leur promettaient de rendre de
rebâtir la France en rendant la vie
plus dure a de pauvres hères basanés.
qu'ils suspectaient si sottement
de réduire leur part de droits sociaux.
C'était des temps bien médiocres à
l'haleine fétide.
Dans les cafés, les propos volaient bas,
Comme des projectiles
et les plus hargneux régnaient par leurs outrances,
comme le loup cervier sur la meute apeurée.
Et puis, fut élu, François Hollande, non par son charisme mais surtout par défaut.
Il avait l'air bonhomme paraissait bienveillant.
Et puis Sarko nous avait épuisés
et exaspères,
par son ego de montgolfière, son agitation incessante,
et sa manie de dresser les uns contre les autres,
et de courir sus aux boucs émissaires.
Nous n'attendions pas un Zorro, mais nous eûmes droit au sergent Garcia,
Et funeste erreur, ce Président apaisé, trop tranquille,
fit appel à Manuel Valls, ce querelleur, cet hidalgo ombrageux.
Alors s'instaura le temps des reniements et des provocations répétées,
ou il fallait battre sa coulpe et ne plus prononcer le mot «socialisme».
C’était l’éternelle fable du nouveau et des vieux !
Mais ce nouveau avait un air et un goût de ranci et de Finances aussi.
Comme comme une cerise bien amère sur le gâteau et ces goûts d'alcool frelaté,
surgit la «loi Travail» comme un pied de nez
fait à celles et ceux qui en manquaient
Et dont le cout baissait incessamment
Nous fumes beaucoup à nous réveiller hagards,
et à reprendre le chemin des manifs,
Ou nous virent des «robocops» super équipés,
nous serrer de trop près; ambiance détestable,
pendant que nos mandants, élus pour faire tout autre chose.
S'efforçaient de nous enfumer et de créer maintes diversions.
C'était moins marrant qu'en notre jeunesse.
Mais il fallait ne pas lâcher, pour transmettre l'Esprit et la Flamme.
Nous avions quand même, la gorge serrée,
de voir d'ancien amis raconter des salades,
et se battre désormais pour la préservation de leurs postes,
Et de quelques prébendes.
Mais comment était-ce arrive ?
Comment avaient-ils pu oublier ce qu'ils avaient été !
Et venir défendre ce qu'ils avaient combattu ?
L'histoire est bien cyclique et l'être fragile comme un roseau.
Ça ne fait rien, j'étais redevenu manifestant, opposant.
Je gardais comme l'oiseau bleu ma conscience pour moi.
Et je pourrais dire un Jour à mon enfant,
«Le plus beau diamant est ta vérité intérieure et ta conscience
Maintien ton Esprit pur avant que de prétendre changer le Monde.»

Paul Daubin

At the drop of a pin
Changing faces discover flashing lights
And Sadness is dressed by a whirlwind.
In the aftermath Sincerity cuts through lies.
Holding their breath waiting for permission to remain
Angels standing at clouds’ edge cry quietly
As fierce tensions rock the world’s foundation.
So it is for the man who looks in a mirror
Only to see himself crawling under stars
Doing a costly disappearing act.

As a bow strikes a violin so I find your heart beating
Near strangers sitting beside the last sacrifice
An immense road separating fear from truth.
Constantly looking back at an everlasting darkness
Scripture unfolds in my mind
As tears flow step by step through a circle of uncertainties.
As provocations capture my senses
As velvet rises from my pillow
As a baby’s cry ascends Mount Everest
I want so much to hold you one last time.

I remember arithmetic transgressions of lust
A blink becoming a wink
And solicitation becoming pain coursing through my veins.
Even now the acquaintance of our shadows
Seeks the moonlight of Venus’ deceptive smile.
Truly our first kiss
Was a picture worth a thousand words
Hearts pounding
Desolations waiting
Lips setting traps for waking naïve souls...


