The Checkout Line

I wish to speak with you
ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

The words and meanings you carry in your pants, the pick-pocket steals your hopes from time.
and the visions of empty trash receptacles
with their late evening drunken lovers' bouts, at restless end tables. And the bums with their ******* attitudes **** covered clothes, and soiled minds

the clarity of the curbside drunk, picking up shades of filtered cigarettes of twilight scandalous
pickup lovers in their evening best.

And to talk with you ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

They're Green Beret head ornaments
detailing the porcelain platforms of Delft
Lining up for one last line to carry them into another faded sunrise at dawn's forgotten memory of yester night
and they walk their gallows holding pride fully their flags of exalted countrymen.

The republic of teacups of literary proficiency.
Wearing the necklaces of paid tolls to an afterlife they find in the miniscule car crashes of engagement with a grinless driving mate in a neighboring car in its pass into the forethought of turned corners.
Where they befell the great disappointment of failure in the frosted eyes of their fathers' expectations.

Who carried the shame of their mother's incessant discontent through short skirts, and high heels.

Who disapproved of the **** whom wore the sneak-out-of-the-house-wear clothing line, and traveled by night over turbulent asphalt by way of sidecar through turn and turnabout hand-over-hand contracts of lover's affection, and slept in tall grasses of wet nightfall with views of San Francisco, and were trapped in the inescapable Alcatraz and Statesville of unconsenting parents and their curfews,

through trials and trails of Skittles leading to after school Doctor visits in the basement of a doting mother, whilst she sits quietly in her exclusive quilting parties with noble equities of partners in knowledge, listening to Edith Piaf and the like,

All the while condemned to time, trapped in the second hand, hand me downs of the 21st century, decades of decadent introverts with their table top unread notebooks, and old forgotten score cards, and the numbers of scholars of years past,

and to talk with you ten years from now will be my greatest pleasure, for you will be....ten year's behind.


They push the sterile elevator buttons, and descend upon the floor of scents flourishing from their crowded family rooms, only aware of distinctive flavors, in their middle eastern shades of desert gumbo,

Who speak ribbit and alfalfa until midnight of the afternoon, sharing fables of slaughtered giraffes and camels that walked from Kiev to Baghdad in a fortnight,

Who are aware the power is out, but continue to scour for candles in a dark room where candles once burned, where candle wax seals the drawers of where candles can be found. Where once sat gluttonous kings and queens in Sunday attire waiting for words of freedom from the North.

of Florence, Sochi,Shanghai
of Dempster, Foster, Lincoln
of Dodge, Ford, Shelby

Of concrete fortune tellers in 2nd story tenement blocks with hairy legs, and head lice, wearing beautiful sachets of India speaking ribbit and alfalfa.

On their unbirthdays they walk the fish tanks wearing their birthday suits to remind them who serves the food on the floors of the family room fish mongers tactics.

The old men wear gargoyles on their shoulders.

Lo! Fear has crept the glass marbles of their wisdom and fortune, blearing rocket ships and kazoos on the sidewalks of their Portuguese forefathers.

Where ancestry burns cigarette holes in the short-haired blue carpet, where Hoover breaks flood waters of insignificance across hard headed Evangelical trinities.

Who share construction techniques one early morning at four, where questions of Hammer and **** build intelligence in secondary faces of nameless twilight lovers, who possess bear blankets, and upheavals, finely wired bushes of ***** maturity. Eating *** and check, tongue and pen.

Where police caress emergency flame retardants over the fire between their legs, wielding the chauvinistic blade of comfort in the backseat of a Yellow faced driving patron.

With their innocent daughters with their nubile thighs, and malleable personalities, which require elite words and jewelry. Wearing wheat buns, Longfellow, and squire.

Holding postmarked cellular structure within their mobile anguish.

Who go curling in their showers, pushing afternoon naps and pretentious frou-frou hats over tainted friendships with their girlfriend's brothers with minimum paychecks'.

Through their narcissus and narcosis, their mirrored perceptions of medicinal scripture of Methamphetamine and elegant five-star meat.

Who amend their words with constitutional forgiveness, in their fascist cloth rampages through groves of learning strategies. And the closets, cupboards, and coins
with rubber hearts, steel *****, and gold *****,

Tall-tales of sock puppet hands with friendly sharing ******* techniques, dry with envy, colorful scabs, and coagulation of eccentric ****** endeavors, With their social lubricants and their tile feet wardrobes with B-quality Adidas and Reeboks gods of the souls of us. Who possess piceous syndromes of Ouiji boards in their parent’s basements.

When will fire burn another Bush? Spread the fire walls of Chicago, and part grocery store fields of food. Wrapping towels under the doors of smoke filled lungs, on the fingernails of a sleepover between business executives with the neoprene finish of their sons and daughters who attend finishing school, with resumes of oak furnishings,

And I long to talk with you ten years from now,
For you'll be talking ten years behind.

Who profligate their padded inventories breaking Mohammed and Hearst,
laying the pillows of cirrus minor
waiting for the rain to paint the eyes of the scriptures which waft through concrete corridors,
and scent the air with their exalted personas,

With the different channels of confusions, watching dimple past freckle, eating the palms of our tropical mental vocations to achieve purity from the indignation of those whom are contemptuous for lack of innocence in America,
this America, of lack of peace,
of America hold me,
Let me be.

Whom read the letters off music, blearing Sinatra and Krall, Manson where is your contempt?

Manson where is your manipulation of place settings?, you deserve fork and knife, the wounded commandments that regretfully fall like timber in an abandoned sanctuary of Yellowstone,
Manson, with your claws of the heart.
Manson, with your sheik vulgarity of **** cloaks exposing your ladies undercarriage,

Those who take their pets to walk the aisles of famished eyes,
allowing the dorsals of their backsides to wonder aimlessly through Vietnam and Chinaman,
holding peace of mind aware of their chemical leashes and fifteen calorie mental meals, holding hands, unaware of repercussion,

With their vivid recollections of sprinkler and slide, through dew and beyond,
Holding citrus drinks to themselves, apart from pleasure, trapped with excite from sunsets, and in-between.

Withholding reservation of tongue to lung.
Flowing ribbit and alfalfa, in the corridors of expected fragrance.

and to speak with you of ten years from now, will be a pleasure all my own, for you will be talking ten years behind.

They walked outside climbing over mountains of shrapnel, popped collars
and endless buffets of emotion,
driving Claremont all the way to art gallery premiers
and forever waited for plane crash landings
and the phone calls that never came

Glowing black and white cameras
giving modelesque perceptions to all-you-can-eat eyes
giving cigarettes endless chasms of light

Colored pavement trenches and divots
cliff note alibis
and surgery that lasted until the seamstress had gone into an
endless rest
and
empty cupboards

Classic stools painted with sleepless white smoke and bleached canvas rolling tobacco with the stained yellow window panes of feral tapestry and overindulgent vernacular

Like a satiated cheeseburger weeping smile simple emotion
on November the 18th celebrations
and Wisconsin out of business sales

Too much comfort, stealing switchboards from the the elderly, constantly putting gibberish into
effortless conversation.

