no, i don't need an outlet: talk to the public,
they tell you you're
either a well guised political machine,
a psychiatrist,
           or an oddity: come October time
propheteering rather than profiteering;
your choice, not mine:
   i look at poetry like
a plumber might look at a toilet:
go in and get the francophone out!
    so pardoning the French
is lost, as casual phrasing goes, woop,
  away away Superman included.

oh right, you might think i'm spelling
something Evangelical,
sure, i hope you do or d.p. as in
do please,
           what with the cool of Wall St.
sprechen d.l. (down low);
i had a few scribbled notes,
yes, Yanky, my laptop broke down
and i'm reduced to pen & paper
         like handcock & *******,
easy does the ****** of loser vill
           (can we drop the e
for the sake of autocorrect being right
when the big words matter? thanks) -
Platonism is plainly Thespian,
             Platonic thought is a Thespian
"espionage", get used to it,
you haven't matured into Aristotelian
         autism: you still want to act,
to puppeteer that shadows of people
without ever *being the people,
don't take it as if it's supposed to be unlikely:
there's a boss around every corner:
whether you get paid or don't, which is fun,
because you state an authority but
still only play the cameo.
      reminiscent guise literature
of rewatching that t.v. phenomenon
that's billions -
             oh sure, t.v. these days overshadows
cinema, cinema is worth jack-****,
it's poverty is intrinsic in forming ideas
or reversed "Latin" grammar  idea-fermentation,
i said English loves to hyphenate
two kindred words,
    like that ego theory
             with the Germanic self-theorising,
self-enabling, self-interest, self-haemorrhaging
  gusto of the capital -
    what a way to finish, i as a prefix
toward robotic modula.

(i write pending, but ensure the enso,
            or Swahili wasabi sting of
green horseradish,
       same so, i live dangerously, or pretty
much on the sly,
           if i tell the taxpayers
  they're getting their money's worth
i'll bound to see a third runway at Heathrow:
got my nose in an Alsatians' buttocks mind you).

so...

i was going to end with it, but i'm afraid i must
begin with it, page entitled

a. a rebellion from the top?
    or right, it only comes from the bottom,
the guillotine and all,
  but never the despotic cupcake for an Antoinette,
right? wrong!
                coming from a worker's background,
i'd been happy doing the ******* roofs of
the Tate Gallery among other examples,
but i was educated as a chemist,
  and, i was told, you need toothpaste, or
am i wrong in that assumption?
     picture it thus:
a son of a roofer is real smart,
      goes to Edinburgh, gets his money's worth
in terms of tuition, over 30 hours year three
of his chemistry degree, when things were still
decent, ~£1,250 a year (one thousand two hundred
and fifty pounds): with words like that
you might sketch Dante and Donatello and
the Italian Renaissance in terms of clapping the ****
away at the gesture...
     but no, it was like that, study chemistry
and you get your money's worth in terms of tuition,
so how the **** did i descend from the "high" tier
of the sciences into the murk of poetry
and humanism?
       history of science and David Hume:
black swans to mind, also.
                          but the other kid in question
was a son of a doctor / radiologist,
and this talk of rebellion from the top?
he couldn't stomach a shifting hierarchy,
he couldn't stomach social progress,
     had i or hadn't i invested my pleasure
time in reading philosophy is no one's business,
had i made a professional wage from it,
sure, but i wasn't intending to do so:
      what's your favourite colour sort of
question and whether truant of the zeitgeist:
the ******* guillotine, mate!
            i just can't perpetuate this loaf of wording,
but it's necessary:
    of jealousy so corrosive, of jealousy so lined
with lice, only then a god is spawned -
           the person in question?
a skiving belittling camel jockey -
and that's me being polite...
       you can almost become auto-suggestive
of needing to cite: what Abel did next when
the roaring Milton God subsided and
     wanked a crucifix that later became 2000 years of
history: or in the making.

i can be a pompous and bombastic parrot
          that cites Polly this, Polly that,
but i can speak to a scaffolder and laugh: with him,
and not, at him...
                 because i know my bombastic mr. fantastic
behaviour about spending aeons in a library
   rather than sniffing bullseyes and ****
        is made to be the fo' sho' lingua rapper tinder
of something or other that doesn't require me
to foolishly date...
                         **** it, cheaper at the brothel.

...........................

                        oh­ i'm just getting started, hence
the title with (penting) in it: no, not really mr. tough-guy,
just a **** break and a smoke and all that's
necessary in terms of transparency, begging to
be revealed in all forms of literary composition...
  
let's just say: a new interpretation of the paragraph,
     for me reading books, a paragraph means Sunday,
1905... because of the constipation and what-not,
   a comma makes me feel like i need a pause to
hiccup or sneeze,
       a full-dot is never a full-dot unless it's a full-dot
and then it's a definite article of end, rather than
the intermediate an end: let's start over, once again;
       but when have you actually experienced
a Macgyver of what's otherwise a "work in progress"?
answer? never!
               you never have: you had to become
censored by publishers and editors for everything to
look the end-product squeaky-clean!
                   unless published posthumously...
and then... you might already be dead:
you never got to see a work in progress...
   and believe me, i have 8 pages worth of notes to
encode into something that's not
that fable about a boy waking up Barbarossa
from slumber and upon seeing crows
shouting: messerschmitt! messerschmitt! messerschmitt!
well, a diet of hanzel und gretyl will do that
to you, you get a fetish like Shpielberg and direct
the Indiana Jones franchise...
                       funny little me, "phony" Englishman
speaking a piquant variation of Essex banter,
8 years in Poland and of memories i speak of the fondest
in my life, and 22 years in this rotting *******...
                    i feel less organic, more inorganic,
i.e. metallic,
       it's like my insides were hollowed out
and i was faking that i am actually being -
   weird sensation, ask any displaced individual when
they have the organism of a Slavic, but a soul
of a German... feels, ******* weird...
                        i mean, Nietzsche and that complement
that the Poles are the French in the ethnic category?
what are the English in the Slav category then?
                          most likely Ukrainian.
i dare you to find a philosopher with a similar dilemma,
i dare you: in light of how this whole
gaining of fame works, not one wrote about
being displaced... well... unless you're talking about
Moses -

                (haven't even started, i need a drink).

there was no social tract anyway!
    to be forced into accepting insemination
        when the forward wording was:
       "i'm talking counter-contraceptive
measures" & 'i want you to *** in me'.
                 ditto encapsulating quote
for ambiguity, the otherwise: real life.
       is my ***** worth more than me?
have i not transcended a weak bladder / **** muscles?
       a pseudo-humanity, intrinsic in man
but not not in beast?
                    i call upon a reversal of what's
a staging of ****, or money grubbing -
                with a woman's twist of the Grimm tale:
as she said: i want this man,
              i will impose a moral grounding / battlefield,
judgement on him! entrapment!
and there's me apologising for the "****" / so-called,
in a fully-consenting intimacy:
   well, *****, why don't you? another Beethoven
is waiting? who's the whopper feminist these days?!
               me? you?! hardly you!
   i consented to a full intimacy,
        is ***** a foetus?
tissue would know,
    or a twisted fetish for ****** cream
advertisement in ****, huh?
              sure, my socks smell, but so does
your moral instinct.
                        the difference is that that i get to
say airy, while you get to say fairy.
                         it really takes a man respecting
a woman's freedom: i seriously thought you
were advocating the right to abort
as you might avert ****...
    sure: i'm sorry i inseminated you,
can you please treat it as a tear-jerker experience
of a rom-com that's actually a transvestite-rom
  and needs 50 years to ferment for the earthquakes
and heartaches and cha cha attacks?
              to me it's an apron needing a wash,
to you it a ******* moral dilemma needing
a ******'s rights to not father a child and you
needing your body to unnecessarily incubate it
so you get the Catholic nod... bonkers!
    yes, i impregnated a girl, at university:
i avoided white trash at school, sorry, but it's true,
i liked reading... let me stress that: i liked reading,
      or bold if italics and colon Gemini be antiquity...
she lacked the character judgements,
the 'why he didn't stay' method statement...
she called my friend and study buddy a troll
based on her aesthetic tastes...
          i could have had a family now, and all
the responsibilities, it just didn't fit into
a replica of Cleopatra and Anthony *******
when they honestly didn't have ******* to claim
as their own...
          jeez (replica of the hand-written transcript) -
writing this on pen + paper is like *******
a **** for reach a champagne fizz of ******
for an hour - thank you keyboard and the digital
pixel off blank: ******* is less painful
than writing with that oddity that's handwriting).
there was no social contract anyway!
     it's not like i was married, there's
no unwanted child joke in this: i do find abortion
abhorrent within a social contract, a marriage,
but outside of marriage? are you ******* kidding me?!
you an Irish priest or something?
       there was no social contract,
did i sign a social contract akin to marriage?
      am i in this for the shambles?
of course i didn't get married,
there was no +ring,
                     sure abortion is abhorrent,
but under a social contract,
  without a social contract (marriage)
i,    had,    no,         obligation.
      what, in order to practice a variation of Islam
on a woman's whim?
    *******.
                     plus i had the gross indecency
gay men have with surrogate mother prostitution;
oh wait, it isn't that? my bad.
            i always had a nicety divisiveness for
incubators... a 9 month ****, with dividends...
        really: feminism can **** itself!
because aren't we at a stage of rhetorically counter-validating
what we abhor in certain Asian communities?
oh sure, the patriarchs are gone,
forced marriages are gone too...
          but didn't i just describe a case
of forced marriage, where a western girl is given
all the powers to reign over a young man
as any despot might over a worker
so he can "think" and drink cocktails and
chuckle over his position between cocktails?
      
