Anxiously awaiting atomic assimilation
Basing me on belligerent and boorish bastardization
Capsizing cargo with careful consideration as to
Deciding which day is decay's destination
Everyone embrace the elevated expiration
Forget my face and follow fabrication
Go to the gallows with grace and gravitation
He will hold you and hinder alienation

I, however, hold insignificance in interest
Justifiable jackhammers jacking fighter jets
Killing Californians who are kissing canvases
Lying without laughing and lighting cigarettes
My master makes me move my mundane mind
Never knowing next to nothing with nothing else inside
Overly offering operating override
Practicing patiently pulling peoples' pride

Quickly questioning quizzical quietness
Rationalizing raging reinventions ridiculous
Stapling this summer to my (still) sick subconscious
Traveling tunnelers trading tides for tiredness
Under the umbrella my undertow untangles
Violently vibrating like varying violin angles
Waiting with wandering whispers under the table
Xylophonist x-rays, excruciating fables

You yellow youngling, you who screams in my dreams
Zebras zoom by every single night, it seems
Let's chant my enchantments, the alliteration song!
And untie your tongue
So you don't take it wrong.

the way i see it, the internet doesn't really exist for poets
of the 21st century: instant gratification in other realms does,
the digital free-love movement,
mobile internet - and the atypical human
behaviour of sorts;
counterclockwise there's another movement
happening - not based on a dozen social
media accounts - digital selection,
it's there - the komtur movement -
you use a sieve and you add the filter, without
even considering the deep web -
you imagine yourself in a Tron exercise -
you're basically saying: what should i
include in the virtual reinterpretation of
the high street - i haven't bothered going to
the high street / junk street for ages -
Oxford Street is like Jurassic Park for me -
herds of edible oxen daydreaming while
walking - poets always have the acid tongue,
better treat a woman with truth than
shelter 10 concubines and lie -
tss! (venomous spit sound) - where the big
boy'oh and his ******* Ferrari now?
on the next ***** - like i planned out prior -
there was a leather settee sitting in someone's
driveway, i had a beer and a cigarette and
felt the need for a breather - but it's in someone's
driveway... it would look odd, no?
around the corner a John the Baptist moment,
another settee sitting on the pavement -
you know how surreal it feels to sit on something
that's intended for the indoors when sitting outside?
i usually take rigid monk attention to postured
retirement from walking, but a settee on the pave
was like... sitting on a cloud - i joined
the feline traffic wardens for a while, 1, 2, 3, 4 cars
passed, i snorkelled two cigarettes and finished the
bear - the night... mm... is this surreal?
well... imagine that Brazilian billionaire and
his Olympic Games bid parking his car
in his living room... i parked my sofa on the
pavement - he's a butterfly incubator, i'm a tornado.
in poetry you have metaphors, puns...
i treat all psychiatric terms as equivalent to what
poetry uses - split-mind is both imagery and metaphor -
i'm already wearing a wedding ring -
allocated to the mediation of money, so she's
a ******* in heaven - i call her my pain in the ***
because she is a scorching sound in my left
hemisphere, it's this constant nagging -
or be like a Kantian bachelor - test your strength alone -
you'll have cognitive arguments with yourself,
you might do the whole schizophrenic episode -
or like me... hold keen on the stern and recover
with meteoric ambition to count the number
of peas in a glass like some autistic genius -
shame that science never had any romantic dimension -
Kierkegaard explored Faust - it ended up with Faust
being more the mythology that was intended -
he simply overpowered the love interest -
a love too diabolical - and unto hell we go, less
romantic and even more diabolical - some poets
write 20 poems a year, applause applause it's all great
because it's like taking a selfie of the poet on the toilet
seat - but my throne the throne of thrones,
Napoleon sat on a throne and the warring fields
were filled with **** - i sit on the throne of thrones
and the fields don't matter, i just **** on the throne
of the French Emperor; oi! listen, i'm trying to draw
return to the narrative linear, it's not easy when
you end up constantly stimulated by digression, digression,
it's hard enough to stop the river, let alone build a
Hoover dam or a bridge - o.k., now that i'm
less excited by subconscious stimulants of talk talk talk
(subconscious? yeah, read a few articles
about Layla, Harrison, No *** Please, Modern
reinventions of Arranged marriage with psychiatrists etc.)
i figured, i must write a 21st century poem...
i'm not much of a gamer, fair enough like any teenager
i played the Playstation - didn't get to no. 2,
that old grey block of plastic -
Tenchu and Final Fantasy Seven (with a walkthrough,
i was busy doing homework), and the Sims -
the wormhole spectacular - get the Sim to sit at the
computer... BOOM! cross-dimensional wormhole,
started freaking out... but the tablets are around
and i got speeding on Raving Fever -
PLAYER43588 - number of wins 1602 - mostly on the 2nd car
in the gallery - and mostly won on a 2,000 / 4km bet -
how? the physics - the nitro on max, the braking the handling
the acceleration and the speed on max -
but it's the physics! the ****** physics! most players
i go against are like robots... they press the nitro button
and quickly accelerate - i just sit back and either wait
for them to crash against the traffic, or when they don't,
after i have gained from the acceleration per se,
and having reached the max speed, then i nitro the ******...
it's like a Zeno paradox, i'm the tortoise and they're
Achilles - it's irrational to counter a good acceleration
with nitro - a schematic and less verbiage:

