Oh dear
Oh dear
I've happened upon a queer
I don't quite know
how this should go
luckily I have my rulebook here

Morality for Fools
tells me homosexuality is a sin
Now I'm allowed
To yell it out loud
and tell him how naughty he's been

Oh dear
Oh dear
My neighbor's wife is licking my ear
Oh what should I do?
What happens next?
Lucky I keep the rulebook on top of my desk

Morality for fools
tells me that adultery is wrong
so I ask her to leave
and she seems a bit peeved
as she was itching to get out of that thong

I'll be the first to confess
It's sometimes a mess
to keep it all straight in my head
You see, I have no morality of my own
so I use the book's instead

It's perfectly fine
and I really don't mind
It's so much simpler this way
I'd rather be told what to do in my life
than make my own choices all day

Instructions for Life-Lesson 1

How to be Awesome daily.

Step 1: Wake up each morning and say “I’m Awesome!”
Step 2: Go to closest mirror and visually confirm Awesomeness. (It’s there-trust me)
Step 3: Continue on with the rest of your day…being totally Awesome!

If followed regularly, these simple steps can change the one thing that differentiates the Awesome from the Non-Awesome, and that is belief in self.

Now get out there and have an Awesome day!

I see the space station passing over, and I wave, and think about all the silent machines above me. Orbit is a controlled fall – I remember that. An endless downwards hurtle, but with just enough forward momentum to keep from hitting the ground. Freefall. I think about satellites, and how this barely controlled freefall is the only way that they can fulfill their purpose. I think some people are like satellites: we also live out our lives in freefall.

Satellite people, that’s us. We’re the ones who always say the wrong thing to the wrong person, or the right person at the wrong time. We didn’t get the Rulebook for Human Interaction that the others got given at birth, or soon after. Or if we did, we never read it – discipline was never our strong point.

People in freefall Get It Wrong, often. We’re good at self-justification, and we tell ourselves that she doesn’t really love him, that our unhappy childhoods are to blame, that our badness makes us interesting. We never got the hang of sensible, grown-up love - our bodies shake, our souls twist and burn inside our limbs, and we open our big mouths, and the only thing we can keep down is Jim Beam and dry toast, because we don’t know if it’s all going to be OK, now we’ve spoken.  In all probability, we’re never going to know.

We live our whole lives in freefall, people like us, but with just enough forward momentum to keep us alive. And we are alive – ****** and embarrassed and scared, but alive. It’s when we feel nothing, that’s when people like us hit the ground.

According to this book
You can't throw knives as a Girl Scout individual
However, the book neglects to mention
Uranium, cadavers, and cult rituals

Lymeria
Part II


You must think in this way,
And shall think only truth.
You cannot dream at all,
If the Lord has not called.
You must warm by the fires,
And follow our will!
For if you learn to doubt,
You will not see the hills.

I want to write about *******.
I want to write about everything I’ve
ever been forbidden
from thinking—I want to ****
everyone, I want to be everyone.
I want to lick up the salt
of your sweat, and bite the supple skin
of your beautiful neck,
and I don’t give a ****
who the ‘you’ is in question.
‘You’ can be anybody, any soul
throbbing with the grit of
humanity, who’ll rip their decency
wide open and stand naked and
unrestrained by the starched collared
shirts of everything that civilization
has taught you about how
people should be.

I want to write
about something that terrifies me, and paint
it in permanent ink across my chest.
I don’t want to find clothes that fit, and ****
finding a moral tailor,
I want to be naked and free and feel the wind
sting my winter-chapped lips and
whip my hair against my face,
and I’ll burn every metaphorical rulebook
containing anything I’ve ever believed
while dancing around the fire.

And I realize this poem (if
you can call it a poem)
doesn’t make any *******
sense, but neither
do you and neither do I.
We’re all confused and ***** and tragically
beautiful little ******-up creatures crawling
this earth knowing only
our ridiculous little ******-up lives.
And I can’t really tell you anything
you should always take seriously, because
one day you’ll die and **** yourself afterward, and
so will everyone who ever knew you—so you might as well
not care about being naked because we’re all pretty ******* ridiculous
running around in suits we’ve purposely designed
to never fit.