  i said abortion, yes, i didn't like the girl's aesthetic,
and you know what? that thing you call abortion,
apart from the fact that the foetus has no soul
the baby neither: not until the diaper is off...
to learn to strain the muscles outside the womb:
you really forgot that the implant of soul
or the later disputed notion of god
is only implantable once the memory kicks into
gear...
               only when you start to remember
is the human person born:
   beyond that it's still nature's brutalist lottery...
maybe a Beethoven might have been born,p
but who cares? we already have a Beethoven!
it's avoiding consented ****:
that's feminism and 9 months spared
the continuation of endured affair / "relationship",
i seriously thought that's what women
were campaigning for... obviously it's counter!
   i claim soul outside of a woman's body:
when the ****** thing passes the diaper gym
and learns to automate the bladder and the ****...
then i say: worthy an implant of a soul...
or chauvinistically that's counter and double-****
of 9 months and Bach with his 14 children,
and the Borgia Popes...
          but at least we have the surrogate "mothers"
and that pretty Disney scenario of two gay dads
to fictionalise into watchable Platonic cavemen
when the eyes aren't glued to the 2D.
why do you think such thoughts ferment in
the heterosexual imagining of actuality?
                your utopian counter-clockwise
has already extended into China being the only
provable state of physical activity...
    and the western zoo of mental philosophical
build-up-detachment? your mental health
scenario only suggests you created acid professions...
at least the physical "antiquity" of China
is compensated by a universal shortcoming:
death and mortality...
you created acid-baths: sport and completely mental
professions: YOU'RE SICK!
     honestly!
     people used to enjoy physical professions,
and the essence of such professions?
no immediate competitiveness!
         you replaced physical professions
with sports!
                  and compensated the need for
physical hands-on with the ****** gym!
no wonder you countered-Darwinism while
adapting the need to advertise it
            and made so many young people
mentally ill...
      because your whole mental estrangement
is the sauce or a broth that's currently on the boil!

i know of Knausgård -  sure, and i share this concerns for
the art of taking to lumber and chopping,
  as novelists tend to do, write with an axe,
philosophise with a hammer...
          metaphor turned into imagery
counter-turned into literalism...
   i once imagined him not being there -
i once wrote ich kampf, stressing
that it was an indefinite expression
of expression, primarily due to the content
of the pronoun... and i was referring also
to the definite expression (much obliged,
atheism, a- without, and the- with,
or indefinite and definite articulation) -
the English eye sees one stance as definite,
and another as indefinite, and juxtaposes
the two interacting...
                          they duly interchange...
i can say ich kampf and say i internalise
verbs: a movement of the hand,
   a strutting or a waltzing circumstance
of owning a body... that's what it's indefinite...
that's why Sartre slithered in counter to
his expanse in philosophy: because i really loved
his novels...
                          but in terms of a mein or
a mit (including me) struggle i find not
ease... no one dares to devalue ****** as a human,
not talking about the past history in purely human
terms urges the postscript of a dictator,
it actually elevates him to a godly status...
           not realising the human is to make flaws
of what the en masse does: raises him to a godly status...
     Zeus had a beard... not a Charlie Chaplin moustache...
right now he's laughing in his grave...
                      old Aldous ******...
   and aren't dictators born because people find their
surnames a little bit funny? it starts so
innocently...          and then it morphs...
   and it becomes an unstoppable morphing...
    yes... i know of a certain number of fellow
      contemporaries... because i want to? no,
because i have to. like rewatching the 2015 film
android - some films you have to rewatch...
   what's being debated? autism and artificial intelligence...
   hyperactive autism, i grant you that...
        it dawned on me... at autistic person could
fake a normal human response treating it as
      artificial... artificial also means mimicked -
  it means that "smart" guy at a bar reciting poetry
he hasn't written... artificial intelligence or the study of it
or even creating it has nothing original about it...
it's not groundbreaking in the same sense that
discovering champagne or penicillin is...
or l.s.d., because these examples have the magic of
being discovered by chance... humanity has been
artificially simulating intelligence since time
immemorial... it's that natural consequence of not being
endowed with a peacock's array of feathers
   to create a soothing, and sickly gentle wind of a woman
resting in a hammock under the shade of a palm tree...
artificial intelligence was inherent in us...
       it's the unravelling of the historical noumenon of man,
the per se that has only crept up on us,
   and before the reality of such a foundation being
established... the humanities create the "prophetic"
citations of it being true: in the "near" / impeding future.
    if god is a noumenon, then man cannot be a
phenomenon... but he is and paradoxically the two
of mutually compatible on a basis of exclusive rather than
an inclusive naturalisation...
               we are talking nature:
  we are talking god naturalised by the medium
suggesting: for i am bound to create obstacles and test
the body, rather than the mind of man...
    as so is man, also naturalised by the medium
of the elements, saying: for i am bound by a body,
   and have to utilise the body first, to overcome the wind
and the snow and the furthermore, until i reach
the labyrinth of the mind...
  and man has done just that, he has bypassed the struggles
of the body, and created entertainment using
the body that once struggled against the elements...
   for he has created the god Minotaur: and the psychic
labyrinthe... as with the Titans whom the gods
usurped, so too comes the twilight of the gods...
but being usurped by demigods...
       Minotaur was a demigod... who usurped the gods
of the trinity that were Zeus, Poseidon and Hades...
        for only the Greeks could create a Judaic bewilderment
as to why a sign was given unto an infant...
           but that's getting technical...
the film, android (2015)? it supports the misconception,
the anguish of a highly functioning autism...
      whereby showing a woman's carelessness in the realm
of adaptability with what some would claim to be
the beginning point of: overcoming the elements...
sure the odd tsunami and earthquake...
   but there's also the tiger, and winter, and parasite,
   and diseases of so many variations...
              man has not been endowed with complete
control over his surrounding... but in becoming partially
overlord of the ones tamed, he has created a mental
labyrinth... a world of such complexity that will
inevitably produce instances of autistic genius...
                 artificial intelligence is already imbedded in us,
just as cloning and Islam has already existed
(Christianity is too schismatic to be considered a cloning
definition... and Judaism as a monotheistic principle
has a heresy embedded in its orthodoxy that it simply
ignores: reincarnation... the Malachi heresy...
  that a second Elijah comes... and god becomes a half)...
   we see artificial intelligence everywhere...
        if the myth goes that woman fed man the original
lie of Eden... then man has nothing else to do than
attempt to polymer that one single lie...
       and repeat it... a reverse intrusion to what "could"
have been an utopian splendour.
      we all see artificial intelligence rummaging about
in the choices people make... it's called lying
   to gain access to a ****** gratification...
  or as i like to call it: a way to compensate our falling short
of the norm, a norm that focuses upon creating
   the most complex startup a Silicon Valley genius
can't comprehend... a family.
    these times prescribe such a bewilderment...
              families are artefacts of what some believe
precipitated into barbarity so close to us: the 20th century...
        and all those arguments you hear that might
discourage the opposite ***, as in damning your parents
for a piece of seashore **** fest of the *****?
   probably came from a person born from a surrogate
mother... well... an incubator, a very expensive *****...
   homsexuality created the evolution of prostitution,
once bound to the genitals... now bound to the womb...
     i.v.f. kids calling natural kids ******...
   i never liked the matrix movies in all honest...
but we're seeing the reversal of the original idea...
                 in the matrix of knowledge... hearts become
piñata: chockies sweet, sensations abundant,
  the spectrum is yours.
                but this poem isn't really about that...
i can sip a whiskey and actually find these things when
i start to utilise these symbols... it sometimes happens
that they fall through... all i was really thinking about
is the "theoretical" score of 147...
                      i'll call them billiards rather than *****
to excuse a "he-he" Michael Jackson laugh at a chance
of "nuance"...
       yellow (2), green (3), brown (4), blue (5), pink (6), black (7)...
and plenty of red (1)... points in bracket respectively...
                  of course from childhood memory i sided with
ronnie... also from Romford... an obscure town in Essex
that oversees the shard and canary wharf from
a distance...                    but watching snooker as a child...
          not too bad at pub-snooker: i.e. pool...
and that game show when snooker was hot back in
the 1990s... big break, with jim davidson as host...
    and of course: john virgo as the rejuvenated
                         ghost of alex higgins... this whiskey
swiggly is on me al.
                 but this final... ****! at one point it was
a century after a century...
                     chess with mathematics, trigonometry
and Pythagoras in motion...
                                    the gods playing with saturn
and jupiter neptune planetary arrangements...
            i can't word it properly... but it'll definitely sound
better than a concussion after too much rugby and
the rough-stuff of "manhood" strutting with bulging
muscle tensions... rather than this Japanese warrior-monk
in a waistcoat and bow-tie swirling a stick in the air...
           i just thought of one thing...
15 wildebeests on an African savannah...
       out comes one lioness...
    and she nibbles at the pack... and she picks off
the weakest of the 15 wildebeests...
              she nibbles the pack before the pack breaks away...
         she looks left (red) and then looks right (yellow,
green, brown, blue, pink, black) -
                      and she picks at the pack, one by one
they fall... but there are two games going on...
   there's the no-man's land snooker where the game is
about entrenchment, and snookering the opponent
for a foul... and then there's the tsunami snooker...
which kinda looks like one person playing chess...
     with no opponent other than a chance mistake...
misjudgement on the case of instinct and how they ******
well know what angle to fudge the white lioness
                onto the billards... and with what force...
      tsunami snooker, or cascade snooker is basically
a monologue...
                             after seeing 3 centuries in a row
you get to crave classical snook -
                                       the mind games of safety shots...
   and teasing, and tempting, and teasing, and tempting,
before the Rubic cube unravels itself,
   and you find that light at the end of the tunnel...
                        and the black pops into...
i'll be honest, i haven't watched snooker for a long time...
        maybe that's why i feel so enthusiastic about it...
       it's sometimes good to be fed this mundane diet
of sport-fanaticism that football is in accordance with
religious dogma... it's a good thing...
             then you end up watching a game of snooker
and all these things start firing up your brain...
   and you end up saying:
      the Taj Mahal can be there for all i care...
the Grand Canyon can be there for all i care...
                    such things don't really require a photograph
with my gimp-face trying to make other people jealous
by actually being there: only to take a photograph,
rather than feed into the air and the thrill of being there...
        as they say... it's a small world after all...
better get used to it being much bigger inside your head.

and in these moments,
of feeling lost enough,
i find myself turning to the tones that narrate my adolescence,
the ones I know every small shade to.

the way the tongue dipped to form those kiwi sounds,
brings on peace like childhood nostalgia,
dripping in rich indigo and sparkling lavender.

i crawl inside of them,
rewatching the story a thousand times over,
feeling the anticipation of the tide's rise and fall,
deep down in my soul.

