Part One
Nascent Craving

The insular heart unsealed; pearled eyes
Breach parapets of stone— periled shield,
The sweetest ****—
A threatening wonder and irrefragable synergy,
Nervous routes of cognition  
In this nascent, amorous craving.
Locked and abased,
Dissonance lends pathos — euphoric and onerous,
Disconsolate cries curb sublimation,
The regnant bleed diffusing — fervid lust
Fondled, tactile surfaces in throbbing anticipation.

Sullen, aft a veil of laughter,
Visceral aftermath, out of
The ardent ash,
Burns a thirst;
Insuperable numbness and ache.
Efflorescent intimacy,
Table for two
Enraptured in new alliance,
Élan vital (psyche);
Urgent dialect petitions
Equivocation, jocularity blending
Provocation with indecision,
Noted lilt of descending inhibition.

Adrift, the incessant Now;
As occasion inexorably diminished;
Resonant simpatico tending,
Numinous amity;
Heard conversant, cognitive idioms—
Lassitude, time-eaten pangs of the unhinged heart,
Wounds axiomatic,
In disquieting synergy,
Nibbling, the circumference—
Misery’s permeating truth;
None immune, all trundle incongruously past,
Facing intrepid savages.

Licitly felt, reverberations of Amor
Whence the heart behaves;
Measured cadence, pulse elevating—
Treasured lover, contemplative muse;
Undulating clasp, inflated bone of absence;
Incarnation — a woman,
Beyond prosaic;
Ineffable adoration pours in certitudes of verse,
Elenita, enclothed —virtue unvarnished;
Reservoir intrinsic, poised advocate of the innocent:
The crooked lines of insolence,
Brazen culture of neglected youth.
Perceptive blue stare, sensitized tears—
Plaintively, evincing her injustice ago.

Part Two
Tendered Senses

Siren silence, eruptive blush, ampler between phrases
In dulcet tones — stirring discourse;
Foments rebellion, the strife beneath— his ****,
Out of its vast reserve,
Penetrate the narrowed ambit, vaguely announced.
Groping hands, migrating the sensual member
Stern faces grimacing— mirror in abrasion,
Under the blind surf of consent;
Burrowing ambiguity, emerging torsion,
Plunge, enlisted and content in the sea;
Subsumed in the nonverbal cue,
Persuasion’s plea,
Quelled in the post cerebral assent.

Piercing eyes parallel crystalline waters of Lake Tahoe.

An untouched portion of his awareness remains aloof,
Palpable in the subsequential quiet,
Obsequious and febrile, they sinned on sofas;
Peregrine predilections quenched and viscid—
Serenely requited, the room breathes her presence,
Limp, figures *******, mantled in adolescent torpor.

Erudition in bloom, trust undoubted,
Illuminating, satiating; tempest calm—
Under canvas
Terrain soaked and sodden,
Postliminary — rains of invalidation.
Allowance and permission
Recalibrate, salivate, shortly only—
Initiate, obliged consecration, appraising
Curvatures of the spine,
Stuns him obeisant, her femenine pulchritude,
Propinquity inciting vigor,
Emergent allure, the updriven
Tower of wood sprung from the blanket.

Suffused in ether, purring streams of remembrance
Vaginal honeyed dew, sung into
Orchids, remnants of remember;
Drenched down the cynosure of devotion;
Succulent view, diaphanous pantied bottom;
Halcyon mist, saporous wine — compliance of the will,
Freed fires wander,
Pliable rind, twin plums dripping,
Abject confession, dispatching doubt
In tendered senses,
Pivotal tree, lavender Jacaranda holds the key,
Unfurled, cindered vulnerability.

Half-denuded skin invites confessional savor
Acutely bubbled rear, fleshly furnished denim;
Sultry visit, San Ramon Valley in the fall,
Strewed limbs splendid, flowing filmy;
Imagination yields—
Bursting silk congealed
Across deft thighs, ambrosial thong draping ankles,
Grazing ascension, the curvaceous trajectory
Nose inflamed with fragrance,
Inhaling, climb of acquiescence,
The ****** weal, amid the globed fruit,
Focal intention — ploughed lance thrusting,
Absconding, the ancillary perfume of essence.

Perceiving avid validation,
Swimmingly, amid the monstrous gaze.
  
Humid skies simper dank, set swell the incense of Eros,
Surge of poetry engorged
The flame levened shaft,
Nimble ******* flounce, spill the harboring mouth;
Moist hands merging, unfettered,
Weave in supplication,
Vicinity voicing, enmeshed diversion;
Supple and spherical behind
Posterior arch, milky-skin against the lip—
Ripeness jostling their complacency;
Lapped the mooring, ridden decisively;
Recapitulating— spumed forth, bellied over hips warmth.
Abandon the dirge of self-pity
Late under ego’s trance.
  
Part Three
Present Tenses

Tempting trespass across sacred gardens,
Flowering, scandal set luminous: attachment—
Consensual, their corresponsive fear;
Protean manifestations— evocative, perpetual
Unutterable contention in a fictive resolve,
Deliberating the merits of their widely disparate tastes in coffee,
Amorously touring wine, let’s drowse through the gnarled vine.
Sundry deficiencies pale, once contrasted;
The beatific vision—
Material substance unaccompanied,
Imperceptible, tear-streamed cheeks in synch,
Ventral kiss, peak of carnal perfection,
Reminiscence— flesh violent with Love.

Fiction knew to meander the innominate rift,
A tincture of irony soften misdeeds
Immense as the sea.
Insolvent beast stippled with sapience—
Unmasked, the fabric of delusion;
Dependence smothering the disciplined heart
Resentment put up for release.

