Intro: You know, I don’t care what you’re saying about me.
For I’m not an insecure ***** like you but I do got to thank thee.
For if it weren’t for thy vile venom spitting I wouldn’t have a reason to enact my lyrical terrorism!
So, you only have yourself to blame for this ****, so don’t say I didn’t warn ya.

Verse 1
Uh, yeah let’s talk about it!
Can’t contemplate, the vicious state that contrary to popular belief I’m not a basket case!
Can’t misuse the time I got so here I go to vanquish these fraudulent thots!
Started an unfocused freight train that charged towards the lucid dream because I couldn’t assimilate!
In that time, I was so focused on changing everyone’s snot ridden hypocrisy about reality being Camelot.
I know I’ve also ****** up a lot but that’s something I had to face!
It’s not any of your business so stop ripping off my skin then rubbing in the salt!
I still have a goal in mind to destroy discrimination that incriminates my people,
by putting em on the hot seat.
So now that every one is up in arms I got my chance to aim at the sweet spot!
Everyone is hungry to be the fittest but not everyone has time to think how to be the smartest.
To strike will the fire’s hot or wait for the embers to spark and settle is the true test for an artist.
Who cares about the lines when it was never rightfully drawn in the first place?
Who cares about what spot or space is for you when it’s all been delegated to the privilege of a certain race?
I can only undergo so much disgrace So, sorry but I’m not willing to have my people’s history erased!
Free speech is going to be a ***** for some and a tool for others, I guess it all depends on that person’s poker face.
Inequality is frequent not just in Canada or The United States but every country, province, and common place.

Verse 2
You want the real, raw, unfiltered Classy J well here you go!
Uh, Tell Trudeau to kiss my *** and stop ******* Trump’s ****!
While you’re at it can you tell your father that he’s a ******* stupid *****!
Also, totally forgot but can you tell Kim Jon un when he’s shafting you that he’s a ******* Buffoon!
But’s that’s enough about ******* politics let’s talk about ******* rap artist’s who think they’re hot but really, they so tacky and obsolete like the Zune.
To mister bi-racial we get it you’re into being superficial but’s honestly with you being so focused on being a ****** your delivery showcases the truth that you’re really a cringy ******.
Just face the fact dude that people will only see ya as a juggaloed Dolph Ziggler.
Uh, Now on to the next!
Dear mister Young moolah imma be front, you look like diseased uvula with the lyrical skill comparative to that of an elementary grade schooler.
Now to address the biggest flacky ***** in the game the not so slim shady.  
Here’s the matter Mr. Mather’s you look like a hobo who ***** guys off around the corner,
maybe that’s why you always diss homos.
Because youse a **** trapped in your mommas’ closet,
and if wasn’t for Dre’s hand up so far up your *** you wouldn’t be as popular of a puppet.
Oh ****, Shady you so focused on Doctor Dre and acclaim to fame that you forgot about Hallie.
****, and speaking of Hallie, I feel for you girl because just like you I also didn’t have a dad there for me.
I’m a man of war so every rapper got to get their **** together and better be prepared to me seriously.
For Imma slit their throats and turn em inside out rigorously, and I make sure those tardy cats will rule the day they ever had curiosity.

Verse 3
Just remember my people were here before you, and will be here after you!
And I’ll be here to destroy any of you who dare to pursue native issues!
Or if I’m just bored and feeling like killing you!
However, if I forget about dealing with you, I’m just to busy to properly give a **** about you!
It’s not just revenge, I see it as using justice by retorting with my wordplay to cleanse ya like shampoo!
But I’ve spent enough time dissing freeloaders, for it gives their ego’s too must **** exposure!
I won’t coaster to these composers, for a chauffeur can’t gain an advantage over a soldier!
I wont lower myself to these grouchy Oscar’s, who hunt for Grammy’s;
or as I refer to these events as pedantic half ***’d statements for excepting grandiose toasters.
Why bother, for it’s so annoyingly stupid that I would rather waste my time watching a movie featuring Adam *******.
So, **** this glass ceiling that defines and dictates what makes up a talented rapper.
I may not be a ******* goat but at least I’m confident enough to go out in my birthday suit and retain my composure for being dapper.
That’s the synopsis of my classy brain, and though it may be insane I’m willing to ride this hurricane!
To make sure you know my name, but yet not let myself get engulfed in the flames.

You can pour love completely
into a wine glass body
Write heart wrenching verse
pure soul poetry
but when you are beat,
dead,
done,
exhausted
weary
the lover beside you
becomes dismantled
and arranged into parts
of burden
temporarily.
Pointy elbows drilling into spine.
Rock hard knees buckling thighs.
Razor sharp toenails
scour
ankles and calf.
Sprawled limbs
invading your bed half.
Thieves of warm sheets
and cosy duvets.
Gurgling,
snorting roars
snoring,
snoring,
snoring away.
Or teeth grinding
piercing anvil,
hammer and drum.
When extremely tired
Only then your love isn't as fun
as and hour ago
when limbs, torso and flanks
eagerly woven
discarding blankets,
But that was then.
Sleep has a stronger lure
and retorting with your own elbow
or *** shunt
just can't end the snore.
Crying for snoozeville,
you can't take any more.
Suddenly,
a choked snuffle
then blessed silence
as they roll back onto their side
And you sigh, “I love you,”
But grateful for the stop
Better off with bunk beds,
one can still go on top.

