now that i'm relistening to this track, i remember the sole reason why i worked that dead-end night club job: to earn enough money to buy myself a mandolin... which i did: i entrusted myself to earn the money than to pocket the money out of my student loan... never mind picking up ****-filled bottles from the bathroom: being sexually assaulted by some ****** who thought that long hair was something akin to women and not to old-school metal-heads: which i was back then... you know: getting groped by the *** by some man who later thrusts himself at you while you're picking up ****-filled bottles of beer... oh sure: with retrospect he would have said fellow to my forehead... how times change... well yeah, i worked that job to buy myself a mandolin... which i did... for the sole purpose of learning the mandolin part of Rod Stewart's Maggie May... which i learned and played it for Fiona beneath her kitchen window in the student flats... she giggles blah blah... but... Maggie May soon turned into that other favorite song of mine: And One... Military Fashion Show... perhaps the music is sort of Disco Polo... but the lyrics?

cutest girl behind my door
everybody's hiding in love from war
the beauty broke down their chains somehow
who's gonna living on my body now?

a growing pain within my pop divine
will I ever regret the line?
switching on the light
i will not reassign
girlfriend's girlfriends never could be mine

drop her white pants wide open warm
now she's slipping on her uniform
and every second would become so mis-defined
girlfriend's girlfriends never could be mine

nope, i never had any luck with women, maybe i should have picked up gambling: but then again i don't like testing luck when it comes to being lucky with bus times... i like waiting for a bus for a minute... but with women, i sometimes observe my parents and then realise: ah... that's why i'm not married... makes perfect sense... the idea is lovely: i can never get over the idea of loving a woman, but then i realise a woman also has an idea what it implies to love, hardly a man, hardly a semi-automated thing, something that's offensively useful, from time to time activated but altogether sterile... hell: if it didn't take me playing the mandolin to a girl outside her window: Romeo is ****** as hell... Romeo is gone gone gone... the only luck i've ever had with women were with prostitutes, that realm of evidence where the transactional is up-front... there's no looping of paying for meals for cinema for celebratory self-congratulatory pieces of doodle / jewelry... there's just the up-front "rent" of a body... job done... let's get other aspects of "plumbing" worked on... i'm not even bitter... i'm just sort of: on a snooze button mentality, sort of sleepy... sort of disappointed... that? the men who wrote about love from the 19th century are antiques in the 21st century: not even 19th century folk: antique: pre-historic mentalities of the current zeitgeist of insomnia and over-burdening libido being frozen in a frenzy of self-doubts and self-appeasement of pleasures not met... by the other... i just feel disappointed by having invested so much time in Stendhal in Kundera... seems rather pointless...

i finally picked up my Trek mountain bicycle today
from the repair shop...
i came in talked all giggly and bubbly with
the owners... ah... Hemmingway got it spot on
in that novella of his of short stories:
men without women...
play cards, drink, tell terrible jokes...
make loads of oaths sparingly beginning
with the letter F...
i was told £75... but the guy comes to me and says:
the cassette has been worn down?
your advice? what's to be improved, how will
this affect my cycling?
blah blah this blah blah that... o.k. i know you're
trying to milk me... milk me but don't waste my time...
if it needs changing just tell me...
'oh, but we don't have the parts'...
o.k. ask your supervisor blah blah blah...
he comes back to me and says: oh he have the parts:
SUDDENLY... no no... not suddenly:
the customer, i.e. i... am willing to pay...
how much and how long?
£35... 15 minutes... great! do it! i'll go for a coffee:
which was a lie... i went for a pint
of Guinness and sat by myself like
some ******* portrait of an absinthe drinker
by Degas... they should do one of a Guinness drinker...
a person who sits alone and drinks a pint
of Guinness watching a table of about 5 men
and 1 ****-ugly woman drinking merrily enjoying
each other's company...
with the solo drinker lighting up a cigarette
and lighting up a smile on his face thinking:
oh thank **** i'm alone...
i used to drink with "friends": with people...
i soon realised... they're as much things as much as
i am a thing: sure... dehumanizing...
but so much of philosophy and of medicine
is infuriatingly dehumanizing in achieving
the pinnacle of objective-reason, no?
tell me, am i wrong?
            
