i still think the oceans are insulators of tectonic plate movements, constant and endless vibrations represented by waves, these vibrations, when translated on dry land, movements of crumbling buildings, rigidity as testimony to the insulating fluidity of water; it's like those nuclear power plants, you use water to cool things down, or as in the case of oceans and tectonic plates, insulate volatility... well, radioactivity in the opposite scenario of nuclear power plants... oh look, a rhyming couplet - now that's how you understand things, if not reveal them, find complimentary rhymes on a grander scale than the casual technique in poetry, so over-used and overrated.*

i guess so, monsters bedded, big and small,
an old granny without a family member
to accompany her, harrowed by
charity groups who ask for money
more for the bureaucracy of its workers than
aiding actual victims - someone has to
look pretty, writing solemn letters and
filing in the spreadsheets -
by the way, how's that advent of the grand
timings working, find the hyphen,
the comma, the colon and semi-colon on the clock?
well, there ain't a full stop on there, i'm sure,
hard to decide on encoding time of a 100m
sprint, or a formula 1 thousandth of a second.
so this angel of euthanasia comes along,
a cruel case they say, while years later
a man suffering motor neurone disease
pleads for a change of law, according to switzerland,
he wants it bad, real real bad, he's no longer
even stoic about death, the disease didn't
rob him of expressing tears, and he's pleading
for it, a death sequence, he too knows
a drop in an ocean has no ripple effect,
humanity is the ocean, waves and waves of it,
always dynamic, never still like a lake or mirror,
either the ocean, or the river;
so this angel of euthanasia is there, kills
about 100 grannies, and guess what,
he hangs himself in prison, so that his widow
can receive his pension salary of £100,000,
odd, isn't it? i mean, why would a supposed
"serial killer" wait in prison, hang himself
just after he was eligible for a general practitioner's
pension, just so his wife could have it?
all those old grannies probably lived
on the state pension of one hundred
and twenty quid, not one hundred thousand, i'm sure.
well the guy suffering from motor neuron disease,
oh crap, i wish i could remember that philosopher's
name, parmenides? zeno? can't remember,
yeah, forced himself to suffocate,
without water and without a pillow; yep,
just sat there and held his breath.

i was in the womb when
the chernobyll calamity happened
in 1986...
people still speak of seeing
radioactivity rainbows
in the trees: segregating streaks
where 10 metres of trees
were green and 10 metres of
trees were brown...
much of my ailments i blame
on the chernobyll calamity,
with neurotic scandinavians
spotting the radioactivity
while some of us were tattooed
with symptoms
by this great tattoo artist;
yes, chernobyll was far away from
where i was born,
but we're talking about atom among
atoms in the wind - distance doesn't
really matter when atoms are involved,
not all hurricanes are visible,
the atomic fabric is too fragile to be
as easily isolated as a tornado for the eyes
to see - remember what i told you:
10 metres of green trees, 10 metres of
brown trees, Vivaldi was turning
in his grave; the seasons are all but
forgotten, spring blossom on trees
throughout winter, and daffodils
and other flowers perpetuating colour -
and because they're around throughout
the year, they're not that beautiful
when the right temperature feeds the pores of skin
to turn ivory tinge into copper hue
(yes, anti-classical poetic technique
requires the use of tautology - it's
the new form of rhyming - tautology
is required now, not rhyme immediate e.g.
tinge & hue... that's an e.g. of tautological
rhyming - or like baby pink & pastel red,
chestnut & cinnabar, dark sienna & seal brown).

You sit daintily on her lap
And everything’s a frenzy
Not a sunset fiesta
But an angry cataclysm of molecules
Ricocheting into hysterical radioactivity
And I sit quietly
Warily
I watch mine become hers
During brief moments
Of searing mania and the pit
Of my core is unraveling
And my heart is two patters too quick
In the most sedated of ways
On days when the wrinkles of your hands
Match another’s
And when you are no longer my own.

the scars that skies paint,
on my face are stains,
that i preserve to show my soul.
i am a sucker for strong ffelings,
that often weep and get back up,
to paint colorful billboards in slums.
eyes are just nomads, they only see
the flame that is burning but the flame that's gone
is stored in aphorisms that mother's read
to their children at night, hoping
god will save them, from all above and below.
i seem to find solace, in tying up my body, using words
as knives that tear apart organs piece by piece.
it is better to die in honour, than masked radioactivity,
consuming you, like water in an ocean, like glaciers that do not want to melt and yet are subdued.
how long can someone play hide and seek, how long can u seek
shelter in the reality that often hides it's counterpart.
are you trying to smell the rose, or sacrilege the thorns?
these days will only end, in disbalance, like the ticking diving and
crashing of all the times, where forever was a noun in dystopia.
just stop listening, and start absorbing, time has lost it's crown,
humans have lost their endeavour, and
the only way to be truly sane, is flowing ever eternally like
the shape of water, succulent in all forms.
we are not one but many, scars that will draw out roads for us
to follow, roads that will lead us to meaning to we caanot comprehend with the five senses.
nobody is ready, nobody ever was.
tell me, how do we mourn such a privilege, one we
cannot touch, or feel or sense,
because what lies withing is forbidden to all of us,

some would call it a profanity - from the islands of northern Europe i liked the Scots the most, in my first year at Edinburgh Scottish weather played a joke, i don't remember a single gloomy day - i do remember not sleeping one night, and trekking up Arthur's Seat to watch the sunrise, then climbing down, buying Kellogg's cornflakes and full-fat milk and eating them - that magic moment just between daytime fully sets in - it's so fresh, a reality proof, just before the mundane job applicants get up, you get a sense of what's truly taken for granted in society - it only lasts for a few minutes - before the commuters' nagging sets in, and everything fresh (awaiting the new dawn) becomes custard thick - sticky, sickly honey glue pungent... anyway... i'm making a grand profanity at the moment: tier 1 - whiskey and ice, tier oblivion - whiskey and coca cola... but what i'm drinking is like a virus immune to antibiotics, no amount of citrus barley caramel can mask the smoked salmon with a tinge of variously fruity accents can mask it... Glen Moray, single malt, an Elgin Classic - it is a profanity, i agree - i should drink whiskey like mulled wine - but i'm in a hurry for a mindset, and i'm not bothered that much about passing down aesthetics - my palette says otherwise. yeah, my love for Scotland came from climbing up a ladder in the English hierarchy at school - everyone wanted to be taught by Mr. Thomas Boonce - aged 15 went into B1 (or however they noted the selection process) - aged 16 on top of my game, A1 class - a blazing comet trail of ambition, shared the same desk with my enemy shoulder-to-shoulder, the one who promised me a south american plant would give me grand hallucinations, ****** the mother of my ******* son and wa-lah! elephant trunk pulled from a top hat playing jazz - that Jesus bit about loving your enemies? esp. if they're your childhood friends and are **** crazy? you don't love them, your heart turns to stone and it says skipping on lake: what a shame... so much potential in him wasted on jealousy, the way he trusted a woman that is now on some sort of psychiatric medication... i can't love enemies, what i can do is feel sorry for a waste of human potential... (knock on chest)... yep, this ol' ticker is solid stone... and sooner or later it will be added to a mountain i'm constructing in my mind.