Dormant doormats, with the greetings that never
reached as far as coffee table favelas,
arriving to homes of famished
furniture, awaiting temperate lifestyles and the window sill arguments from pedantic literacy

Silver shillings and corporate discovery clogged the persuasive
push and shove
to and from

Killing enterprise
loquacious attempt at too soon
much too soon
too soon for forever

Wall to wall post-card collages
happy reminders of the places never visited by drinks in the hands of
those received

Registered to the clouded skies of clip board artists
this arthritis of envy
of bathtub old age
wrinkled matted faces
logged with quick-fixes, anemia, and heart-break

disposed of off the streets
of youth, wheeling and wailing
rolling down striped stairs
of shock and arraignment
holding the hand rails of a wheelchair
suitcase
packed away in a life

Down I-37
into the ochre autumn fallen down leaves
and left memories behind
their green Syphilis eyeglasses

weeping tumuli
recalcitrant
mulish, furrow of beast and beyond

yelling, screaming, howling
at the prurient puerile tilling
of sheets

****** the voices of words
and vomiting the mind into the pockets of the turbulent perambulations
expelled from meat-packing
whispering condescension
and coercing adolescent obsessions
with fame, glamour, and *****

Creeping out into the naked
light of the Darger scale janitorial
closets, carrying the notorious gowns
of red wine spells, backpacks, and pins

henchmen, plaintiff, and youth

All the while
ripping at the incantations of the soul
whispering ribbit and alfalfa
in the guard-rail scars
of the dawns decadent forgotten

I am a woman , I should be timid - They say
I am a human , I know no limit  - I say,

My existence is not meant for your judgment
Crushing me is not a sign of your triumphant,

My love for you has always been abundant
Why am I the one to make all the adjustments,

Look into my eyes , you'll see a twinkle
Savaging it , is so sinful,

My demand for freedom makes you reluctant
Clothed in societal norms , I have to bear its repercussion,

How are the governing laws so different for Both
What makes you so nervous of my growth,

Why do I have to fight for what is my right
Why do you enjoy my plight,


Being submissive is declared my attire
No one hears what my heart desires,

I am not the one to dance on your note
I am a volcano that erupts on my own,

I don't demand anything extraordinary
All I seek is equality,

Equality to Breathe without fear
Equality to be safe my dear!!!!!

Staggering with each step.
Unsure,
Unreliable.
A state I have never felt.
Uncharted,
Unimaginable.
As if I am treading without sight,
As if I am wandering without hearing.
I have to depend on my instincts,
In a world of disgruntled confidence.
I grab for anything,
Yearning to latch on to something solid,
Something paramount,
Something substantial.
I yearn for connection.
I ache for love in a way I've never felt before.
I want to take your hand and never let go.
I want to take you into my arms and be enveloped in happiness.
Impossible, for I am not capable,
Perpetually alone.
A nomad in my own brain.
A sole vagrant left to travel for infinity.
I can try to be optimistic,
But my past only shows one path,
One I have sowed myself,
I must take the consequences.

it happened again
another life taken
****
i
am
so
tired
of
this

i thought
this is
the reality of being black
the least i could do
was bear witness to
that fateful moment
when two men thought
they had the right
to play God

to knock you over
and look down on you
as they pulled the trigger

the racism in their bullets
make wounds that
never heal
in hearts that are
still beating
and i'm so sorry that
the last thing you saw
were hateful eyes

i'm sitting here and
pleading insanity
on behalf of humanity

bullets in black bodies
from the hands of
ignorant and aggressive
white men
who ****** without
repercussion or remorse

the cycle repeats
as the definition states

bullets in black bodies
from the hands of
ignorant and aggressive
white men
who ****** without
repercussion or remorse

what is it going to take
to remedy this pain
please someone assure us
that this time
his life will
not be in vain

we have to change
and stop living in
America: the land of
the insane.

Forgive me Father for we were too blind to lead our hearts, misled by our fragile thoughts and irreconcilable differences.
Forgive me Father for the misinterpretation created in in my head by dilemma and submerged in trauma;
I was blind to trust and numb to disregard  our own fresh wounds rubbed in salts in guise of words.
W o r d s
Cuts like a knife, straight to the heart and insidious
Like an uninvited guest, it stays till you're completely exhausted.
Drowned myself in vulnerability to trust the stranger
Unsure of the grave repercussion and danger.
Forgive us Father for losing ourselves in pain and game
For we were too naive to comprehend
Until we embarked on suffering till the end.

Mild day in winter, week before Christmas
Turns out the tree in your front yard has been
A holly tree all along, finally showing true colors
As a taxi driver leaves the driveway and
A neighbor in a red shirt crosses the concrete
Sidewalk. The succulents to my side reach like alien
Synapses, your white car looks at me cross-
eyed, cinnabar brick damp with Peninsula fog.
The morning’s cup of coffee still lingers on my
Tongue, my body aches with last night’s indulgences
And repressions. Warmth is relative, hangovers
Are absolute. A pagan zodiac spins inside a
Haze of long-lost memories, a gauntlet of trees.
A gentler repercussion, a less insightful song,
For I am only human, stains on my sleeve,
Sleeping in when I should be producing anything.
I forget what I am, except a shivering flesh vessel.
I cannot remember what I was supposed
To be.

when you are new, consequences seem minuscule
authority is a foreign concept, maybe too close to home
a repercussion to fear
the day your light enters the world, rules border your actions like the lines on a freeway
who’s to say that rebellion is a bad thing
expression in its greatest form.
acting out to show discontent.
but the underlying causes are beautiful.

with experience, things become so real.
one mistake and you can be sent away for a lifetime.
acting out is no longer to show off
development at different times, yet 18 years to decide
mens rea vs actus reus.
shouldn’t it be the intentions that decide?

authority to shut down rebellion, self expression if you will
own up to the reaction of our action.
its a bit distorted.
in other words over the top
how many rules there are.
but whats the point in breaking the rules if there were no rules to be broken.
we find ourselves in this given situation.
the animosity for authority; yet the lust towards rebellion.
if there was no authority to implement the proper etiquette to fit the social norm, would there even be a point to committing heinous acts that are considered “illegal”.

living to find a meaning to match with the experiences.

Its a beautiful stain
Recycled and analyzed
Absorbing an array of elements
In the back of my brain
A blotch generated from something catastrophe

Rapid Eye Movements
cruise down the Autobahn,
driving dreams of soldiers
slaying the Beast in the East:
seeds hidden in the cuff links
that return home for the victory parade.

The victory parade of the new millennium
is a mirage: desert sand creeps
through the streets of Basra;
spray painted slogans of “Aryan Nation”
are left behind on pock-marked walls.

High level terror alerts
scroll across the Fear o' Dome,
breeding paranoid glances
from commercial-class passengers
while they fly above fenced camps
where centralized secret service agents
watch the unloading of another train.

"Son, do you forget the sacrifices?
Have you lost all your respect?
Okay, it’s possible that the Feds
were influenced by the Purebreds—
a minor repercussion
of maintaining our national security.