Waste of residual years
Fate’s apportion, scars bleakly observed;
Chastened by heartache, engulfing fervor
Too faint to recapture.
Vague glimpses dry—
Hypervigilant his defenses,
Veritable suspensions, embers lit linger;
Slender walls of solidity, the horizoned self,
Faith and reason in concert — stone levels of elucidation.

Fractured bones of distance, emanate a rigid salience,
Another ponderous night of absence—
Lingering, cauldron of dearth as indifference ushers,
The quotidian coil of contrition.
Tearful pallor, sequestered —ciphering time and solitude;
The unkissed mouth, his restive brow;
Suspend in the approximate span.
                      
After Lucid alliterations are spoken
Devoid of her face, his lover’s nudge—
The man nurtures his hurt.
Anxious as seldom unscarred,  
Venus’s susurrations,
In present tenses,
Kissed by her serenades of integration—
Notwithstanding metaphysic intrusion,
No chain stays unbroken,
Postponed drifts of deferment left unspoken,
Reverberations of amor.

© 2013 W. S. Warner

If you wanna get a good look
Here is the number... 666 oh 123
Im a joker, man, really. Its all a mind game,
So let us recalibrate the beat.

A man in a bar wound up in a storm
Where he felt nothing could go wrong
But any minute now we will generate a sound
That will keep the lonely man strung along.
Hes eating his own insides, acid diethylamide
Running from the bunkers into sands
Where the men who fire against him innovate a system
To blow him sky high into a fan.
It was always just a joke,  they tied him another rope
So they could keep his heartache in a single cell
No lights and no wires, the squealing of tires
Echoing in his head like bats of hell.
When his heart becomes released, hes cured of a disease
That only the lonely men in the world will know
And he can keep it in a jar, at the top of his tower
So he can prove it was never just for show.

If you wanna get a good look
Here is the number... 666 oh 123
Im a joker, man, really. Its all a mind game,
So let us recalibrate the beat.
A friend of mine wanted to have this one,
And I gave him a warning from the heart
They howl like hyenas and they drain out the sun,
They were raised this way from the start!

Walking from a hotel, escaping from a padded cell
A woman's eyes adjust to the sun,
She turns to a rainbow over a concrete meadow
And she proceeds, repeatedly to run.
A siren sounds and the pigs fly down
And loudly beat her into the ground
But when the people scream for sobriety,
They send in the special ops team.
She is rolled into the ER, her mind is spilling over
Her entrails, for halls, on the floor.
When the nurse comes out, she kicks and shouts
Because needles make her feel like a *****.
The man sits beside her, a wall is his divider
But his voice screams for him to be resumed
His will is awakened, the loathing is shaken,
And the wall, by his hatred is consumed.

Infraction distraction! A chemical reaction!
A busted heart writhing from a soul unspoken
Attacking the black team, the voices clashing
The bodies piling up and Pandora's  box is opened.
Ripping the cords from her face with his 4word letter grace
He sweeps her off the bed and hangs them by the head
Collides with a building with gold-tooth fillings
Blacksmith, locksmith, shadows in the distance
He turns into a red raw onion on its hind legs
Trying to jump a distance that he cant place
He reaches for a killer bee and instead holds ***
And the birds head changes to a woman's face.
He lingers for a second until the shadows blink
Then he runs into a river to stop and sink
It was there he designed a building of its own kind
Where the woman and him practice witchcraft and sleep.

If you wanna get a good look
Here is the number... 666 oh 123
Im a joker, man, really. Its all a mind game,
So let us recalibrate the beat.
A friend of mine wanted to have this one,
And I gave him a warning from the heart
They howl like hyenas and they drain out the sun,
They were raised this way from the start!

Desires and dreams suffocating from the multitude of tightened nooses
Liars yell screams awaiting actions to ebb and let flow my creative juices
Fires up streams sinking ships and their teams burning all of their uses
Flyers and schemes left in the wake with the sinking list of all the excuses

Before you let go, you better recalibrate your aim
Who do you know, if you miss, can take the blame
Confront status quo, hide from your parent's shame
A stunt, try an grow, from a wildfire's blazing flame

Comme si comme sa
The grey area that I breathe
A snow print of a paw
Life's Purpose I must seethe

Lying out somewhere in the far off distance
Dying slow and numb with little resistance
Eyeing thee mortal setting sun's persistence
Vying for a final answer to human's existence

if it started in the basement where do we end up?

when my lips press up questions with my hands far down below
what do I want from you?
new love got noticed today

re-calibrate and judge again
is there anything we've fought for?
the text behind my fingers might be lying but my lips for sure are not.
holding hands doesn't count when your mouth is facing the other way

back at home shallow hands we've hung up at the door
and duct-taped truth gagged in the den
if it's in the open, it shouldn't have to be said
but you just could be blind? or is your mouth not quite on straight?
like mine.

re-calibrate and judge again
is there anything we've fought for?
the text behind my fingers might be lying but my lips for sure are not.
holding hands doesn't count when your mouth is facing the other way

please try again with this vending machine of love
I wont take your crumpled-for-granted dollar no more
take me out to city streets
or i'll just go alone
and perhaps text you when i'm home

re-calibrate and judge again
is there anything we've fought for?
the text behind my fingers might be lying but my lips for sure are not.
holding hands doesn't count when your mouth is facing the other way

reading lines from a script in goodnights and hello's and daring daring not to say
when I didn't always mean it
it goes unspoken face to face
what do you hear between us?
I think I'm going deaf

re-calibrate and judge again
is there anything we've fought for?
re-calibrate and judge again
is there anything we've fought for?

holding hands doesn't count when my mouth is facing the other way pressed against somebody else's.
I hope you notice before I have to say.