i can tell you my favorite quote of mine:
i don't hate people... i just hate things...
it's not my problem that some people behave like
things rather than as people...
reality simply states: some people, simply have not
depth to them, or around them,
they are worse than thespians and thespians
are the worst: since thespians are the most eloquent
of thieves... they steal people's shadows...
they steal other people's soul... essence...
i hate actors with the same passion i abhor
the sceptics... add that to my list:
given these two strands of being and thinking
are the most popular in the current zeitgeist...

so i drank my pint of Guinness and walked back
to the cycling repair shop... picked up my Trek...
listen: i've been cycling for the past year solely on my Viking
road bicycle... neat handlebars...
i used about 4 maybe 5 gears to climb
elevations... or cycle harder: faster...
but neat handlebars... trim... a sense of a tuxedo smart...
neat: for moving between traffic... like all road bicycles...
he gives me my old Trek mountain bicycle back...
**** me!
i was riding a Lamborghini for a year...
now? i'm given a ******* SUV... Royals Royce!
my god... it's a Behemoth!
the handlebars are wide... the brakes? so easily accessible!
**** me for ****'s  sake...
too many gears... i must have been trigger-happy
when it came to gears... must have changed them
about 30 times... three gears by the peddles
and 7 at the rear... wheels... don't get me started on those...
with a road bicycle you have a width of about 23cm...
these ******* where thrice if not more at that...
so wide that they made a sound akin to
me thinking: where's the train? they made this weird
sound i couldn't possibly express with letters
to combat an imaginary words...
the closest approximate is a SHOOM / WHIZZ....
what does a thick rubber tyre make on
a pavement, rotating, that's not insulated
by a frame of a car? what?! exactly...
then add the elevation of the wind...
i simply can't write an onomatopoeia for that sound...
it's not as easy as meow or woof... or bark...
or howl... or coo... or the crackling grr of crow...
gurgling of a crow...
impossible...

tyres one aspect handlebars another...
hands out-stretched... which means? too much
availability of a manoeuvre...
that's what happens when the handlebars
are less restrictive... wide...
you have too much manoeuvrability potential...
you're like that guy inside a London black cab...
you can practically do a 180-turn...
become a dog chasing its own tail...
i used to love mountain bicycles... now?
i ******* hate them... i don't know why i spent
£500 on this piece of junk...
unless... i try it out on some dirt road...
fair enough then... but compared to a road bicycle...
a... kolarzówka... (road bicycle in ******)
no... not going to happen...
i though i was going to be happy to own two bicycles
and change from one to the other...
it's such a beast to ride... sure... it's aesthetically
pleasing to look at... even when school was out
and the boys were coming out of school:
one spontaneously announced thinking-aloud:
that's a nice bike...
yeah... nice to look at... yeah... sure thing mate...
great to look at... but a ***** to ride it...
compared to...                              exhibit (a)
a cheap £125 road bicycle with the right sort of
handlebars... mountain bicycle handlebars are
all wrong too wide...
you just can't handle such a beast on a long stretch
of road... you require something more
gravity driven / prone...
at least with a road bicycle you get to steer
with slight details of force going towards
the intended direction...
i think you must learn on a mountain bicycle...
to then explore the road bicycle...
but let me tell you... one you have mastered
the road bicycle... going back to a mountain bicycle
make-up it like going from Einstein to ******...
i was becoming queasy with too much maneuverability
in my hands and not centered in / with
my entire body and bicycle attached...
i know i'll think differently when i take
this beast into its proper environment...
i know that's what will happen...
but mountain bicycles don't belong in traffic...

aha... right... i almost forgot... just before i picked up
the beast from the repair shop...
i has in the supermarket picking up a bottle of cider
to keep up my stamina of: not bored...
no no... i'm not bored...  