As whispers of aristocracy,
teenage anarchy,
broken lovers,
and reeling nights,

take me home to my heart,
and I feel known.

They're such shiny chemicals:
Dopamine, Norepinephrine, Phenylethylamine.
Life shimmers,
and each day is painted with purpose
When dosed with such potency.

I would like to believe that love,
The long-lasting kind,
The one you're supposed to want,
The one that settles you,
Where you grow old and spend Wednesday evenings answering emails and rewatching some old baking show in ***** sweats
Is enough to keep life interesting.
But chemistry doesn't always work that way.

My path might dictate some other measure of wholeness,
And more than one type of love,
And more than a couched lookalike storybook ending.
My path may require
Risk, Adventure, Longing,
Questioning, Exploration, Pain,
Brilliant platonic wildfires,
Intellectual dalliances,
And unrequited amorosity.
In short, my path may require some trailblazing.

But this precious neural spark
In my body
That keeps me in love with love
Is mine to keep
For as long as it continues to shine.

chest skipping a beat
butterflies in stomach
scalp massage
smell of crying
falling in a dream
memorable dreams
familiar smells
fall into a song
lay on a cold bed
blanket burrito
good small easy to chew ice
cracking knuckles
coffee on a rainy day
smell of rain
jumping for joy
closing 20 research tabs
warm hoodies
smelling food cooking
rap poetry
reading a good book
rewatching a good movie
feel-good games
plot-twists
puzzling movies
bubble wrap
smell of matches
thick milkshakes
navigating foreign subways
freezing outside to warm room
hot outside to cool room
peaceful nature
crying alone
nice socks
rolling down a hill
staring at space
afternoon naps
soft stuffed toys
hot showers
shouting yeet
anime
infatuation over someone
anguish
smooth rocks
stacking things
dogs
writing sentiments

Your golden frame which I once held so dear
Trickled between my fingers like the unlucky prospectors
Me, cursing the wind, never saw it coming
For days I could barely breath,
Ive been trying to bring myself to the arms of another
But every time I get close enough I’m reminded of you
A scent carried, or a crack in their smiles,
What a fever this is, this thing called love
Hopefully the right prescription will do the trick,
Enough liquor to drown an ocean,
and rewatching Barbarella for the 10th time
is just what the doctor ordered.

My mom once told me there were four parts of a movie.

I asked her, is it the beginning, the body, the ******, and then the conclusion?

She shakes her head, no she said. It's the play, the pause, the rewind

That's only three I thought. I leaned closer as she explains to my eight year old brain what it meant.

The play is when the excitement first builds. It's the thickness of air around you, but still you run out of breath. She says. It's the beginning of the adventure, the beginning of everything.

She takes a breath. She presses the cigarette **** against her lips. She takes a sip from her wine glass.

The pause is where you reevaluate things a little. She begins. It's where something takes you away from your track, and it leaves you baffled, so you stop a little, digesting what went wrong.

She takes another drag from the cigarette.

The third one is the rewind. Her eyes turn a little glassy. It's deciding that the movie was good enough, that it's worth rewatching. That somehow, you can overlook the bad parts and rewind again, replay again, because to you it was that good.

Mom and I stayed silent for a long time. She kept sipping from her wine glass.

I swallow. You said there were four parts, I say.

She looks at me, and her eyes were filled with sorrow, pain. Anger.

The last part, she spits out, is the stop. It's deciding halfway through the replay that it simply won't work anymore. That it needs to end. That the bad things will always be present and cant be overlooked. That the excitement isn't worth it anymore.

She takes a deep breath. She stands and ruffles my hair. She kisses me goodnight. I close my eyes and listen to her heavy breathing fade through the lonely halls of our home.

Later that night, while I was in bed, I get the distinct notion that she wasn't talking about movies and their parts at all.

It was a Monday afternoon...

4th period, first semester 10th grade. Drafting class.

You hated the class. And I... didn't.

But we had fun anyway. I had a headphone splitter and while we worked we watched YouTube videos together. You introduced me to Panic! At The Disco, My Chemical Romance, All Time Low, Bring Me The Horizon, Black Veil Brides, And Jon Cozart.

And I showed you FadeIntoCase, Dodie Clark, and whatever YouTube had to offer that interested me.

Our friendship was good. We never had to worry about boyfriends or girlfriends, we were just kids. But I guess looking back, I can say that we were definitely better people than most.

I feel bad about that one day you were rewatching the Deadpool trailer over and over. You asked me what Deadpool video we should watch next.

And I told you I thought you should calm down.

You pulled the headphone splitter out your computer and chucked it my way. A sudden disconnect. I immediately apologized and when I realized you didn't want to hear it, I stopped trying to get your attention.

I know that's a stupid memory, but I still feel bad about it for some reason.

But I also remember that Monday afternoon that would test our friendship. We were in class and you were... not there, mentally I mean.

You were crying and I felt like something needed to be done. So I went and asked the teacher to let you go... and he did. As soon as I told you, you left.

And I felt bad. I knew I did the right thing, but I felt bad because I was going out of my way to make life better for someone I truly care about. It was overwhelming but I did it anyway.

I took your bag and waited for you outside the classroom. But you didn't show up. I found another friend and began crying in her arms, telling her how I couldn't do it anymore. Eventually you did find me, you took your bag and left.

I felt bad because I felt like my efforts went unappreciated time and time again. But they weren't.

I went home to write the song "At what cost?", which I performed the next day. You asked me why you hadn't heard the song before. I told you I wrote it after what happened. And I promised to send you every song I'd write from then on. And I did.

I still do.

I wrote you letters and cigarettes, I meant everything I wrote. And now where are we?

During the musical, I made and effort to wish you good luck before your big song, every single show. Every show...

You baked me cupcakes for my birthday.

The last time we FaceTimed was a Monday night. We listened to Disney music while you worked on art. You offered to FaceTime... I felt lucky that you would want to hang out with someone like me.

I would give you a hug everyday before leaving school at the end of the day...

In the last cigarette you gave me for my birthday you wrote "I couldn't ask for a better person to go to France with."

And I believed you.

So while we were in France. I can only remember watching a part of an episode of Riverdale with you and thinking to myself, "she still cares... we're okay".

We played games of 31 and that felt normal. But then we played cards in a different crowd and suddenly I didn't feel safe around them. I felt judged, by them, by you.

I don't even know if the locks mattered to you. You gave the letters back as if they didn't matter... I don't know how to fix this.

I remember walking slower to get the attention of a guy. And you saw me walking by myself and tried starting a conversation with me. I told you I was in the middle of another conversation. So you left me to try and talk to him.

You even said, "It's been awhile since we've talked." AND YOU WERE RIGHT!!

I should've stayed back and talked to you.

I wish I did.

I still care about you. So much so that I'm willing to leave you if it'll make you happy. I'm sorry.

How much I remember makes me cry because I will never be able to take back everything I did wrong. And now it's too late.

When I asked you if you thought we'd still be friends after high school, you said you didn't know.

And I believed you. But I still hold out the smallest bit of hope. Everyday, that you'll tell me it's gonna be okay, and that our friendship didn't just...

Pass by...

That I was somebody to you.

On your birthday, at the stroke of midnight, I texted you saying happy birthday the same way I did the year before. And you just said, "Thank you".

So I guess...

Thank you for being there. Thank you for existing. Thank you for being my friend. And if, in the future, I do make things right and we become close again, than maybe I can drop this guilt and shame for what I did.

Because I need too know...

If I'm worth your friendship all over again.

I'm sorry I ******* up. And if I could do it all over again, I would. And I would make all the right choices, making our lives better.

And if this really is the end. I just hope that you listen to my songs once in a while and remember me as someone who wrote a couple good songs for you.

Because "Rush" is still my best piece of work. And it's yours.

“Should we wrap it up?”



“No… **** them.”



And so she held it open and I shoved the contents in, a navy blue national geographic mug with a gold globe and majestic lettering, suggesting prestige and class, and a worn paper copy of ‘Ender’s Game’. My stomach churned for a moment as I feared that I perhaps forgot to remove the bookmark, but the pages held nothing but themselves, and the words of Orson Scott Card, not me.
“You’re not going to write him anything, are you?”



Why did she ask that? She had a right, but didn’t she trust me? I did write him something. I used the bookmark, in reality a half-piece of paper folded twice, and wrote



“Thank you for letting me

read this

it took a while to

get back to you but

I see why you like it.”



I suspected he wasn’t as dense as his misogyny and drug use suggested, and in my form he could find an alternative meaning, the kind I provided him with, the kind when he said he wondered what I meant sometimes.



I reread my penciled note, my last farewell, and considered writing “good luck with everything”. What would he think if he read it, if they read it? They already laughed so it’d be nothing new. I decided against it. It would be a response to his arrogant, empty text, where he triumphantly, probably drunk, sent a blank text. Did you have to tell me you had nothing tell me? She was furious. I never did respond, and handwriting was too personal.



“I have nothing to say to him. I just want to give their **** back and get it out of my life.”



I didn’t check the price of the over-sized, padded envelope I was about to purchase, but I appreciated the convenience of the post office for making my task an easy one. There was something freeing about being passive and sending mail, rather than making the three hour drive for no reason other than to experience another awkward situation, and perhaps worse, another yelling altercation.



I was worried the glass would break in transit, for the fear they would open the package and see it as deliberate, and I imagined their conversation: mocking our relationship, calling us *******, suggested we did it on purpose, saying anything malicious to assert their manliness and inflate their egos.



“Should we send them separately?”

“Don’t waste your money on those ******.”