An open letter to my mothers boyfriend,

When you blame millennials for the current state of our nation, you are disregarding the environment we've learn to survive in. Cookies hanging over our heads, blindly following the sound of people celebrating empty dreams. Dreams recited by our fathers.  I am not trying to place blame on you, as I know you too have been infected by these unspoken rules. You too had a cookie hanging over your head. But I want you to know that our cookies just look different. As time passes recipes’ recalibrate and cookies transform. And I feel for you, maybe you’re still chasing the cookie, maybe it’s getting harder to chase, or maybe you ate the cookie and still felt hungry. But if we really want to have this conversation, about the current state of our nation, I’m gonna need for you to stop talking about cell phones and 20 something year olds and start talking about where these cookies came from!

epitomize
and optimize
imitate
and recalibrate
streamline
and recombine
the evolutionary "line"

fireflies  
and theorize
circulate
and gyrate
guideline
and divine
the galaxy and the stars

moonrise
and clockwise
death rate
and procreate
sunshine
and lifeline
laws of nature are defined

maximize
and re-size
penetrate
and migrate
bloodline
and decline
the story of our world

allies
and despise
prostate
and dictate
enshrine
and benign
generations throughout time

endings
and beginnings
losing
and winnings
and everything
in between
is what we find

When the sweat is dry on my brow
I will get up.
I'll be able to focus then better, I think.
The sweat is linked to a general malaise,
where objects drift in double shapes...
Not unpleasantly.
But smarter, I think, to stay. At least,
Let the pupils dilate, and left eye
Recalibrate it's aim.
The salt and sweat malign the eyes,
which either slip too fast past the the target,
or arrive a bit delayed.

You said:
Maybe we'd be happier if we moved on with our lives.
You're seeing something in Iowa that was likely there all along.
And the more I feel like you could slip away
I become more paranoid and afraid.
Wondering now who you're with,
Whether this path ultimately leads to my replace.

Though maybe we both agree, then, with what you said.
I can't hang on to something that long got on a plane and left.
Or try and **** through wires the delusion of a scent,
that dissipates, reductively, with every breath.

Though I will rephrase, in my own way,
the sentiment I think remains:
It would be more prudent to
Let the nose and lungs to rest.

         Let us be ungreedy with breath.


If you move on I will let you pass.
I cannot hold you within me,
And these cavities have not the space.


         But I will taste your color again, perhaps,
         In the wind, a laugh,
         The wet heat of a lovers face.

         I will taste your color again,
         In the wind, a laugh,
         The wet heat of a lovers face.



If you move on I will let you not just pass but
dissipate.
And rebuild a more modest faith:
Just once, to inhale again something like what went.

(And still remember what it meant.)

I am capable
Of anything and everything
And exceeding expectations

I will blow you
Out of the water
With my delivery and presentation

Wow people
Of every place
Space
and Imagination

Open doors to galaxies
That will recalibrate
Your mental foundation

Fill you with love
5th dimensional
Fixation.

.well... a horror movie soundtrack is just a choice... there's always a loop of the song dreaming, from the coraline soundtrack; i'm such a sentimental schmuck.

fasting all day,
blood sugar levels low in
the later afternoon...
filling up on an English
breakfast leftovers past
midnight...

it's raining... and there's
still more than 3/4 of
a whiskey bottle left...
but it's raining...
and...
   i suppose i should wish
to write something...
but then... then again...

with the bedroom window
ajar...
putting on some horror movie
soundtrack...
and subsequently listening
to the rain...

do i really need another "poem"?
another, rather *******
statement concerning
flashing numbers...
in red, rather than emerging
words from a blank space?

no... not really...
there's just something about
a recalibrate of the body
after a day of fasting...
it's like ******* Ramadan
with me, almost all year round...

i guess with the whole globalist
affair... i sleep-stalking
my time in these hours...
at twenty minutes past 1am
most people are asleep...
while i'm...

   just shy of pouring myself
another drink,
and contemplating falling asleep
mingling a horror movie
soundtrack and the falling rain;

rhapsody of the most gentle
scuttling, tapping...
i call it...
    the aqua-aranea effect...
water-spider effect...
       ghostly piano of the night...
weaving a lullaby like
no other lullaby could ever
be sung;

like the hallow call of the impeding
inevitability of death -
and: that rare grace:
of primordial yet at the same time:
eternal sleep.

Let's take a second
Recalibrate this conversation
You do know, right
That I am the hinge on this life
I don't want praise
Or a pat on the back
But even hinges need WD-40
From time to time.
**** it,
I need to be greased constantly
I'm needy in that way
(Therapy helps)
But look into my day-to-day:
On my left is the Wall,
My root and my reason
My family (my girls).
The Wall is permanent, important
(Those words don't do it justice)
On me it relies on necessities of life.
For that Wall, I hold the Door.
The Door on the right,
Replaceable, not solid,
It's a means (to an end)
That Door is temporary, minute
(Compared to the house)
And on me it rests, day in and day out.
On ME it rests
I  am the only hinge
The other?
We won't talk about him
But hinges only have two hands, you see
One on the wall, one on the door
I have no hands that are free
Hinges are fierce little *******
That are good at their jobs
But they age all the same

So *******.