onomatopoeias... i'm sure as a supervisor i told
some of the stewards that i'm only doing this job
for good reference: for references that might me
apply for a job as a chemistry teacher:
since familial ties of references will not allow you
to apply for the position...
last shift at Wembley some pink haired freak
of a beached whale of a male started to mouth-me-off
about jumping the queue...
i retorted like for like: you ******* see a queue
in front of me? i'm standing in the same *******
place! you ******* fearful of being called
a racist: you silly little thing of an anti-racist?!
you ******* HOG of what could have been
a woman... you afraid of insulating the Somalis?!
we know that they're like... that's how African
queues work... people jump the queue...
they huddle... Africans are not a Mongolian horde:
they're huddling people...
they stress themselves by the numbers
they're allowed / are given...
all the Europeans follows some details of
the aesthetic of queuing... the Africans?
**** me... they just inverted the bottle-neck...
if bottles were to be invented in Africa...
they wouldn't have a neck: they'd have an entire
******* torso... and be slim at the base...
that's how Africans behave ergo: think...
that's not racist: that's a ******* anthropologist tactic....
on the last shift this one Indian looking chap
said the following lines:

'don't think me of being racist...
but what do you think of these blacks?'

ha ha... one curiosity after another...
  i love mingling with people: you never know what
you're (n)ever going to get!
i'm working with this one "creature" who's super
clingy to me... adamant that he's anti-racist...
but... oops... slip... he's actually homophobic...
just because Brighton has a "reputation"...
but a staunch anti-racist.... yet a homophobe....
me? i hate *******...
esp. if you're collecting glasses in a night club
and you're getting groped by... some ******...
come on: a man with long hair is no excuse to
fiddle with my *** while i'm picking up bottles
filled with ****... ******* ******!

about blacks? well... what do i care if i already stereotyped
the Somalis as useless idiots... not even useful idiots
of Communist propaganda...
they're like the Irish... you simply psychoanalyse them...
they're so detached from reality that
they might as well be called Moonpeople...
Somalia best be called Moonland...
no, seriously: not as a racist (although i'd love to be one)
but as an anthropologist (these days?
an ethic apologist, if?!)
they are just that... devoid of reality sort of,
sort of... sort of... a sort of "people"...
a sort of "reality" is attached to them...

never mind that... i was in the supermarket buying a bottle
of cider... a woman with two young girls was making
her shopping... some BLEEP emerged from
the cashier's desk... some... BLEEP some BOOP...
hmm... we're talking primary school aged children...
children... completely un-fuckable... although as loveable
as dogs... perhaps even more:
since? you can't exactly mould a dog...
you can't mould a little Frankenstein of your own
with a dog... a dog is kept ontologically within
the archetypical exactness of what a dog is supposed
to be: what a dog is...
but man? oh... that's a completely different barrel of
laughs!
i stood behind the trio... and listened...

onomatopoeias... once those infernal instruments
made those sounds... the two girls mimicked...
imitated the sounds ...
i would be a terrible father... or perhaps the best...
i like the cognitive-focus on the negative:
maybe that's why i adore the cynics...
i adore the cynics and abhor the sceptics...
i like negative-thinking...
i once assured myself that negative-thinking
attracts... positive-being...
magnets... blah blah...

with i have on my heart's "conscience":
something so innocent... the cure's: a short term effect
from the album *******...
no... woman! no!
that trio of curiosity...
i was going to do an in-depth Kantian analogy
of the origins of the onomotopoeia...
it just so happened that i was walking behind them...
i'm pretty good at lip-readings...
too much exposure to headphones...
NEUROTIC BEASTS OF **** UN-******...
the ugliest women imaginable:
busy-body women.... UGLY *****...
MOTH-FRENZY-MOTH-*****....
i'm good at lip-reading...
oh look... a ******* is the area...

no... is just so happened that the trio bough
more goods that me at the store...
silly ******* agony aunt!
no! i was just going to ask
the two girls...that you spoke an onomatopoeia
without knowledge of what an onomatopoeia
actually is!
an onomatopoeia in the mouth of a child
is not actually a word...
it can't be... there's no rigid Apollonian "humour"...
when a child imitates a sound made by a
machine...
it doesn't imitate the sound with an allocation
of ascribing letters to them...
i could be the best father:
and perhaps the worst...
    i'd become too curios... i'd become a naturally
born scientist...
the mother? just ignored them...
but this **** of a THINFG threw empty accusations
into the air as if it were breathing...