Rony Joseph All Rights Reserved 2010
Edited by Tamerlane 2010

eating figs
eating ***
eating flesh

i swim through my mother's veins
and peel back layers,
distinctly feminine.

i see me.
i feel me.
i taste me.

we hold delicate
yet strong and vibrant lovers
in our mouths,
inflated candy eggs—cosmic nectar.

foolishly gazing at our sordid massacres:
flesh upon flesh
seed upon fleshy seed

visions of nightquests
sing-songing liquidly

i vanish into wormholes,
fiery transformations,
and bitter leaves,
which weep through silver pores.

feverishly, we pick apart the stems,
dropping them away.
hurry, hurry!
we're so impatient to get these figs
into our mouths.

heads crane forward
and tongues ****** first.
hands follow, fingers last.
crush down once, thrice
on earth maternal—
it's not juice, it's cream.

siddhis speculatively come forward
and burn triangle patterns behind our eyelids.
she is freed again from past recollections,
elegantly fighting off disease—cellularly—while drumming solos,
gnashing figs,
and caressing twigs with toes.

i invite you to breathe me in—
soft, solid air,
stale with anticipation
but honey-lemon sweet,
and empty besides.

we pour sweet broths into banana-leaf cups
and drink beetles out of sugarcones,
traces of ectoplasm dribbling down our chins,
violetly forgetting the echoes of
peppermint vapors,
and nourishing our bellies
with heavy, pregnant plant mothers.

i long for excess,
and i can never get enough.
besides,
it is the summer of figs,
and we cry openly
at the beads of sweat
forever forming on glassy surfaces.

i taste-touch with my fingers
and feel-taste with my tongue,
and still i feel that we aren't close enough,
so i invite it to enter me and become me,
and now
i am fig.

it's as if the cilia-seeds
and tender pink spots
expect the pressure.

it's true:
we expect this solid, gravitational pressure
and they rip off wings,
just to bathe in our nectar.

she hadn't known true ecstasy
until this violation of figs,
until her madness imploded secretly
like their demure insides,
and all she could think about
was jelly pulp and pale achenes.

so saccharine, you say,
wiping your mouth with a sticky hand,
and wiping your hand on stiff denim,
but really there's even more sweet to come later.

green-plump
violet-plump
pink-pulp
swallow

i hear it before my ears do.
i see it before my eyes do.

i swimmingly tesselate
and wade through the liquid air,
particles dissolving around me.

there's some give,
and i'm able, you see,
to be here in this palace of
pent-up pleasures and lastly,
comes stillness.

she weeps hatred from her body
so it doesn't seep
into her half-digested fig:
the fig of all figs.

caked with dried mud and chocolate,
we emerge
and fall off effortlessly
into angles of light.

dust rises like a prism
along pre-choreographed
provocations of smoke—
steps cascading for spirits of anjeer
to patter down
into our realm.

feed me, they say.
and so we do.

we break open the figs
with childish fingers,
tasting before offering
on little plates carved out of spoons,
melting coconut lashes and spidermilk
in the process.

the oven creaks quietly,
and raindrops lift gauzy veils
from drowsy eyelids
on sleepy mornings.

pulling waterwords
from unification,
fiery feelings die down
until they're just a glimmer—
a glimmer of softness,
with wet embers tantalizingly
dripping fireworks,
like childhood.

waves murmur something secret,
and the whispers only take 5,000 years
before they reach your ears,
yet you still startle and awaken,
sweat on the brow,
and glisten your way through,
splashing sloppily through
paper screens
to deliver messages.

iron tea kettles sit in dying ashes for far too long.

in my visions,
i saw ripe, bursting figs
hurtling across starlit skies,
blossoming beautifully
before dropping heavily and with sound.

and suddenly it was summer—
radiant, glowing summer—
with our skin dissolving upwards
in the golden heat,
sparkling dramatically
in the decaying light.

i wanted to pull something out of me
but the strings were tied to my organs.

slippery insides meant less danger,
so we tiptoed on grains of sand
and grains of rice,
and black beads,
and black beans,
and pearls,
and magnets.

we tripped through hours,
while minutes crawled to a close,
and sifted fine blue watersilk
until it exploded with mollusks.

i am a clam
and you are a gallon of fir tree sap,
delivered every wednesday,
to embellish our
fried and crispy things.

almond-shaped plumes and
majestic, purple heliochromes
blaze saturn rings coldly,
while the fruit falls apart—
first at the center—
and our gaze lingers on mother:
she is
dancing,
and dancing.