I saw this War Veteran on his porch yelling at this Hipster Kid who was tethered to his fence across the generational gapped front lawn, yelling back at him. And I mean, they got into it.
The kid wasn't doing anything really, just taking alternate swigs of foamy PBR and flat Red Bull and chucking the cans into the vet's unkempt garden, retorting Dylan lyrics and sentiments of Kerouac like the post-modern beatnik he was.
I couldn't make out what the Old Vet was saying. His voice was missing from probably smoking too many Benson & Hedges Black down in the trenches. I know he must have been saying something uncalled for, though, to get this Kid so riled up like that.
I'm not sure what they were arguing about since I awoke right in the middle of this altercation, hanging upside down on a bench in the park across the street. I suppose I'll just wait until the Vet goes back inside so I can go over and release the Kid and ask him what that was all about.

there comes a time when you have: enough...
you listen to these pundits,
these so-called shuffling journalists and
becomes overwhelmed as if sitting by
a blackjack table...
    you never imagine their respect
for their craft,
  some do manage to become
all the president's men, but few, fewer
han you might think: ever do...
        buy ups, cut offs, wishing they were
all screeching banshees on the ready,
but there never are any,
   just any pornographica pornstars who
said: i'm ready for a ******* henry.
        and the callousness, the easiness,
makes drinking a whiskey
all the more respectable...
              i know i've chosen rightly with
ms. amber...  i feel less like a ****
and more like a connoisseur with every
minute...
                   tell you what,
let's meet down the middle whereby actions
are worth are more than words,
and the whole "freedom of speech"
is but a bad dream...
            isn't it? i thought that actions
spoke louder than words, so why defend them?
it really, really comes down to the
nietzschean inversion of cartesian "talk",
apparently inverted the original
into a sum ergo cogito (a footnote
remark in his white zombie inspired
     human, all too human
entry point into pop culture -
as ever, the silent mind,
    makes use of waiting for the mass
of prey) -
              i can do the same with heidegger...
i listen to these journalistic endeavours,
i listen to them intently...
but i have a problem..
   this da-sein is peppered with difficulty;
you can call me a res cogitans
a thinking thing, but i sometimes
am not, namely: heidegger's dasien
is the antithesis of res cogitans...
     we're not heroes or villains by thinking
about the act in the da / momentum
   - in the "there" / momentum...
               the "carpe diem"...
            there's no carpe illic (seize a there)-
       as there's no esse in diem (being in a day) -
       find a niche, weave a web...
               journalism has already killed off
heidegger's dasein,
        it's either called blackmail or extortion,
we are handled with a perplexity of
feeding the bacon of "handling" facts...
      we are required to ensure there's an
empathetic comment subsequently readied,
we are to enforce empathy,
a fakery of empathy...
          heidegger couldn't have predicted
the death of his idea so fast,
  in that journalism (legacy) killed off
the concept of dasein so quickly and
effectively...
                sure, journalism stresses a
da - a "there" - but where i'm at,
there's hardly any talk of correlative translation
to a sein: i.e. being.
              first the education system
erodes the faculty of memory with pointless
arithmetic tables, then the "real" world
erodes the faculty of imagination with
pointless jobs and the grand carnation
wishes of disney's bloom...
             and the two two come together
and: after that? let's pretend we "think"...
        the notion of the existence of free will
is not answered with a first amendment,
it's answered with a freedom of thought:
   freedom of thought comes prior to the freedom
of speech, that danish bachelor kierkegaard
pointed it out: better to think freely,
than to talk freely, since not everyone will
have the vocal capacity of a sophist!
nonetheless i listen to the news,
   and am abhorred by it...
            not because i care:
hey! you don't care about my problems,
why in the world, should i care about yours?
what am i, the imitation of "saint" theresa of
calcuta?
          heidegger's concept translate directly
into current journalism...
        me, i prefer to think of his concept
to reverse nietzsche's reversal of cartesian
thinking: not all existence is purposed to
merely think, i.e.
       the: being there (dasein) is reversed
into: there's being (sein ist dort) -
     heidegger is the father of modern journalism,
and also the person who can be utilised
to combat journalism stagnating into
voyeurism...
         both are pretty much the same these days...
journalism = voyeurism...
                sure, i don't like being forced
into being "there" - primarily because i have
a blocking membrane "antibiotic" of simply
retorting: well, there's being;
  the **** would i want to suggest a worthy
escapade of "imagination" into a spirit-cooking
session, i rather spend the rest of the day
in a butcher's shop! and yes, i like my memory
intact, i like the memories of my childhood,
i don't need my memory undermined
by ******* arithmetic or stories of pythagoras
selling baked beans to pursue his
lessons!
     and i really don't care if heidegger was
a **** party member, what i don't understand
is the western left: you ever talked to
a communist proper? a real one, no fakes?
my grandfather was a proud communist party
member...
           even his take on transgenderism as being
a leftist agenda would have been: wha'?!
     you sure we don't need to castrate
these people?
                   never mind,
i'd actually love to be called a ****...
  i have no problem with that:
  the only thing i have to lose is a chance for
a punch-up in an alley, and i've been training:
punching myself in the face until my jaw
starts aching can be fun, but not as much as fun
as talking down police brutality:
the colt's screaming while i'm kneeling having
just finished ******* in the alley,
and he's screaming, the female officer is
making notes, because the screaming ******
is probably dyslexic, or a D in g.c.s.e. english...
puts the handcuffs on, i tell him
a cameo version of an autobiography...
so they release me... see...
  screaming does very little to scare someone...
the fact that i was being ridiculously stoic
****** him off...
   never thought that ******* in an alley was
a crime... so i said: you don't own this
shaded corner, do you?
as the joke runs, better than frying bacon:
two police officers walk up to you -
(a) one will surely be able to write...
(b) the other will surely be able to read...
(c) a + b = a guarantee!
     besides the point, heidegger is the father
of pre-modern journalism,
well, journalism up to robert redford
& dustin hoffman, oh yeah, and david frost...
hell, that was, journalism,
        the whole notion of dasein was
invigorating the whole movement,
  but then journalism shifted its attention from
heidegger... and people were forced into
"emoticon" politics of a "there" and a "being",
i.e. being the killer, imagining the torture cell,
etc. etc.,
                 can i watch some ******* disney,
for ****'s sake?!
            i want the journalist to be there:
and the reason why i don't want to be "there":
is because: i'm not!
   but this only produced journalists
who weren't even "there" to begin with...
    cordoned off by police "protection" -
people talk about a snowflake generation
that the millennials are, "apparently";
can we start off with the "journalists"
of the prior generation?
                   besides the point...
heidegger is the father of modern journalism,
but he's also underread...
      which is great, since you can become
pro-elitism after a book or two...
    yes, if i wanted to wipe my *** with
a modern novel, i'd sooner take to reading
a roll of toilet paper... sorry...
but leisurely reading material is for people
sunbathing on a deckchair on barbados;
i don't like easy...
   and i certainly don't like reading books,
that might as well have been
written in braille...
  perhaps in braille they might be "mildly"
stimulating,
      yes yes, i know,
bestsellers and all,
   but from what i've noticed:
     why do people need to talk so much to reach
that sort of status?
             once upon a time i wanted to
be "famous", but after watching enough
people reach the status of "fame",
having watched how exhausting it is...
i thought to myself:
       keep to the "karma" of tao -
               keep that obscurity,
   it's perhaps not the case that enough
people have woken up, it's perhaps the case
that not the right people: have been born.