thank god for rabbinical literature -
i could pour days over these pages - i literally open a book,
a compilation of entries -
why hasn't anyone noticed the genius of written Hebraic?
i know in the middle east is a wasp nest of harking and
memorable achoo - or quasi (~, literary denotation,
thereabouts, so so, kinda, well, approximate too,
hand gesture in that symbol, good-in-bad-bad-in-good) -
just now i was admiring the fact that Hebraic hides vowels -
truly, they hide them, ingenious buggers -
all the vowels in Hebraic are hidden -
in translation to Latin the Hebrews treat vowels
like post-Latin users of the original S.P.Q.R. alphabet
use diacritical marks - and newspaper Hebraic doesn't
include them in print, only: i suppose in poetry and
rabbinical writings are they exposed -
which stems largely from what is cordoned off -
or rather the fruits of the work of encapsulation -
Latin is slightly biased, no letter is truly encapsulated,
shut-off from another - aye, be, cee, dee, ee, ef, hay'tch (
a distinction), em, en, ***... zed (an exception), ex, you
get the idea - there are no nouns in the post-Latin
alphabet as such - which is why in science Greek letters
were used as constants - these consonant constants
encapsulated not only the phonetic content of a symbol,
but also allowed for an encapsulation of some higher
purpose - e.g. α (angular acceleration) -
β (sound intensity) - γ (gamma rays) - δ (heat in chemistry,
the perfect error, the Laplace operator, etc.) -
ε (set theory, the limit ordinal of the sequence -
    html disapproval to be written as: ω (tier squared ω,
    and one above the squared tier ω, ω root ω double root ω -
    variant alias of this? Hebraic notation of u .
                                                               ­                   .
                                                               ­                      .
     *shurek) - Θ (Debye notation) - θ (potential temp. in
thermal dynamics) - ι (orbital inclination in celestial mechanics) -
κ (curvature) - Λ (lattice) - λ (decay constant in radioactivity) -
μ (micron, SI prefix, one millionth) - ν (a neutrino) -
ξ (a random variable) - π (too obvious, πr squared) -
ρ (correlation coefficient in statistics) - Σ (summation operator) -
σ (area density) - τ (torque) - φ (the golden ratio, 1.618...) -
ψ (the cat in a box, wave function, quantum mechanics) -
ω (the infinite ordinal);
                                         it's precisely because the Greeks to
encapsulate their phonetic symbols that so much stability
was brought up - look how poverty stricken the Latin variations
are - these are not merely letters, they are actually nouns!
you can recite the whole Greek alphabet a bit like going
to a party and being introduced to people: Jim, Charlie,
George, Rosemarie... obviously there are exceptions for
this observation to be bullet-proof (i.e. μ, ν, ξ, π etc.)
but did the scientists mind not using them? no! they kept to
this interpretation that symbols of sound need to be encapsulated -
held together, stable, each symbol needs to be a balancing act -
an ~equal amount of consonants and vowels need to be
invoked when writing either a or α, b or β, g or γ -
there needs to be an invocation of names to these symbols -
not mere ah be c e ef gee... English for its laziness in omitting
diacritical marks did the unspeakable when digital paper came
about - it turned itself into a quasi encryption tongue,
acronym fuelled and in all honestly - self-conscious of its faults
yet basking in them! but the real genius in encoding signs truly
belongs to the Hebraic school...

you find them so coerced by naked pictures,
that their outer resembles no inner -
you find them bound to an idea that the inner can
somehow compensate - but it can't -
the outer as the inner reveals nothing,
no love, merely a **** - the winged-Hussars die
in Ukrainian fertile land, and with the music,
you can only think of the drudgery of walking
through knee-high mud - you can just picture
the Cossack moustaches wedged behind the ears
like earrings - i too would have eaten my tongue that way
had it been permitted - without permission
i spoke of a stake tartar and my tongue into one -
then the mantra came - kametz, tzeré, chirek, kametz,
tzeré, kametz, kametz, tzeré, tzeré, cholem, kametz, kametz,
- i will not be treated like some dumb farmer!
      your Yurt empire is fledgling into the sunset!
  and my heart is enshrined into a bitter toil! it will love
as it pleases! not with you saying what there's to love!
tzeré, shurek, kametz, kametz, tzeré, kametz, cholem, tzeré,
chirek, kametz. what a mantra!
a, e, i, a, e, a, a, e, e, o, a, a, e, u, a, a, e, a, o, e, i, a -
patterns strangre than in a poetic rhyming scheme -
respective incisions into still-life motives of movement -
i.e. if a vowel be my hand, a consonant be a chair i sit on:
kametz of aleph (א), tzeré of bet (ב), chirek of gimel (ג),
kametz of dalet (ד), tzeré of heh (ה), kametz of vav (ו).
kametz of zayin (ז), tzeré of chet (ח), tzeré of tet (ט),
cholem of yod (י), kametz of kaf (ק), kametz of lamed (ל),
tzeré of mem (מ), shurek of nun (נ), kametz of samekh (ס),
kametz of ayin (ע), tzeré of peh (פ), kametz of tzadi (צ),
cholem of kof (ק), tzeré of resh (ר), chirek of shin (ש)... and
finaly the kametz of tav (ת)* - we really like our matchstick
men, don't we? in terms of ancients tongues,
we like our curvatures in modern tongues of Greek
and Latin, don't we?
instilled the names of vowels! kametz (a
                                                 tzeré (e
            chirek (i
                                          cholem (o
                 shurek (u
                                                           pentagon thus far,
    revealed vowels with diacritic interpretation
           kametz, as soured: חָ - tau, vowel as diacritical mark
elsewhere -
                       tzeré - or umlaut below the letter - alternatively:
           וָ qàmetz                   וֵ tzeré
וִ ḥìreq                              וֹ ḥólem                   וּ shùreq
     (c, k, q - make it quick, à, 1st),
                (é - prolong it, to catch a breath, or the first
                      tetragrammaton H),
that's the genius of the encoding though... the omission of
vowels, or vowels as diacritical marks - one shurek (u .
                                                               ­                                   .
                            ­                                                                 ­        .)
among 10 kametz and 7 tzeré - gematria at its purest -
one shurek, 2 chireks and 2 cholems -
a form of encoding deviating from obscure onomatopoeia
and the void and meaninglessness, toward
a sound ushering a word for word, and actions parallel -
but this encapsulation of breath taken and
breath released, as in writing, the speaker does not
suddenly breathe again - but is kept within limit,
a consonant starting point, the zenith of breath or soul
and a return to one body, v A v (e.g.).
but imagines being able to avoid noun insertions -
then Hebrew is very much as modern English -
when modern English ought to utilise diacritical marks
on either vowel or consonant, it does not -
it doesn't have a single sound encoding worthy of a name -
there's no omega, there is only oh -
Hebrews treat their vowels as diacritical marks -
their language is one massive crossword -
how do they even read HBRC? who the hell taught them
when to insert the vowels from following the roots
as stated HBRC toward the tree that's HEBRAIC?
this is ******* bewildering - i don't know how they do it!
what's agonising is their notion that patterns in letters
having numerical values is somehow meaningful,
as if something horrid can be averted - to me 1 + 1 = 2
is enough - i don't need alef / αλεφ / αλεθ (א) + bet / βετ (ב) =
anything but gimel / γιμελ (ג) -
this is the ****-pile of having so many prophets in your society
and not enough philosophers - the Casandra Standard -
Greeks had the philosophers, the Hebrews had their
prophets, both in excess - in the end the cult of prophecy
in Hebraic society turned into a Casandra Standard
borrowed from Greek myth - while Greek philosophers...
i don't actually know what happened to them -
i think most of them became dentists after Aristotle suggested
women had fewer teeth than men.