i learned one valuable lesson on my own...
there are people... and there are THINGS...
me, what?
you ******* THING! remain INANIMATE!
sure... move... but remain without character!
did these girls have knowledge
of the "onomatopoeia" of an ONOPATOEIA?
too many ******* vowels..

that's Greek for you...
i'm a what? it just so happened that it's suburbia
and i'm walking behind a giddy trio....
i'm suddenly, what?! HIDE! HIDE... you neurotic *****!
you soothsayer you Satan's last **** available!
you mediocre human being!

how would they know... they're already exploring
onomatopoeias without knowledge of onomatopoeias ...
these creatures mimic... in fact: an onomatopoeia
is something that's to be exacted by being written...
these children... they are yet aware of letters...
letters beside nouns... nouns beside the concepts
of verbs pronouns and the like...

first i'll ask politely... secondly i'll ask less politely:
thirdly: don't tread on me..
fourthly: enough is enough...
but that's how life happens...
you exit the mind-set of... it's not jurisprudence...
etymological hell-havoc...
              ah! pedagogy!
and then the reality of all that's around you...

neurotic old women who think you're: an project
you're a predator;... ******* ****-less *****!
i just wanted to hear what her onomatopoeia went to...
you objectionable UGLY CUT of ****!
she was uttering her first onomatopoeia without
a rubric of letters! as a man who's not going
to be a father: i thought that rather: inquisitive...
i know you women are ******* boors and boredoms...
the more you age the uglier you become
in spirit: let alone in physical appearances...
******* hyenas start looking pretty are a while
once you peak!
no! that's the point! i'm being serious!

it only takes one false accusation: lip-read to demand
a crazy momentum of reaction...
oh no no... it's not going to stop!
best ***** assured this ******* momentum
is not going to stop! now i'm grizzly bear tooth worn
on smiling...

now... i have encountered men who encounter violence
of man against man...
i have yet to encounter men who encounter violence
of woman against man...
let's just say... it's more complicated...
i love children... some women love themselves
to the point of willingly perform... what's that name?
oh.... right... has he risen too?
the deity that's Moloch... the deity of infanticide?!
has he? so... i'm not alone...
there must be more of me...
gents! we're being redeemed!  we're going back
to a singing status of existence in the ***** of our
dearest "Abraham" of Ha-Shem!
let's put on a proper, decent, show!

then again... i might: i just might be...
a solo trick-of-treat... bellowing into the depths of well...
after all... as i looked at the whole affair from
the antithesis of Darwinism...
the strong and the smart don't really reproduce:
en masse...
the idiots do...
mammals like insects...
the ill-fated reproduce: that's why they bemoan
their fate of being ill-stocked in genes...
smart people are exploratory...
i'm exploratory...
i'm not saying i'm smart but i'm certainly not dumb enough
to have children in order for them to suffer
unnecessarily... for a per se reason
that's somehow supposed to be self-explanatory:
without... an accountable self!

there's no chance in hell these two girls imitated those
sounds in the supermarket with...
a knowledge of an onomatopoeia!
no chance! speak to me an "onomatopoeia":
onomatopeia!

     ono-m'ah-t'oh-p'-ah!

   they wouldn't even catch the vowel catches of Hs
in the plural sense without the apostrophe...
no...

write me a poem using linguistic notations:
i.e. onomatopoeia: knock knock: woof woof: .
details of some book... frankly? no book...
journalism rules...
/ˌɒnə(ʊ)matəˈpiːə/
   /nɒk,nɒk/
        /wʊf/ /wʊf/:
      /ˈdiːteɪl/ some
/sʌm,s(ə)m/
                       /bʊk/
  
yeah: that's what i like... linguistic graduates...
graffitti artists with a TAG..
children and onomatopoeias...
you want to play more and more games?
aren't we living in the most circus prone times?!

hey! in current environment of events:
hello herr besondere!
drop qords not bombs!