It isn’t even about racial purity—
you are all mixed now, anyway.
Whether female, black, jew, or gay,
we must unite together as a nation;
raise its flag with pride,
and fight against a common enemy!
This enemy is trying to disintegrate
the cornerstone of our free society!

Son, can you not see! Not see-notsee-notsea-notsi-notzi-natzi-****-natzi-notzi-notsi-notsea­-notsee-not see!"
_


—cold sweat.

I awaken to remnants of nightmarish images
sifting through my mind:
flocks of carnivorous sheep
with invisible shepherds.

The dream had felt real—
solid, like flesh-out reality.

I rush out of bed,
just to make sure.
From my bedroom window,
I see the neighbour’s Iron Eagle weathervane
goose-stepping towards the west.
A lawnmower growls in the background.

Everything appears normal here
on the corner of 4th Reichstag Blvd.



2016 Neu Berlin Remix, July 13th, 2016
(original version was written on March 29th, 2010)

Explosive
Recently on a trip not to the holy land but to sacred lands of the Navajo just wanted to visit and talk to
The heroic wind talkers following still in the footsteps of my grandmother who was a code breaker in the
Sense a woman in the depression taking off in a Walton’s truck with nine children to go visit her people
In the Indian nation in Oklahoma more than five hundred miles away that wasn’t the usual code
Followed by women of that day little did I know I to would be meeting a woman later or at least hear
Her I got off the beaten path stopped in a small store I planned on paying respect to the great western
Writer Louis L’Amour he had on occasion set among the fields in California and cut open a can of peaches
Enjoyed his tramping with some fruit but as I walked up to the door a bill on the window gave this invite
Come to half moon ranch it gave the days date and direction hear the astounding violin of teal waters
She is noted for bringing tears to those who hear her haunting renditions some are other worldly I was sold
So I did a long lunch up on a bluff above the ranch I could see the draw or small canyon that would serve
As a performance arena not all that impressive somewhere along the line my eyes lost their fight to stay
Awake the sound of cars passing in numbers brought me out of my slumber the crowd was a little
Surprising out in the middle of nowhere this is a land where magic is believed and taught like in no other
Place the only place more famous would be Sedona Arizona well we all had taken our seats darkness was
Gathering faster because of the canyon walls with just a small introduction she started by saying she
Was going to honor her father and the other wind talkers wow was I lucky they came to me I didn’t even
Have to look them up well she set the tone that instrument with the thinnest whistle sounded just like
When I set out on the hillside all night in the fire truck waiting for the howitzer shells to explode down
Range then I was honoring dough boys from all past times in far more extreme circumstances but the C
Rations were the same and when I stood down on the flat valley those rounds sailing over then
Exploding a half a mile or more down range and the waves of the repercussion shook your pant leg
As if an angry dog had a hold of it she even imitated explosive blast on the heavy strings then the
Eerie was brought in while you set and peer into the darkness hoping against all odds you didn’t see an
Advancing horde when they continued on only your dead staring eyes would remain on the battle field
Did she switch to my country tis of thee I only know our hearts swelled I thought the red white and blue
Radiated somewhere and surrounded her she touched on the star spangled banner blazing lights truly
Rose from the stage that bow either caught the silver moon or it lit up and glowed white hot why not it
Was telling America’s story and the stories of her heroes who left arms and legs and lives scattered
Around the globe with that sacrifice our children are left to grow free and strong making the world
A safe place for all who love freedom and then the quiet strain carried the widows sigh and the
Children’s cry a daddy and mommy would only walk in the wonder of memories and in the loveliness of
The spirit that is forever close she did more numbers that ran the gambit of emotions and tears and joy
Gave us a rollercoaster ride to remember and I bought a CD TO relive a night to remember when the
southwest burned with patriotic flames flying in all direction from a truly inspired violin

we all remember
where we were
watching the towers
burn and fall
knowing that things would
never be the same at all
disbelief at first, or
had an action movie
slipped into the news

no, it was real
and then twenty years
of vengeful repercussion
of military posturing
of suffering for many
we watched
the baddies being painted
good and evil
being redefined
virtue confused
impotence and power
conflated
lies and spin
consecrated
truth
alternated
idiot rich guys
promoted
tax for the poor
promulgated
democracy
desecrated
climate destruction
accelerated
by denialist
complacency
inequality
more concentrated
goodness and morality
infiltrated

by posturing political
pus weasels
venal vultures
of self interest
grasping for
short term dominance

and then ..
complacency pervaded
as absurdity
was accepted
as our new state of normal
and the height
of compassion
was owning a dog
and tut tutting
as refugees marched
across our news screens

and now we
bemoan being isolated
from being contaminated
we are mostly relegated
to stay in our mansions
while dinner is contemplated
have you been vaccinated?

It has never been my intension
nor was it ever a bone of contention
to alter or disrupt the social convention
but now is the time to pay close attention
to the decline of the human condition

Responsibility rescinded creating moral decomposition
accountability abandoned causing legal repercussion
right and wrong are muddled in a malicious juxtaposition
public opposition has festered into social imperfection
the omission of tradition by politician’s redefinition


HEED THIS ADMONITION OR ARDENT APPREHENSION
SAGACIOUS SUSPICION AND PERSISTANT PREVENTION


Of the decommission of the Physician, Pediatrician
the Technician, and the Mathematician
and give this acquisition to those with no ambition
even those under suspicion of sedition
or held in detention without fear of restitution

This is the deception of the devolution
of the middle classification
and the total destruction
of American personification
praise the Lord and pass the ammunition

words can poison.
when young we read fairy tales and fantasies,
fans of fictitious fables.
when "taught" religion we are immediately placed into a mind-trap,
with heavenly reward
and hellish repercussion.
allow independence
abolish imprisonment
words can cure.

Never decide all of a sudden
Take time and act shrewdly
In case you take a rash step
The repercussion will be bad

Consult many in the trade
Talk to those whom you trust
Very carefully analyze points
Finally a solution will emerge

Acting based on just instinct
Will take in the wrong direction
It may spoil all your initiative
Animals are only **** rash

Crude decisions end shabbily
Producing lots of confusions
The position may turn terrible
As a result of blind approach

Use brain and also your heart
Here only shrewdness mingles
With your heart's natural mercy
Use this combination to achieve.

mvvenkataraman

minds and mentalities
corrupted and broken
from the noxious words
and infectious actions

by the repercussion and influence
of the people we once knew

who's hardened brains perished
and withered away

who's guarded hearts mutilated
and commutated

who's perspective reciprocated
and influenced predominantly
by fallacious things

how will we,
when will we
restore our youth?

m.p.