Repetition, follows life
Repetition, what does it mean
Repetition, the exact same thing
Repetition? Here we go
Repetition! Over and over

The events of the past stand over us so tall
But the events of my past
All feel so small
Life is short
So you have to dream big
Yet why do I feel like I’ve not accomplished.

Even the verses go back and forth,
As if they show failure
Retorting
To what they once were
Getting smaller and smaller
Time is running out, and all I find is repetition.

Discovery is what we thrive for, innovative ideas
Something to be remembered
Something new and fresh
Something big
Not small
To leave a legacy
That will thrive and grow
And make us feel like we’ve accomplished.

The best way
Is to break the mould that’s been set
Think outside the box
Change the lines
And leave not only ideas
But a new way of seeing things
Without sight, without rationality
Look at things with meaning
Emotions
Passion.

I stand tall, a revolutionary!! A recognizable figure
I stand out
I stand proud

When I walk I’m deep with my senses, clearly drawn to people’s alluring glances.
So lucid they think, their eyes show the interest far from extinct from my stance in this world.
I feel that I’m respectively speaking, to say so the least.
I’m not recluse or a beast always wanting to feast.
If I had to say so the least, I’m as calm as the tree with the leaf, that stays calm when the wind turns to burn, while everyone goes with the turn.
Because it’s what the tree made them learn.
But back to the point I was making while you are sitting by this tree,
looking at me with such glances pointing at stances,
blaming the cause which in you is aloft,
making you soft to pretend in this wind,
moving you and the others to part sways in the matter the wind is racing.
When simply it’s all about the peace calming transparent flow,
less transfiguring your stance in this warming sensation. . .