I shut off my power and my phone in an attempt to recalibrate, which is why I haven’t been posting lately. I go for a two hour walk everyday after work, talk to weird people, as well as make friends with stray animals before going home and playing my guitar until sundown. I light some candles and sit next to my open window and read until the Coast2Coast show comes on my crank radio and I listen until I fall asleep. The cold shower in the morning takes some serious *****, but after defeating the cold shower I have noticed my productivity at work sky rockets, as nothing that I will face through out my day will require the will power that is required in facing cold water submersion first thing in the morning. I have been writing the old school way with a silver Cross pen in a sketch book my mother had bought me for my 18th birthday, and boy have I forgotten what a pain it is to do edits with pen and paper.

I was growing bitter, self destructive, and unappreciative, and I figure I needed to hit rock bottom to appreciate the little things again. Thus far it is working, and I am only two weeks in. I am shooting for October 1st before I turn the power on. The phone may come sooner, as my boss is *******. I am attempting to build my body, mind and spirit as a result of my looming feelings of forlorn that have been pressing in on me in an almost shout that I have mostly ignored the past couple of years, but the time of putting my instincts aside has ended. My ear is to the ground and my eyes are to the sky and once I am full of what these fill me with, I will speak of what I have found.  Be well friends, and see you soon.

O, you mountains
Fists of rock, jutting toward heaven
Your Picasso faces, so broad and strong
Pine and fir above prairie grass
Elk and moose and bear reigning superior
Such heights, such deep distances
You recalibrate for me, my size
I am lost in your immense trajectory up,up
And my breath is taken from me
With no regret
Blowing off your defiant peaks

I’m walking away from everything
That’s ****** me off
Or made me unhappy

I’m going to let myself lose control
talk to strangers, I don’t know
move to a foreign land
be back by Christmas, but who knows what then

I’m going to leave this place I know
pack up my things, let my baggage go
become a stranger to myself
Maybe return as someone else

I’m going to reinvent myself
be irresponsible with my wealth
find a new song to sing
get in a fight, hear myself scream

I need to recalibrate my soul
I need no one to make me whole
I’m going to make more time for me
make all my lists of dreams realities

I don’t need my head on straight
I’m twenty-one not thirty-eight
I’m allowed to fall apart
be stupid, follow my heart

Regret
sounds like
knees hitting carpet
faster than words can travel
through a cellphone receiver.
It looks like
a black left fender
on a brown Honda accord.
It feels like
boulders placed
between your joints.
It does not leave
until you pick it out
from between your teeth.
It is a filling meal
that leaves you unsatisfied.

You must recalibrate your scale,
convert the value of moments gone.

Wipe your shield clean,
and watch the road ahead.

Asphalt under your tires
can fill you to new depths.

And you can be light again.

Sometimes we must say goodbye
And walk away
Far away from all we love
To a place strange and odd

Only to rediscover ourselves
To be reborn again
To reinvent our will
And recalibrate our hearts

It is on that journey we'll find solace
It is then we have clarity
Our minds are open to hear the truth
Free from disruptive noises

paranoid eyes
run infinite eights
try to see the angles
in this tesselated state
look beyond the holographic
mind recalibrate
repeat the mantra
to the self
differentiate

i learned the hard way that love
doesn’t mean staring down the barrel
of a loaded gun,
telling me it’s his way or no way at all.
no one can ever make me
compromise my values,
not even the sweetest face (you),
not even the smoothest talker (you),
not even the gentlest touch (you).
i see you in every landscape,
every arrangement of orange leaves
on the autumn trees,
the snowfall on the tall mountainsides,
and i feel you in the hot sun
that beats down on my skin,
but i can’t keep dancing around
the words on my tongue,
the ones that keep trying to
pry open my lips, gasping for air,
begging to be set free.
no one can recalibrate my mind
to suit his needs, his wants.
we promised love to each other,
but even that isn’t enough for me
when my concerns, my beliefs,
aren’t second to none.

I ought to believe
That your heart is paralleled
With my veins that I look on to
Blood streaming you've cancelled

Things I look up to happen,
The plans I made carefully,
Destroying my inner senses
Without you knowing it internally.

My shattered belief
Never hassles me to the bore
Where you never drop an expectation
Frustrated like a kid in a toystore.

It's hard to act naturally
What else can I say
I must recalibrate my sensitivity
Oh, What a day.

With a buzzing chest I float into the abyss
Striving to recalibrate
Feeling the emptiness around me I regain my sense of meaningless
In the dark I don’t exist
No pressure
No expectations
No judgements
I feel total relief and utter bliss
I’ve abused this paradise in the past but not again
This time I will remain here forever

It's the start of a new year
Time to embrace a new direction
A new way of viewing things
A brighter and more positive perspective

First is to let go of the past
Because the land to be occupied ahead is vast
Time to consciously make decisions
And prevent weeds from your garden

It's not time to wait for people's approval or disapproval
Time to choose the seeds to plant and cultivate
The season to self-motivate
To use positive energy to irrigate

Love is an energy that we must propagate
A required force for us to elevate
When things appear blurry
Spend more time to meditate
Look within and recalibrate

I best chill out, take another ****
recalibrate,
remember my heart's broke
talking about girls will always make me choke
how'd you feel about pretty women?
well pretty women are sick of me
and yet I slay '*** it's time I'm killing
it's a void that I'm filling
whenever I'm drinking and pilling
popping my life away
my head's higher than the ceiling
maybe I'll never feel the same
trying to find somewhere to place the blame
the hardest part is that
I know it's just growing pains

To all interested parties:
Be aware
My guilt button is out of order
Due to mismanagement
And over usage
It was burned up.
Please do not attempt
To resuscitate
Recalibrate
or commiserate
The loss
Empathy, compassion and gentle humor have agreed together to compensate.
For an unspecified time period
Joy and peace are their
Sunrise greeters and
Moonrise seaters
In this theatre of daily grace.