In Sicily Aeschylus agonized on the island of Gela, like an isthmus between two seas that led him to the God Dyonisius through the Hadic Speleothemes, here this god entered the skené of Euripides and Sophocles, under the support of Dyonisius and the father of Aeschylus; Euphorion of Eleusis. He was on his way to Gela when he was rammed and crossed after the temporary repercussion of Offensive on Salamis, meeting Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi as they prepared to head to the Cavern of Dionysius. The most unlikely of this parallel sequence stems from Dyonisius's spell of necromancy as he summons alongside them to lead them into the cavern. The scene or triple skené became feasible when Vernarth bilocated three times next to them scalding the campfire from the edges of the Profitis as if it were a lantern that flashed micro lightning, to reconvert the bilocated lights of Syracuse with those of Patmos simultaneously. Vernarth rises from the northeast edge of the Koilon of his theater and leads them with his incantation:

First Scene Dyonisius: “he was coming with his car of Thespis, with sparks from Catania, where he noticed that ***** of lightning appeared flying from the ether, and above them a triple frequency that acclaimed joining Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi. In concomitance, he rushes to Syracuse traveling at high speed, rising to the third light of the Menorah from left to right, in such a way that his horses squandered the fire on the golden grass.

Second scene Aeschylus: “he was going to Gela, brooding along the way with his reckless time, freezing the will that called him at that moment, and that yelled at him like Anthropokairós, deriving from his remaining spiritual memory, which warned him to do what made in a dreadful deleterious past. Avoiding him with their stiff arms when the ***** of lightning, they fidgeted to enter the scene of Salamis where he dealt with the Achaemenides.

Third Scene Wonthelimar: “he was with Vlad Strigoi, and this one next to him smelled of sulfur that he experienced with the closeness of some of them, who had already had a deal of caste and exultant existential drama. They were swiftly crewing with their transient elytra when they received the ***** of lightning, which were energetically prodding them"

Aeschylus was going to agonize Gela, after not doing it in Salamis, with some disappointment and supposedly having revealed the Mysteries of Eleusis, but he was not! Eagerly spurred on suddenly shook him when Vernarth bilocated appeared before him, broadcasting episodes of the sixteenth century, concisely from Fray Luis de León, regarding the Song of Songs who appeared from the ether passing through the triumvirate of lightning bolts that had him blown Vernarth, to show him his epitome of quantum parapsychology. When both were subjected, Aeschylus briefly understood that he perceived the judgment of Fray Luis de León by the Inquisition, for his ****** and philosophical expressions of character with his elevated prose. The dramatic anthology of Aeschylus, directed him to his Necropolis of Pachyderm in Gela, by abandoning the pairs of legs and arms of him. In the meantime from the agon or contest, Dyonisius snatched his Kairos as a singular man, and commanded the Hadic Speleothemes from where Wonthelimar came, to refer to him, just as he did with Euripides and Sophocles with the everlasting Frogs of Aristophanes. The parallel sequence of the trilogy characterized in Aeschylus continues, to end in the skené or culminating period, to receive on his head the inspiration of Vernarth's ball of lightning, already united with the three parts of him! The three scenes are combined with the interference and parallelism of Dyonisius, who exhorts them to go with them through the Speleothemes, thus making sure to save their celebrant souls and their anti-myths, who would unravel with this satirical drama with the batrachians, as a Vernarth's invitation to shake the destiny of each one of them towards a caustic reality, which breaks the man close to his agony, and in his proportionate death revealed as an existential tragedy close to the Anthropokairós omega. Therefore the destinies were stressed in three scenes that would be coupled with that of the axis of support of a death not specified by several that would continue with the same perenniality, in the company of Euripides and Sophocles, with the ballads of the batrachians of Dyonisius to enchant them as subterfuge and didactics, so that once they are captured in the gallery of the cave, and that they would be convinced with greater persuasion. The three scenes were made as one under the precept of Dyonisius, to adhere to them in the next before the Spinalonga parapsychology room, where three scenes would make tragedies and fables, which would follow from the throne of the stands with thousands of deceased who wanted to hear and re-listen from the underworld of the Speleothemes, going towards the Viaduct of Patmos.

Constance; it proved delayed again, true. The battle scars of all you are remain echoed in the hue; the blues, the reds, ricocheted off your head as energy goes missing and Diaspora winds up dead.  I saw your silhouette on wanted poster, defaced with time and vandalized past words you could even recognize; your fugitive legend lives on just like a Johnny Cash song.  

I remember the dual in town square, the fight between memory and the noose left on a chair.  The regrets defect to recollect – a photograph I hold, the flash, still bold, doesn’t mind what it is told as the radiance completes and pleasantries are sold.  The countdown between the gun and the ground reverberates off windows and feels more than it sounds - I remember silly things like the way skies alive with blue are the surest bet to the memory of you.

The dance we sing relates everything; the time, the place, the soft lines of her face – the lust and love as shadows drop above.

I’ve never loved anyone in the way I love everyone.  I feel the warmth within my empty pocket, a pocket that weaves tales as eyes set sail.  A piece of dust rising from the ash as memories defy impact; alone again or, since no one can tell me, I reinvent myself so I can say that it is what I’m told.  I am the flashing of an instance that re-presents the equation; in symmetry, in manner, in form.  

Lies alive become a vague, anarchic form of truth.  This is the truth I live; a broadened form of self destruction, a manic repercussion from an emotions own eruption.  It’s hardly worth discussion, but memory has suffered a concussion and the only words worth trusting aren’t true.  It’s me and you.  You and me, or so I see as you see it doesn’t depend on symmetry.  If only I could vocalize calligraphy, or politely excuse my entropy but the main part that’s bugging me is the only air I can not breathe.

So now I live a vacated tomorrow; an equal sign divided and subtracted to its sorrow.  A life of lies, a life alive - I refuse to accept truth and instead wind up living when I should be dead.  I go missing with a beacon on my head.  

It’s in the shadow of truth that my mind feels abused; I know the words but have forgotten their use.  It’s the fear of reality that lies are the truth and all the echoing sounds that remind me of you. As though I’d actually gotten away, my fists raised high in victory, a chorus of rain began to follow me.  Thunder lauded the sky as though begging an encore and the hair on my neck began to dance – a thought I believed that could not be left to chance.  The electric disruption, a faint form of percussion, clapped louder than the bolts as all of the volts caressed the dreams of circuitry and the form faded from memory.

This is how I learned to breathe – or learned to fly or learned to jump through a needle’s eye.