When I stroll, I feel deep in my senses, just life of the sound I’m within.
I feel you friend, no need to misunderstand because I’m the kind,
only of a kind, truthfully speaking since the world is ordinarily laid but so many minds sillily played.
What’s the reason to hastily be placed?
Impatiently wasting the self through calamitous wind around you in its ways,
pulled of your senses to part in its flowing admiration to help you feel its position not what the tree has been foolishly placing.
The sternness of impeccable word, just blur through the blurry frustration fostering to break wind from word communication.
But back to the sound that’s within, that plays for me again.
I say its sweet in this miserable place full of faces with eyes that stick with assumptive cases.
I can sense uneasy feeling of their spiritual mirror, lost in their glance even unheard, why did **** **** **** such lovely bird?
So you see what I’m saying, as angry ***** would be saying.
All the angry ***** this part over will be playing. . .because even words turn swiftly by the wind, gripping around the calm of your leaf.
You feel yet what I feel?
Practice with the wind, don’t amend to the blend of practicality because some want one option for you to be planted to grow all over this world as attired.
Only feeling whole after past your time being retired.
How in this sense could we live in such life time without sharing simple joys that some used to uphold,
but then life changed with a fold, all you could is forget and be sold, just like I was.
Funny story, but no worry, I’m no worry for you to worry.
One day I’ll share with you this story.
Plenty time don’t worry. . .to those who die I’m sorry, but there’s more joy in this story,
your story then the idea they abhor to make you feel this squally worry.
Although your dead and won’t hear my story, life will tell you after. . .
But of your self that I've been listening trying to feel you in what you have been missing.
It’s funny to words I have been retorting to, to explain exactly the calm of the self, when the word can never touch on such imperfection as to why the word is always leaning towards this misdirection. . .
hidden deep down in its simple complexion, when its all misdirected with the imagery that comes with projected. . .that’s why ***** get angry at my use of such satisfying word deep under their ego -blistic wants. . .
never relenting their simple misfortune of always trying at preventing the complicated feeling of but resenting what’s to them so complicated. . .
for a feeling they never awaited, stopping into churches thinking its something one day be recon-stated, but when silly as a church where they put you under at your birth, without a will to simply choose the path really most tend to loose. . .instead sticking a mat under your body as if its going to be the least your life can embody. . .and your parents so meek to realize from beginning as it it’s meant to be. . .life of being peaceful, instead disgracing you later for your aspirations. . .in any way possible manipulating your gracious. . .Even this comes as a misunderstanding because some choose to feel my words out of tune in miscomprehending the essence of my stroll through this wind. . instead resentment in the form shows up in assumptive waves with negative impression of your ease for my self I could give **** less when from you I hear your impression, since moi it don’t displease. . .but I keep on strolling with my full senses at life’s mistaken glances shadowed down on the branch caressing with pretences, in which all jump into with a **** full of stances. . . .with my outmost respect I have for everyone in any sort of the trances. . .

i've a plundering urge
to whom it is absurd,
                     the black teeth
                     the blood scribes
                     the woe, the whither,
                                               the word
i felt seen   from afar
telescoped warmth  cups my right shoulder
and i expand from shrivel   in your forgiving light
are you my soilmate ?

for you i prepare scents   beading from my most sweaty regions
       a moist sporing    emits in nifty allium spritzes
i stammer to a standing position
                          and exercise my full height

sporting,
           i swing and tap an annihilated aluminum bat
              sounding out my specific code of fidelations
                   resonation through the ground
                     and suddenly you are near
                    receiving the humming
                  up the souls of your doughy bare feet
                         you shiver

i prance wildly and perfect kilter in my hips
i offer to preen you
i present you with a pyramid of spittle balloons
i **** myself a little
i sink my teeth into your side    (it's not 'your jam'
    but we recover the mood)
i give chase to you for you to be chased
and it's a wild kind of keen fun
         and you are a madcap display of laughter and wide smiles
and   within     i feel a gordian nest  
         of some lust manoeuvre 
(maybe we can copulate face-to-face ?)

pondering scars     wounds that were much deserved
the white meat    the bright stars    delivered

who is rude to the rule       of what is ours ?  
i knew you
magnesium burn    and unwholesomely dauntless
  bold   your portfolio always within an easy reach
your passionate simmering might    you branded my eye
and now we're similar    mites in a feather
simian partners surveying territory needs

and then you’re gone again
        vanished

       and we are distant minds that strike the hour together
                                like before
between our signals I am met with cross chatter
my hemispheres bicker
and retorting memories barrage
        refunding the past
    and taking you away from me

i am a mating dunce once more
             i shrivel

You're naive
like a chiselled wood cut,
worse still you're all alone
the rage has worn through,
autumn shades flicker
eyesore,
you rub your occasional disbelief,
childlike glances dim further
the available light
retorting again.

It's cold inside.
Shifting my gaze and again the question--
"How are you?"
Smile--
A lie--
Though I've never felt so empty.
You didn't bother to stop and hear.
Tired.
Retorting, you say to sleep.
Truth: insomnia, stress, anxiety.
It's all the same.
What was I ever to start out as?
Now a forgotten tear in a notebook.
All I wanted was to have a friend--
You?
Ignored in passing conversation,
Unheard,
Unseen,
Struggling under a load twice my weight...
Yet I smile.
You thought me as the happiest person--
I was never happy-go-lucky.
I was just a girl
In a struggle,
With too much pride and many lies
To feed the rest of humanity.
How am I?
It's cold inside.