Here’s to scrumptious nights.
cats and boots and cats and boots
We went clubbing last night, to recalibrate
ourselves on the dance floor, where magic happens.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots
To focus on sensory experiences, the beat,
and share in the fun and tangible sense of freedom.
cats and boots and cats and boots
Feel the wave, show your energy, be the wave
cats and boots and cats and boots
be disheveled, swing your hair like a weapon
abandon, silly, self-protecting vanities
cats and boots and cats and boots
flashing lights on dancing figures
make it all seem slo-mo and extreme.
cats and boots and cats and boots
It’s been too long since we’ve done it like this.
Work-worn, I’d lost my lucidity and stumbled badly on a quiz.
Lisa pushed my books onto the floor, declaring, “Get UP, we’re grabbing some bliss.”
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots
failure has a reality, a gravity and pull all the more shocking in relief.
I’d started out the evening gloomy and ashamed - a figure of regret -
but I’m better now, buoyed and recharged and soon I’ll have a plan - hopefully.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots
There was a guy there, on the dance floor, who looked like a young Leonardo DiCaprio.
We made eye contact, nodding and smiling at each other in motion.
We gyrated, together, sort of, for a second, in our separate orbits - no conversation
I just watched him for a moment or two, sexualizing him like eye candy.
Just seeing him was sensual fun and I wondered what he smelled like.
He had a gritty, sweaty, idealized beauty, like a dancing ‘David’
that no Michelangelo could ever capture in stiff granite sculpture.
The music ended - momentarily - we knew it would start up again
and we were there for it - til 1 or 2 am anyway - then it recranked.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and..
Lisa grabbed my hand, jerking me onto the dance floor almost
before I could set down my drink. Eeek! “Slow Down!” I yelled,
but my complaint was lost in the din and my involuntary laugh.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and..
.
.
Songs for this:
Dance To This (feat. Ariana Grande) by Troye Sivan
Good Time Girl (feat. Charlie Barker) by Sofi Tukker

I have an extensive knowledge of things
many people might call useless.

I can explain to you the evolution of the Doctor,
the Dalek’s rise and downfall, the breath of a Rose.
Merlin and Arthur live in tandem, two sides of the same coin,
and it’s hard not to see, they mean more than simple friends in their reality.
Castiel, Gabriel, Lucifer, Hael, Michael, Eziekel, Raphael, among many are
the warriors of God, a man who writes comics about the Winchester brothers.
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” is my favorite quote from Russell Howard’s Recalibrate,
and Danial Sloss’s bit about jigsaws hits a note, a truth Ed Sheeran does too, in the last line,
“And before I get to love someone else, I’ve got to love myself.”
Of course, they mean romantic love, it can take someone loving you platonically to learn to love yourself.

I crawl around the corners, searching for this information, the tidbits I can throw at people,
Look and see me, I’ve got things you ain’t never seen before, as referenced to Secretariat,
said by Eddie Sweat. Tiny things, picked up from Tumblr, Pinterest, Instagram, ‘tis I, the frenchiest fry’.
I have a store racked with snapshots of a million different stories packed tight in my head and I’m desperately trying to shove these facts to fill this void I cannot fill.

I can tell you blue waffles are Percy’s favorite food, that Nico deserved better and look at me like come and watch the kid with a slowly declining mental health as he attempts to give you what he cannot give himself. Bo Burnham. BBS came from a video featuring a yellow school bus and a fuckton of shouting. Terroriser and Danisnotonfire are comfortable in their gender, and so is my friend Evan. **** the terms and conditions of masculinity, take the signatures and white out the scrawled names, break away from the lines we try to box you in.

Tumblr doesn’t always get it right, often times they get it wrong, but somethings I’ve found on there have helped me calm down a friend from an anxiety attack, have shown me truths I don’t want to see. It also taught me that carrier pigeons could fly eighteen hundred kilometers and were used as early as three thousand years ago. Have you ever seen what fan art can do? The stunning creations made by people who don’t expect any money or expectations? What of the fanfictions? We have to pay for food, water, electricity, but yet we can delve into books, a lifeline for many, for free? Kudos to them.

This is the world I have fought to live in since I can remember. This is the hunger I am trying to sate inside of me, but it only grows and I can’t keep up with it. When I can’t be me… facts, connections, the only places I can feel through are the books, movies, shows, YouTube videos. I make reference after reference, hoping to connect with someone else, to find a place I belong and…

And I can’t stop. I can’t stop. I can’t—

grating leg bark
blinding and smooth
my hair snow is ugly but

my burning pierces your pupils
i comply and i deceive
make my mind up
every night
a different hue you must shine

"you look stunning"
yet i feel like a puzzle
i slot my imperfections into the middle
so he won't see me until he tastes me

get teased
until you pick up three-hundred degrees
as YOU tease until you like who you see

why can he be anything
but i have to recalibrate
before i can celebrate

i will never reach my final form

Self love
Self care
Reminder
The topic all over again
A healing journey

2 weeks medical leaves
Taking time off to recalibrate

For your best interests
Articulate your experience
And emotions

If the pain you feel is deep
Eat and sleep.

Refuel.
Swich off.

Disconnect
To reconnect.