Leftover from the time when
Shards of glass buried within
Amounting to a stretch of time
Where the heart is made to lie thin
A torn visage of regular men

Cool and collected
Shaken and anxious
Both describe a man
Wedge between lives
Broken, again and again

Remedies come and remedies go
Changing hair and clothes
Learning from each meeting
Losing a shard of that fear

I'm a freak.
A ******.
That's what I'm known as.
Or I could just be different.

Who said your favourite colour had to be pink to be cool?
Who made this rulebook?
So what if I prefer combat boots to stilettos?
What if I want to be different?

I am me.
Just. Me.
And if you don't like it, you can ignore it!
And, newsflash: You don't have to like me. I'm not a facebook status!

Because you know what?
I tried being normal.
But it got boring.
So I went back to being myself.

How is it possible,
That man can heal the sick
With a touch of his holy palm?
That he can still feel pain of bricks,
Stones and pebbles, despite his charm?

How can the truth be told
When the concept is hard to believe?
Stories of strangers bearing frankincense, myrrh and gold,
For a child born from a ******: it’s hard to achieve.

It sparks fires, it unknowingly kills.
A story, so harmless to begin.
Now it’s violent, aggressive and brings new kinds of thrills.
A story, now a rulebook to escape from sin.

Man’s greatest influence –
It’s crystal clear to see –
Also intends to be
Man’s greatest enemy.

It’s not a weight on our shoulders
Or an anchor, heavy on our feet
Not a ****** victory over others
Nor a weakened or beaten defeat

It’s not a maze of constant worries
Or an indecipherable scribble in our minds
Not a rulebook for our partners to follow
Nor a road full of stop signs

It’s not a game of lust and cheats
Or one image meant for all
Not a series of conditions ‘Only if…’
Nor split, withheld, or bought

It’s not sadness, tears or heartbreak
Or using one another for gains
Not ridiculous expectations to be forced on us
Nor emotions to be smothered or chained

It’s as natural as the breath we take
To give it out is simple and plain
It emanates from all our souls within
A light within us always untamed

Take a moment to truly find it now
Be still, be calm, be true
For when you do you’ll realise how easy
Unconditional love is within you

when i was young, all i wanted
was to work in record shop,
i involved the nick hornby high
fidelity bug / virus and i was all set,
but them the music game changed,
it wasn't tagged as -sony, -******,
or some other record company...
but entitled self-,
see the hyphen is historical residue
awareness... but there are a few music
outlets open, the h.m.v. on oxford street,
or the one at romford,
the ****** mega-store where classical
music was caged behind soundproof glass
doors is gone... i guess the owner of the h.m.v.
is a benevolent billionaire philanthropist...
we all know richie branson sent all the artists
to hell and actors to the stratosphere
with income from tubular bells by mike oldfield...
i get that... but what you miss with instant access
is the randomness of waling into a vinyl / sly mercury
(c.d. it has to be more than compact disk,
it has to have a status of a vinyl, it can't remain
an acronym... vinyl.... and... mercury, cosine it's
silver, the end, 80's rule, or rulebook,
brick sized mobile phones, it's part of history,
you ******* tartan yuppies),
well, as divergent as a tangent can be,
all i ever wanted was to imitate the high fidelity
case presented in fictional medium by nick hornby,
never got the chance, did work experience at
Burtons (a clothes outlet), even though
i wanted to sell music... the hamster napster beat me
on the treadmill... never got the fairytale godmother
to wish-blink wish-blink magic pogo stick makeover;
but h.m.v. is still open, and went in and played
the lottery genie, i got https://goo.gl/KdB7oY:
why do you why do you why do you voodoo?