Lets start a trend my dear friends!
Frolic with me through all the different ends,
From clothing to style it all makes me smile
The simple similarities of their beginnings
Fade to everyone near and far
Like the bell bottom jeans
we once wore
To the kakis
we all love and adore.......
Let's wear gauges and valve off the steam
From the haters hatred retorting us from our dreams!
Let's get tattoos to match
Or give everyone a friendly five star on their back,
Let's get high as a kite
Be it on **** or on life :)
Let's smoke cigs and act like bar pigs
Let's get drunk and jam to some funk!
So again friends, let's start a trend
A trend to match all the others
There shall be no end! :)

i remember, she used to pronounce her name as: just tina... even though the french would have said: just teen... or ju steen.*

and my my, what a headache,
feels a lot like a diabetic's nightmare,
no food for the whole day,
some water and some alcohol -
what could possibly go wrong?

and there i was, dreaming of a hoisin
sauce duck tortilla wrap...
but did i get it?
no...
       caesar chicken tortilla wrap
instead...
   and torrential rain,
******* down buckets of pears...

and what else?
   ah, it's nearing october and i'm
still found wearing shorts and
sandals...
      and so it was, memories of justine,
running barefoot with her in the rain...

justine? aunt, who was only about
5 years older than me...
      her dad was my grandmother's brother...
don't ask...

it just reminded me of that day we
fell ill after running barefoot in the rain,
as i munched my caesar infused chicken
tortilla wrap, holding a pair of sandals
in the other hand, strolling the the drum-beat
of the rain, amused ever so often
when dipping my feet into puddles,
trying to guess how many
           variations of cement there were...
in guessed about 7 different fibres
    of texture...
  
         i can't tell you how much fun it becomes
reliving old ills -
like walking barefoot in the rain,
         nearing october, in shorts,
   eating a chicken caesar tortilla roll -
complaining about the headache induced
by a dangerous sugar level (from fasting),
twice retorting: and i'm not even a diabetic.

You Absolver
You're an absorbent feature
You reflector
You question
Retorting mirror
Muse
And a fiction
One for a fight
An impression from the night
I collect the picture
After all
You are not easy on the eye
You're powdered pate to heel
In vague mistrust
and effortless tissue white

The Poetry Of Friends
  The Music Of Love

The Beginning Of The End
  Death From Above

The Unwritten Word
  Wuthering Heights

All Truth Now Unheard
  A Thief In The Night

Advise And Consent
  A Darkening Sun

An Anthology Of Perception
  All Truth On The Run

A Book Never Lent
  A Farewell To Arms

With Time Better Spent
Entranced By Your Charm

The Wind In The Willows
  The Catcher In The Rye

Death Calls You Silent
  The Long Goodbye

The Flight Out Of Nowhere
  A Midsummer Night’s Dream

That Someone To Care
  Islands In The Stream

The Reasons Left Unsettled
  To Loan Sacred Ground

Hansel And Gretel
  Once Lost And Then Found

One Unto Many
  Many Unto One

Befriending Your Enemy
  A Raisin In The Sun

The Russians Are Coming
What Is To Be Done

The Fire Now Burning
  Fathers And Sons

All Freedom Aborting
  Last Link In The Chain

The Message Retorting
  A Universe Shamed

That Moment To Enslave
  Destiny’s Child

Lonely Are The Brave
  The Call Of The Wild

With Hope Now Asunder
  Lone Wolf At The Door

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter
  Our Final Encore

(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2016)

Stomach churning
Knee irking
Weight ballooning
Self-confidence parachuting

Day in day out
It's a scream wanting to shout
A mirror wanting to turn away
As I take in what I am in full dismay

**** me, *******, **** me
**** me - anger talking
******* - spite retorting
**** me - desperation joining the party

Technical confusion
Physical contortion
Emotional intrusion
Personal obstruction

And they roll their eyes to the high heaven
Not enough time to deal with the craven
Searching for a misunderstood form of attention
Staring blankly at a familiar scene panic stricken

Eager depression
Making a concession
Slutty self-pity
Throwing itself a party
Where is the intervention
Can someone please stop the obsession?!

Here, there, nowhere, everywhere
Look and you will find anxiety as your au-pair
Babysitting a overactive imagination
Sabotaging a once gentle loving person

fructus ex omni - the fruit out of everything,
the same as the fruit that is everything,
fructus id est omni...

i don't care for urban latin, i only dare
to attain the ****** version,
perhaps with latin words,
but nonetheless, with english grammar,
and that does not bother me one bit,
since i know i'm not speaking
japanese.

nonetheless there are two fruits in
the story, the fruit of confusion that
was promised as being the fruit of lucidity,
but also that celestial fruit,
which promised omni-: potence,
             science, presence etc.,
but instead trapped the deity in a prison,

what can you really make of a deity
that is bound to a prison of all things omni-?

the idea of omni-traits of a god,
are nothing more than an omnicarcer...
an all encompassing prison...
    which later becomes the "eloquent"
but rather sly argumentation for
pantheism...
           which makes it all the more impossible
to "argue", since my hand and my toe
and my toenails are all: "god"...

hence my argument that "god" is
a paraphrase...
                  of all the cul de sac of arguments
provided by man, this one has
to top it all off,
   man ate an apple, god ate a cherry...
    