i was but a foetus in a womb when Chernobyl happened; the women were told to drink iodine... never knew why, so obviously i was bound to end up like a mutant, given that the radioactivity winds where more potent than those of hot glass Sahara... if you're still stuck in Einstein's physics in terms of causality: cause and effect, i know by a golden standard that you're still confused... Newton's theories about certain things might have been wrong... but a punch is still a punch on the receiving body: a plum coloured blotch, a limo of the puffed up punched cheek of the area around the eye socket.

most these poems could be forgotten in an instant,
a blink of an eye to account for 365 sunrises
on an orb, dense with salty waters,
most of them could become dinosaur bones
on the flag of Wales, just like that! snap! click!
there... prehistory tangled on display
oddly rushed into a crowd of waving hands
with its fluttering creases...
but then i know what poetry is for...
it's not for galleries, not for exhibitions,
not freak shows... not stadiums with amassed
crowds shouting drunken grunts...
poetry isn't for that...
take Alla Ivanivna (aged 87), living in
the Chernobyl exclusion zone, a remote
place called Poliske, once inhabited by
20,000... later 20... 17 of which died,
leaving 3 ghosts... well, souls...
a rickety hut, snow through half the year,
Columbus birches (explorers of the forests,
the scouts of the forests),
she's there living on 40 euros a month,
her food gets delivered,
perhaps a stove to warm-up,
she survived the **** invasion,
the Soviet-induced famine,
her husband died when she was 20 in
a car crash...through the Stalinist repression,
and then Chernobyl...
and then she quotes TS Eliot -
an infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing,
there... that's poetry... that's what poetry
is for... it's not an art to be shouted on rooftops,
it's not a honing device for you the bee
and the vast swarm to come looking for you...
Alla is a gallery, the purpose...
she remembers the good old days - and
she remembers a line from a poem...
memory is poetry's greatest ally,
actually poetry is a kind of memory,
perhaps a tool to peer into a vast vault of
images, given poetry is sometimes unheard
and encoded with these crude symbols...
you keep one line from a poem rather than the
whole poem like a trained monkey schoolchild
and your life flashes before your eyes over
the dim bleak vegetation of Ukrainian winters -
it's almost like a slap against Kant's categorical
imperative of working out your life with
one maxim, or with several, whatever;
and that's why it so ******* hurts to craft*.

Brainwaves like the cosmos
giving birth.
The bang of my nuclei expands
beyond the earth.
My supernova incinerates all in its path
My black hole engulfs all light  
E=MC²…..
The birth of the atom
Concepts like myriad mushroom clouds
Visions of explosive aftermaths
Mind games played out on a grand scale
Random radioactivity
Permeates creativity
Defying gravity daily
Like a river
I flow
I bend
Sometimes a gurgling stream
Sometimes a raging torrent
No more hurricanes……
I am serene

Luna is a silent world,
a wasteland of sere beauty.
It’s “seas” are dust and waterless;
Rainfall? Zero, absolutely!

In this place where birds don’t sing
and nothing green can grow.
We built the Armstrong Geodome,
in secret, years ago.

Here, on the “dark” side of the moon,
in a Mare without a name.,
a climate controlled paradise
was built, and workers came.

Some were miners, strong and buff
who search for this world’s gold.
Some are research scientists
one hundred fifty men, all told.

In Twenty Forty Seven
all hell broke loose on Earth
There were nuclear exchanges
and what followed next was worse.

A winter like none other;
we listened, helpless, as they died.
Starvation is the cruelest fate
for any mother’s child.

One by one they all fell silent,
the great cities of that Orb.
Deaths occurred in magnitudes
the human mind can not absorb.

We struggled, yes, but we survived
without the ships from home.
One Hundred fifty adult males,
like the mariners of old.

We mourned the Loves we’d left behind,
We shuddered at their fate.
Our Refuge was our prison;
We lived deprived of child or mate.

The streets of Armstrong are always clean
as cleaning bots are on patrol.
but here no children laugh or play,
it’s a town without a soul.

Two decades we spent in that place
then came the words for which we yearned:
Atmospheric radioactivity
to safe levels had returned.

I was on the first ship home
to San Francisco Bay.
The landmarks all were flattened
The Golden Gate in ruins lay.