Hollow are my eyes
on cold October mornings
bare and waiting to collapse
at the slightest of provocations

Hollow grows my heart
in the dead of winters night
withered and longing for life
to be poured into it once again

But no matter how hollow or bare or tattered
whether the sun has risen or the moon has sprung
as long as there's blood left in my veins, I know
he'll always be there to make me feel whole

Remark, pageant, how well this worn Cartesian speaks silence instead of wit.
Crucify maybe and often; singsong prattle succumbs him you.
Torturified lamb’s breath, teensy sighs and sweep of tentacled agog garners attention and wildfire – hop and home to not attend, to see.
Brandish magma wake and crystal cleanse re-barb, vicious cycle in heat patterned pro-guiro neural network, neat, loud for senses laden.
Up them and through them.
Scent the seeks you stones in barb, a fence in white a guttered prose, slitherentine.
Stately made his gatekeep - defend you. Harbor outwards with willpower nonchalant.
Pardon his with provocations, decadent don’t they know. (You know you, don’t they?)
And then.

It is in no way a coincidence that those who walk the path of a wandering soul will soon discover that their world does have its boundaries. They will one day stumble upon a definitive edge, a real place where space and time transcend one another to form a mere glimpse into the chronicles of eternity. For the wanderer, this slightest and most sacred instance is to become the reason for their restless instinct. Until the occurrence of this moment those of us who journeyed into the void of ceaseless unknowing that bears the title earth, have simply their raw gut to motivate a then objective-less pursuit. The frightening intimation of the young wanderer is nothing less than this pivotal fact. A kind of blind faith is required in all facets of existence however; it becomes a more literal and even physical leap for one to uproot themselves just to cast their entire worth into this most often vague idea.
For many months I was this young wanderer. A boy whom by the heal of his crooked step tripped into the life he only could hope awaited him. I cannot account for the reasons I left behind my past life. They, like most things have morphed into meager provocations when held again in the proper light. In the end it was my wide-eyed ambition and shear innocence that drove me from my home. That is reason sound enough when one is confronted by the crushing boldness of the wanderer’s theory. It is as if once the directness of this idea enters the well kempt garden of any youth’s consciousness a simple question becomes apparent. Will you heed this call or shall you forever wonder what this life may have held?
I shutter still when my mind should tarry once more to those long buried thoughts, back to the days of my constant and tepid self-reflections. I was so young and was that even long ago? This wandering life does change a man; it may even create the man.

I

Battered by a brute
Nor’easter, the cottage
rocks in rough wind,
teeters on tall stilts,
architecture animated
by howling provocations
until even the somnolent
wine glasses begin to sway;
suspended and racked in rows
below kitchen cabinets,
crystal clinks on crystal,
clear bells signaling alarm—
the storm forewarned is upon us.

II

This seaside aerie rises
high above sand dunes,
undulating driftwalls
feathered with sea oats.
Protected by weathered
shingles and salt-pocked
windows never shuttered,
the house stands sentry,
stoic structure overlooking
the Graveyard of the Atlantic,
the vast saltwater cemetery
where untold ships and sailors
have come to wreck and ruin,
subverted by shifting sandbars
and chancy wayward currents.

Buried in navigational Neverland,
vessels slumber in oceanic silence
on a seabed as soft as coffin plush.
***** convene in chambers of ruin,
scuttling over rotted mainsail masts;
the jellyfish hover, ghostlike, in hulls
above steerage skeletons bedecked
in crenulated shells and sea anemones.
Plankton settles on shipwreck rust:
pervasive spores, mausoleum dust.
And draped across each wreck,
a pelagic pall of melancholy.  

III

On summer nights, children
chase ghost *****, freezing
them with flashlights, scooping
them into buckets brimming
with a berserk racket of claws
and shells scratching circular
walls of makeshift plastic crypts.
From the top deck, we follow
disembodied beams of light
zigzagging in darkness,
graveyard robbers darting
above holes in the sand,
black portals, each one
the size of a child’s fist.

IV

Years ago, so-called
wreckers would hang
lanterns from horses’
necks and lead the beasts
up and down the beach,
yellow beacons signaling
as though from distant ships
buoyed on placid waters.
The lights lured desperate
vessels inland, unsuspecting
captains and crews crashing
ashore in blind catastrophe.
At daybreak, islanders
scavenged the spoils
of their subterfuge—
silver chalices,
jeweled goblets,
golden cups and bowls—
treasures cast to rapacious
hands upon an indifferent tide.
And of course the corpses came,
caught between shore and sea,
rolling in breakers, stuck
in salty purgatory, churning,
shell-pocked and unsanctified.

V

Tonight a yellow mote of light
floats miles from shore, some ship
flickering like a votive stowed
upon a headstone’s crown.