and no, i don't mean there's a need to "cherish"
the existence of with prayer,
that lunatic gesticulation ritual,
  but sparing a thought is the least harmful of
all things possible, otherwise?
the argument goes down the toilet,
it's easy feeding nothing as a replacement,
after all, a res cogitans easily
feeds res vanus and this easily provides
enough atheists...
      thought feeds nothing first,
but i wonder: why does feeding nothing
always attract so many rhetorical questions,
so many retorting post scriptums?
the more the argument is heard,
the more the theologians calms down,
while the atheist becomes more & more angry...

i have a sincerity do the argument of:
an omnipresent omnipotent "god" is confined
to a straitjacket,
      a straitjacket of our cyclic arguments,
our cul de sac arguments,
because, by now, my **** is god,
         and it all comes down to the ridiculousness
of giving all imaginable power,
to a being, that, perhaps, has no ultimate power,
given that such power, would abolish
the theatre of human freedom being expressed...

it's still boiling down to the point of
infantilism of counter-arguments, on & on until
both parties agree: 1 + 1 = 2.
i don't know why atheists ever cite kant,
if you read him, he clearly states:
i'm tired of the counter-arguments against
a god,
  just like aristotle was wrong about
the origin of flies...
   the non-existence of: said being,
and the the big bang theory...
  well, that's just as obsolete as in the biological
canvas of anomalous generation:
the notion of spontaneity! maggots spawn from
the rotting flesh of fish!
     nonetheless, maybe this "god"
of omni- etc. attributes became an atheist
himself, when it became all too ridiculous
reaching the pinnacle of pantheism?
maybe god didn't die in auschwitz as the jews
suggest, maybe he just became
                     pantheistically altruistic?
i.e. why bother doing anything,
if i can do everything? i can be lil jimmy's
thumbs up at a football match,
    why bother the dimension of absolutism,
when everything is nicely relative?

of said primates,
  it can only be said that the civilisation
with an eloquent argument for,
   or for no "god" will fair best...
unless i'm really ****** at counting,
  i must have counted 1 billion indians and
1 billion chinese...
              and no, i don't believe in atheists
who have the tenacity to have their arguments
guarded with overt emotional stipulation,
hyping, hyping...
   to argue against subjectivity
with overt-sensitivity and fiasco theatre of:
never the calm nut on the ward...
   goes... nowhere...
                       i still find it funny how
you can translate biology's anomalous generation
in a microscope, translate it via
the telescope into the big bang, and find
that: nothing doesn't exactly conjure up
nothing, or whatever that original phrase was:
nothing can conjure up everything?
     everything was... nihil contra nihil?
        never mind,
        it's still a prison of pantheism,
        and no argument will ever be sensible regarding
this prison + straitjacket...
          it's a trap, and i know it, because
whatever argument there is to release
the spectator "god" out of it,
       is about as pointless as: reinventing the wheel.

The Poetry Of Friends
  The Music Of Love

The Beginning Of The End
  Death From Above

The Unwritten Word
  Wuthering Heights

All Truth Now Unheard
  A Thief In The Night

Advise And Consent
  A Darkening Sun

An Anthology Of Perception
  All Truth On The Run

A Book Never Lent
  A Farewell To Arms

With Time Better Spent
  Entranced By Your Charm

The Wind In The Willows
  The Catcher In The Rye

Death Calls You Silent
  The Long Goodbye

The Flight Out Of Nowhere
   A Midsummer Night’s Dream

That Someone To Care
  Islands In The Stream

The Reasons Left Unsettled
  To Loan Sacred Ground

Hansel And Gretel
  Once Lost And Then Found

One Unto Many
  Many Unto One

Befriending Your Enemy
  A Raisin In The Sun

The Russians Are Coming
  What Is To Be Done

The Fire Now Burning
  Fathers And Sons

All Freedom Aborting
  Last Link In The Chain

The Message Retorting
  A Universe Shamed

That Moment To Enslave
  Destiny’s Child

Lonely Are The Brave
  The Call Of The Wild

With Hope Now Asunder
  Lone Wolf At The Door

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter
  —Our Final Encore

(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2016)

Keeping still my heartbeat
Just to stay alive
I'm sorry that I lied
I'm sorry that I died
Before you happened by
My demons lay at night
Before you came along
I wouldn't even try
I wouldn't even try

Take me down to the breaking point
Where I soften and forget
All about disappointing you
Or what could be misconstrued
Disestablished, or casually deflected

For still I watch helplessly
As camoflauge intercepts my language
I can hide and be strange
Or pleasant and fake
But it doesn't make us any less estranged
Yet when I'm pretending
There's no mending my mistakes
Because they break us
Like a fault line when the earth quakes

When the message you're sending
Is much too diplomatic
I need to feel the pressure rising
I need a triumph of humanity
Static rolling through my fingers
Charging my frozen feet as I linger
On those last choice words of yours
Retorting lightning fire out of my mouth
My ears still ringing
From the weight of their impact