car A
nitro                    (143kmph)
                                               z. (~184kmph)
                                                                                    nitro
                                                                                    car B

z. denotes the zenith of speed - if these androids figured it
out properly, they wasted their nitro boost to reach the
maximum speed, i only wasted the acceleration potential
and got slightly delayed - once hitting the maximum
speed of 143kmph - i then press on the nitro and my zenith
is at ~184kmph - they're stuck on a plateau of maximum,
while i'm decreasing to their zenith of mutual maximum -
that's why i win so often, the frustrating thing for them
is that i always beat them on the last 100 metres or so.
basically i'm slowing down, while they're stuck on
stead speed, and by slowing down i'm beating them.
i guess scientists aren't ****, but neither is raising children,
who best knows the adventure of the mind?
and how to make boredom worth your while?

the leaves of my mind die,
without rustle, without why,
an incessant new season of direction
of spring, of beauty, of need,
orthodox and counterclocks
of bathroom stalls and
desperation calls--
in the tile we prove our worthwhile
as the hounds and haunts of yesterday
test our haul,
and I'm a magician and a *******,
a lover and a shotty terrorist,
the mad house rings,
sing, sing, sing
of yesterday--of fever dreams,
make me levitate to heavens,
push me away for doorknobs
and summer screens,
those are temporary,
lionesses in heat,
to be appeased
for the watering hole
and mouths of summers sought to soon--
we can romanticize the afternoon,
we can romanticize the mundane gloom,
but in the end we are nomads,
bouncing off shoreline and magazine subscription,
confused of endings
and brave in the face
of annihilation.
Rewrite the histories of our forefathers,
rewrite the reinventions of the wheel,
until it's all progress and simmering,
until the *** is full and festering,
when the now is soon,
and yesterday is dead,
the magnificence of misery--
hits like a runaway diaper truck
to add injury to insult,
to add scorpion to sting,
and if your mother is a dancer,
be not ashamed,
but praised,
she filled a primal need,
more than can be said about
Hemingway or Artaud or Bonaparte or the spring,
I have mountains to climb
and ****** rhymes to satisfy--
if you feel love,
boast,
if not welcome to hell,
a perpetual ****** roast
of ego,
of soul,
of every lover you let go--
the luck lies at stoplight kisses,
the luck lies in ***** sheets
and clean sneakers,
if sorrow is a gateway drug,
heaven is my fix,
if sorrow is a gateway drug,
I'll buy two hells a week for
the rest of my endless years,
if you love me,
do it,
don't doubt,
don't simmer,
ignite,
burn  brighter than former,
than the mourner,
than the funeral singer,
and make dinner on the ground,
we'll howl as the gravestones depreciate,
we'll howl as the stock market
solidifies in ice,
we'll howl as we realize the trite,
and I'm wrong often
but mostly right,
ask the machine gun,
and the sparrow hauling the olive branch,
ask murderers and the stain on your pants,
time is a circus of the three-ring variety,
too much to focus,
too much to bore,
too much to whine,
but under the cover of freedom--
enough to die in contentedness
and lie in the pangs of eternity
with a sigh, a slip of the tongue
and a pair of rolling eyes--
let not your daughter drown,
let not the horns on your head weigh you down,
the tomorrow is soon,
the now is ancient,
the promises to be fulfilled
will leave you begging-
bring on the fantasy,
the daydreamed celibacy,
the marooned integrity,
I've got a moon,
fourteen clouds,
and a headrush from nicotine--
drink of my youth, it's light, easy, cheap--
enough to get you drunk,
but lacking the dexterity of luck--
the burden, the burden
of always giving a ****.

Words and images
Of hate and despair.
Concrete walls
And iron bars.
Divisions of the soul.
Loathing, ceaseless strife.
Happiness vanishing
Within the night.
Masses herded.
Shivering in lonely seasons.
Unprepared, pretentious
Mongers of greed.
A small plant
Bending towards sunlight
While trampled
Under foot.
Insane, mundane
Theoretical disadvantages.
The universe has no use
For the virus of
The Human Race.
******* dry and
Leaving empty.
Necessities unreplenished.
The moon
History of the last
Failed experiment.
Future doomed
Of history's repent.
Repetitious reinventions
Gone with the limbs of
The serpent.
Contagious, voracious
Blissful ignorance.
Blinded, blurred
Worth of self.
Dependently independent.
Unable to close the gap
Between tomorrow and
The now.
Following too closely
In the wake of
Destruction.
Abandoned,
Unable to change course.
Eternal frailty.
Impregnated with
Foreign thoughts
And foreign words.
Somewhere lost in
The granules of time.
Wrapped up in the eternity
Of my own mind.