Vegetate.
We are mammals.

Things can wait
This is only one day
**** the world
Do you.

Music
Poetry
Draw
Paint

Do nothing.

Life will wait.

Eat.

Don't forget to eat.

Your future you will thank you.

Dream sweet.

it's become truly: self-evident...
why i haven't been able to write as i once did...
it's hardly a hiatus - or a writer's block...
it could be any of the cheap-thrills
of custard-brain and fudge-thinking...

but... i'm more or less... celebrating...
   a celebration: me celebrating:
me having to recalibrate lost details
of... the persuasive life:
it doesn't matter how little you do...
as long as the little that you do:
is the good...
              for example:
i'm not a big fan of self-help books...
jordan b. peterson
is hardly the sort of psychological
literature i'd venture to find...
r. d. laing: the divided self...
william james...
    jung: western man in search for
soul...
   julian jaynes: the origin of consciousness
in the breakdown of the bicemeral mind...
the anatomy of madness ed.
by w. f. bynum, roy porter and michael
shepherd - tavistock publications:
1985 first edition: cheap... at teasing
30 quid...

  rule 12: pet a cat... when you see one...
sorry... that can't be a rule...
oh today... today was just one of those...
american beauty: sam mendes is dead
sort of days...
  the air was cool in the evening...
it still felt like spring...
and i was walking back with a bottle
of scotch and some pepsi cola grenades...
and this ginger and white did
dance with me...
in view of traffic... clockwise: decently
understand in english terms...
but then he changed "lane" on
the pavement... so i changed...
then he changed... "lane" and i did too...
and we met up at a point when
he knew the "stalker" and i knew my:
forgot to bring a leash...
just my smelly fingers from...
just having roasted some pork ****
on the barbie (bbq) to a proper...
tender and juicy...
            yeah... i "petted" the cat...
more like: ****** felt it was necessary
to make me... obliged... to pet him-her...
mouth agape: snorkling / purring...
tease of the nose... grap of the tail...
stroke of the spine... sniff of my fingers...
but... rules for life...
                        it's not a given...
to pet a cat...
                  it can't be made into a command
that you should: when... chances are...
you won't be able to... not every cat
is a gambling addict: gambling on...
universal trust...

           i guess i felt right and the cat knew it...
i have two alternative rules...
but they would be deemed heresy...
one about attempting to pet a fox...
and a one about... sticking your hand
in front of a rabid dog let loose off his leash
chasing a more tame: yorkshire terrier
cowering under the bench i was sitting on
drinking beer...
with the free hand holding the terrier's
collar... and outstretching my hand
for the rabid dog to attempt to bite...
two conflicting parties came...
the owners of the yorkshire terrier...
thanking me for keeping the poor shuckles
in safety... a girl and a boy... zenith: 12...
18 for the both of them...
and the owners of the rabid tongue...
an almost feral family...
       i still have my arm and...
                       so sorry from the mother...
and her daughter...
with a straw in her mouth...
going to strut along like some illuminated
buddha: so... that's how you do it?
yeah... if it's not a hand on the iron...
or into the fire...
chances are... hand into ice...
or... between the affair of two dogs...
outstretched hand and a choice of 5 sausages
to bite off...
i don't like to gamble... unless it's with
my limbs...
or my life...
                  i enjoy money for the authenticity
of a transacation...
prostitutes in a brothel...
supermarket cashiers: the whiskey...
  i will pretend to not have...
when i buy a jazz vinyl...
      i wouldn't pay for...
people go to restaurants to talk... hardly places
to eat...
   well... good! i like to cook my own
food... and i don't like to talk
when eating it...
                     i like to know i have my hands
cleaned and the food is also readied
for cooking: clean...
i have a distrust for restaurants...
and for people... who'd want to talk
******* when they should be eating...
sorry: simon says olvier wants more...
plus... all those riddles of... complaints...
when someone paid to cook...
can't get a well-done or a decently rare:
bleu stake out...
                           what's the point?
a look of dis-satisfaction works so much
better: when it's no worded: Karen towing...
via... ******* a lemon and doing
the cooking yourself...
not that... shopping will open any time soon...
new clothes?
   for clothes you'd require to have arenas
to be seen in them...
yeah...             slow burner...
chew and choke on coal before you see
         a bonfire from that cul de sac of events!

     - it's a... william styron account in reverse...
well... he noted: he only wrote when sober...
or having a hangover...
and he reserved drinking to listening to music...
and then... melancholy creeped up on him...
romance of melancholy: depression...
michel de montaigne would tell more...
probably cite you a horace or an ovid...
while he was in a slump...
and if: the gods would provide...
snap his fingers and his quill... and spark
a joke of crown prince of terse:
a dead-end of rhetoric: a ridicule...

       a one most prized... self-deprecating
ridicule of the whole situation:
or none of it...
   to have quit smoking...
      i don't want to write because...
               i have quit smoking...
to have quit: yeah... when you see the remnants
of former you: smoking while walking...
smoking when waiting for a bus
at a bus stop...
   smoking when standing outside of a pub...
smoking when you might as well have been
eating a carrot: or a stalk of celery...
or chewing a gum...