We mortals wept, I will not lie
Our cradle had become our grave;
The streets of home were silent,
there was no one left to save.

Terra is a silent world,
a wasteland of sere beauty.
It’s “seas” are toxic, lifeless now;
Children? Zero, absolutely!

The purest stranger
in my life
has jolted me
with a million volts
of sheer-excitement.

I crave the electric-feeling
she sends through
my entire body.
I am supercharged
at the very thought
of creating static-friction
with her between the sheets.

I will be her dynamo,
will spin her turbines
like she's never felt before.
She will buzz with radioactivity,
enter another dimension,
scream for more energy
as I split her atoms
with ****-fushion.

There's something
totally magnetic,
extremely attractive  
about starting a new
sensuous-reaction
with a total stranger,
especially her.

I have spoken with emissaries from the embassies of hope who filled me with foreboding of what is to come,I have seen Diplomats run from the mountains of papers that climb up their backs.
In sacks full of Christmas the listless lay dying,babies unattended left hungry and crying and the peace pipe is smoked in the Olive groves of Turkey,while the radioactivity,the new age nativity is played out in church halls.
I see buildings arise as each old building falls and the dust spreads its memories through the thoughts I have walked through.
I see you dressed in Sepia with the sunlight behind you
I see you and no more now
I see you and this is how
I remember.

You texted me this morning
When the trees were being assaulted by gales
And the coffee in my *** had been sitting there
For weeks now collecting poison.

It had been a month
And I too, had collected poison
In the form of underage drinking
Tiny piercing viruses, bottle after bottle
In attempted to eradicate brain cells that held a picture of you
On their nucleus.
It didn’t work.

So I tried inhaling glass in to my lungs
Tried passing out so I could land in a coma
But I missed two feet to much to the right
And landed on my frontal lobe
Where you proceeded to dissect me with your tongue.
So when you texted me this morning

Memories came like cancer



I remembered that car dealership
Where you bought the 1960 sky blue Volkswagen bug
With rust on the side,
I remember driving to North Carolina with you
On a Monday morning.
Blistering cold at twilight
And all we did was whisper and hum
To each other
As we drove on empty interstate highways

You taught me how to cross state lines
And eat food so volatile that radioactivity
Spewed from my taste buds,
Down my throat
And in to my rigid spine
Where it shivered like arthritis.

My body isn’t hollow; it’s just frozen
Because tiny tundras fill the fissures in my rotting skin
My bones are brittle ice cubes bulging out from underneath the surface

And if people were snow, I would be a particle on a flake
And you would be Antarctica: vast, mysterious, uncharted, vicious, brutal, untamed,
And you would have had frozen me in to an arctic sculpture
To be hung over your brick stone fireplace
As you stood there watching me melt
With your blue corpse eyes.


It’s 8:34 now,
I’ve stood here for thirty minutes remembering what you once were
A continental mystery on my western cerebral hemisphere.
There was America,
Specifically Georgia
But you spoke Alaskan.
Talked about going there like 18 year olds talked about Europe

Everyone wants an adventure
But all you wanted was to know how it felt like
To have mountains under your palms
And snow peaks over your head.
They called it climbing.
I called it searching.
But those who climb would inevitably know how to fly

If they knew how to let go

So let go darling.
Stop calling me in December to tell me all the great things we did back in August.
If I’d had written down our phones calls
It would be enough to fill a notebook full of parentheses
Because all we did was whisper and say things we didn’t mean.  

So don’t come back and try to freeze me again.
I won’t melt this time, I’ll disintegrate.
I’ll fuse with my fissures
Become tundra and dissolve in to the soil


Where your body is, buried
Beneath layers of cement,
Dirt
And ash.
I place flowers on your head stone every week
But you still keep texting me and texting me
Telling me how great our trip was to North Carolina
And how we can do it all over it again

The whispering, the humming, the parentheses

All I had to do was drink the coffee

It was just the two of us against all of the sky’s tears that night. Behind askew glasses and matted hair I watched you seep into the chilly wet darkness and pouring noise, how the iridescent urban glows blurred and blinked through your body, like fairy lights on black satin. You gripped my hollowness by the wrist and I came to respect the force of block falls on touch as you threw my world back on its two feet, not before a brief eternity of giddiness and disbelief. The supposedly accursed head of mine took in the images of shock through raindrop-filled lenses as my body changed direction against my will and gravity. My world was a kaleidoscope of lights and blaring horns, and with your hand around mine it was nothing but a distasteful harmony of passion and discord and it made me smile. You were yelling at me and I looked at you and I laughed. You asked me what I wanted and I begged and chortled and pleaded and giggled for the thousandth time, for you to hurry up and tell me that you don’t need me because I had somewhere else I need to go and even after all of that your grip only got tighter, sinking me into the eye of your storm. But that was just you, wasn’t it? Always ready to swallow me straight into your depths in times of uncertainty. I clutched the sides of your dripping face and I peered into your swimmy eyes to admire the reflection of my own and realized I could not find myself because all I saw was the apex of skyscrapers straight pass through your transparency as pure as the waters of the Maldives Islands on a sunny summer day quite unlike this one, but quite like the summers we spent in school for years walking down hate-filled corridors, fingers entwined and then suddenly I was afraid to touch you. I kicked and I screamed and tore ripples through your skin, begging you once more to pour me out of your hands so they are free to start scrubbing the belittling words off our locker doors, or the spay-painted ****** dripping red on the top of your locker like a store brand, hitting you on the head again and again the fact that not all rain yield desirable crops and yet you still pelted raindrop kisses on every inch of my puffy red cheeks till it was enough to smoothen my dry storm down to a drizzle. It was then I realized I was so, so cold. I looked tiredly down below and I was the Emperor of the gazillion city veins below, the King of the critter cars heading nowhere. I was God, and with that power I summoned it and looked back to earnestly, sahara-driedly request you to forget me once and for all because we are in the end sinners in the eyes of common sense, because you were too stubborn to flow out of the box to realize that I am the mercury leak to your springs, slowly diffusing into you when you spread yourself into every crevice of my body when we cuddle at night, a limitless barrel of radioactivity poured down your throat and all over your shirt in the shadows. You came into my life uninvited, flooded my earths with your torrents and left my world in a waste pool of yellow, but also a warm bed enough to nurse a young forest. I hate the way you swept me off since day one just as much as I love drinking in every last drop of your presence. Your arms wafted around my waist like petrichor and lured me back to safety. The rain on the 74th rooftop was ready to stop, but I was.  At least I wasn't sure.