There are few responses that fit when you fall away
from all the things you love most.
After so many reinventions, so many changes
I don't know who I am anymore.
I thought I knew what I was chasing, but
in the end, I was wrong.
I've changed directions and I can't get back, even
to where home is a distant memory.
I can't recognize my surroundings, the world I
built with my choices.
All doors are locked and windows closed,
walls are padded, eyes are dim.
I don't want to die trapped in my own foolish
insecurities and mistakes.
I don't want to become just a soldier, marching
this lonely road to the end.
I hate looking in the mirror and seeing my own
accusing eyes, reminding me.
Rip and tear, claw and bring to ruin this palatial
tower of misrepresentation.
Wear my fingers to the bone with insignificant
self-promises and fleeting hope.
I will be free one day.
Silence the voice of failure and my near silent
misgivings that cut the hamstrings of hope
and push me deeper into the prison of
despair and self loathing.
I will be free.

If I could live a life tomorrow, lost in a different world.
A splinter of a different place, in a time unfurled
Pieces of another life, where other thoughts are hurled
Swimming in tranquil pools, from a mind that's swirled
Through the haze of memories, distorted bent and curled
Decisions that have not been made, similar but twirled

An image of a different world, caught in a singularity
Thoughts fragmented in a void shredding my mentality
Segments of a fractured mind in an alternate reality
A small piece of a dream, A fragment of normality
many fractions of my life that questions my insanity
Feelings of a better place that curves my sensuality

Dimensions in a different time, inclines so obscure
Alternative parts of my life through a different door
Images of loved ones gone, to real to just ignore
Shadows of a former life, places from before
One step beyond the barrier, steps on another shore
Walking in an unknown land not knowing what's in store

Drifting between the twilight, lost in your own dimensions
Shades of different lifetimes, all of life's extensions
Floating in a time warp, with other world intentions
Memories of things not done, a mind of reinventions
Shredded dreams chipped away shattered in suspensions
Trapped fragments of a memory merged with your own pretensions

Living in a another world, no matter what my morrow's
Rifts in space on splintered dreams, a breach in time that follows
A fraction of a quantum field, a universe which borrows
Shards of a sun on broken stars in a mind that hollows
A chance to live a different life without any of life's sorrows
Waiting to be in a life of all those lost tomorrow's

August 2 2016. Just another day. Just another call. No warnings to slow or stop.
So from where did they come? Those terrifying demons. That lit my body from ‘toe to top’?
Surging waves of burning. They set the firestorm in my head...
For thirty-six hours those demons raged. Left me breathing but mentally wrecked.

Now thirty-six months of chemical intervention.
No medical breakthroughs. Just my self reinventions.
Mental confusion. Emotionally fragile. Sleep; Avoid the pain.
Adapt and manage. Rebuild my life. Learn how to ‘dance in the rain’.
The difficulty of being damaged on the inside? From the outside there’s no sign.
But the anxiety within. Brings panic and failure. Messing-up, time after time.

Question follows question. Tell me again. And again. What’s your problem with mental health?
Well sorry, not sorry, that I can’t explain to You, what I don’t understand myself.
Close friends. Family that matter. My wife (my strength), who still loves me the same.
They don’t push for answers. They’re there to support me. Over and over again...

The demons drew me down. But it was ‘Them’ who near erased me.
But dug too shallow a grave. To lay me out. Cover Their own inefficiency.
Twenty-eight years then. Counting for nothing. I’m a problem. Forget any history.
Legal assistance. My own fading strength. We fought Them all the way. A small yet decisive victory.

Down but not out. To go again. But with much less mental agility
A whole new experience. Out on my own. Looking for help through the instability.
“You’re gone, retired, no contact now”. A freedom in being cut loose.
But the ‘right to review’ is scribed in terms. Seems I still can’t slip the noose.

Twitter. A crutch. Succinct & concise. Has truly unearthed some gems.
Drawbridge up. Safe. In my own little bubble. Content with my ‘virtual friends’.
These props online. Or from the bottom of an ever-emptying glass.
Both support me fine, & help. Yet aren’t prescriptions, written to last.

To fall to This was never an option. Yet still I’m here ‘giving it time...’
Finding a way to cope again. Reconfiguring heart & mind.
So yes, still mentally challenged. Still emotionally fragile. Still sleeping; Avoiding the pain.
Still adapting. Still rebuilding my life. Still learning to ‘dance in the rain’.
But I’m clawing back. To ‘live’ again. Not just exist, seeing out ‘day-to-day’.
My mantra: “To live - and not to breathe - would be to die in tragedy”

Admire not always
Equating desire
I wanted to hear you
Appear to conspire
Against me
Preemptively tempting
Descent
Reinventions
Of tempestuousness
Lament
Unrelentingly
Holding me under,
Asunder,
Inside
In your presence
As placid as thunder
No wonder I stumbled
In humbling hubris
You needed no man,
Little boy,
And you knew this
Exuded it
True to your word
From the horse’s mouth
Thinnin’ the ranks
Of the herd
And that one’s for you
Out there
Without me
Succeeding
Exceedingly
Stick to your guns
Without bleeding
And that’s where the peace became
Nothing remains,
I would bathe
In a river of it
To reclaim
Your attentive
Retention
Of my complete
Sentience
And still even now
Can’t complete a whole sentence