Sprinkling crystals dipped in glass
ray of prisms breeze my eye
sunshine rhythms hide in grass
floating sugar on the pie

Neon lights pass to scroll
while purple midnight breathes
jacket goosebumps stockings stole
four-wheeled lion grumbly seethes

Honey nectar slumbers my eyes
whitewashed lace tangle my face
gentle buzzings of pastel sky
as cotton candy sank with grace

Open heart box standing in the rain
cries diamonds for to call her name
the poetry train caught riding to Spain
set carnival dewdrops on red flames

Shut up
why do you let them get to you
I'm sorry but they don't speak the truth
I'm not in love with you
Yeah so, you looked me up
You figured it out
My past
The underground star
that was never put to rest
Simply because no one would let me
The Girl born as a quadruplet
The heir of a famous Dance Academy
The girl who wrote choreography by the age of five
Before she could even spell her name
The same girl's grandmother who died on her birthday from cancer
the same girl who moved away
to a place where they could never find me
The place were only one who knew the real me
Were best friend now
Although they were destined to find me
Once I became published again
For my illness
My parents fatal accidents
The death of my bother Christen
Another brother who went to war
And justifying school systems in our town
So once again living in a shadow of an untold mess
no one will let me rest
But you weren't to certain about one thing
You were afraid to ask
What happened  to him?
He also died.
He was 13 and I was 14
He was the only person I have known since birth
We had one of those little kid relationships
We didnt know what we were doing
We thought holding hands would make a baby
Well...At least he did.
I guess you could 7 years.
only 1 year 11 months and 8 days
Just  like the others you wont let me rest
I'm sorry

ah, the romance, the man who learned the alphabet of chemistry, and turned out to be more eloquent than the man who learned the compounds of an english tongue... you have a sing-along, friar Tuck?! some Gregorian chant up your sleeve?!

let's get it over and done with,
i write a tattoo on your body,
i own part of it -
      in theory, sure,
i listen to some ****** pop
song i will keep to myself
than ask for the desirable ***
position, and find the latter
a more engaged: hue in cheek...
fine...
     but given the benzene ring...
meta- positioning is clearly dead...
the trans- positioning attracted
the gender "debate"...
sure... i''ll settle for that...
but there's still the" ortho-
direction...
                       chemistry
teaches: there's no fourth in
a north south east...
          i guess it was called
the West at some point...
            do what the transgender
kids are doing going crazy...
the islamic appearance of prayer
was always going to return to
****...
as the christian to a *******...
now i've been trying to
switch on the metaphysics gyrroscope
for some times...
thing's fidgety and the most
likely un-curious affair...
a bit like stroking a cow...
         there's but one answer
to the trans movement...
    the english language has been
alienated from the concept
of orthography...
   kept in the dark,
  strutting along on ****...
growing into a gargantuan Chernobyll
artefact...
            you want sanity:
let the trans freaks do their bit
in ****** the common consensus with
an anti-orthodox gospel of
thomas,
   who should be doubted as a saint...
stick to the clue of, language per se...
if only i could interest the english
into investigating the concept of
orθograφy...
        y the acute iota - morph dearest:
orθograφí - pretty please: epsilon.
   and why did they search in Iran
for an answer, and derive aryan?
simply to combat the greek undermining
of the roman?
me? i'm coordinate at (0,0) - a third
0 nullifies the history...
                  a movie called:
a roman revenge!
                 keep your greco-judeaic
"new" testament,
     the sort of account of god that's
cosmopolitan, and, agreeable to the fashionable
ladies...
              θ-φ,
   the quadruplet Siamese twins...
question is...
was it boy-girl boy-girl
                           or boy-boy girl-girl?
huh! myth! it un-writes the blandness of current
history being pulverising,
     additive,
           and journalism becoming
worse than a **** speech...
has anyone noticed how condescending
journalists have become?
    how puny in attire of, something or other...
has anyone noticed how
    authoritarian these word-pushers
are becoming, how the middle class is
agitating a shadow which answers
them without
journalists these days are nothing
short of a bunch prying brats...
     with or without a dictator,
they are beyond fashioning a revised
credibility... i trust listening to a ****
more than their ******* opinion.

  bellum perfectus est in status quo

i still lament the lack of an article in latin -
           i.e. a perfect war is the unmoveable
"object" of affairs,
  and the perpetuated concern of a subject
matter, that is solved by a mere, yawn.

war is perfected in a status quo -
which means: constant war,
    a war in which civilians are militarised,
to the point where women are willing
to conscript into the army,
  and hardly any desire work,
in the construction industry;
  for some reason army allows slack,
yet the construction industry, doesn't.