whatever happened in the 20th century
for the benefit of man and the intellect of man...
and... what has become:
most probably... very ****** ***...
            nothing new: very ****** ***...
no ***: is better than: very ****** ***...
              the  neu-nein-neu regel...
  interlude between... shaking a glass:
look of inquiry: refill...
         and... jumping backwards and forwards...
the illusion of deviating from
the cold definition of a transaction...
   the pomp and circumstance...
              your house... your car...
your x, y, & z... the brothel... her pepsi...
your whiskey... no one's bed...
   the... love this part...
gloating of the winning parties that came
out of world war II...
gloating... israel is established:
peace in the middle east...
              the gloating of the winning parties:
communism bad... capitalism good...
the soviets launch a robot probe
that lands on mars...
all bad... the yin and yang and... now...
capitalism has to... cannibalise itself...
    fun times: pretending the competing side
to be wrong... when the competing side...
can also... out-compete you in scientific
and technological ventures... fun ******* times!
we have: zee bomb! shitz! they'z 'ave zee bombz twoz!
fun times... cornflake march
at the crack of dawn!

oh yeah... that 12th rule for life... really helps...
written by someone who...
well some cats will allow you to pet them...
some will shun you...
get over the rejection... treat them like ****
or... objectively... not as a photographer's
******* in visual media arts college:
the "subject"...
        
           even with this: i don't feel like writing...
or giving fictional credentials to the story...
i'm finally freeing myself from
a... 13 year old addiction...
      and come to think of it...
                  it wasn't so much an addiction...
as... a circumstance of obliterated willing:
or... un-willingness... the dimension of choice...
choice being: either the global curfew is
lifted and i'll get the usual cheap trickle of
moldovian cigarettes...
or... i'll cough up... the price in england...
which is... blackmail...

             no wonder i don't feel like writing:
maybe i should draw a schematic of hand
placement before the altar of the keyboard
so that... you're not looking down when typing?

ha ha! pet a cat when you see one...
because... all of a sudden...
see... that's a strange scenario:
what sort of a half-bred human do you
have to be... to conjure up...
a stray cat? how boring do you have to be?
stray dogs? i've seen how it's done...
a guy ties a dog to a park fence...
***** off...
   someone the dog escapes being tied...
joins a dingo pack and sleeping beauty: the end...
how ****** up do you have
to be... to... issue concerns for a stray
cat?
         it's like: the mind of the solipsist
never... bothered you?
the cat probably thought:
i be the solipsist and wander: **** knows
where...
than deal with this cookie-milk and sickly
sweet sort of *******...
solipsism i can heave...
i know of the hippocratic oath...
there's no sisyphean contract obliging me
to stay with this "camouflage" of mundane...
you'd be susprised:
cats tend to sleep... when and where
life happens...
a stray cat? is probably a cat with insomnia:
because: there was a "when" and a "where"
that supposed itself to be inclined
with all the geometry of dasein...

the lived life is better than voyeurism:
or a leeching off of life...
           that's also **** without *****
envy and: should i be jerking off...
to... photographs of people being tortured?
the ****** contortions of being skinned...
or being ****** like a duracel ****-it-****-it-****-it
bunny?
you tell me...
from ***** envy i came away with...
beard envy... mmm.... choke on this giggle i will...
b'lahahahahahaha!

  it's good being a man and growing old...
i'll know when to turn into a tree or a tombstone...
lucky for me i already know what it is
to become a genocidial maniac armed
with *******... a toilet + flush... a still brain-riddle
    (photoraphy of a blink... movies? no go zone
of stockholm)
of peaches... cow ******* and the anatomy
of a woman... the mermaid and the ***** ****
and the b.j. but otherwise the avenue of ovaries...
and salmon godheads with all our
children being named: bubbles and bob...
oh i do wish there was a *** life for me...
that invited me to the... to that other playground
of latex... and... the better sort of games...
past the music and the movies...
from scratch... the sandpit goldmines...
the... hidden bedrooms with bloated
barbie and ken's anatomy classes...
she's in her tattoos and i'm donning
my latex...

       now her ***** is my... one cigarette:
when there were 20 to begin with...
for the day...
              to smoke... when waiting for a bus...
at a bus-stop...
to smoke... at a bar... to smoke... on a bus...
i'd love to revise smoking marihuana while
drinking... but... i don't have the luxury
of the 2 hours it would take to reach
the nadir LD50 and the zenith of ecstasy...
of imitation ****** *****...
  no point seeking Parsifal and the glory
of objectivity when... any drugs or ***** are
concerned... so much for the objectivity
of the argument: the persuasion...
the persuasion is already lost...
to the argument for the subjectivity
of the "individuated" / placebo solipsism
of the solo- / dodo-project encounter...

i quiet like... schizophrenia... a word...
a metaphor... when it isn't a true scenario of...
low i.q. premature dementia...
when one is... misdiagnosed with it...
psychosis osmosis... i like that phrase too...
i asked to be: left the **** alone...
lucky for me... i'm the new age
cindarella ****** with a glass stilleto and
a kiss of judas to boot!
i may... oh: have the looks...
clue: what's a schizophrenic and also
    napoleonic hydra?
            my style of quizzing...  (9)
b-i-l-i-n-g-u-a-l...
           does schizophrenia exist...
           within a bilingual dynamic?
            no... out of curiosity... just asking...
perhaps i'm a case of the quadratic?
                 is there a known case of a bilingual
schizophrenic?! a quadratic?

well yeah... while those solid *****
over at mini-apple WHY-WAY...
charlize theron: gwoo YA novella wake me
up when september comes
and there's an iraqi farm of...
infidel pigs... blah blah...

riots happened whole i was... concerning
myself with... the "ad hominem" of...
gary glitter versus roxy music...
for the sole focus of a single song...
rock & and roll (part 1 und susie: deux)...