= +- / ha;f and half...

Books – a medicine saturnine.
Those who have books shine
With lively bright colour twine.
Books – a Daniel – be in shrine
To take us all up with whine.
Saraswati, indeed, did opine
My talents with saccharine
And help me for Her to reassign
Her position in the world malign.
With her help I Monorhyme define
And made many people it dine
With garlic or ginger or brine.
Oh! Goddess! Help me refine
The world with your dyne –
Books – a medicine saturnine.

his name i won't say to you
but that doesnt mean
his name would be forgotten by few.

the way we danced
the way we smiled
the way he glanced
at no one else but me.

remember when i said
my last kiss was the first?
excuse me, but i secretly misled
you to believe something else.

yes, 8th grade kisses came first,
but the ones that followed
were kisses that were cursed.

i suppressed the memory so well
that i almost forgot about it
until you led me back to that hell.

now believe me that this is true
dr. camille says its long overdue
to confront this suppressed memory
and face the fact
the thing that made me crack.

so break out the tisses
and prepare to read about my scarring issues.

we danced
and i felt entranced
your smile so uplifting and exciting
i couldnt hold back laughter that i was fighting.

we kissed,
and i remember it feeling like sparks.
as of now, i can't believe i made such remarks.
the more sadness i tried to erase

weaving up the stairs
i thought that nothing in this world
could ever compare.

a room that was open and bare,
i honestly could swear,
that my head was shrieking 'no'
but your smile kept on shining 'hello'

i'd rather not go into detail
of what emotions prevailed
that night,
but i would like to share
what felt wrong, and what felt right.

it felt wrong that he pushed for it.
it felt right that i said i'd rather quit
it felt wrong that he ignored my pleas.
it felt right that i was trying to shut my knees.
it felt wrong that he roughly tried to open them.
it felt right i would persistently condemn him

sooner than i thought, sooner than i would expect,
sooner than i would imagine,
i was a potential victim of ****
i knew i had to escape.
his threats and shouts and cursing and strength
could have done more damage considering his height and length.

tears and fear.
fears and tears.
screaming and shouting.
shouting and screaming.

finally did oliver and nate
use my screaming as bait
and bust down the door.
as they led me outside,
i heard his voice shout behind me, "you * *****."

that night
made my face and hands and blood
turn white,
especially when i had to remember the pain
and all of the things that were incredibly inhumane.

not until two days ago,
did i summon the will
to write this truth, although
i couldnt stop crying and hiding and feeling chills
racing up and down my spine.
dr. camille said that therapy would reassign
my past memories and horror and malign
but never again would innocence,
could i honestly say, would be mine.

dont believe me?
dont believe that this memory of my life is trye?
well ***** you.
but in all honesty,
it really happened.
and i do all that i can
to forget about where parts of my horror began

still dont believe it was real?
well, heres the deal.
why dont you ask
for yourself
what really went on.

the other patients will cry
when asked to reply
about my mishap.

or maybe dr. camille or thatcher or hammond
each will make you see
what i said occurred
actually happened to me.

if their professional words
dont fall into your defenses,
why not go to the man himself.
you standing on the offenses,
with him full of pretenses
acting like he was the best there ever was.
but let me caution you,
that's all he ever does.

lure in girls, like me.
lead them in and before i know it,
i'm struggling to flee.

so if you dont want to understand
theres nothing else i can do
to help you expand
your minimized thoughts and mind.
but beware, when you fall to traps like his,
your soul will be so scattered, you won't find.

to those who believe,
i'm thankful,
but i'll never be able to relieve
the memories that have been scorched into my head.
these moments, among others,
are the reasons i'd rather be dead.