Keeping still my heartbeat
Just to feel alive
I'm sorry if I lied
I'm sorry that I died
Before you happened by
My demons lay at night
Before you came along
I wouldn't even try
I wouldn't even try

I can be so condescending
Like my response to your questions
Are forever pending
Another moment in time
But I can't pretend
Like I'm some mysterious riddle
I try to be clear and keep things civil
I try to disappear
Only with me in the middle
My broken heart is simple
Which makes me a criminal

It's never enough
I'm sorry that's too much
Stealing my serene
Leaving me unclean
And never free
Deceit ultimately leaving me
To my heart's lonesome conceit

Keeping still my heartbeat
Just to stay alive
I'm sorry that I lied
I'm sorry if I died
Before you happened by
My demons lay at night
Before you came along
I wouldn't even try
I wouldn't even try

to the days when you wake up: mentally exhausted...
everyone else is having their mental breakdown
conundrums:
you had yours aged 21... you aged with...
that ******* choir and the great wind that dispersed it:
no, oh no... no instructions from the great almighty...
just a wind of a voice that dispersed a choir
of: invisibilities... i kept quiet... ran around the church...
lay under the altar... dragged the cloak from it and
covered myself: shivered... switched my iPod on...
then off... stiff the ******* singing...
i had no one to talk to... i still don't...
               oh well... lucky for me this happened back
in 2007... and after 2007? theatre! circus!
but while people are gradually gearing up to their...
ahem: group-therapy session overloads...
i've passed mine... no help: except for the time when
i visited a psychiatrists and: because he presumed
i was white British: i should be given the post-colonial
treatment of: REGRESSION...
false memory implants...
      the insinuation being: i was abused as a child...
sure... yeah yeah... by whom?
me? obviously me... i was ******* by the age of 8...
self-taught... don't know... it must have made sense
since... i wasn't: aren't: circumcised...
a "sword" has a "sheath": no?
               but fair enough to the circumcised crowd...
if their women are... religiously obligated
for a man to loose his ******* "detail"...
the niqab usually helps... blah blah...
           but then i imagine the instances when
a man is circumcised and... boom!
all the frustrations overflow from being snipped...
it's ******* degrading...
i don't need a sack of ******* the size of watermelons...
no... on the throne of thrones...
****... ****... *******... to some...
      venus, cupid, folly & time Bronz(z)ino...
i don't need much... my libido is a hamster and all
i need is a hamster's wheel worth of cleavage focus...
that's it...
    every time i go and visit a ******* i focus
my libido on... two aphrodisiacs...
spells of concentrated exercise: heavily cardio orientated...
and... white wine...
well... and jerking off without having to ******...
so i know where the blood is flowing to...
oh... right... that part...
but glory to be to such days...
mother is busying herself cleaning the house...
while i play the actor of idle...
    i have my bedroom... i have my private
library... only two volumes... only two volumes
of Knausgaard's Mein Kampf left to read...
and no... i will not finish Dickens' the Pickwick Papers:
on principle: from a review...
not that i would ever reread any book i've already
read...
        but... while people around me are having
their apple-pie crumble... i'm riding... slow: high...
slow: though... just... sifting... sieving through the air...
thankfully my difficulties came early:
god, great wind... i don't know...
did the choir descend from on high...
or did it boil from rummaging in the depths of
Hades?! like i said: i wasn't given any: instructions...
hear a great wind... what?! **** against it?!
         *******: become petrified... run around...
ugh... eh?! huh?!
                   i wasn't going to become one of those:
Hyde Park Speakers' Corner nut-jobs...
first: the world would have to reveal... what it was supposd
to reveal... and still i wouldn't do anything...
not after: why do i feel so mentally exhausted
waking up?
oh... right... now i remember...
well... if you go to sleep via: punching yourself in
the head... head's a bit of a mess...
knuckles ache... why am i so disorientated:
lacking motivation... was i fighting someone, last night?
oh, ****... me... or my shadow...
i prefer the idea of my shadow punching me...
or me punching it: but i always miss...
it's all about the thinness of him... i'm too solid...
he's already talking to the Madame of the brothel
of death... silly picture...
so i wake up and start thinking: pretend to start
thinking: i'm already here... so...
thinking is more of an: afterthought...
obviously i didn't just: magically appear:
but i don't have to make that Cartesian effort
of justifying consciousness: to begin with...
thinking is an afterthought...
i didn't exactly think i was going to be born...
did i?
           brain-damage... creative brain damage...
spontaneous: from punching yourself
in the head... giving you a prized plum hue
under the eye... sore knuckles... nice... nice...
i guess... coupled with heavy drinking:
beats any choice for psychadelics:
that ******* mushroom hijacked my monkey
brain! mushroom! mushroom!
mushrooms parasites controlling us!