……………………………………………………………………………………
           The figures stood still, a blank expression to fill. Their waxed complexion holding dust, soulless cages immune to rust. Light bulbs flash in rhythmic delirium, contrived joy running at a premium.
           Flocks of herds came to take notice of this brand new attraction, one designated worthy by an overriding faction. Social conscience had said its peace, and passed on its opinions in a shifty lease. Word had spread as fast as it could, regardless of whether it necessarily should.
           “T. Elsey Wax Museum” was the hottest ticket in the city. Vouched for by an annual subcommittee, composed of men of no esteem, and opposed to views deemed too extreme. Every vacant mind had jumped on board, its entrance fee was small enough to afford.
……………………………………………………………………………………
Prosperity renewed, discord unglued. The walls of Briar Field, seem to leave much concealed. It’s owner, a Mr. Holden Reeve, is a vain little creature beyond reprieve. He sees no value in an altruistic life, and seems to anguish in his everyday strife.
His facility has been thrashed in print, and regarded as no more than a publicity stint. Still, if true, his machine would be a marvel, something verging on plausibly being artful. Its said Mr. Reeve has tapped into the human soul, and made monetary gain his lonesome goal.
The patents of Mr. Reeve lay out the plan for an odd looking device, but it’s purpose isn’t made overly concise. According to speculation, the machine can resurrect an individual’s ideals, but I can’t tell you how worrisome that makes this reporter feel. Mr. Reeve is toying with the work of God, something he should know to be intrinsically unflawed.
……………………………………………………………………………………
Eliot Tern was standing in a ridiculously long line, it ran four blocks down to a street named Woodbine. Elliot had been there since midday, though he had begun contemplating whether or not he should stay. Looking back there was a hectic crowd, pushing and shoving in a manor quite loud.
Eliot had dragged his friend Henry along with him, though that boy thought their odds of getting in were pretty grim. Henry stood casually, kicking stones, outside the front of BMC Savings and Loans. A woman in front told him to knock it off, Henry called her a ****, but masked it with a cough.
It was two in the afternoon by the time the two boys were about halfway, a nearby baby cried as it spat up apple puree. Some of the sauce found its way onto a man’s face, he told the mother that her parenting skills were a complete disgrace. The woman slapped the man in vicious spite, though to speak truthfully she had every right.
The man screamed and pouted for a minute or two, then he calmed down, and began to clean up the child’s spew. He glanced around to see if anyone was glaring, and poor Henry was noticed hesitantly staring. The man pointed to Henry and began to call him a coward; he spoke with the type of veracity that made it quite apparent that he felt empowered.
Henry stood calm for only a moment, and then began to stare at the man like he was no more than an opponent. The boy picked up a large rock from a graveled path, and hurled it at the man with the feeling of contempt and wrath. The stone struck the man just bellow the eye, and for a moment it looked as though he would cry.
Then the man screamed with a furious hate, it became quite clear that he was now irate. Henry took off; leaving Eliot on his own, it wasn’t exactly a measure the boy could postpone. The man had begun pushing through the crowd trying to get to the boy; his face reflected no hint of joy.
Henry ran for about 10 minutes, he had pushed himself to no new limits. The man had given up the chase after leaving the line; he tried to reclaim his spot shouting, “*******! It’s mine!” The crowd booed the man as angry mobs do, and he had to walk his way to the back to calmly stew.
……………………………………………………………………………………
               Henry was only 12 when he walked in through the rusted doors of Briar Field, it’s hinges shrieked as though inadvertently sealed. A reception desk stood before a large, arched entrance, and there sat the owner’s, under-skilled, apprentice. The man spoke in a seemingly mocking tone, as though Henry was standing in a restricted zone.
         The boy, feeling mocked, turned towards the exit, the man ran up, in a manor quite hectic. He told Henry that he was only joking, just doing a bit of nonsensical provoking. He said to Henry that his name was Fredrick Barnes, grew up, quite happily, on several local farms.
           Fredrick, or Fred as he liked to be called, began explaining the nature of how he went bald. He told Henry that he had developed an addiction to charity, making his true nature no more than a parody. Lived for years with his ego at bay, and gave every dollar he earned away.
            It took its toll in rather short time; though to live vicariously makes it all seem fine. Fred ignored his dreams for far too long, believing God to be king making him just a pawn. Then one day, he told Henry, “I was caught in a storm”, he said, “The falling rain against the wind seemed so pleasantly warm.”
             Then a man came by, begging for some change. Fred had no issue giving up his entire measly, well-earned wage. His Christian nature told him he was no better, then this hungry man in a beat up old sweater.
            Fred handed over 1,200 dollars, a mere hours work for some uneducated scholars. The beggar began to smile, showing all of his teeth, there was a yellow glow from a plaque-ridden sheath. He then turned to Fred, with a more sinister grin, and Fred noticed then, that the man stunk of gin.
             He asked Fred if he had any money, timid, Fred responded, “This really isn’t funny.” The beggar pulled out a small caliber pistol, and said that, “one has a responsibility to be fiscal.” Skin peeled off of Fred’s wrist, as the beggar pulled at a watch through clenched fist.
              In the end, the beggar took all but Fred’s clothing, and left with a bang, as to not to seem imposing. He had only shot the man just bellow the knee, but blood loss had made it hard for Fred to see. He crawled and clawed his way towards a distant street lamp, but movements were elongated by the weight of his clothes, which, obviously, were quite damp.
              Fred laid hopelessly on the cold, wet cement, with the rain mocking him in its relentless dissent. The beacon he had crawled towards turned out to be a dead-end, the severity for which was hard for the man to comprehend. There in the stillness of the night, Fredrick Barnes became aware of the true nature of his plight.
              Holden Reeve had found Fred while the man was riddled with a complex terror, spouting off nonsense about living his life in error. Holden took the young man in through the doors of Briar Field, a museum, which, to the public, had yet to be revealed. It didn’t take long for Fred to fully recover; eventually he began to look at Holden as a brother.
             Fred turned to Henry and told the boy that was the end of his story, and now, it was time for the moment of glory. He opened the two doors hidden under the arched entrance, and Henry walked into the room, followed by Holden’s apprentice.
             When they entered the room Henry immediately asked, “Where’s Mr. Reeve? ...I’m sorry if he’s passed.” Fred laughed and told the boy Holden was most certainly not dead; in fact, the two of them were standing in the middle of his homestead. Then the boy noticed the nature of the room, and how cobwebs gave it the foreboding feeling of doom.
             There was another set of doors at the end of the room, but Fred turned and knocked on a bare wall with the backside of a broom. A panel slipped open and retracted into the wall, and out stepped a noble looking man, though, truthfully, quite small. There were no visible features on the man at first, so initially Henry was expecting the worst.
              Fred acknowledged him as Mr. Reeve, so Henry stood tall, and tried to make his back as flat as the wall. It wasn’t so much that the boy was often courteous, in fact, with regards to that sentiment, the boy was usually impervious. He just felt that in this particular situation, there was going to be no recapitulation.
              This was clearly a man who only spoke with the most precise of words, those capable of collecting and massacring mass herds. Though Holden Barnes would never speak to such a crowd, his absentmindedness for them would be hard to shroud. The man was indifferent to any collective thought, and his principles were to firm to ever be bought.
              Holden spoke to Fred in brief manor, those unheard of in the print of “The Banner”. He asked if Henry seemed like a reasonable boy, or if he was merely some shady companies plotted decoy. Fred vouched for Henry, who he didn’t know; playing a bluff, and hoping it wouldn’t show.
               Holden nodded and shook his friends hand, and spun to the boy, as though his motion had been a cautious ploy. “Who are you?”, and “Why should I care?”, Mr. Reeve asked Henry, the response for which seemed to be lost in the boys memory.

“If you can’t speak to me I don’t know if you should be here, I’m not the one in the room who you should naively fear. My greatest achievement lies just behind those doors over there, but if your this timid, you could get quite the scare. I’ve constructed a testament to the human soul, and it’s designed for any man to control.”

