He said I was considered
a sinner because I talk of death
The holy do as well

I didn't trick a man to **** his son
I didn't flood the earth,
There's more than one way to see Noah's rainbow

The earth rumbles temples and
Splits pillars in two
as someone let all the pidgins go

You could see the red when
the sea is parted, Don't forget
your horses when the river's back

Do as you please but only when your told
or you'll wake up on the shore
only remembering Moby ****, ask Jonah  

They say go for your dreams
but if you miss Goliath's head
you ain't got a chance in hell

The ten insights made from mountain stone
the words reverbed from cascade to cascade
There's no excuse if youre lost in translation

There's not one "t" in Calvary
but today there happens to be three
Good thing he saved them all

The blood was poured ******
So all heaven and hell could see
That we're still clueless as before

The Sabbath reads ten after nine
The Lessons of life are real
but we still go every which way

He said he wasn't going to betray
All you need to know
is that he hung himself from a tree

Hold your guard and stand strong
don't let a little lady ****** your hair
or everything comes crashing down

Tag team with Daniel in the Lion's den
he'll probably set you free and say,
"watch the spear in the back"

Modern times solidify the past
It seems pretty easy to blow stuff up
in the the name of God

Though the sixth commandment
is broken our measure of error
is also our error of success

I floated down the river in a basket
The current was just right and my mother loved me
tonight on this passover night

Sell your brother for brotherly love
Hopefully the bridge ain't burned
You'll see him again someday

I haven't seen as many animals as Noah
Besides, he was hoarding them all,
After building the new world from native wood

Lucifer was canned from heaven
After he tried to kick God offstage
He now has his own show to run

They ate the forbidden fruit
Setting the way of life eternity
Simply by setting the world on fire

When the staff slither's snake
One better harvest before it's too late

Resilience.
I wish
I had
that
thing.

[PREMISE: SOCIETY KILLED THE TEENAGER]

>>WHAT WOULD THE TEENAGER DO?
OPTION A: SUCCUMB THEMSELVES TO DEATH AS THE SOCIETY’S PREY
OPTION B: DO NOTHING
OPTION C: SUBVERT AND RETALIATE TO **** THE SOCIETY BACK

They told me that
I would lead a bright
future ahead of me;
that I would soon
be a valiant knight in
shining armour.
I said thanks but
I lied.
Truth is, I
don’t want to let
them know that
I’m not even sure
I would even survive
until the
age of
eighteen.

Car crash and
interstellar collision,
please face
me.
This place is a
deceitful space
of discordances.
If only I used my
short life
to propagate
revivals to
everyone,
what world would
wait ahead of me
when I’m
awake from the
death?

One day I
came home with
wounds from
fighting.
He asked me
how often did I
treat my
wounds.
I said it was nothing
for I am used
to it.
He then objected.
“No. I mean the wounds
in your
heart.”

As much as my
inner voice
reverbed,
telling me to
love him.
I couldn’t
because I’m
not the kind of
person that anyone
would love
and I should
just not love
anyone as well
for I
would just
end up feeling
disheartened.

They caught me.
I was entombed.
I incarcerated myself
inside the
disputes I created
inside my own
head.
They caught me
because I am
not a
slave of
their
societal norms.

I spent days
wondering why and
how could I
still be alive
despite all the
numerous amounts
they attempted
to excruciate
me.

—————
——SYSTEM HAS BEEN DISRUPTED—
——SYSTEM EXPERIENCES MALFUNCTION
——
__
2083208 4988 32973
39743
39493

I am.

d e t h r o n e d.

Wish I was your anything, Highdiver. I am not, right? I can’t go on anymore.

I do love you or maybe I did. Or never did at all.

Wish I could revive at least one soul in my short life.

But I couldn’t. I’m sorry Highdiver.

Almost all of my heroes are dead.

If I die, would you regard me as your hero?

Yours truly, the one who revolts in disruption as your Alice.

—

I’ve come to realize that nothing has ever been inherent. Not because I’m trying to manifest an absurdist or nihilist stance, but because the truth just is.

Two conflicting thoughts, but three inflicted hearts, and one convicted by the time of the clock. His heart stained by the sharp pain of a reclaimed memory. His heart he gave to her and said it was her’s to bleed. She gave it back to him and said it wasn’t hers to see. He gave his heart away again, to a girl who needed a friend. Then the friend accepted it and, gave up hers to him.

Time flew by in blurs, their sweet words slurred and reverbed in his mind, which was refurbished. He referred to his past as garbage, recycling out the skirmish thoughts. Her allure had him squirmish and nervous, out of his box. The mask he used to speak of, the one that claimed to defeat love, had reached it’s peak of deceit of, his mind. All this time he had told himself to hide, but the feeling of her skin had made him feel so alive. That she broke down all the barriers that he had stacked up high, by means of drugs and alcohol, death and suicide.