Closing my eyes, I opted to drown.

replying freud...

   what do women want?

to act as if they're "confused"...

and to be honest?

   i can't be bothered with
this question,

    i haven't even asked it proper,
and i'm already lethargic
about it...

   why do women reveal so little
of their nature?

   i guess playing with barbie dolls
really served us to become
puppets in their grip...

what a boring question!
   who asks that sort of quetion
and can't see the obvious truth?

noble page! pour me another drink!
sure thing, don quixote...
     and why wouldn't man
find much more in "madness"
as he might find in a "woman"?

  to be honest, i did prefer buying
en vogue's singel when
the prodigy's album
    music for the jilted generation
came out...
                  
     ha... so long ago that's it's
untrue...
          even though i take to make
imprints on the sand with my feet,
i am nothing short of the sea,
revising the presence with
  being the schrödinger metaphor
existent outside the realm
of box, radioactivity, and cats...

i am the sea...

     sum aequor, etiam sum flumen,
              per se qua: cogito...

i am the sea, and i am the river,
   as being: being in itself - thought.

  i am the sea in being, but i am also
a river, as being: thought...

women are not "confused" -
   men know this,
and to break away from the supposed
"confusion" crafted abstraction,
  to allow woman her natural state
of existence,
  but at the same time to break away
from her...
   crafting chess, crafting puppeteering...

i lost the ambition of wanting
to know certain things,
to me i find them exhausting...
i don't like lies to begin with...
   and it's so exhausting listening to
a woman who writes her life into
the grave of fiction, without actually
producing a novel...

(ego) sum aequor, (ego) sum flumen,
(ego) sum: labyrinthus.

for if woman has the heart
to weave her fiction over reality,
      man has his mind to do likewise...
woman in stasis:
              within the ratio of
                                    man in flux;
"irony": influx.

           there is no ontological worth
investigating woman,
for akin to kierkegaard's god,
the never-changing god...

                 woman is a tiresome
ontological endeavour, akin to god...
for neither change,
   for both are a home with,
or without a basilica, a home within a home,
or a home without a basis for
permanent residing spheres of interests...
   man impregnates the woman
for continuum...
   as he goes the idea of a god
by ******* his thought, into "nothing":

       icarus cogito ad res "nihil"...

but i wonder... where do moment of
"prohibited" thought wonder into?
            where do moments where thought
does not exact the coordinates
based around a god (0, 0 , 0) wonder toward?

           luckily, toward things of
spontaneous interests...
     like a feral animal suddenly jolted into
its full sensual enthropy,
   such that we too,
become seemingly woken within
the waking hours, bound to an ingeneous path
of revelation and originality...

beyond the **** sapiens, there's the reversal
of the transgender movement...

     **** in flux -
        femina in stasis.
                          
                         with my feet impressed
upon this earth,
   i see no other gate of entry,
            but the many gates of departure.

The trees
used to sing with the wind
before He got here.

The salty ocean water
would gently shush us
all to sleep.
Now that He’s here
ships are sinking like
our dreams:
immediately.

Ever since He arrived
Candles no longer light the way,
They burn bridges
and build unimaginable walls
in their wake.

Plutonium
is no longer
radioactive.
Radioactivity
is relative.
Everything now glows a
sickly hue,
brought on
by His discolored
rotting views.

Air Earth Water Fire Aether

The eternal marriage
of Air
and the Earth
has faltered
under the guise of
conversion
“therapy”

Water has now
made itself undrinkable to all
but the chosen few.

Fire is now
Only Orange.

The Aether
is no longer empty.
It is filled
with all our memories.
It is the only place
for all of our bodies to go
now that we’re bound for soot,
inhabitable soil
and eternal
nuclear snow.

Air Earth Water Fire Aether

are now

GreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgain

There are lots of avenues
through history
to travel down “again.”

Many views of former greatness.

Slavery
Holocausts
Massacres
Cities Lost

and it all starts

with an immigration ban.

Signed on the day
remembering
my dozens of dead family.
My millions slaughtered endlessly.

Here we are
At the beginning.

History supposedly repeats itself

Let’s not let Him

The flowers grew from the craters where
The bombs ripped open the ground,
Back in that terrible time of war
When God in his heavens frowned,
I just remember destruction, piles
Of bricks where houses had stood,
And years along, new growth began
Where Airmen lay in the wood.

Their plane came down in the poplar trees
That had stood in a long, straight line,
Tearing a swathe of destruction through
Where we’d played in a former time,
And just beyond was the surgeon’s house
That had boasted a Roman Spa,
Now flat, and exposing the Roman Tiles
That survived the previous war.

I’d go down there with Priscilla, who
Lived out by the railway track,
We’d play our games in the cellars
That had lain open, since the attack.
I hadn’t taken much notice of
The flowers that grew in the weeds,
That sprang into life like mushrooms, when
The bombs had scattered their seeds.

Priscilla did, she would smell the scent
That had wafted up from the flowers,
And say, ‘I’ve never seen these before,
They’re new, they’re meant to be ours.’
She’d pick the flowers and take them home
And attempt to make them thrive,
But once removed from their sacred ground
They’d rarely stay alive.

I didn’t handle the flowers as much
So I wasn’t quite as ill,
When she went down with a jaundice that
The doctors couldn’t heal.
They tried their best and they traced it to
The flowers she’d taken home,
A level of radioactivity
Was the reason that they’d grown.

The ground has been cordoned off for good
With a special yellow tape,
While she and I are forbidden to go
To the place that was our escape.
They keep her tied to a wheelchair where
They attempt to hide her sores,
While I’m in a sort of cage since I
Grew skin like the dinosaurs.

David Lewis Paget

My head's like a fortress, I keep my thoughts shut away
my heart is a failed church whereupon I go to pray
the birds seem to float in the golden morning sky
as my eyes bleed from a sleepless night of cries

CRASH!

every castle falls, nothing but shattered memories and rubble
lies and pretence form around like a protective bubble -
I gaze at myself in the mirror with no recognition
once a beacon of strength bled dry by self-mutilation

emotions seeping out like radioactivity
ideas twisted, obscure, lacking creativity
infected by the evil I've strived to appease
anger bulging from the vaults of disease

I can't hold it anymore, my insides are imploding
(corrosive)
surviving with a fear you can taste, ugly and foreboding
(explosive)
cursing my body of scars physical and transparent
on the outside my torture is far from apparent

seeking a saviour, someone to eat away my flesh when it goes black
I'm sick, I'm dying, I just need to go back
to the origin of the despair that's tainted my whole existence
then maybe, just maybe, I can find happiness without any persistence.