So I sealed it. The small, bulky package contained things to return seemed heavier than needed. I imagined their faces when they saw who sent it, their outward responses to one another, and their immediate reactions once opening it.



“This will shut him the **** up. I can’t believe he thought I stole it.. I thought it was yours when I packed it.”



“You don’t need to say anything,” she demanded. “He’ll get it back, you don’t need to explain.”



She was obviously more annoyed at the two than I, although I was immensely annoyed. He thought I stole his mug. Well, I am so kindly sending it back. Perhaps this would be enough to get a response regarding subleasing.



“I really don’t want to pay $300 a month for a place I’m not living,” I pleaded.



“If they don’t respond then we’ll put locks on our doors. I don’t want them using our rooms and letting their friends sleep there.. they’d probably let people live there and pocket the money for themselves.”



The line in front of us gave us enough time to contemplate the situation, the whole situation, and it reminded me to check if he said anything. Message read, Tuesday 10:10 p.m. No response. I didn’t dare write the other. Neither would she.



“Six-thousand one, Autumn Avenue,” I said out loud as I wrote the address. A strangeness filled me, as I looked at the names I’d just written and the address of my former college residence. We don’t live here anymore. I was glad of it. I was glad to be standing there with her, running a necessary errand of alleviating ourselves of the burden of owing them anything. No longer would we need to endure video games, constant presence of the boy who slept on the couch every single night, despite his room, rewatching Gordon Ramsey’s ‘Kitchen Nightmares’ over and over until he memorized them, nor did we need to deal with hearing the door slam at 3:00 a.m. and an alarming “I’m home, *******!” from a drunkard. No more cleaning up beer bottles and bowls with cigarette ashes, no more listening to hockey or male-dominated conversations lacking substance. No longer would I feel trapped, as if Giovanni’s room, in the upstairs loft, tension rising up the stairs and filling up the whole house, the way burnt Ramen would smell when he forget to monitor it. The “he”’s would be out of our lives, as soon as they signed the lease. We stood there at the table before the checkout, patiently, thinking of the same thing probably, except I imagined her wondering if I liked when he ****** me.



She took the pen from me and hovered it over the package, pretending to inscribe “Love, the girls” with a heart next to it. She laughed, and I did too. I could imagine them opening the package, the one retrieving his mug, undoubtedly making a snarky comment, and the other ******* about the bottom left corner of the cover of his book being bent. I wondered if he’d wonder whether I read the whole thing through.



I hoped the cup wasn’t broken. There was a crack on the bottom of the handle, and I imagined him sitting on the sofa drinking coffee and having it snap and spill all over his lap.



“Next,” the woman called us and we stepped to send it off. “Would you be interested in the priority tracking shipping? It’ll cost— ”



“No thanks, we’re not in a real rush to get it there.”



“It’ll be the same price as without it, $5.79.”



“Then sure.”



I paid in quarters, retrieved my change and we left.



“Hopefully now that he has his ******* cup back he’ll sign the lease.” We were both worried.



“Do you want to get some wine?” And so we drove. Up the street, left turn, on the main road, right turn through the drive through.



“Hello,” I said to the man in the turban. She gave me her license and her card. “Could we have a double-bottle of Yellow Tail’s Cabernet Sauvignon?”



“Big bottle?”



“Yes sir.”



“I wonder how much those Backwoods cigars are.. sir, could you tell me how much for the 5-pack?” He reached for the pack on the left. “$7.49.”



“Oh no. Do you have Black and Mild’s?



“Apple, wood-tip, wine—”



“Could we have a wood-tipped wine one?”



“It’s better than cigarettes.”



“I haven’t smoked tobacco since Christmas Eve so I’m okay with it. I need it after today.”



He handed me the goods, I gave him her card, we waited, I smiled at her and she smiled back, her pale face and sweet, soft features, like a little pet, and he reached down to give me the clipboard to sign her name.



“Thanks, have a good night.” And I drove off.

When you left, it was like my favorite library went down in monstrous flames
like my affiliate soccer club losing by a
very close margin the decisive games
it was like a great storm pouring on your first visit to the beach
yet you saved a lifetime, and journeyed a 1000 miles to get there
and you doubt you'll ever make it to the Lake side again
It was like taking a bullet close to the heart that didn't **** you instantly
it choked you, but left you to gasp for breath and deal with the pain
knowing you'll eventually succumb to the throb and the ooze
like that split second after you kick the bucket that you dread the noose
but there's no turning back, no way to survive even with a million clues
It was like being caught in the open by an unanticipated hurricane
fully aware you're either going by being blown by a giant cyclone
or freeze to a human marble before the force is come
It was like a catchy novel ending with a melancholic twist
you wish you never started reading in the first place
like, at the eleventh hour, your Dobby burning the wedding dress
leaving you an angry bride and a whole other mess
that would live after you like your shadow at dawn for the rest of your life
It was like rewatching your favorite childhood film
and realizing it wasn't as good as you always thought
and wondering why you went turning over the rocks of the past
like finding out your best friend is boyfriend to your secret crush
It was like losing a close person to a plane crush or an inferno
you receive bits and pieces, you bury the ashes
yet the hopes survive, yet nothing haunts like when such hopes are alive
you live after the belief that someday they'll fly out
oblivion like a phoenix and hug you tight if only for just one more time
it was like finding a free verse that beats all rhyme
in a collection so tattered that most of it can't be read
so you're left dying of curiosity and dread
Losing you was like saying goodbye to your friends at graduation
conscious it could be the end to a great season of your existence
but trying so hard to resist asking the obvious question
or one that wouldn't hatch answers but unfortunate tension
it was worse, it was agreeing to meet after a year and being the only one that showed up at the rendezvous
it was believing the folk stories and growing up to the realization that none of it was true
It made my childhood roses and chocolate
but what do I have now that Santa won't bring an avalanche of
breathtaking kisses to my lips on Christmas Eve?
Losing you changed me, if anything, for worse
it was like watching my soul burn when you left
like a wild fire that I doubt even time knows when it will stop
that's how big a difference you made in my life
and I don't care whether you believe me or not
after all I don't even believe I let you in that deep.
I was stupid to open all the doors and windows
and think only the rays of good intentions would sip in.
You were my everything and guess what?
when you left, there was nothing left!
Not even me...

You moved on so fast
While I’m still stuck in love
With you.
And I’m listening to all the songs
We used to sing
And I’m still rewatching
All the videos that you used to send
And I know, that I’ve got to let go
But for just a little longer
I want to bask in all the memories
That you left me with.

Sometimes someone special
Just comes then goes
Never really know the ending
Until that time comes to pass
Yeah, your heart is broken
Just laying in the dark
You were the one I’d chosen
But your love started to drain
And so you decided you could not stay
Now you’re just the girl that got away.

I made a bunch of mistakes
Decision I regret that I made
I’m the only one here to blame
Hope you are somewhere out there
Finding your happiness
Hope you are somewhere out there
giving love another chance
Even though I miss
Seeing your name
light up my phone
I hope you’ll always know
You’re forever locked
deep within my heart
Sometimes we just need a fresh start.

Sometimes someone special
Just comes then goes
Never really know the ending
Until that time comes to pass
Yeah, your heart is broken
Just laying in the dark
You were the one I’d chosen
But your love started to drain
And so you decided you could not stay
Now you’re just the girl that got away.

There is no hard feelings
I’m really not mad
That thing’s ended the way they did
In many ways I deserved it
And even though I’m hurting
I am learning, still glad we met
I’ll cherish the times together
That we spent,
and I’m still singing
Can’t help falling in love
Those times will be defined
When I almost found the one

Sometimes someone special
Just comes then goes
Never really know the ending
Until that time comes to pass
Yeah, your heart is broken
Just laying in the dark
You were the one I’d chosen
But your love started to drain
And so you decided you could not stay
Now you’re just the girl that got away.

©2023 Written By Benji James

you can really only begin critiquing a movie, beginning with the soundtrack, and, my my, wasn't T2 such a pleasurable follow-up.