I walk through the flame
With a torch
Scorching
Heat rises
While the Sun sets
Scolding Iron
Black burns
From the white hot

Esteemed
The bloods boiling
About to erupt
And rupture
The surface
Earth is
Perfect
For destruction
I get to choose
Shall I just quake
And make shook?
Or just break
And make soot?
To explode
Or stay put?
I can enter
As emperor
Ashes and embers
In the center of
Cinders
I stood
Like a cintaur
I was sent for
Tinders and timber
Fire from the heavens
Rays
To dissarray
I can reign
In array
In a way
That braises
Those in the way
I rose
At dusk
As dust showers
A presence with
A towering essence

I reckon
My wreckage
Has a message

Make haste
Or you will ruin
My hue in tune
With my shoes
Blues tone
Tutone
My red bones
Wouldn't break
If you through stones
Whose on?
Rock solid boulder
I smolder
I decide
When to explode
I can mold
Or stand bold

My manifold is manifested
In my crest

The formation maker
of multanimous nature!

I decide!
Devastation
Or Resignation?

Devise a planetary Invasion
or
Reassign my placement?

I think this nation
Is destined
To be the destination
For infestation

I had this dream last night
In it we were at my grandparent's
I was home and surrounded with a flawed sort of people
My flawed sort of people
And I was totally preoccupied
With my weight and the space I take up
And the joy of their company was lost on me

If I went home today that is how it would be
I would be preoccupied
Life would be lost on me
The number on the morning scale
The number of my worth for that day
A number with the ability to crush me
And tape me back together
A power no individual has
Just that number
I want to reassign my values
Outrun this whole mental knot I have tied
But I can't
So I keep the company of other's disorders
In treatment
Still

I dreamt of you last night
confusing left and north from south and right
And it dawned on me then as this summer ends
Perhaps. It was all a game of house and pretend

But no -I know the valor of
Sacrificing your sacred defenses in the name of love
And you were the knight I knew you to be
A gift of bar crawls, museum miles and memory

Those sheets,those walls, that room we held captive
All in the name of romance as our captain
That ship you fled- a deserter or sorts
But there will be no Calvary or death by sword

I know you remain a face in plastic frame
A scar on my knee and a free wandering name
You swear you're still here
But this word falls deaf on one ear
Quite a bold assumption to swear
Not knowing the if night sky is clear

Walk briskly my sweet there is only defeat
In the crosses we bear & the poison we reap
I sit in tragic new affection drowned in nostalgic recollection
By the corner where you vowed that in love there is no protection

In herald square you'll find me there
Still musing our despair and contemplating the burden we share
Of all the tidings of love and no kiss to spare

I'm right where you left me but I've travelled so far
I'm no longer the waif you kissed love drunk by the  bar
I'm no longer a wish - so ignore my star

Breathe lightly, good sir it would do you well
To remember that earth is both heaven and hell
And the only things you know are the stories others tell

You intellect is both vast in it's expanse
And short in it's relevance

It wasn't either of us who broke such a vow
The honor of love should never have been allowed
To a girl with such ideals and a man on the clouds

But it's sweet in it's way - you still saved the day
That night in Madison square when my soul ran away
But to save a heart in a park just to throw it away?
What kindness is this? It's only a delay

When you cried sitting on my bedside
Assuring me that  our love had both lived and died
You don't know what I had compromised
To break and to wait as our harmony committed suicide

So take it now and wear it proud
You found your love in a violent crowd
And adored her once  in sidewalks and sun
Now she writes poetry wondering whom has won
This race to be the people we took oaths to become

It's all all-right- a swift flight
From Florida to the northern fight
In all those words we exchanged and misheard
I do recall we both feared this world
Of petty change and unsaved gain
A treacherous sea with no hope to tame
iPods and screaming along the 6 train
No doubt the results of pubs, psychology and *******

So I'll conclude this pain, this rant, this reign
We created infamy but never fame
And all the ashes
Baby,
They look the same

It's sad even still that our happiness took Ill
And none of our efforts, our hopes or our will
Could reassign the crystal ball to something more beautiful

Goodbyes are slow and forever vague
I won't say it was all in vain
Only that Cupid
should be ashamed

I am the blank page here, before you. An empty book to write at your will. And As this scene unfolds before you, memories pen stroke your cheap thrill.

As these words crash, and collide upon my barren page. Full of fragments of thought... full of moments of wonder.
You close both eyes, and open the third, just enough to see the splendor.