                  let's be hyperbolic for a little: on a whim...
in all seriousness...
the glory of feeling so **** but at the same time:
so... goo... goo... ahem: good...
well... such days are as follows...
who can say that they "self-harm" by fighting their
own shadow? wrestle with it...
silently scream at it... go! explore the night!
mould with it! i don't need you! fiend!
     well... however the drinking boyo's stereotype
goes... next day... oh man: my forehead
and my cheeks hurt... i must have seriously done
some damage...
        because so much of man in society is
pacified... what?! violence... only as a spectacle:
during boxing? that's it...
and no healthy show of masculinity via the rough
and tumble? well... that's not fun...
     not fun at all... i'd love some back-alley rough
up after a few too many drinks with a sparring partner...
fat chance of that happening...
we'd be immediately caught on c.c.t.v. and the police
would come in and break us apart...
oh the sweetness of a good fight...
     me and Kieran O'Mahoney... just before class...
wrapping my hands round that lard-ball...
punching him in the kidneys...
then he crying about it: he started...
to the teacher and me retorting: shut the **** up:
stop crying...
              because i couldn't just: do what so many
have done... guns... knives...
no no... not mortal combat... just a play around with
fists... teeth... knees...
           *** can't be the only outlet for man's
"frustrations": sure... and i'd love to try painting...
if i had the assets to buy paint, for ****'s sake...

drinking works: up to a point...
but after a while... i need some: grr! some oomph!
some sucker punching bag...
well... at least no one can say jack **** if i'm
beating myself up... ha ha...
ah... ha...
                  
   oddly enough: not oddly enough...
it feels like listening to that :wumpscut song -
madman szpital (skon remix)
and the lyrics... which... this is a Bavarian electronic
project... backwards and forwards
"us" western Slavs and the Germans...

     nie przyjęty do szpitala...
    
       not admitted to a hospital...

             nicht zugelassen zu ein krankenhaus...

ergo... moi...
            the 3Ps extending to...
poets... priests... prostitutes... psychiatrists...
madmen...
   who envision themselves as...
inheritors of the lineage from the Greek Titans...
wrestling with themselves... fighting themselves...
in order to: seek out: vitality...
a life-affirming "gravity": abundance of...
curiosity...
                       ***'s a tease... it's soft...
it's mollusk ******* oyster type of scenario...
it rarely reveals the proper sensation of bone...
sure... sometimes... the coccyx...
the pelvis roughed up... that's not enough...

perhaps all those myths of an Aztec or a Spartan
society were true, or therefore are...
i feel enclosed: entombed: fermenting in my physical
prowess, dignity: even...
just some rough and tumble... some:
a society that gathers on a Sunday and doesn't kneel
to **** off a corpse on a crucifix...
pain one can endure... if one can possess a reality
of also being capable to inflict it...
hell... i'm free-falling in thinking:
but... if i could strain my body parts in a showcase
of violence: rather than the mundaneness of
cardiovascular exercise...
    i'd be twice the man i'm currently half of...
well... more as one: if i'm punching myself in the head...

****... sore forehead... how did i? oh... right...
that's why i feel sore... sore cheekbones... sore jaw...
it's not fair that some men get to exercise their violence
via boxing, or rugby... while i slouch over
a keyboard and bash some thoughts squash-style...
i'm getting in on the action...
     you simply can't just: "translate" everything that's
masculine into an art-form...
you need knuckle-arithmetic: from time to time...

sanity and the boredom that life throws at you
with its decrepit longevity...
best time to start reading philosophy books?
probably in your early 20s... i was... called to the "cause"
by listening to some lectures on Hume, David...
that black swan... induction... falsification... blah blah...
i was hooked... a sort of thought-spotter...
if there is such a "thing": beside the thing most associated
with spotting: i.e. trains... no... no trains here...

the rest is history... beep beep bleep... beep beep...
oh man... just some outlet for violence...
it would be greatly appreciated...
            to feel more sensations than a mollusk's
comforts of: fragility and... pickling itches when
getting a suntan...
            something more than mere ***...
i want to feel... that i don't have an exoskeleton!
i want bruises! life's so ******* boring without...
the fun fright of a fight!
it's stale sourdough bread... it's a ******* crouton!

everything: schematised, systematic,
predictable... orientated... gynocentric...
predominantly centred around: ensuring the safety
of women, children and old people...
well then! can't the boys have their violence?!
no no... not clinical violence...
within the confines of boxing... or whatever other
martial art...
i mean: violent play... just: hmm...
         i can't explain it to a person who hasn't
punched themselves: not myself: my shadow punched
me...
   i just can't...
because it's not the sort of masochism
associated with ******-shaming associated with
ol' Leo von Sacher-Masoch...
                it's... drawing from something Aztec...
Spartan... i don't need no limp **** scenario of
leather, boots, feathers, or latex...
             i just need to fight someone...
as much as i need to **** someone...
my perfect day would include:
a medium-rare steak... loads of pepper...
Himalayan pink salt...
   the meat: no carbohydrates, no salad...
or raw herrings in a creamy pickle sauce...
and then... fighting someone...
and then... ******* someone... then again:
those last two points could be done in reverse...
whichever...

i miss violence... the sort of violence where
you might later have a beer with your opponent...
eh... life's ****... for this particular reason...
pacified... un-gloriously tamed... hibernating:
zoological... therefore: caged...
systematically broken by psychological schematics...
fractions of once whole men.