you ever noticed how you can't look
at a moon, cross-eyed,
   with only one eye?
      a debilitatingly obvious fact,
when i started integrating into english
society, i said to myself:
make sure you know the sewers of
this city of tongue,
make sure you know every nook &
cranny, make sure you can speak
the native, better than the natives...
i think i did a fair good job,
   after all, english speakers think that
english is a difficult language to learn,
not to a bright-spark aged 8,
this other italian kid, fat as a doughnut
didn't bite into the tongue as rapaciously
as i did...
              and so it went:
synthesise the acquired for about 20 years,
and then analyse it later...
       my my, what a kinder surprise it
ended up becoming!
     but have you ever gazed at the moon
cross-eyed? suddenly you become
no more the *polyphemus...
  you start looking at the moon cross-eyed
and suddenly two moons appear,
  the optical lambda stops working,
             what once was Λ, become a V -
      and you really get to see the world
of polyophemus' father: poseidon,
   because everything almost looks submerged
under water...
                              V
                        ­      Λ       two in 'ere,
two up 'er,
                           almost like the sunset on
tatooine...
          and always that persistent guilt over
"ooh the bad n- word",
      oh sure, besides the fact that i befriended
a 60+ year old ghanian grandfather in
the off-lice, once upon a pumpkin-carriage
tale time ago, and i always end the conversation
by a handshake that involves to of mine
and only one of his...
        so i feel this much . of "despair" /
                      "responsibility" when using
a toothbrush... *****, i ain't got beef,
but cut some slack on the shifty every changing
nature of urban slang,
     ***** might just mean: a shady individual,
and if i can't say nigh-jer (niger),
what am i going to replace it with, nigel?!
        if that's offensive, then i think we really
did a pish-poor job at slaughtering each other
or making ***** films...
     obviously we need to crank up the heat...
tell you what...
   you know what the "holy roman empire"
shifted a tad bit to the east,
and involves poland, former czechoslovakia
and hungary?
             first of all, the languages are a bit hard...
and not everyone speaks english
like they do in the benelux or scandinavia,
that's for starters, but the poles received two
great gifts from the german people,
first the marienburg castle given to us by
the teutonic crusaders of the north,
and second of all...
  auschwitz-birkenau, majdanek, auschwitz zwei
(they're intact, and can be quiet easily
reponened)...
i can't even believe i managed to translate
english black humour...
    i thought some things were never
possible...
     william burroughs in his book
    the cat inside talks about the SS training...
the initiation into the upper ranks of
the SS was to gouge out the eyes of a pet
cat after feeding & cuddling the cat for a month...
to eliminate the pity-poison and mould
the complete übermensch...
  then he goes on to say how he would never
hurt a cat...
               these sort of people,
the ones that value animal life over human
life can actually become the foremost conscripts...
with my ginger quarus?
  that ******* annoying luciano paravortti?
that qat qaeda who ***** in peoples beds
and deserves a smack?
            give me half an hour,
a bottle of *** and i'll tell you once the time is
done...
      but you see... the german have
actually provided gifts...
  these sites are deterrents...
   and if you travel to warsaw in december,
and land there, and walk outside the airport...
you might as well fall it scythia...
           feral lands, i know i've said this before,
but i've just been rewatching commentary
videos from 2015 / 6 events...
      i've stopped identifying the reality of:
it's only real when i've encountered it,
and: it's just a media coverage when it hasn't
happened to me...
             and sometimes i just end up
drinking and writing something:
completely mediocre, since i know it's
provoking some sort of hornets' nest of emotion,
and that the only redeeming part of this
exhausting effort (due to its mundane
subject matter) is the optical diamond -
for the most part, we peer into the world
with two eyes that are so calibrated to be effectively
synchronised, convergent,
     looking at the convergence point,
clearly indicates that when converging,
   the eyes diverge, and are actually parallel...
i have absolutely no idea how
   this happens, the whole: looks upright
but then translate to the brain is actually
upside-down is one thing, but that's the vertical
aspect, i mean the horizontal explanation
of the eyes... how, even though they are
placed at a parallel, they actually manage to
converge, whereby polyphemus' one
is as good as our two...
                i don't have the resources to explore
of given an answer in concreto,
                     just one guy,
having a drink, looking at the moon,
                                                   cross-eyed.

Sometimes I feel sad. I used to be able to write. I used to be able hold on to that sadness and feel it all the way through. A song. A smell. A memory. Just a way to feel the things that I have forgotten in my infinite state of bliss. My infinite state of lies. I’m lost and wandering inside my own thoughts unsure of where to go. These dark places. These dark corners of my mind they tempt me to be more than what I am and I no longer want to play but these spinning teacups never stop or delay. I can’t jump.  I need a love that makes me feel like I do in all these sad songs or am I wishing upon a forgotten star? Rewatching all these blurry scenes from a tragedy that is my life I wonder why I glorified all these people who were honest in who they pretended to be. A real phoney. So why? Why feel so sad in a life so full?

I hate having to constantly do this, but I have no other choice.
There are things I need to get done, and this is the only way for me to do them.
I’m very serious about my Japanese, my WWE Raw and Smackdown Live Live Reactions, etc.
The etc. is for the reviews on do my Tumblr  before and after WWE Pay Per Views.
Right now, I’m rewatching the latest Pay Per View, so I can get my Tumblr review done.
I’m literally watching it again at a cubby, and writing down everything, to type it later.
You know, type it once I’m done writing everything down.
I’m doing this, because if I type it up while watching at home, I’ll get distracted.
This is just the easiest way for me to do it.
However, that’s taking more time than I thought.
Also, I need to have this done by next Thursday, so I can get my pre WWE Evolution post up.
And tomorrow, I’m going to WWE Live Show in Portland, so I can come here again.
Also, I’m going to work on my Japanese in my room on Sunday, so I’ll have to stop till Monday.
That means, until I get this done, I have to limit what I do w/ my online time here at the library.
So, I have to save some time to go upstairs and practice my Japanese, as that’s important to me.
I’m set on learning this language, and I’m getting good at recognizing different characters.
However, that means I have to stop going on here until I’m done.
I know, many people don’t even read my posts that I do on here, but maybe one person does.
Anyway, I mainly do this for me, because I love to write, and get my thoughts out.
I just can’t do that, at least, not until WWE Evolution is done.
So, I won’t be back on for 20 minutes on Monday.
I probably won’t be back on here until week after next, probably.
However, I’ll have plenty of thoughts in my head when I get back, and I’ll write them all.
Also, I’m writing this on my phone, because someone was using the 20 minute guest one.
So, until I can get back on here.
I’ll see you later, bye!

My head is filled with only memories,
When you took my heart
Wish you took them too.
Rewatching our stories
Like a film on the old screen,
Not letting me rest.
Thought I might have changed your mind,
But you have secrets
We are not meant to know.
Years later still unanswered questions
Years later high off memories we once shared.

LA to Tel Aviv - 13 hours 45 minutes

Boarding: Why did I have to bring Avi’s Bar Mitzvah presents? It’s not fair.

Hour 1: I have no leg room and have to squeeze by two strangers to use the restroom. When will food be served?

Hour 2: What? No food, only a tiny bag of pretzels; mom the discount flyer strikes again.

Hour 3: Ok, settling in with my iPad. Rewatching “Stranger Things”

Hour 4: The lady next to me asked if I could watch something different. Apparently she finds “Stranger Things” disturbing.

Hour 5: The lady complained to the flight attendant. She found “Blackhawk Down” more disturbing than “Stranger Things”.

Hour 6: I get into the overhead bin and take out the bag of American candy that I was going to give to Avi. I’ll repackage what’s left into a Ziplock- he’ll be fine.

Hour 7: ***, WTH??? The woman dozed off and has the worst gas- I CAN’T BREATHE!!!

Hour 8: I motion to my sister to trade seats. She flips me off behind her iPad (so that Mom can’t see) and smiles.

Hour 9: Drink service, “Yes I’ll have a double ***** martini.”
“Sorry, you’re twelve.”

Hour 10: I take out a Sharpie and begin a game. I look up “Help Me” on my language app and write it in 26 languages in the in-flight magazine.

Hour 11: The pilot said that Turkey is below us. Are we still allies?

Hour 12: The bag of candy is nearly empty. I feel sick.

Hour 13: I spent the last 45 minutes apologizing to the lady for throwing up on her.

Hour 13:45: Finally here. Let the party begin.

printing 20 copies of a cirriculum vitae...
tomorrow's london job convention,
and i'm...
                    criticism of one's writing,
writing per se,
              i never actually like anything
i write,
   on the odd occassion:
the process of doing it...
                                                  mid-30s...
regrets?
     don't know...
                 is there anything worth
the attention of regret?
                     i have the c.v. in my face...
and i'm thinking...
          half a nurture of lies,
half a nurture of truth...
     tomorrow i'll play the inquisitive child
with it...
    i just figured...
if only a job as a trash collector...
or...
      an executioner...
    something that requires
    eager,                            itchy hands...
of the latter?
   not from a perspective of pleasure,
derived from sadism...
   i just had to pick up a posthumous
bukowski publication
   and think to myself:
    when it comes to novels,
i will never reread them...
   i don't know how people manage
to reread books,
   then again:
   i can be found rewatching movies...
but...
i guess that's why i gravitated
toward poetry...
   like painting,
   like blinking...
   a poem? oh a poem i can
reread, over and over again...
until... i'm still staging an
anti-pedagogy practice of memorißing
poems -
that famous memory
  errosive substance...
   no... i won't memoriße
a poem...
   for the simple fact that,
i'll sooner return to it,
reread it,
   and experience a pondering
tool...
       who doesn't like poems
                          like strait-jackets?
oh, they're "out-there"...
they usually rhyme...
   or they make the application
of poetic technique
                              overtly known...
sometimes i'm less
a "poet" and more: a butcher...
   i'm given raw language,
i reply with raw, language:
pork chops, chicken thighs,
you name it...
          as ever:
   metaphor is no release,
  but a constricting glutton blob
of exhausted patience
   when it should serve one,
   to speak directly,
on matters of no transcendent potential.
- but i guess that's why
poetry appeals to me...
   like painting, like anything,
suddenly the gargantuan
blocked-toilet
    of human traffic under democratic
conditions...
where is the authenticity of fame
when...
   the only "authenticity" of fame
  is best served by a posthumous revelation...
otherwise?
  the current selfie of
                  a isa longwell...
**** me, i was looking for
what can be best described as
the "hollowed-out" Y in english...
i couldn't find it...
   ply, dry... it wasn't there...
i had to look up something in welsh...
there! there! the ******'s there!
     ddu meddwl yn
                                ngoleuni

sorrow: tristwch
     pride: balchder -

you know what helps with
the welsh W?   the ****** Ł...
   and you know what
helps with the welsh CH?
       no... it's not chitty chitty bang bang...
it's not chatter...
   it's... akin to the ****** CH...
hem... hem... hem...
not a hark...
              a dried out ha-sound...

chwerthin (h'łer'θin)
                θ / φ / F...
            to θink about θou(gh)t per se...
is a lessening of the awe construct /
motivation,
within the confines
of the genesis of φilosoφy.
          
           llawenydd (joy)...
oh sure, sure...
   all the ****** surnames are bad...
they have, "too many"
consonants...
   i'm reading a few words
in Welsh and i'm thinking...
great sparring partners...

        i could actually pull of
a decent Welsh
                  pronunciation...
      well...
they're hardly what the English
joke is about:
about pushing a sheep off a cliff...
and...
     sheep-*******
         (ddafad-rhyw)...
        (rył - masculine
   past participle of
           of: ryć -
                      to burrow;
  ryła? feminine
past participle of... ryć:
    which is gender neutral);

finally,
   my phonetic counterpart...
at what point was making
an insult the terms
of agreement for expressing
being endearing?
   right about now...
   as with the picts being...
                             bagpipe *******...