“Though to put it in such terms is hardly fair, it’s just not something that easy to compare. I’ve gotten to where I am, if you’ll dare me to say, through myself and am not one to decline the pay.  My invention just doesn’t seem to arouse much attention, in the press Fred says I haven’t even stirred up a mention.”

“I tell you this though, it’s been their mistake, for what I’ve created here is no preposterous fake. I’ve created a method of speaking with many various forms of reason, though to them it’s some form of religious treason. They seem to think I have resurrected the soul, ghostly figures ripped out of a black hole.”

“But that simply isn’t true, as you’ll come to see, now Fred tells me your name is Henry. You have to choose now before your walk through those doors, if your ready to dance on such hallowed floors. The mystery my seem quite vague to you, but understand this offer has been made to but a few.”

“I don’t understand, what should I say?”

“To ask such a question, here I thought you were a stray? An opinion, like ego is something to treasure, not cast off at someone else’s pleasure. This decision is yours and yours alone, you can use no alchemy from the philosopher’s stone.”

Henry was caught up in an odd predicament, one with no true equivalent. He had no real idea what he was choosing between, but he knew that he couldn’t let that fear be seen. So Henry said yes, without further discussion, and hoped along the way there would be no major repercussion.
At the end of the hall there stood an entrance, Fred stood by acting as apprentice. He told Henry to try and open the door, as Henry pushed his feet slid across the floor. Fred laughed and said that it was locked, and could only be opened one way, Holden kicked a loose rock imbedded in the wall, and soon, the door moved, quick to obey.
The room was not nearly as large as Henry had pictured, and distant light bulbs scornfully flickered. There was only one object in the center of the space, here Henry began walking with a quickened pace. It looked as though it was just a large computer monitor, but its framework seemed composed by an ancient astrologer.
Objects spun about with contact precision, and small fractures of light seemed to meet through collision. The spectacle was truly something to behold, though Henry still had no idea what was about to unfold. Mr. Reeve walked up to the machine and began to touch its screen, and all the lights stopped, and then seemed to reconvene.

“Alright Henry, I suppose it’s time I explained the true nature of this device, but somehow I only now realize you got in here free of price. No matter, it’s been a while since it’s seen someone new, I’m curious what some of these people are going to say to you.”

“What you are looking at now is a labor of scientific process, but believe me when I say there is no need to be cautious. There is no black magic at work here, though many have said so without coming near. This machine I’ve created does what some say to be impossible, like Nemo’s creation, just far less nautical.”

“This machine collects and records all forms of the written word, sweeps them in like collecting some massive herd. It organizes and sorts data of all different norms, and emits it in a conversational form.”

“You see this creation has given man a chance to talk to those of the past, allowing for a legacy only time can outlast.”

Henry stopped and stared at the man for quite a long period of time, and tried to figure out why Mr. Reeve looked so perfectly sublime. Henry now thought he understood the nature of the device, in fact Holden had made it all seem so concise. The machine would allow Henry to talk to anyone from the past, as long as there had been enough information amassed.

“Who do you want to talk to first? I’d suggest Ayn Rand, if you’re okay with being coerced.”

Henry had no idea concept of Mrs. Rand, so the concept to him didn’t seem overly grand. He lingered on the thought for a second or two, not wanting to pick an individual who could be considered taboo. Then, it came to Henry like a sudden case of dysentery, he saw this man as more than a visionary.

“Is it possible for me to speak to someone who didn’t actually exist?”

“I can see what I can do if that’s what you insist?”
……………………………………………………………………………………
Eliot was furious as he saw Henry; the boy had been gone so long it had slipped from his memory. He stood and waited for Henry to ask to step back into line, and then he would make it clear that everything was not fine. Eliot was now standing at the front, to just let Henry in would be a great affront.

“I’m going home.” Henry said as he let his eyes roam.

Eliot felt sick as Henry walked away, then he became curious how he had spent the last three hours of the day. “No matter” thought Eliot as he waited patiently, he’d have his victory soon enough, and he would take it graciously. Very suddenly a woman opened up the front doors of the institution, and thanked everybody for their “contribution”.

“It’s time to say goodnight. The museum will be open at 9 o’clock tomorrow, during daylight.”

The woman very casually walked away, as Eliot was in complete dismay. Then he had a calming thought, none of the creations were going to rot. All he would have to do is come back the next day, everything, he thought, will be okay.
……………………………………………………………………………………

You questioned my virtue
After witnessing all the things that I’ve been through
From the time I kept my heavily gates locked and suffered the repercussion
A swollen face and minor concussion
To the time I had a miscarriage scared and alone
We still loved each other but first I needed the father of my child to atone..
I always thought my honesty was something you adored
Never thought the day would come where you would be the one calling me a *****
I could never be this open with anybody other than you.
I thought you were my best friend but now that couldn’t be any less true.
You used to tell me everything
From the highlight of your nights to the grimiest of schemes
Something along the way was lost
I sit and wonder what it could be
Now I cry cause I can’t remember the last time
you kissed my forehead ever so gently
Your kisses aren’t the same
But whose to blame
I remember the time when I could fall asleep in your arms
I hated how those pictures of me passed out They didn’t do any justice for my girlish charms..
I thought you knew me and my insecurities
I thought I knew you but I look at you now and I don’t know who is standing in front me
I’m sure you feel the same
I don’t know how it got to this to point
and I sure as hell don’t know who to blame..
What if it could be a good thing
Maybe the birth of our son will give us a new song to sing
I still want to be your wife but
I guess I should be grateful that I’ll always be in your life
I always wanted to have your child, I wanted at least four.
I don’t know where you’ll be after you walk out that door..
And I’ve never been so scared
Never thought the day would come where I wouldn’t be spared
Will you ever come back?
You’re harder to reach the further you fade to black..

From the beginning, the lesson has always been the same
to never rest responsibilities on no brow but mine,
and this counts for movement, creation,
production, prosperity,
repercussion,
function, and gumption.

All the times I am attached,
I am blessed and protected and cured,
but by all means,
it's too easy.

After a honeymoon's worth,
like any wild thing
without a real home,
I scratch to go outside.

For one truth being the weight of my footsteps,
and with each placement a wealth of self-reliance,
surely I'm prouder than any motor.

And most of all,
to greet the night as I greet the day,
I accept my stillness,
my unbottled moment,
which dictates I may breathe
the freedom to reap my bounty.