****... giggles... i'm even sporting the vogue
details... shorts... slippers...
day-two-ago smelly socks... a lebowski
robe...
   the day can seriously... happen all and freed
of me... even the cricket!
hell... i'll boycott drinking tea:
just in case the cricket players run out
of it!
always the best alternatives!

this is... best... oink oink: equpped with:
schadenfreude convening with
ridicule sort of jokes...
send in the orcs! no... SEND IN THE MONGOLS!
lest we forget about the middle-ages
framing of a looting of Baghdad!
SEND IN THE MONGOLS!

               or send those wheelz and tire-tracks
to... that humane... fifth assumption...
when capitalism had it so good:
two: towing each silly...
ideologies...
two: the germs and the slaves...
the day: when... ha-ha-h'america
rediscovered europe...
pretntious *******...
they're not native h'americans...
but they're still: dutch: all quizzical...

   capitalism never had it so good...
so much for the lost arts of breathing false...
when the slavs had communism and now...
if only mongolia was in the news...

SEND IN THE MONGOLS!
where are the mongols?
  not in dover... for sure...
             nugget of (the) ukraine...
known as crimea...
their capital: Sicz...
          and Siecz...
   "too many" consonants...
the Z is replaced with a H...
cheap: ****...
       чeap: шit..
                 "too many"...
                "consonants"...
oh i see how competing with communism
was always...
your... "thing"...
beside... exporting the capitalistic:
saves moneyz builds hou-hou-sez...
  and they do! somehow!
           but this... summons before
the court of the egregious...
             the fire... the cold-cod-blaster
events of: indiscrimenate... solace
of eventually tier upon tier...
lots of looted attributes...

glam rock: to see it... rather than merely hear it...
that was the prime concern...
glam rock is tamed punk...
glitter... roxy music...
                                 t-rex... bowie...
one song of glitter: is enough for me to forget
anything by roxy music...
t-rex... harder to confine: reproach...
and bozzo bowie remains:
intact: dulwich... born...
                                    brixton...
glitter was: but not when you hear it...
you need to see: glam rock...
to "know" you're listening to
glam rock... overwise...
tamed punk... trans-gender schizoid:
mohawks...
or... that one time when...
john wayne won an oscar for playing...
a one-eyed... drunkard
bounty-hunter...
when... the panoramic loot of time...
and avenue of scene was...
synonymous...
because: just because...
  40 circa 30... years later...
bon jovi was a ******* cowboy
sing-along loitering son...
or a trailer seller! type... typo...
sort of... th'ang...
  
          your st. thomas your st. peter...
never your ******* st. paul!
the newly wed:
   greco-heb propaganda machinery...
but i still write in sold the death of
latin... by god: ha-shem alone...
let's leave the evangelical avengers
of the stinking new continent
to their own wide-breath of hope...
own a car prior to being told: you're drunk!
says...
           the greco-hebrew conspiracy
of the new testament...
to counter... the match... the former...
glory of ancient greece...
with that... rome borrowed...
as troy...
            the hebrew helped:
hesiod minding folk...
       but the latin script...
the dead: unsaid... became...
revised... reinvented... became...
typos of coding transporter and terminator...
no... i minded to look...
no further than the archeology
of nebuchadnezzar's cuneiform...
              
wake me... this desired woo
of history revised...
the brilliance of the wake:
as cited by

the "failure" of casimir III...
point being: the nazis... either... existed...
or didn't... i much like the idea that they did...
i feel less obligated to ingest them
into my own shadow...
notably the amon goeth quote:

/today is history. today will be remembered.
years from now the young will ask with
wonder about this day.
today is history and you are part of it.
six hundred years ago when elsewhere
they were footing the blame
for the black death, casimir the great - so called -
told the Jews they could come to krakow.
they came. they trundled their belongings
into the city.
they settled. they took hold.
they prospered in business,
      science, education, the arts.
with nothing they came and with nothing
  they flourished. for six centuries there has
been a jewish krakow.
by this evening those six centuries
will be a rumor.
they never happened. today is history./

yes... today is history: today is also a past...
what past is clinging to these...
helio-centrists of vain... rekindle...
impromptu?
these... valkyrie: kyrie elision woes & woos?
this... multi-cultural german...
this franco-phone... "oops"...
this... sorry-saxon-cousin
of the pomeranian german...
the english the pseudo-german
having mingled with...
the welsh the irish the pict the receding
celt...
bigmouth h'america'ca'ca'nah! no?

       i'd sooner drink my own ****
and gorge on oral *** of a *******'s
****** and **** than kiss your:
ms. h'america... your guess who's h'american
woman... race war... ***** envy...
forget me so it's so...
12" envy and all that african woman's envy
of **** anything worth of as as ***!
burn... baby... burn...

federal s.a.
                    sounds like south africa...
sounds like... what... the banana republic
of ukraine...
   and the costa rica of bulgaria...
the ancient chore... the lore the lore...
the "taming of the dragon":
the rags to riches...
and all that... canadian bullshitting
the bulldozer... n'ah! gnar!
hell! summon the runes!
for the rottweiler!
   remains of: first invested in bark!
gnar! runes!
                ᚷᚾᚨᚱ! and that's when...
you last you "hear" / see the glagolithic
script...
                     so much for...
tattoo: cheap pork brides / prides
with chinese ideograms...
no runes no glagoliths...

                           gnar! ⰃⰐⰀⰓ!

how can you: write... a dog's digging...
a cat's climbing? for the former: barking...
for the latter: meowing?

When I try to articulate,
Desperately trying not to gesticulate,
So I pause, step back, and calculate,
Thinking, if It were better, I recalibrate.