And the half-drunk bottle
of pinot noir in the ship’s
decanter has me thinking:
When my time comes round,
wait for a moonless night,
black funeral gown
of sky embroidered  
with stars and satellites,
and sneak to the end
of the Avon fishing pier
and release the ashes
from whatever vessel
you’ve decided best
accommodates me.
Scatter finite confetti
to an infinite tomb,
ashes dissolving
unceremoniously
in saltwater,
subsumed.

Next morning,
perhaps catch sight
of a spirited sailboat
tacking over waves,
sails billowing in wind
like the unfurled wings
of a sea bird, full of grace,
alighting from grave to grave to grave.

I'd like to talk electricity,
chemicals,
living better through

I take medication
and when I don't
I feel
effortlessly
lost

thoreau would be so proud
I cry at provocations
that I would sneer at
in better days

waiting for better days
I can imagine them coming
warm and sweet
sunny fall days
nippy but still safe

even winter seems like
it could be all right
in better days

but they aren't here yet
I want to burn myself on them
push myself nearer their fire
than I can stand

I cannot bear to run away
the ink runs off my maps
staining my fingers
till everything tastes bitter

trying to redraw in charcoal
the places I know must be there
but all the familiar landmarks
are dragons now

and even when I do
even when I remember
and I even eat
and sleep
like I did when I was
ok
years ago, in a country I can't find
now
that might never have been there in the first place

even then
I'm maybe not drowning
but the air quality
is a little suspect

you will always be on my mind
you will always be every one of my thoughts
you will always be what i have been looking for
you will always be someone i never want to let go

i want you to be happy
to find peace within your soul
to realise we can have it all
to come back to me

i am thankful for meeting you two and a half years ago
for every precious moment we had had
for your smile, laughter and provocations
for every virtue and every flaw of yours

i pray for you every night and day
for you to be content with yourself
for you to find what you are looking for
for you to realise you are worth all of this pain i feel for you

you will always be the one who changed me.
i want you to be the one who will change me once again.
i am thankful for you who succeeded to change me.
i pray for you to be the one who will change for me.

I'm so sick of not having the words to describe how I feel anymore.
The smallest of provocations makes me cry, sometimes as soon as I lay down the tears start flowing and I can't ever stop them before I text a friend, or my boyfriend.
My boyfriend, who treats me as if my feelings are dumb, though he swears he doesn't mean to.
They reply with "what's wrong" and
I can't give them an answer
My best friend says it's OK,
My boyfriend sends a confused face.
And time and time again I apologize for not knowing what's wrong, for inconveniencing them with my feelings, but saying this makes me feel even more helpless.
I can't even tell the truth to myself anymore.
I'm lying in my bed crying for no reason.
**Help me please