*(alas, if only)

I feel as though I wade through the sickly gait
of butter
mind cast deep into the sea,
searching for a coast covered in fog
barely able to make out
the craggy blades of rock
of that world I forgot

It is imprisoning,
stuck aboard a cork of reality
suspended above a chasm of inconsequentiality
that dives unfathomable below
into sickly dark secrets of dreams and
excitable interactive equations
that lead me towards some inevitability

Maybe this is the special sauce,
that radioactivity
that racks my skull
pushes me beyond the world
and into the dreamland of poets

"Dream, dream until you sleep,"
but I have so much to see,
someone to meet,
you told me!
Why lie?
Why die!?

Maybe its all unreal
maybe its all a sheen
a fake shear curtain
so thin,
impossible to see

White and fuzzy and tickly
down my spine
my lower back
my spleen
my scrotal sack
its everywhere
and I don't know what you are
God, help me

I am getting angry
devil is taking the wheel
and wants to drive me off a cliff
or into some abyss
of mind
and I want to let it
I want to be normal again
only a week ago
maybe never
but my god when do we ever feel healthy?

I haven't seen a soul I love
in far too many days
sinful attitude pushing me deep into the drift
and current events that carry me
into pools of vengeful rage
Take me out deep
among those glittering distant seas
Guide me into salvation
to comfort beyond sleep

Empire State Building, floor 102.
That’s where I’ll be waiting for you.
You guys are like family, I love you in a way.
I’ll be your friend and solace, strong roof over your heads.
Pull up to your wedding, be your best man, wipe your tears when it’s over.
But don’t jump off, babe, soon we’re all going to be happy.
In Empire State, someday we’ll all be free.
I wanna fall in love at least once before I die, even if it brings me down.
So don’t jump off, babe, soon we’ll all stop being lonely.
Empire State, someday we’ll all be free.

I can see the words trapped in your eyes when you look at me.
Someday you won’t have to fear it.
We’ll hold hands doing laps around Central Park in summer.
We’ll french kiss on the subway like some blazed down gunners.
Don’t be afraid of the dark when you feel it.
Someday you won’t ever have to fear it.

I’ll go to New York City, I’ll be grateful to stand where they stood.
I was in heaven when they were dying, I swear I emphasized with them when nobody could.
It’s sad when I think what my brothers and sisters have suffered while I sat on Jesus’s lap.
It’s not my ******* fault that Jesus made me gay as ****.
I’m looking in the wrong places, forever out of luck.
But someday I won’t have to wander.
Someday I will open my blinds and invite the light in.
I’ll be at the beachside, old and happily married.
In a townhouse painted green which has a garden of hydrangeas, nourish me.
I’m a hemlock baby, fruit of toxicity but I’m still beautiful.
Step on me all you want, but I’ll still do lots of good.
The empathy within me is as strong as a stone wall standing tall and lingering on.
There’s radioactivity, discovered by Madame Curie and I’m carrying it along.
But I have faith still
that God loves me
I wish to love another in the same way, Lord let me.
I will give you
roof and solace
Someday you’re gonna need it before you get to give it.

I can see the scars on your soul when you expose it to me.
Someday you won’t have to loathe them.
We’ll dance with locked hands jiving to music of liberation.
Remember what they took from us, be proud of what he had.
Don’t hate yourself and don’t think you’re broken.
You’re just beautiful in a world that’s not yet awoken.

A songbird once sang to me that someday we’d all be free.
The pain that you endured, it will be your strength, it will lead you forward, it will hold your hand.
A songbird once sang to me that someday we’d all be happy.
I’ll come to your wedding, be your best man, cry with joy as you’re standing at the altar.
Empire State, we’ll throw baby showers, grow vegetables together, perform in gay bars on street corners.
In Empire State, we’ll kiss on the subway, be invisible, marry each other on floor 102.
I wanna fall in love at least once before I die, I just wanna fall in love.
It’ll be okay,
we’ll all be free someday,
Empire State, don’t you jump off.

After harmlessly crossing your border
          you take our friendship hostage
guarding your perimeter with sandbags of arbitrary etiquette
a no man's land of manners separates us
   you snipe from your defensive position
              so I retreat and start strategizing.
Consulting my generals to discuss your tactics
  they advise me to start stockpiling weapons
                and to start looking for weaknesses.

There is a counteroffensive to your intentions.
            While you were destroying my satcoms
a successful infiltration of your command center was accomplished.
Once your defenses were understood
           your flanks appeared vulnerable.
                      Blind spots were revealed.

You only sign a treaty once your resources start depleting
then you ignore the rules I'm reading to give me a beating.
          So I'm building up my arsenal and
enriching my uranium in this centrifuge
                             where we spin in circles.
My nuclear option is prepared and capable.
                  Pacifism is more appealing than violence
     but when you try to erase who I am I must take a stand.

Armed with an ability to attack
I get a warhead on my shoulders
               found from old schematics
you shared with me while I fought your enemies.
               They were never thrown away
now they're dusted off and revisited
to make your walls crumble
and incinerate you flag.

Your nation starts hiding from what they were once confiding
                              after my nukes obliterate your infrastructure.
Rebels and runners fill fallout shelters and basement bunkers
                                         hiding from the radioactivity in the air.

Everyone's death equals success proving I'm best
        so I develop a permanent wartime economy
                                      and fire missiles mercilessly.
There's no difference between fighters and civilians
             because some insurgents are chameleons
                                      so I **** them by the millions.
                        The more weapons I get
                        the more needless death
                        until the only nations left standing
are those that have stockpiled weapons of their own.

What I've Learned:

Go be what you want to be.
Octopuses live in gardens.
***** aren’t meant to be that big, anyway.

I love who I am.
**** after school.

***-wiping is important.

Consistency is for the norm.
Octagons will serve me no purpose in life.
****** isn’t a good word to say in public.
**** isn’t, either.
Except for *****.
Parents aren’t there to hear it, of course.
Things happen for a reason.

Batteries lose their power after a while.
Your wallet will not always be full.

Wearing clothes is good.
Hiking naked is good, too.
Indoors, of course.
Curtains closed, as well.
House is also empty.