The words stain and etch upon the fiber of my being. Seeking, what they might leave behind.
A story perhaps? You close your eyes and redefine, and reassign the unrefined.

Feel the roar of the breeze as you clench your eyes. As she writes in me, she writes in you also.

An imprint in your thoughts. Whilst just symbols upon me. But How the power of symbols, on the mind can be.

You hear voices in your mind and the subject of time, is far more unconvincing than you could ever find.
For me, time is only of what has been written. For I do not possess thought or an abstract ambition. People come and go, and leave imprints in me. Of life, and love, and what solace can be.

Imagination wants what reality can't offer, a vision perhaps for which you desperately tether.
I know this too well, tis' a familiar feeling. As these markings in me are known also as writing.

The recipient finds meaning, which is forever undivided.
And I'm again a blank book, whose fate is... undecided.

“It’s fraught,” he said.
BOOM! Wrong pronoun
They would disapprove

“We should…”
BOOM! Not us…
BOOM! Not me!

They them us
He she we
I myself me

Redefined reassign
People can change
In an instant or a lifetime

Language evolves
Evolution is slow
Give it time to grow

I feel your presence shift past me.

To you, I am simply a memory.
A memory that has been tarnished throughout time.
An enemy perhaps.

To me, you are a ghost.
Stuck in time, without the knowledge of this collective reality.
Stuck in a cycle of decline and reassign.

You stand in limbo, observing your own mistakes.
But in your created reality, there are no such mistakes...

A ghost broken down by their choice of travel,
But blames the damage on the road itself.

You can only twist a story so far before the pages tear and split.

We've outdone Father Abraham
In sacrificing girls and boys;
Along the border, in the wars
That serve no cause but oligarchs,
Who reassign the deity,
Call Moloch to America,
With powder, pills and poverty,
While celebrating liberty.

Don't fault the peasants, red or blue,
Whose votes have been corrected by
The players in the party rooms.
The unwashed--unbrushed teeth on edge-
Come out of hell for processing,
Discover yet another ring.

Kaput Scripted
The top boss carved the account up some more
He put in place an extra step so no duplicate accounts were made
This was fine in the managers’ eyes an extra layer of a layer
And it created work for a back office guy making those accounts
It was his job to do it not the call centre agents
If they made a new account they got beasted and fired
It was easy to create a new account yet full of risk
Send the details to your TL and then in the form
So back office has it and will make the account
The account will be made and sent to your TL
Who will reassign it to the rep that made the call
No double accounts no confusion yet more stress
Adding to the wait time while the rep does compliance
Completes a needs assessment vets the customer
Sends a promo approval to his TL who sends it
To the manager who sends it to the client
All the while the patient customer holds like a fool
When all this is done and the account is sent over
The closer calls the VT team who complete the sale
If the DM has funds on a working card all is fine
If any step fails the whole thing collapses
What a nice time for me to be endorsed
To a different version of my old healthcare account
No more sales on a failing B2B account

Never made
Much sense to me
To sit and think
Subconsciously
Allow autonomy
Of mind
To find
The guide it hides
Behind
And reassign it
To the fore
Without a presence
To assure
Its resonance
In sync endures
The onslaught of
Controlled despair
The inundation
Of nightmare
Resurging as it purges
Out
The sounds of peace
With bouts of doubt
Tumultuous,
Unmoored
In a frenetic
Clangor ringing
Desiccating ear canals
With streams of conscious
Sirens singing
Ineluctable refrains
That beckon me
To stray
So far away
Reclaim my brain again
Never again
Let it convey
The end

It’s like time just elapses
I’m there in its passage
But absent
Somewhere unbeknownst
Is detachment
From make this a memory
Cherish serenity
Let it define
Reassign your identity
To the Book Facing
Erased
Interpersonal
Words left unsaid
Ever dread
Irreversible
Say your goodbyes
To the moment
And look
To the future
As if
You are now off the hook
For recalling
What made it
Indelible,
Sellable
Some crowning moment
Achievement
More credible