Recognizing my time
Who I am
Is no one waste
Choosing to be
Something that we
Evaluate
What judgement is carried out?
To see another person
Does a piece of paper determine
Who should I be
After years
Controlling my destiny
Which has no end
Accompany in the same place
With tireless beckon and repercussion
Therefore
How can a piece of paper
Show me
A future beyond heaven's gates

power lives in the sticks of the youthful retrogrades
peddling away at toy cars and glass bombs
So much potential weakened by the seduction of mediocrity

called to the middle by pigs in suits of glamor
dancing to hollow songs in a crater of mistaken humanoids
all prying for the final meat Popsicle

and it  belongs to him with all his shady remarks
and sincere disregard for the gravitational potential energy of your existence

He WILL break you
morph your limbs into callous claws to weak to open the locks
which chain you to the village whipping pole

He along with his mutiness will laugh as he warps your brain
into a dough shaped plato carving barely resembling an *****
His thievery is not a simple repercussion of his damaged limping stare

it is clear he does not want to be fixed as suffering is his favorite playmate, he waits in the faces of all those that swing  alone

injecting shots of mind numbing cubicle anti-rage into his neck veins
this is his piece

as you dry heave the blood of your loyalty onto parchment for his inspection you must learn to swim
paddle that canoe out of the iridescent concrete showering of his affection
for this is not your jigsaw

How one must declare his way of thinking,
Without offending another's way of breathing,
How must one walk his own journey,
While plowing through the lilies of the field?

The silent chill of the nights sweet calling,
Will one ignore the way it is drawing-
The coat around the stranger's back,
The wool it clings like soppy wet paper.

The pines reaching into the black silky sky,
Stealing wonder, boasting like the badger -
Make shifting the scene into his own world,
Backbone reaching, strong, furrowed.

A note, a baby's innocent cry, a laugh
Seemingly part of every single night-
One does not live without repercussion,
There is no passive in passion,
everything around is connecting,
This, offended men, is this possible to deny?

I never used to be like this,
Not even 4 months ago,
I never used to wake up feeling sick
to my stomach,
Disgusted with myself, that I'm a
problem that people have to deal with,
Filled with anxiety causing a shaking
in my heart and ribs,
These butterflies are not cute,
They have wings of glass, puncturing
me from the inside out.
They're not because of you, but only
a repercussion of thinking of you,
and him, and her, and them,
and then, and when, and how.
               You'll leave.
               He thought he didn't hurt me.
               She was the only thing I had.
               They showed me I can't be one
               of them.
               Then the butterflies awoke,
               When I couldn't cope,
               How can I trust that you
               won't do the same.

I'm not a person. I'm the problem.

Left without reason,
caught in the breeze
penetrating me;
a season for treason
discussing
the inevitable concussion
of creative repercussion.

Big bad pig man,
same sad **** plan;
it's for the audience
(we like you!)
hence the distorted sense
of a reported defense
impaled and left stale
atop a graying fence.

Trash the artistry,
erase the registry;
no active hard drive necessary.

The creeps are a lie:
it's not fine to color
outside the lines.
Remain sane in that little brain
with that structured page
to sterilize natural rage;

copy and paste with haste
until the end,
because approval of a friend
and the applause
of a predetermined cause
is all that's needed
to feel like we've succeeded.

"Safety in warmth
above the floor indoors,
where outside the cold's too bold."

Forget this united mantra,
shred your clothes and dip your toes,
and join me as a contra.

Because obscure is the cure,
while ease has always been the disease.

i have experienced writer’s block before,
but not like this...
not when i’ve forgotten the meaning of every word that comes to mind,
every word except one: you

you are by far the worst thing that has happened to my poetry
because, before, i could write about my sadness,
about how the world was closing in on me,
but you stood in the way of that
almost as if you were saying 'no, darling, let me show you something new.'
so you showed me the world in a new light,
and suddenly it felt so big i did not know how to deal with it;
could not find the words to describe what i was feeling,
could not find the words.

in the weeks that we have been together,
my sadness became dormant.
sometimes,
sometimes it still erupts out of me;
the hot lava of my tears washing away any hope i had had left.
but even in those moments
you have been there,
there for the repercussion,
for the mending,
there for me.

Now all i can write about is you, you are the only thing that makes sense in my lines,
like, you belong there, you were made to be my inspiration.
around you, my verses and phrases dance, tangle themselves in your eyelashes,
curl themselves around your legs
a beautiful revelation of purpose.
until it doesn’t make sense anymore
and then i am stuck again
stuck in the spaces between the words that adore you so
but to them, i am a prisoner, forbidden from venturing out into the world of rhyme schemes and verses

this is what has been happening to me since you’ve left

and let me tell you,
the day you left i was
preparing myself for a novel
filled with wit and conversation
and joy
but now i can hardly find a single line
that doesn’t call out your name

*how could i ever forget about the way you hurt me
if you are all my writing remembers?

Life as we know it is a chance,
But require made hands to dance,
Then **** on everyone with winning prance.

Reading the moving lips,
Looking for people's reactive bits
And que into people's tips.

It's them ballers,
The high rollers,
With stacks of hundreds of dollars,
The ****** know it all white collars.

With them fancy cars,
Hanging in cliquey bars,
Swinging the club in many pars,
As if some royalty bloodline of a tsar.

But in a game of chance, owning a yacht means nothing without a boat!
All those credit cards mean nothing without the proper cards on the table!

Riches mean nothing in a table, nor nice clothes in a game.
Because even kings and queens could fall flat on their faces with those aces!

So let me tell you little bit about this game,
It's reading people to tame,
Where you grind the game without a shame,
Stepping up to no longer stay the same
It's a game recognize your name to a fame.


Just remember the high cards can get you far,
But get beaten by them deus in a bar,

The pairs are wonderful as it gets higher
jokers bring jokes to her admirer,
While the ladies yell "off with their heads!"

In the royal court Cowboys rule supreme,
But those pair of aces undo royalties like puddle of creme.

Two pairs are better than a pair,
And three of a kinds are better than a two pair,
While the wheel is super fair.

Straight line is common winning line
But Flushes them after a dine

The boat takes them for a cruise,
Quads will get them a bruise,
But the nutz are royal flush of hidden ruse!

It's the mastering of perception,
Made hands with repercussion.

Because life as we know it is a chance,
But requires made hands to dance,
And hold onto your winning chips by ******* on them with your prance.

When you have nothing, there is nothing to lose,
Because Hold'em no limit is the purest form of living a life!