Weird people get things done.
Excellently, I might add.

Music is the ultimate healer.
Eating is good, too.
After going to sleep, dream good dreams.
Silence is a gift, but so is sound.
Uranium never benefitted me.
Radioactivity is a force to be reckoned with.
Elements are of the past.

Oil is running out.
Uniqueness is a treasure.
Rock n’ roll will never die.

*** isn’t an alternative to joy.
Acoustic guitars sound nice.
Intelligence only goes so far.
Nukes are a symbol of everything I want to rid myself of.

They floated just inside the Moon's L5.
And sampled our media and planet.

Is that really radioactivity from some bombs?
What happened to the dodos?

Do pieces of paper symbolize value?
Why do they let people starve?

Their music is universally unique
This idea of "magic" hilarious.

Oh and the Dogs seem to like them
(and pass along their references).

What would happening we tried Contact?
They'd likely fight each other.

On second thought let's give them some time
and see if they can clean up after themselves.

As Calvin said, the surest sign
that intelligent life exists elsewhere
is that none of it has tried to contact us.

maybe the difference is just
that i can bring myself to talk about it, now,
without my whole body trying to relive it.

maybe the difference passed with the 10 year mark.
and the 11th, as it went by and I only had to blink it away,
rather than spend the whole time trying to think of anything else.

the only thing the rest of the world seems to remember
is the power plant explosion. Fukushima. Early 2010s, sometime --
(and it's almost funny, the way just about anyone at all can count through the major nuclear events in Japan: Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Fukushima. Make it easy on all those people who didn't get stuck living with the consequences of them.)

I remember, 30 kilometers away from the epicenter,
the way our classroom shook on March 11th.
I remember books falling off shelves,
my classmates and I clutching at desk legs, at each other,
the floor shaking up and down, up and down, not just side to side.

I remember watching the broadcasts the next morning,
2011, and cars floating out in the ocean by Tohoku.
Homes, gone; Tsunami flood gates washed away,
High schools turning into evacuation centers,
Building ceilings collapsing as people tried to run away.

That night in Tokyo, the trains stopped.
Completely.

Phone networks went down as everyone flocked to use them,
The highways swarmed with cars,
the ground. kept. shaking.

In Tohoku, after the initial earthquake,
after the Tsunami that came up too high,
as people tried to run away fast enough, fires erupted.

And then we watched on the morning news, my family and I --
tired, but safe and sound, far enough away,
as the Fukushima Dai-ichi powerplant erupted,
killing its workers with it.

We, the fortunate foreigners outside the destruction area,
we flew out on a plane, came back a month later.

In Tokyo, where the worst of the damage
was the bent tip of Tokyo tower,
there was a water shortage,
a power outage, or two,
and the aftershocks
through the ground
didn't stop til July.

When I went up to an affected area of Tohoku -- two years later,
All of their dwellings were still temporary.
Their main export of fish, still deemed unsafe.
Their main grocery store, a 7/11 conbini.
Their population half a ghost town,
so I helped plant vegetables.
Watched, the next year, as they gained back some of their boats.
As the seas started to be safe again to fish.
As industry started to become permanent, again.

People came up with a lot of names,
for what happened on March 11th, 2011.
The Great Tohoku Earthquake
The Tohoku Earthquake and Tsunami
The Triple Disasters

For all that I was safe, during it,
I still lived beside those events.
Still know that only now, over a decade later,
are people beginning (slowly) to re-inhabit
that ghost-town of radioactivity in Fukushima.

At 10, there is not much you can do, to stop an earthquake.
Or a tsunami.
Or a fire,
or a disastrous power plant explosion.

But I tried my hardest to do what I could, to help in the aftermath.

At 21, I hit the ground, go dizzy, or blackout
whenever something unexpectedly shakes:
a bridge, a bus shelter, a ladder.

The date is tethered onto me like a broken lifeboat,
something I will never be able to drift away from.

And in a way, I am furious at the world for forgetting.
For daring to look away -- but there are other events.
Other disasters, natural and man-made and in between.
And I can not keep them all scarred across my heart.

But I remember this one.
I'll keep remembering for everyone who doesn't.
And next time, I can only hope to be enough
to prevent some of the loss,
to learn and progress from the past,
until maybe
it never happens again, at all.

Did you hear
have you seen the news
the Neon Vigilantes have opened a store
we are selling fantasies, delusions, fabrications
have made up stories and even smears to sell all over town
we have drama, plots, made up scenarios and blatant lies for sale
we also do poetry's, limericks, verses and juicy false autobiographies
can do a fine line in altered perceptions where we turn you into mugs

Come one come all
never mind, we will come to you
we will bring you bargains to blind you
or come rampage and pick up the latest indoctrination
leave your senses at home and no moral compass allowed
let us do all the selections for you, instruction Manuals get for free
we stock the best delusions, we'll tutor you in how pyramid selling do
radioactivity our game, psychopaths *** sociopaths is our moniker

Come open your eyes
come learn how to create chaos
see how we pull rabbits out of a pumpkin
and make dummies out of you all with your glad consent
we make it up as we go along and give the frustrated a raison d'etat
the weak becomes a seasoned bully, the nutcases can have a field day
come buy our wares nd become obsessive fanatics n ripe cowardly lot
we will teach you how to rob and then drive your victims insanely mad

perhaps i drink because my life isn't:
what other people's lives are...
perhaps i just can't stand the deflating
monotony of being sober
when the night comes...
when the night comes i want to be:
either drinking... or *******...
i don't dream... i sleep... i get the odd
spell of a dream but it's all very much
jigsaw puzzle... shrapnel...
hardly the stuff of architectural proportions
associated with: inception...

interlude: that feeling you get
when... watching Bewitched... again...
for some strange reason:
life on Mars? Elizabeth Montgomery...
Stepford Wife?
beside the canned laughter...
that 1950s narrator in the first few episodes...
this is the 1960s... sitcom...
not soap opera...
while in the background...
the Beat Poets were running wild...
mind you... you can't get a better:
pluck-my-eyes-out beauty than
Beverly Adams... even pushing 80...
she's...
                          how impossible to...

maybe that's why watching the Office
is so impossible... no canned laughter...
a curious little number...
a bit like: "canned applause" on a classical music
record... oh... wait... that rendition
was recorded with a live audience...

so while Bewitched was being broadcast:
all hell broke loose...
it's nauseating... this mythological take
on classical gender roles:
the centre will not hold...
a sympathetic poodle of a woman
that brings about an overpowering of
the status of mother... what is she:
i don't think i want to recognise this creature:
i don't...