   this sort of language?
                   i'll need to find something
akin to being a *******
lumberjack...
     or something that can allow me
to not...
                  bump into people...
i could very much do
away with being a warden in
a lighthouse...
             to do something,
that is absolutely necessary...
   but doesn't entertain
  the debilitating circumstances
     of some variation of hierarchy...
safety pin commandos,
paperclip generals...
      whatever you call them...
at this point?
  who the who would want
to be an α-male...
    when... all that opposite ***
attention, also implies
                           a β-male drag?
imagine a job...
where...
you're as indispensable as a *******
hammer... in a sea of nails,
and countless canvases of
planks of wood.

i've come to realise my mortality,
prime example(s) aged 37:

i've built up an aversion to music
like an Afghan Muslim,
aversion, distaste, aversion:
m'eh... distaste...

unlike those sorry sobs of the Adhan
sung with the rising sun
over Damascus...

although... i still enjoy something akin
to music,
there is so much more in what's to be said
of music in the mouth of O
in a lover's ***** and all that
stuff that shouldn't be uttered publically:
i've stopped getting off on this dimension
of expression...

if i could i would put a room of "niqab"
on her and hide in it with her,
not that: i can claim to perpatretrate
to anything beyond any scope of "significance":
worded like a verbose cul de sac...
cliche no cliche...
i simply don't have a standard
biological impetus to gratify gene-carrying
worries of males...

i have no problem with her being 18 years older
than me and, Edith, the "dear" public:
a concern for... well by 55 years old
your daughter, by the clock's standard...
blah blah... so shoot the sheriff in the foot
and later call it a juggling enterprise
without clowns...

  some spectacle of the unfore-seeing eye,
my eye, no i, not i, anti-i...
but then making this public makes me all
funny and quizzical...
like i'm her ex past her ex present her
ex future like i'm some cheap-oh
pornographer at best... at best i'm not

the suspect pedohpile on grandma's agenda
of scrutiny... classical beast of comfort,
the wolf in sheeps' clothing...
i will, though, eat an english breakfast
for dinner... and go to sleep at 8pm...
will iron my shirt...
and yes...

   i'm bothered about this liquid retention schematic
of putting on 4kg, massive, 4kg...
being depressed like: it's compression depressed
but my cheeks are bloated retards
puffing up don't know where to go sort
of pigeon fight...

like rewatching ******... and all the gizmos
that film had to offer about being overtly
street smart...
i just need a clean house... a HÜß...
I'm not going to tow-for-tow return to my
former ways...

it's not enough to hear about the antithesis
Dumas in the achievements of Wisława Szymborska
or... Annie Ernaux...
  that's... Er-now... or Ernau-
  since the X is not really said but seen...

which brings me back to... ***...
*******...
coupling...
            well... surprise surprise...
clean house, fickle cats...
no music in no background...
21st Sweden first...
    blah blah glue gum ****...
if ever someone might remind someone else
that gold is the tickle for fancier stuff...
i try, to, "reimagine", the tumultus fate
of Ezekiel's vision...

that inflatable doughnut of Machiavellian
precision... to adjust to move and to adjust
to struck-pinned...

best mantra i could ever bestow upon anyone, though,
as no moralist, being exposed to ******* aged
7 or 8... of no fault of my own,
but jeez... once you couple...
you couple for sure...
like Odysseus to the idea of a Trojan Horse...
like James Joyce to 24h...
a day in a day in a daze...
like...

      i send her hisses and kisses and it's one minute
before she wakes up to the routine that
Kauai shouldn't have ever given me
like i'm still submerged on the footnotes
that become the head-notes of:
a life away from England, in October,
living off of the Tropic of Cancer...

so... an aversion to music and... an aversion
to *******...
reimagining all the vitality of life brimming in me
with a quest for authoritative measuring
distance from no distance...
even in the former expanse of youtube
narratives... films, adverts...
i'm sort of lost to the idea of...
eating that ******* breakfast for dinner and
polishing my shoes and ironing my shirt
and calling her from a train when she's in bed
and it'a my 7am and her 10pm and... savvy:
pirates ahoy...

ahoy, ahoy, poor schmuck...

well, does it really matter that i go to bed
at 8pm rather than 10pm and regardless,
wake up at 6am to go to work?
i'll still be waking up without her,
her, which might gesticulate at all my
biological-scrutinies of sensibility that
i over-stretched my marking territory...
all the better!

unforeseeable *** without consequence
(why did i think X could replace a Q
in the word: consequence?)
because biological reality is a brimful of...
none of the above, or, below,
right now it's 6am in Honolulu
and the storms ganged up on England's shore
and there's no Gandalf...

and we are all, dreary, romantic,
Scandinavian types... typos...
because that's how we operatre,
by bias-focus of deception...
cheap words like "political"
are overtly exuberant...

  Nietzsche said this one thing as if a promise...
life would be, difficult, without music...
life... oh life...
    all the more.. WITHOUT MUSIC...
when ******* comes with all the awe
of the opposite ***...
there's the reality of... the opposite ***...

because i want:
more than the cashier and being the cashier's line
extended...
will i eat? i'll eat:
watching some bad...
acting has become
a bad-existential-pornogrtaphy...

you had your sway dearest sucker,
now is my luminary absolvence
of your role, and title,
like Ezra Pound might have minded....
to ***** with you...
you, inglorious cauliflower of master-pieces!

riddle the brains with no extract of a promising
guilt, then ****... then Vietnamese
those ****** out of a noodle bowl
and then you get a 1 + 1 = 2 answer....
because no rice = no fweedom...

it's 5pm where i'm at but that doesn't
matter to be delivered... does it?

for once in my life i felt and feel relieved
from abstaining
from one act of...
        ugh... the stomach grumbles...
the time, setting and grievances have been, met.

Popcorn
Pizza rolls
Ice tea
Kleenex
***** about to get real
Party of one
15 seasons
Rewatching it unfold
Netflix no chill
Just sad and lonely
With my homie
Special Agent Gibbs

502 bad gateway bypass:
title - through the loops
body - target practice...

finally! it's done! 3 years in the making: since you can only
do certain things during the warmer months...
finally! it's done!
but unlike Nietzsche: there's nothing melancholic about
what has been achieved...
perhaps because he was referring to intellectual endeavours
and not endeavours of physical labour...
that's completely different: with completing some
manual labour endeavours: there comes this waterfall
of relief... a bit like being crucified...
3 years with good interludes...
                            how many tonnes of earth
and sand and pebbles? that one year where
the natural grass failed to take proper root...
having to resort to fake grass carpets...
   mind you: i was sceptical at first...
until me and my father laid it out...
                          not so bad...
              it's actually better than the real thing...
it's hyper-real...
             i can just lie on it... i don't need anything
akin to a rug to lie on it... and admire the sky...
          we've been waiting for over 15 years for our
next-door neighbour to put up a fence...
prior to that? the garden felt congested... since there was
no fence... instead? bushes... endless roughage...
here and there a makeshift fence...
3 years ago she finally gathered her resources:
well... her policeman son gathered the resources...
the labourers came... cut all the shrubbery...
flat to the ground... put up the fence... ****** off...
that's when the work began...
i remember those damp April days...
groundwork is such an unforgiving work...
   i had to wrestles with over 30 roots... sawing...
chopping... hammering...
well... if i wanted to replace these roots with
digging up holes for fruit trees... oh man...
the stuff i found... bricks... pieces of concrete...
pieces of concrete and bricks...
               how many times did we have to travel
to the recycling centre?
how many times did we order a skip?!
    **** me... at least 3 times...
   then there was the dismantling of the rotting wooden
shed... then there was the levelling of the ground...
putting up a plastic: sturdy shed... much larger...
then another little shed...
   so i have three sheds in my garden...
      and a very believable attic with more storage space...
i also have a little house that houses
a jacuzzi...
                 slabs... plenty of sitting area...
plenty of flowers... i forget the name...
   but a quasi-bush more akin to a tree of limes...
rosemary... thyme, oregano... wild garlic... that:
when watered come the night: a perfume of marijuana...
tomatoes, apples, pears, morello cherries...
figs... apricots... rhubarb...
        plums... oh dear: my plum tree that i planted
is chasing the eucalyptus tree...
         a bay leaf bush...
                  chives... mint...
                  i sort of am... a devil in his own garden:
my work! mein werk! me! i did this!
   after three years i can sit down on the grass...
look at the moon and the constellations and...
ah: sigh... i did this, with some help...
i was the one who unearthed all the roots...
i was the one labouring with tonnes of **** going
out and tonnes coming in...
sand, earth, pebbles...
                     i was the one more happy to use
a KANGO and a HARROWS...
                           me! me! JA!

it's as if the "pandemic" never really happened...
me? i was busy in the garden...
clash of cultures...
why do English-speaking throw their children
out of their house as quickly as possible?!
do any... help around the house?
how much money do you think i saved my parents?!
i just see lazy-*** "*******" slouching...
no wonder they get thrown-out of their parents
abode...
   i'm sort of like a tennis player...
my father is my trainer... well: yes, no...

i'm a ******* custodian of the household by now...
i cook the food... i clean the house...
i'm currently trying to get rid of a rat
that somehow managed to find refuge in my kitchen...
**** it: drink and explain...
the classical traps? yeah: i know...
it will break its snout...
he already managed to drag one mousetrap with him...
it probably trapped its tail...
rat being rat: he probably dragged the trap
with him into darkness... and by now has
chewed his tail off...

but i'm on edge... i have a "presence" in my household
that shouldn't be here..
thanks to my Nigerian neighbours...
the ******* "voodoo" overlord of the house-lord
is fond of feeding "pigeons" at the end of his
garden... leaving food around...
**** me... haven't been living in London
long enough?! you feed pigeons in the park...
ducks... swans... you leave food out in your garden?!
you're going to attract rats!
unless... like me... you purposively left
left-over food in a bowl for a fox you started calling
Brody who came round for about a month
because you missed having a dog / why the myth
that cats drink milk?!