He stays committed mainly because to her he is addicted, permitted to admit it, he’s pitted against his visions. Omitted, acquitted forgiveness. Promises transmitted into words, but verbs are quickly emitted. But the war that’s waging in his head is something truly wicked. The **** he puts up with constantly has pushed him to his limit. He will never give in, to the sin that had him spinned out, from the end to begin.

She was everything he needed to get him through the day. She became his routine, a content place he chose to stay. But the very thing he wanted had seemed to come back into play, but they settled on these subtle terms, rules unmeant to break. She respected what he had, though she still seemed so sad, and he was mad at himself for not appreciating what he had. The bad thing is the the what if factor. What if she said yes, would it even had mattered? Could he really make her happy? Would he only make her madder. He can never talk about it, and risk a kick to the bladder. Talking at her getting madder. “Really wasn’t supposed to add her, couldn’t out her anymore, love her more then mass does matter. We chitter and we chatter, then I hit her with the truth, she accepts it but I’m guessing that there’s no hole in this loop.”

From one end of a sea, I waved to you
And carried it with me out to purlieu.
Over desertous thirst. It sank me through
A mermaid's con: rehearsed to drown on cue.
 
It reverbed off radars who threw it off course,
Who clash out; Who say our sound invokes force.
Who translate our call to a crime; (perforce);
Who trained us to fall, then harbor remorse.
 
I wait still in oceans for your wave back.
I wave me free from fear of dinful attack.
I got it all up here, should they lose track.
But I'm anchored still, -- slow, should you wave back.

Confessions, confessions
everybody wants to learn the lesson
but nobody ever wants to pay attention
real world problems and such? Nah
they're just analysing the regressions a touch
don't think on it too much
or your head might just feel a little bit

So, attention! attention!
before I forget my digression
I've been meaning to lay waste to
the lies and oppression but
as this world that we live in
rather than fate would have it
I'm just another voice amongst screams
inaudible, lost, the sound of mania and fiends
or just not worth a listen it seems

Sugar, **** and cream
outdated music reverbed and rewritten
old films on new screens have me smitten
just keep feeding me that good stuff
I don't do politics; I'm living the dream
I thought I was in 2016, but now this,
this is cartwheels and  back-flips

In a favourite song of mine a lyric goes
"wise men wonder, while strong men die"
with age came the realisation that was a lie
wise men don't wonder they already know why
it's the strong men that tell boys not to cry
then wonder about the epidemic of male suicide
which is the leading cause of death for men under 35









Just keep feeding me that good stuff

the little dots,
the little dots,
the clever tasks
of hit-me-nots,

the flavor chase
of over-cradle tones,


      the rounded bore,
the tasted lore,
the keenest sweet
of evenscore,

the purgey smile
of freshly-rattled bones,


      will leave us here,
with blanketsmear,
the slowest breath
of hold-me-dear,

though room reverbed
with slender, ghosted moans.


      the little dots
of eyelid knots
will crest and lumber
sandy cots,

we roll the night
like sunny,

              bleaching,

                                  stones.

trombones play dead jazz
as zombies phone home during
witching hour curfews
and soccer dads in loafers,
some how broke through
haunted ghost tombs.
the dirt, wearing wolf pants
raising me errant,
giving no deserved praise,
in the moon light
of the circled days
where life controls the tides
as kids surf the waves.
solar senses showing
sensitive minds lending lenses,
deliberately shining intensive
like jackolanterns enshrined in crypts
prescribed a limit by times decision
only the most on point physics exist when
lonely kids knowing
the sky's distance is just myth
hacking schemes bent on ending happiness
as it seems, this rent exists to hassle us
remaining skeptical when it comes
to syndicates of master trusts
stick a curly crazy straw in the red sea
slurp up all the kelp and the dead things,
a young witches getting all messy.
soon, a consumer's real dream in Sumer
concedes hands free to a banshee bloomer
fleshed out as pure steam, still streams
of blood flow filth stinking like sewers
smelled by cheaters
spreading tricks for treats
like ticks with diseases
throughout suburbia
disturbing macabres
echoing curses reverbed from past times.

sometimes i sit and text women messages free
of any ****** connotations.
other times i come across a chopped & *******,
slowed + reverbed out version of a neoSoul song that i love.
she’s blonde and has a dumb thicc *** and
she’s a woman of few words and she was born
under  a constellation of fire.

like i was.

her eyes are nearly unblinking
and they say less than her mouth
but i know
there is a sea
of symbol-sets
beneath those televised eyes.

how am i supposed to weave or write
when the joy is coming for my neck.
time is the measure of energy in motion

so i turn the dial wayyy down.