,

It astounds me just how ignorant I can be of the hurt i have caused those i have at whatever time counted myself closest to. I find myself thinking i understand, thinking i did well to minimize the damage, and maintain the truth, but that the truth gets minimized, and the damage gets maintained in its fullest potential. I do not often hurt on purpose. I strive to do the very opposite. I do not want  to be a vindictive man, but a man of forgiveness and mercy. I find that I , in my own strength am capable only of so much mercy and forgiveness giving, that at the ends of my strength, the mercy and forgiveness run dry, while people's need to be forgiven infinitely continues to grow.  I find that in such cases, i am in direct combat with my emotions, and with , simply put, myself. I want to forgive, but i do not want there to be no punishment or repercussion to action. And so, opting for such a thing as is called grace, i pray, and one by one, i put emotions to rest. Insecurities of my own manifest and must be killed. I fight. And i pray.These two things are synonymous. I attempt to make recompense, and where i see my own minimizing of truth, in hindsight, set it to it's full nature, bluntly, and plainly, no matter the pain it brings. I am truly sorry that it brings pain. yours, and any, and many others. I only seek as best i can to right the wrongs i become aware of in myself. And yes, sometimes i am guilty of seeking loopholes, roundabouts, or escapes. I will not shy from this fact. I will, note, however, that i often need be made aware of these. For my constructing them is done with so much cunning, and so much stupidity,as to blind myself in both knowledge and deed to their existence. On occasion i taste an inkling of an excuse, and sometimes i am strong enough in myself to face it. Other times, without being confronted, i run from it. I chalk them up to insecurities or uncertainties, over analyzations and things i cannot at all bring any help to.I would ask boldly, that if you see any in specific, you will not for your own hurt, though likely being substantial, shy from me , rather, bring them to light, and give me life in the opportunity to reconcile my own beliefs to my actions. I have found lately that i have a struggle many men have. Esse quam videri- to be rather than to appear. My seeking, my willingness, essentially arises from a quest after authenticity at all costs. If i am not real to myself, and to others, what value can I, or my relations have? I must be real with myself, and with my God, if i am to truly know him, for in knowing myself, I may understand how I relate to my savior. I am glad to finally begin to see the edges of good qualities i have only before been able to imagine myself as having - even if i have had them all along. They , in me, have always seemed imaginary, something to comfort me of my complete depravity. Some slight beginnings of love to alleviate my sufferings of self hate - whether for my actions or my form. I have found my alleviations outside myself, and clung wholly to them.I can now be aware of my complete depravity, and allow grace not only to be applied by Christ himself to me, but apply it to myself, as much or more than i have managed to apply it to others. I do not contend for the opportunity to hide, but for the opportunity, the courage, and the strength, to show myself, and to be known to myself, others, and God. I have long gone about this in ways i thought apt, a plethora of ways i have discovered to be thin veneered self medication. Whether by substance - or by using my actions, separate. By using the very chase of authenticity as an excuse to numb myself from the crime of my identity.I am no crime. Though I am bought at the price of those crimes i have perpetrated, and those crimes that i will inevitably perpetrate - the cost is the blood of the most loving and  most beloved. It is paid, and i , being bought, must not any longer appear as the essence of my crime, nor in the essence of penance. I am free to behold my identity separate from my depravity. I am free from sin that has died in me. My value has been uncovered. I am as a jewel, found smudged with dirt, in need of being formed and cut. The dirt has been washed free. I shine. Facet after facet comes into existence, while rough edge after rough edge begs to be spared and clings to being.

The Ever first creature to walk his land

Single greatest being of His empire

And his mighty subjects bring tidings to him

Tidings of valiant rebellion against his dark brutality.



The General of His Forces, sent forth to sought out the traitor

Upon winged beast he rides through the barren wasteland

Ever watchful eye on the hunt for the rebel

And the sorry being was found, cowering ‘neath the rocks.



The Dark Master himself attended to

The sacrifice of the rebel-lord, and the corpse of his being

Left out in the open for the carrion-birds

The elegant remains of grisly justice.



And so it begins, the mysterious cycle

Of hatred and vengeance upon the kingdom.

The Dark One gracefully eliminating them,

They who try to question his terrible Power.



In the darkest hour, He attains the zenith of his ferocity

And in that hour, one arises against him, one he cannot destroy

One who defies everything He stands for, one who brings hope

That vile promise of a better world, now rampant in his rule.



He seeks to destroy this mortal, a weak and puny smite under his rule

But for reasons arcane and beyond His control

Try as He may, the ****** mortal lies beyond his savage grasp.

And so, He calls upon the Dark Gods of His sacrifice

To bestow upon Him the Might of the Feral.

His invocation rings repercussion through the desert

As they descend upon Him, honouring His ****** sacrifice

He lies broken upon the Altar of the Elders

His flesh torn from his being, in mockery of his offering.

They descend upon him, feeding off his Lifeforce

As they reduce their Mighty Disciple to skin and bone



He finally rests upon wet sands, His savagely torn torso

The terrible remains of the Last Boon of  His Gods.



The irony hangs heavy in the air as

The One that brought about the end of the Mighty Emperor

Throws his Offering upon the Altar

Pledging eternal allegiance and servitude to the Dark Gods…



And so it begins again, the old arcane circle

Of  jealousy, rebellion, ****** and power

And so it has been, and always shall be

As the Masters of Chaos decide our fate

And they laugh…

dark twists of fate
left me uncomfortable of as of late
a karmic lesson knocking at my door
where time seems to me to be a *****
she left me standing all alone
like a dog who lost his bone
a disappearing shooting star
or an empty glass at the bar
but temptation told me to wait
like the apple Adam ate
sure, it it tastes good at first
until god leaves you cursed
where you stand naked in the light
a stark contrast to the bright
no lies or  fiction
no rub to friction
the truth stands right before you
a lie you can't pretend not to see through
but belief is  a strong force
to creating life without remorse
will thy will is the law
Crowley's epitaph in the maw
and twists of fate oft come late
they are there for us to satiate
times a ***** we all share
but she's sometimes the ***** we can't bare
she's also the the ***** that we beseech
so over the wall and into the breach
go where you want whenever you go
the key is to trust and not to know
to laugh, and to lust and to enjoy
its a skill most forget to employ
passion is a fruit but its also a need
your life is a gift for you to succeed
there is an entire world for you to  immerse
as you are the only expression of you in the universe.
because death stalks us slowly until that day
its a constant  reminder  in strange way
to be who you are without being told
without fear of repercussion dare to be bold
to live your life every day
with love in your heart expressed in your own way

You and I are revolutionaries
Right up to the ruckus we cause daily
Switchblade tongues
And coal black lungs
And bittersweet intentions.


We are the voice of a generation
We the Degenerates
We the Proletariats
We the Lost and Found among the wreckage of the millennial metropolis.


Living in our forever 21 society
Governed by no laws and lack of sobriety
We the reckless
We the ruthless
We the key board warriors

Pixels and manic pixie dream girl *******
**** boys, man buns, Jordan's not brogues
We the soulless love makers
We the relentless heartbreakers
We the snapchat sexters, molesters
We the grotesque.

You and I know no boundaries
Lines crossed and used as skipping ropes
As ***** jokes, cut throat and savage
We the endless trouble makers

We who know the end is nigh  
Hiccuping our ways through orchestrated lies
Screaming and bellowing our silent pleas to this world of terror alight
Setting fire to ourselves daily
We the terrified
We the unjustifiable
We the hopeful sad


We the gods of everything and nothing
We the repercussion of double standards
140 characters in every psalm
We the unforgiving
We the unholy
We the non believers
We the incomprehensible in the face of sin


You and I are not recognised by x or Y
We identify in binary with the wind and the stars
Honest realisation that our little lives are insignificant to the monologue of the universe
Lighthearted libertines light years ahead and behind

We the star struck
We the scientists and academics
We the prophets
The artisans
The beauty queens
The mystics and cynics

And I am the voice of a generation you rendered speechless

There are flowers growing from my tongue
Hatchlings of the seeds in my tastebuds
Writhing roots crawling down my esophagus
Corseting my throat beautifully tight
In me you found an ironic beauty
Solely a repercussion of your gardening hands
Wilting nightly as you leave