that's what i miss most about having dogs...
that's what i miss about my youth...
come Sunday... ****** chicken soup...
and roast chicken...
sure... grandma always overcooked the chicken
to the point where: no one wanted
to eat the chicken *******... back then?!
who had a ******* thermometer to check whether
the meat was at 165 degrees Fahrenheit?!
no one... so... poultry chalk...

but? we all gathered to eat... leftover meat...
bones... even egg shells...
and the chicken soup... with the vermicelli...
who ate the remains?
the dog... the smartest dog i ever
could have been raised with...
Bella... an Alsatian...
     from the stories of my grandfather:
i was able to shove my entire arm into her PYSK:
gob... and she wouldn't mind...
   and i used to ride her... and she used to pull
the sleigh i sat on during winter...
when my grandfather broke the news to me
that she died... i wept...
hmm... i didn't weep when my grandfather died:
i got drunk post-ceremony of the funeral
and hit my head on the radiator: bled...
a month later i ***** out a tear out of my head
thinking: because the eyes do more than merely see...

i cried over a dog... we're so simple...
the simpler the gain the simpler the reward...
and animals give us both...
nothing's too complicated, ever...
but she would reap all the rewards from five people
sharing a Sunday roast...
i loved the way she slurped that rich soup
of bone and meat and vermicelli and what not...
however... since we aged at almost the same time...
she would never trust me to go walking with her...

mein gott... the joy she expressed whenever
i came back from England... she almost ****** her fur...
i loved that dog: she was my sister in a way...
it's so much more surprising to grow up as a single
child with an animal for company:
i failed at hamsters... as i failed at the lesser
Egyptian jerboa: ****** jumped jumped jumped...
until he jumped into a basin of water and drowned...

i was good with St. Augustine's Primary School
Budgerigars... since i was entrusted with them
over the summer holidays...
when i was: E-high... i.e. this high: _
                                                              _­

i wish i was more lenient with Axl: my dobberman...
but then he did try to bite my eye out
after i whipped him for attacking Bella...
mind you: he gave me an eternal memory...
so i was walking him and he bit into a pile
of ****...
   upon biting into it i peered in...
ugh... parasites... worms... the **** was filled with
them wriggling like a 5pm commute in
London...
a beautiful beast: but as thick as a brick...
me and this blonde friend of mine were
playing the earliest version of Nitendo
in my room and... ****** gave him a nose-ring...
my friend started bleeding from his nose...
we had to sell him...
            and once we sold him...
the people we sold him to wanted to give him
back... he's fishing for piranhas!
and as "abstract" that sentence is going to say...

3 ******* years... i had to sit under the eucalyptus
and the plum tree with two ciders admiring
my efforts...

clash of cultures... i've even started joking with my
parents as if we're peers...
i think we're going to die apart as peers...
why are English children ejected from
their households at such an early age?
do they, help, around the house?!
do they cook?! do they clean?
are they invoked to do some groundwork in
the garden? or... do they require some
Eastern European handyman to do their **** for them?!

just asking... i did my work...
i'm going to ask for a payment of...
three cartons of cigarettes...
for work spanning three years...
   i think i'm justified in asking for so little...
plus... i do bring in income to pay for the food...
rent? what rent? the mortgage has been paid
off since i didn't get married...
so... look at me: flimsy flying octopus!
ooh ooh!
            i'm making my bed as "we" go along...
and i'm sometimes having trouble sleeping
for too long... say... from 3am till 2pm...
by then the day is finished...
                
but it's not like my parents employed some *******
handyman to sort out their garden:
ich was da...
   i was there...
           i was there when... i was visiting my grandparents
and my parents wen on holiday
to the Maldives... and we left the care of our
former cat: Oscar... Darshan... to the neighbours
two doors down... Sikhs: you'd think...
sure... give him food... clean the toilet...
on an everyday basis: i don't mind:
but if someone wants to b a boy-scout:
a new found friendship...
parents get invited to their wedding: second... wedding...
the first wedding she married a female boxer...
blah blah...

two days prior to coming back i get an eerie sensation...
i call my parents: i need to go back!
i need to look after the cat...
they brush it off... he's just mad...
right... 2 days later... they come back to England...
"oops": the cat is dead... kidney "failure"...
this ******-Sikh alliance soon ended...
guilt + truth crept in...
oh... how beautifully it crept in...

from sadness i stalked the night...
i managed to find a leftover croquet "sample"...
if i took all the pieces out...
sure... i could...
   and i did... i walked into a World War I cemetery
and started to hack off a piece of gravestone...
the amount of anger i felt was right for the occasion...
i put that hacked off piece of gravestone
on my croquet trolley and dragged it home...

in the full moonlight i dug a hole...
placed the ashes into it...
enough earth for the earth to breath some more ash...
and lodged the hacked off tombstone
into the ground with a thunderbolt of
hand-movement...

oh... i'm not talking to these ******* two-doors down
neighbours... i thought they were suspect all along...
they killed: my: ******* cat...
are they doubly suspect? of course they are!
last time i heard Sikhs could be mistakes for Hindus...
ooh... now isn't a cow now all the more: JUI-CY?!
i feel a Hannibal Lecter gimmick coming along...
i feel like drinking a medium-rare steak...
i want to eat "mother"...

                      ... of course we will clash culturally...
three generations of Asians living under one *******
roof is the NORM... whereas in Western Europe
a guy living with his parents his considered "weird":
even though... that same guy is doing all the househoild
chores... so where are all the pathological cry-babies
playing video-games about?

and the price of living in London is now what?!
i've taken the Darwinistic approach...
where do i have ***? in a brothel...
sure... i'd love an American motel
or a Japanese love-hotel... i'm a little bit bound
to confiscating the pleasure chambers... " "... as it were...
rather: less confiscating them and more:
constraining them...

   but my parents will not die in a retirement home...
and by the time i inherit all of this...
i will have already filtered through enough
suitors of the opposite *** to tell all of them:
sorry... thank you... you're not bringing anything
but a headache to the "table"...
from tome immemorial:
that's how reality worked....
it's still working: it's working better than ever...

one drunk girl has enough ego-booster
to cling to me and tell me: oh... you're ****...
right... now i know...
        all the other timid ones think the same
but are too sober to say those same words...
am i? am i going to go out of my way
to satisfy this ploy?! this plot?!
nope...
            i bailed out long before bailing out
was a "vogue"...
back in 2007.... 2022 is a long time since 2007...

            you touch my Quarus....
you touch my Veroniya...
i'll ******* give you a toothache with a lawnmower!
i'm unhinged... when it comes to
the safety of my cats...
i'll ******* give you a toothache with a lawnmower!
i started rewatching American Beauty with
a remoteness of fleeing glee...

wow! that movie! that movie was so important!
i sort of live by it!
   like: i don't want to live like this mid-life
crisis realisation moment life ought to precipitate into!

mmm... hmm... pet-killing...
i don't care if you're Jesus or Ghandi...
****** would have never...
                   hide... just... hide...
               you ******* Uber-Tandoori bicycle peddlers...
nein!
               niet!
                 i'll ******* dig up your grave and
**** our ***-hole and eye-socket for killing my
dearest friend!
                   hush! hush! ******* Turbanator Mc-****-Lord!
this is personal..
                 you just allowed me for it to become
more expressive...
          ******* singe of Singh;
you don't... get... to... pay... off... vipers!
shut the **** up!

let's call it: Tweed Afghanistani;
spice imperium my ***...
in terms of food?
you need water, you need fire...
you need salt...
          you need time...
             you need... the fifth always escapes me...
like lightning escaped
the arithmetic of elements
for the ancient of days...
                           ah!                        OIL!

we're not friend: better we become enemies
than pretend to become friends.

i haven't "weaponised" my drinking to turn it
into writing, proper, for some time,

there's this riddle in Latin,
because i won't be looking for the words
in Hebrew, so i'll unravel
the saying in Latin,

working from ehyeh asher ehyeh,
i am that i am: toward...
i am who is...

        but god is the Holocaust
is... ego sum quod (that) /
         ut (as) - ego sum

  not who he is...
   transgender bereavement...
   since trans-racialist affairs happened prior,
Cat Stevens had a Greek Cyprus father
and a Swedish mother...

Napoleon Napoleon: best new soundtrack
for a movie...

****... i'll really need a classical
education... ego sum qui es...
i've been sleeping
i can't weaponise alcohol like i used to
to write...

maybe i've also lived a little and can't catch
the surf of loner writer bollocking,
i have all the house to myself but
it's like: i don't want to push the nuke button,
the red red red red...

there's a dancing fly on my table in
a timid stake of the last remaining light,
i almost think that i've given half of myself
up... better evening than for most
spent in Plato's cave without Homer's
spine...

since Homer's courage for adventure is
almost as crippling to inherit as
Moses' Genesis... crippling for the modern man,
modern, current man, seemingly claustrophobic,
who knows, maybe i'll unwind
and use this amber droplets to unwind,

i'll cite some common reference point,
by now i know there is no "collateral"....
i can drink and smoke some marijuana
and have 20 walls with roof included
to bounce my ego about like it's a match of
squash... i'm used to the darkness - des rocs...

i haven't missed the beauty spots...
today i failed at living a day...
i waited for cat food delivery...
i waited for a plumber...
but i was armed for cycling in the night...
as sun disappears come these days
gone come 4pm...
   i cycled like a serpent constipated by
puff and wind and wizards of feathers
to the proximity of Canary Wharf...
via the bus route 5 towards Canning Town
then back through the muck
towards Barking: demographic check...
stinks of India around here...
but at least it doesn't smell of pickled cabbage
best associated with Germans and Polacks...

mitigating 0-return flow of information...
i can't weaponise words with alcohol,
i thought i could... reading a snippet of:
I, Maximus, of Gloucester, Olson,
my new favourite poet...
but the world is shook-up Stevens and
no... clearly, i don't won't to find myself
happy, somewhat interested in how:

the world with it's buckle i will remain
with my scythe... for the burdens of
harvest are still to yield...

i knew my "unprofessional" scribbles would
suffer should i meet a ms mrs "right"...
and now Hawaii is like a Treasure Island
Black Dot Pirate tattoo, forewarning...