perhaps i drink because...
clouds are enough entertainment for me:
the last movie i watched was
the Fisher King... and i only watched it
in about... four sittings...

but i'm not writing about that...
take any product that was manufactured in
the UK... the label sometimes reads
several languages...
the usual suspects... Spanish... German...
Italian... Port-of-Geese...
  (i'm not thrilled about the proper spelling)...
French... most certainly...
Greek...

but take a product made in France...
e.g. the 1883 maison routin...
sirop / syrop saveur
pain d'épices
  (gingerbread)...

  port-to-*******-goose: portuguese:
not guise... port-of-*******-geese!

but what's scribbled on the back of the label?
what languages are important for the French...
the Anglo-Saxon west...
which promptly draws a barrier come
Germany... and their fetish for all things Italian:
but not Greek... certainly not Turkish:
even though the Turks nibbled
at all that's Balkan... i **** Turkish prostitutes...
i should know when i tell them
why i have a clipped wing of a scar
that makes up my right shoulder-blade...
no aesthetic armour of a tattoo to cover it...
she asked: i'm just happy to have all my limbs...
Chernobyl... child of 1986...
that great river of radioactivity did make its
way into Poland:
all the pregnant women were prescribed
drinking Iodine...
all the trees turned autumnal at the height
of spring...
in streaks...

the label of this gingerbread syrup?
French... English... SV... SV... that's Svenska...
no? Swedish?
      Pepparkaka-Smak Sirap...
              rörsocker... se flaska
   (flaszka... a slang term for a bottle of *****)...

then something in Dutch...
   siroop smaak gemberkoek...
        rietsuikier.... natuurlijk kruidnagelaroma...

eh? am i seeing this clearly?
PL - SYROP o SMAKU PIERNIKOWYM..
kurwa: niet?!
                cukier trzcinowy...
      naturalny aromat goździkowy...

clove-"ish": girofle, nejlika, kruidnagel, goździkowy
cinnamon: cannelle, kanelsmak, kaneel-aroma...

the Spanish zunge comes... the Spanish tongue...
after the ****** tongue...
on a ******* label of a gingerbread syrup...
well... MA-DE IN FRAN-CE
then Italian... then Danish... then German...
last: Greek...

i have Francophobia... not fear of the language
itself... but... a fear of speaking it without
a French accent...
i read the same list of ingredients
on the bottle...
i feel most comfortable reading
the list in... beside English / ******...
Italian... and Danish...
i clutter up my Deutsche and Svenska...
Greek is palpable: but it's in Greek...
it's not in Latin... so it might as well be in
Cyrillic...

i feel comfortable in Italian and in Danish...
i could speak those two tongues with:
persuasion...
i could integrate myself into the world
of these people...
however much i might try:
i'd overdo undertaking Deutsche and i'd be
boxing a ghost limb should the Fwench awwive...

speak some Italian: the Scots still trill their aR...
sing-along... less so mit: Svenska...
hardly any Panzermensch in me... although...
anywhere West of the Mongolian horde...
it's not like Bagdad library didn't suffer
like the library of Alexandria...

cheap holidays: cheaper *******:
piglet pink and tattooed...
like i might want the mother of my children
to be: greyish and scuttling...
irritated by the first signs of:
mortal folding... creases of the skin...
what once was read as a linear projection
becomes a wriggling work-out
of a hyped-up worm squiggle...

i was confronted by a girl who i lost my virginity
to... she was drunk i was drunk...
i had three heads on the wall...
of my sorry-***-worth-of-a-abode...
Napoleon... Plato... Marquis de Sade...
she only noticed Napoleon...
she was French... a 3rd year psychology major:
by now i would be a #metoo culprit...
Grenoble my fancy...

           but the resurrected Duchy of Warsaw...
all is bad with Napoleon...
perhaps i should have been
born a Croat...
i must be boring the best of my readership
by now... or... i'm not:
since not many would want to go blind
with these words...
oh i can imagine the latter circumstance:
i'm not cagey & rhyming a shaking-of-the-pear...

how is one to compete for an audience...
when one is competing with...
dead people...
i can imagine competition of
the mortal avarice... between footballers...
between gladiators...
but... when you're staged against...
someone who's dead: the readily: available:
tested audience...
language: immobilised by the scrutiny of...
generically: tested... Homer... Horace...
Dante... Shake-a-Pear..
it's not like the "competition" is unfair
because of ***... nor the rewards...
they're... *******... DEAD...

i best preface myself with: i'm dead too...
Bukowski... Jack Spicer...
                Tzara... Tuwim... Brautigan... Berrigan...
Blake... O'Hara... Belli... Pound...
dead... dead dead dead... dead...
Purdy... it's not a fair "competition":
it's also called: necromancy... loosely...
i'm reading the works of the dead:
reviving them: resurrecting them...
comforting myself with a suffocation
of laying my head on a pillow filled with ash...

it's beside: the argument: it's not fair...
he's a man and she's a woman...
name me one famous female football player!
come to think of it... i can't think of one...
tennis... though?
it's more fun... female tennis... equal pay
implies: they really should play
a 3-set victor...

by writing this little nibble of a scribble...
thank god i looked into Horace...
he just divulges into scribble...
into digression... somehow teasing a maxim...
Horace contra Cicero...
i will not be caged by rhyme!
to hell with rhyme...
look at me... Bukowski was lucky...
he ended up driving a BMW...
i just want enough to pass-by...
somewhat unnoticed...

Canidiae dentis, altum Saganae caliendrum
excidere atque herbas atque incantata lacertis
vincula *** magno risuque iocoque videres...

the thief Voranus...

will there be enough words... just how / as Sagan tortures
the shadows of the dead...
they wish not to speak:
   like witches... they occupy the earth
a wolf's beard with the teeth of a slithering
polka-dotted lizard...

ah!   ha!
arrogance with a tease of agony!
tow the dead: i'll punch myself in the head:
knock knock: toughened wood...
here, now... a most presented...
          could you ever believe it:
sequence of events?

so many people live their cushioned lives...
it makes sense to live so little of my own...
that i live mine:
in the noon highlight of horror...
such mundane exfoliating....
mundanity... Monday-Deity...
mun-dein-itty-ein-i-lost-"witty"...

   culprit: to hell with the whole load
of y'o'u!