always a return and as moving forward:
alway in retreat,
  to just quote empedocles:
         will you not end the terrible sounds of your ******?
do you not see that in your thoughtlessness you
are eating one another?
      indeed: what is the ego: if not a second mouth?
can i concede that this might be poorly written?
well: listen to a dialogue on scientology,
         conducted by joe rogan interviewing
a documentary maker louis therou(x), and try
to imagine how ****** writing can become a forest-fire
in society... i'd agree with you that heidegger
was terrible at using language, but then his magnum opus
took me 2 years to read...
                       and if you're interested in
the history of the third *****, outside of content,
it would be better for you to read the context of a hopeful
university professor than, say: reading the mein kampf.
          just saying... i'd **** out the politics of the zeitgeist
and look a bit deeper into the affairs...
    or how germany degenerated, what, given the treaty
of versailles?
                          how desperate people had to become
to later turn into: a volk of beethoven, schubert, schumann...
and the dr. satans of their days that numbered
  a span a 6 years.
                              i abhor psychology, i really have
not competent theory in this realm of learning, i'm sure
there is a competent cohort in some stratum of society
that could explain: no soul (psyche)... so these theories
better than i could. yet back to the greeks...
            psyche                  and narcissus -
a sound marriage?
                                  given these times... yes...
in that much needed allegory...
              originally it was narcissus and echo -
                                             but those days are seemingly
over: there is no longer talk of psyche and cupid -
             the suicide rates of teenagers?!
                         i have no need to treat the ego as a concept
that becomes a tulip, a rose and a field of lavender
  with freud, or c. g. jung... i need not these mental
stratas, these levels of codification:
accordingly with empedocles: my ego is just a second
mouth...
               that's it... there's nothing else;
and according to what is "good" quality writing...
             no one cares if ezra pound what he wrote, as if
he was writing in a telegram mode... but they sure as hell
give a **** saying: oh ya ya... t. s. elliot: fan-*******-tastic!
     even though ezra was the editor of the wasteland...
  so is "good" writing merely something pop,
and therefore simple? appealing?
                         to me: good writing is difficult;
      no one cares whether kraszewski is good,
                      most find him a bore, as a historian they
prefer to ref. pavel jasienica... why?
                   the former outpoured 30 books... the latter two...
and both wrote about the same time period of
the rise and fall of the polish-lithuanian commonwealth...
i'm all for intricacy, i don't like neat properly folded
napkin talk...
                       there's no need to stand for manners
and etiquette in general in writing... *** is never neat:
it's sloppy...
                                 unless you pay for it, so it then
becomes a contract... which doesn't mean that i sometimes
didn't leave the brothel after an hour and did have
an ******... and the ******* would look at me
with this horror of: huh?
                      jerking off? well: i wouldn't say
24 times a day... that would be pointless...
                            but the cult of the wendols -
which, as you might imagine, is borrowed -
                                       coincides with what happened
two years ago? it might be three or four; this english
politician found it abhorring that a woman was found
breast-feeding in public...    what the ****?
                                       can i have the other ******?
i dare say no one has really concerned themselves with
this realm of sexuality: of a husband competing
                    for the same affection as a baby might -
i'm not sure about the reasons for trying to explore this
very "sensitive" realm... but when a woman films herself
doing sexualised provocations (""?) and posts them online,
in the public sphere of things...
                                     you're thinking: maybe that
"parasite" (because that's how we're born, via the parasitic
route... that's not new... white tadpoles in some juice)
        well... that's the eroticism of the cult of the wendols:
i'm borrowing from cinema to understand something...
           there's this politician having a *****-fit when seeing
a woman breast feed in public...
   and then there's me and: the annoying brat screaming!
a baby screaming!
                            i can, but i don't have to look at the woman
breast-feeding: sure... she's pregnant and she's doing
this upper-body only dance...
                             i have a sheep-belly (socratic term
for bloated from alcohol) - the ****** element disappears
when the baby is ******* on it...
                when she's still pregnant and feeling *****
after walking the ****** Gobi desert for 9 months?
      well... you certainly can't feel guilty doing it
on a regular basis... given the chance that when you
imitate circumcision, the veins enricling that "excess"
could suddenly be ruptured... imagine that...
        death... by pleading out via a throbbing ****.
in the film, the wendols have a torso of a pregnant woman
dangling from their necks...
                  my, that really would be a rare paganism,
what with the original paganism and those *******
statues. (13th warrior... iraqi joins 12 vikings to defeat
the cannibals).

Desires'll end someday

Demand'll expire too

Dreams would evaporate

Destiny     "     achieved

All doors will closed

Except one

That door'll bring us

To our actual destiny

To the feet of the Supreme God

Actually,we all're destined to that place

Just misguided by the materialistic provocations

After all,err is to human-Written on 20.09.2012

take me higher
than the lakes and rivers
forests, hills, mountain peaks
among the clouds and the cold
among the stars and meteors
the comets, the planets
the stardust

take me higher
with your love and passion
with your provocations
with your whole self
(but you've already done that)
and there's no return.

We grew up
And I remember that you used to
Contemplate dead stars that have not lost their shine
And to say that the Three Sisters were the most beautiful in the universe
because they were always together
- like us.

I remember that I used to delight in the smell of your strawberry hydrant
which you passed through your entire body
and I worried that I might miss a few words
and make you don't talk to me for the rest of the week.

I remember that you devoured books,
ran like a lumpy cheetah
and was always inciting me through trivial provocations.

We grew up,
we were hit by the ****** scent of life
and we smell the money
which makes us breathe as much as oxygen.
Killer minds camouflaged by coaching speeches caught us by the wayside
and the voices of the alleys taught us that to be a conqueror in truth was the worst way.

We could have aged, but
We stopped at the time.
Now, we live in this eternal adulthood
where we put a foot on a social footwear,
and we leave the other barefoot in the land of never.
We do not know the laws of the now and the laws of the future.
We forged our own Law.
We have no ideologies or identities,
but we are everything
to each other.
For us,
every day are punishments and gifts.
We are our own executioners and liberators.

But, several times,
in moments of nostalgia and shame
I wanna be that stupid boy again
sitting on the beach by his side
listening to Jack Johnson
while boys shake giving their first kisses
and the girls dream with a soulmate.