it's still funny to me...
the Hebrews do this magic trick of not speaking
the name of their deity...
while the Muslims hail it appropriate
within the confines of: from what i heard, last?
decapitating the heads of unborn foetuses...
propaganda or... am i going to be the last
surviving horror movie fanatic
fantasist that: membrane of: surely until it
reaches me... but until then:
nothing has happened!              bogus...

kick and scream into the brilliance of the light
of ignorance... as long as someone knows...
as long as someone has experienced
the dark bulging interior of shaking-up
human relations...

call it a grandson of pickles...
Reyla loves pickles...
it bothers me it doesn't bother me...
it bothers the supposed bothered me...
like i might be a pastor's son
with juicy snippets of bad ***...
i started my idea come 9pm... it's almost 10pm...
and i'm almost finished my escapade...
so are the cats...
no angry ***** dishes to boot...

i was born to scale the heights of
salvaging hours of upkeep as a bus driver...
that's all i ever wanted to be...
but it's hard... to do the whole...
Leibniz-librarian anti-Newton push of genius
dynamic... but i like this war...
Newton and the push of intellect-spectacular
into the public domain... contrastic
the reclusive Leibniz...

last time i heard about the current
Nobel prize winner... she was writing something
of what Knausgaard's ambitions would
never achieve...
like prize Homer or the Quran or the Bible
now... in the climate of selling to
the literate-doubly-illiterate...
leprechauns and goats...
      similis of the chin and stroking the beard
for good luck...

       luck           vs.           fate.....

by definition luck is choice...
and fate is will...

i wouldn't say, ignore the world, def(l)ect it,
there's no Cicero in me and any mind
worth of rhetoric...

if we had free will... we wouldn't be calling
out circumstances of hierarchies in
the mind of the mad animal that's man
and not the cat....
we're not free without the cages
we found ourselves, to be trapped in...

i was rereading Nietzsche today at 9am
today...
aphorisms are sometimes better than poems...
now i'll get blind drunk and dunk a blind
pit stop to strap smoking a doodie
to help me count sleep: shleep...

it still bothers me...
why did he say: i am that i am...
instead of saying: i am who is                   (?)
i'm tired of Scandinavian influences of literature...
and i'm tired of translatable new-Englishnessness
of this Molotov-multicultural
load, of, *******, *******!

come 11pm i'll be jacked up ready for sleep
come me, rewatching season 1 of BILLIONS...
only because a poet scrutinises an actor
and an actor is not: a poet, a *******,
a priest, a politician... yet still...
between serious dictatorial weight-gain lifters
of the Chinese and Russian civilization-state
authority and western:

oops-e oops-ah... ******* about?
     under the dictation of a veil
of thespian-journalism?! you, *******... kidding me?

PROFANITY AS THE JUNCTION
OF ALL TRUTHS...
to strut with words as oaths
O **** me... i have the entire house to myself,
Edie, there's no mother no daughter
and there's... sand, time, to begrudge you...
you above a tilting hind, broken leg...

the tired ******* are asking: for this matter
to be either stalled or, resolved...
because the Apocalypse is being stalled...
and by double the definition,
smoked, halted...

           but there's this irrational very rational
love of, love of everything that comes
matching up purple with pink...

     who the **** speaks of the Chinese these days?
the ******* Taiwanese?
the Hong Kongish shrapnel brigadiers?!

news news... north east west south...
oh, i heard it's new hot **** getting streamed....
i'll make sure this writing evaporates when
i smoke a soak of a doodie
when i do...

no Olson-Project in Ezra Pound's sight...
i'm in love, i think i'm in love...
who needs to be,
i love regardless, that i'm stupid...

i love cycling at night...
i have a small ****... but big hands...
i have a small ****... but big hands...
    she swallows...
      a litany, some are words best
constricted to be contained to sentences...

i'll smoke one and entertain
kaleidoscopes...
green and with a frenzy of luminescent
purple teasing blue...
so many serious people:

adjectives of burning surprises
key, word, BOMB BOMB BOMB...
life almost perfect, sober,
on Kauai... so remotely... "it".

Such a simple thing
The concept of looking beyond flaws
Understanding a person
Inside and out
Choosing them to cherish and hold
To guide and protect you

Should have been a happy moment
Rewatching a classic
Smiling that I resembled the main character
Laughing that I had her personality

But I didn't laugh
I didn't smile
Because all I saw

Was a little girl, who called her father a beast
And fell in love with a little devil instead

Okay, let's start from the beginning and see what happens.
uh, I was born January 31st, 2000. That makes me an iGen or Gen Z.
What that has to do with who I am, I have no idea.
I've been told that my spirit animal is a Magpie.
It's unknown to me how that defines my personality
as I have never really let anyone enter into the threshold of my life,
for when I let them, they are there just to wipe their feet on my welcome mat and hurry off to someplace more important.

My list of hobbies include oversleeping, drinking more than eating, having philosophical existential conversations with the voices in my head, stargazing on the ground, and always reminding myself that I have overstayed my welcome. I love music when I cannot play an instrument, rewatching the same shows and animes because I know the endings and can skip to my favorite parts.

I love smoothies, blueberries, pomegranates, and black licorice. Like, a lot. I can't stand the existence of styrofoam, embarrassing comedy, and  country and rap music that has no meaning. I hate when media that portrays light of serious topics, the fact I will never fully believe in myself, and that bad things happen to the best of people, and I hate that I can't trust others.

I'm scared of four things: heights, medicine, myself -especially behind closed doors-, and being happy. I've learned not to be afraid of the unknown, because life without uncertainty, is also uncertain so why try to avoid it? Being afraid is wanting to travel the galaxy but never leaving your doorstep.

I'd say I’m a hopeless romantic that doesn't know how to be romantic. Moreover, I am waiting to fall in love. I am not exactly waiting to be in love as that comes with hardships, disagreements, breakups, the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, but that's just me being pessimistic, knowing that no one will want to love me in that way.  

I genuinely believe I will never find love as I fear happiness. I fear the other shoe dropping, the plot twist that comes with my series of unfortunate events, and I suppose that is why I ruin every  relationship I've been in. I sabotage every possibility by not saying enough, by lying about myself, taking actions too far and turning myself into my inner demons in order to avoid the pity and shame by being the scapegoat.

But I’m waiting for the fall, the moment I look into a girl's eyes and be completely vulnerable, knowing that she is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. To understand the secret of happiness on a park bench with Sean Maguire.

I suppose that's why I am terrified of heights, but still wish to go skydiving. Not for reasons most people do it. But for the Fate of it, to see the world from a distance and for that moment to relinquish all my inhibitions and just... live, per chance to be. That's why its called falling I suppose, because when you fall, everything you are thinking of vanishes and it is just that moment of falling with nothing you can do. To have the die cast. No scrambling for any purchase or refuge to save you. Or that's how I imagine it.

I'd say I'm a sucker for a girl with a cute smile, curly hair, and a laugh that makes me weak-kneed. I don't know what love is exactly but would love to give it a shot, to end up loving something more than myself, which with all things being, it’s not that much to begin with. I am oblivious to any kind of flirtation that doesn't have the specific words "I'm into you" in it, and I have no clue how to ask a girl out on a date because the girls I have crushes on don't even know I exist.

I'm an audiophile, meaning I like sounds, like a nice breeze though a grove, the roar of a waterfall and even silence, but I can't handle the sound of people. I'm a self-diagnosed sociopath because I've watched death walk away without shedding a tear. I am broken beyond fragments and avoid therapists with my life. I believe I will never find love because you first have to love yourself enough.

I am nobody's "person". I'm the student at the back of the class with the only time their name is spoken of is roll call. I get surprised by notifications, compliments, and the sound of my name telegraphing through the air. For this, I have trust issues, because hearing my name on the top of another's tongue is a symbol of necessity, a god-like power of convenience. And I know that if I disappeared tomorrow, very few to none would miss me as I explore into the unknown and I know I would then have more friends there than I do now.

I have the number 1-800-273-8255 imprinted on my hippocampus and the constant urge to explore sky at terminal velocity. I'm a botched suicide attempt wrapped in scars of doubt, insecurity and self hate, crippled from speaking by a nation who raised me by the terms equal to that of "grow a pair", "get over it", and "men don't cry"

I have a fear of being healthy from medicine, from the memory of a handful of pills, the euphoria to have all pain stripped away, the memory of being the ghost in just another machine, the definition of the words "Let Go." said by 7 demons canonized as opioids, being found by the man in black I met at the cross roads of rock bottom and a 17 story ledge asking where my father's hydrocodone went. And I, wanting to, with every tear stained fault lines, with every choked cry, with every false answer to the question "Are you okay?", to tell the truth rather than blaming my brother's drug addict friends needing their high.

I have a mentality fueled by spite and because of it, a versatile perspective. I know the moment I feel happy, the other shoe will drop. Just let me show you the collar choking my neck and the leash carried by hope, hanging me in a tree in front of a lynch mob of flowers bouquets and second dates. I never wish upon others of the things I've seen for they would lack the tolerance void of compassion and happenstance, to know how to try your best always, yet never be good enough in their own eyes.  

Hi. My name is Jon, not spelled with a H.
I love listening windows down to loud music, exploring odd thrift shops, laughing until my lungs hurt, and watching sunsets.
I don't talk about myself as much as I should and I don't like my own smile. I lie without knowing the truth and have light speed thoughts, but never enough courage to voice 'em.
I like being alone, but I don't like being lonely.
I believe that there is a God out there and I know he/she/they/it is rooting for me because nobody is going to live my life for me, so I might as well live it for myself.

He held his life into his hands
rewatching the memories of his life
he knew how to be happy once
and so he searched
in the mist of grey

underneath he found a flower
withering away in a dust of poison
gasp! that must be his happiness!
so he nurtured his weak pedals
till it is strong and grown

When Alan Barker look in the mirror
he not longer see a sorrowful man
with an easy slip of a finger he threw away the flower
it was not his happiness
he just needed to know something would live for him.