God is not a time-piece.
God is a flour mill -
shaped like an inside-out hourglass
in the background of XI Jinping’s latest video on
Tik Tok.
“Violent anarchists held a ‘Night of Rage’”
“Violent anarchists graffitied the Hatfield Courthouse.”
“Violent anarchists continue to attack law enforcement with lasers.”

gravity is ******* the feet and
hills are ******* the walking.
graveyards are a hard one for the memory
(if you believe your family is another pile of bones).
at least we have our three deaths to draw on and die.
1st when our last breath leaves us
2nd the last time someone speaks our name
3rd when Zuccman the Reptilian deletes our postumus, memorialized FB account.


where lies the heart of the enlightened without a mirror?
or when the three deaths are drawn and
it hangs suspended in purgatory like a
pack of Newports in the freezer?
or like a stylized hospital mask produced under
contentious labor practices and
shipped to America via air freight
passing over the Xinjiang province where crimes against humanity
are being committed on an industrial scale ----
The Uighurs NEED OUR HELP THEY SUFFERING A GENOCIDE
THEY ARE BEING ETHNICALLY CLEANSED!!
https://www.vox.com/2020/7/28/21333345/uighurs-china-internment-camps-forced-labor-xinjiang

rehashing, redacting words in breath-
less thought. back into, place of
belonging; back for, a time of concep-
tion. then, and always, exhaling tone
of muscles vibrating. spoken, reverbed
of this hollowed body. eye-to-eye, view-
ing a soul outside this vessel; speak
to the eyes to be heard ofa  soul. and
of last breath -- words spoke, never
meant heard of interred. of last breath,
to be out sole compansion of lamplight;
to sprade paper scraps where images of
life were found writ from mumbled
hand. words, those left withered th-
oughts scrapped when weened of
connectiong. eyelids flutter, lack comm-
itment of the soul wandering through
broken roof and heaveward on and
beyond an impossible sky gliterring.
out into some million mile expanse --
some insurmountable spanse not even
Katahdin might hope sought. simple
lamp light, casting shadows, in never
furnished room. they stroboscope with
the fluttering -- an attempt to disavow
final alone breath. a first kiss of sweetheart
named death, but not that from mouth of stereo-
typed sickle-carrier. death with lips full and unpainted;
lips not of harlot whose eyes were long ago shut away.
were long ago gone, beyond this spansed memory. death,
sweetheart of childhood, wavering in the dim light; death,
patient waiting found only from one love lost to the million
mile spanse. sweetheart, with face to ease and supplement of
spirit; out wandering awaiting spirit-loose companion in abidement
of union outside the restraint of physicality. her -- death -- finding
manifestation in shadows thrown through empty space.
cast of oil-soaked lamp's wick turned low; vespers of shadows
ever morphing. ever cooing. waiting to accompany part
and leave pense upon ever-veiled soul of him whom
sought an emanation's first and final kiss of unpainted lips.

You are in a dream, that is what you think.

All you hear are quiet footsteps that keep getting subtly louder. A little before you open your eyes to see the approaching thing, you realize that it is already in front of you.
You catch sight of a masked figure, which starts talking to you at a reverbed tone.

- Wake up! I've been watching you. You are not as alone as you have thought or you think. There are more layers of existence and the single one you live in is the real itself.

But there, as you might have guessed, many other worlds that are possible. They may cross your future or slip away forever if you cannot make the leap.

Consider your life, your ability a gift, your sensitivity a power.

Now, follow me.


The masked monk turns around and starts walking towards a dark door opening, slowly disappearing in the bluish black for that surrounds you. You can't help but to follow him (...or her, you could not decide what kind of voice was this, but you would bet on it that this monk wasn't human, just looked like one...) and pass through the door. It is even darker inside, but you see a small candle lightening up. The monk takes off the mask.

- I am ... (to be continued)

The hurricane winds are a bore
When they’ve been pushing you around
For two-thirds of a century
There’s nothing surprising about what torsion can do:
I know, I know,
It’s real but it’s all in your head, both at once,
Your collarbone is at 227 degrees toward Polaris
And meanwhile your left hip is rotating in a
Hyperskewed dimension only plottable with
Imaginary numbers, which is a problem
For peristaltic functions dependent on
Newtonian mechanics – sigh, shiver, burp,
Keep your awareness don’t fall over
BORING.
You’ve been on orange alert since Ike.

Let’s run down the repertoire of available distractions.
Jokiness? Sometimes worked in small
Person-to-person settings (you see the current problem)
But amazingly hard to pull off in text;
Mentally mugging the innocent online?
Leaves a bad taste.
Obliterating lust? Seems to have annihilated itself
Except in pain-in-the-*** dreams, the actually-asleep kind.
Guitar, or similar toys? Only fun as long as you keep finding
Novelty – which turns into, you know, work.

Drowning your mind in other people’s stuff?
This is the scary part.
Sometimes, still, for a little while; but never for long;
Not the freshest, not the most age-old time-tested brilliance;
Metaphors fall apart – the plot devices cannot hold -
You blink twice and the wind’s whipped the page out of your grip
And twisted your neck down up inside your ******* again.

So blowblowblowblowblow, babybrainballoons,
And Crack Your Cheeks,
Coz the only shred of hope is that if we all keep
Caterwauling our pissant poetic brains out at maximum vocal volume
Preamped and reverbed by global satellite systems to some
Unpredictable transhuman force it might eventually
OutShout the drone of Earth’s idiotic entropy
Kuz krist I’m bored of standing up in the wind