The man who put bullet holes in the fabric of time waiting for you
Who scrawled lunacy all over the pages of history
Who started all the wars, murdered all the prophets, burned down empires
Who laughed “Apocalypse” at a billion futures
But let every opportunity slide by

The man who wrote your name on all the maps for hope of finding you
Who dammed up the rivers he had made so you wouldn’t see his tears
Who peered between saplings in forests he had planted to see if you were hiding there
Who sat by fires in newly opened taverns, telling tales of his search for you
But didn’t cross the road to knock on your door

The man who locked you in a tower to be the princess in his fairytales
Who cast himself as the dragon guarding you forever
Who lived off a diet of slow roasted questing knights, tall handsome features charred at the edges
Who antagonised himself in the kingdom of his own story
But never looked through the window to tell you why

The man who wrote his rulebook with the blood of his closest friends
Who proudly swore never to break Number One
Who even wrote a riddle to protect it from your words
Who drove himself insane with all the times that he stuck to it
But never realised it kept you from him

The man who made himself a crown of thorns from the dozen red roses he tried to send you
Who crucified himself with dreams of you
The man who was content to write you a love poem
But couldn’t tell you he loved you in person

When my eyes open in the morning, my brain eventually catches up to do the same. It just needs a little kick; Intravenous caffeine directly into it. My engine finally turns over, and I’m a little rusty at first.Pushing through sluggish build up, I backfire like an old lawn mower. Can’t think straight, I’m still distorted. Need WD-40. Lubricate my gears, with a nice hot shower. I’m relaxed and clear, I can start my day; At least a little better now I can say.

Thought process is free spirited, roaming the halls of my mind aimlessly. No rulebook to be followed but the laws of nature; like lighting. It strikes, so fast and frightening. My thoughts. They tamper with the Richter scale of anxiety within me, and a tidal wave approaches to swallow me after the quake. I can feel its presence, when it’s on the verge; Emitting a surge every time my heart beats. Scurrying its way through the crevasses of my brain, it taints the walls of grey matter with a tendency for unpredictability. Impulse; is out of my reach.

Brace for impact, emotional roller coaster is soon to crash. If I don’t grab a hold of this lap bar, I will lose my sanity. Too late, I’m falling—I pull my rip chord. My mind opens its parachute, choosing not to ignore; all of the objective. My chord is perspective, that rips out subject, thoughts that cloud my mind.

Emotions are like oceans that brew thoughts with explosions, through your veins. They are the fuel for our senses, like caffeine for my brain. I can’t explain, but it reminds you you’re alive. It can feel like insanity, but don’t let that die. Embrace insanity, it’s the spark of madness you need. As far as I see, it's inevitable.

When the inevitable is feared, and you fight to keep it away; You will no longer be insane, but will have completely lost it.

liberalism rots my brain and breaks my heart

emotions are cast as a lack of objectivity needing to be overcome and cut out.

emotions are not insight they are impediment.

a threat to someone’s wellbeing and dignity is cast as a difference of opinion, that we can agree to disagree that there is no target on your back.

while you are walking up hill into the wind with your possessions rolling down the bank, the world is warped into a frame, call it a “level playing field”

as if an elite group doesn’t own and run the pitch, profit from the rent, write the rulebook and hire the referees.

Let me be the youngest
and say
somehow
we went astray
but there is no rulebook
that says
we have to stay
this  way.

Never befriend a soul-eater.
Born from the void,
They can eat reality in a satisfying gulp.
The fabric would be snipped from its place.
no amount of stitching could rebuild the base.

What if, in battle, you’d confused the pegasus with the unicorn.
The pegasus, she’s ready to help rid you of your enemies,
But pray that last warrior was willing to lose the fight.
The unicorn, with it’s spiraling horn could serve you no justice.
Surely, the winged stallion,would save you with its robustness.

Imagine you come across the Dame Blanches
She is ghostly and beautiful. She wears white.
She urges you to dance.
You’d better dance like a joyous, pink pig,
for your life, literally, depends on the jig.

Suppose your village is going through a drought
Do not forget about the airavata,
the winged elephant who brings rain,
the villagers would likely suffer on your behalf.
The lot of you would eat nothing but dry brittle grass.  

What if you come across the gremlins?
Surely they look horrid.
Do not keep them as a pet.
Do not, I repeat, get them wet.

Imagine the ogre stops you in your path.
Do not be afraid.
Ask them if they want a golden coin.
If you offer a piece from the treasure chest,
they will quickly help you on your quest.


Suppose the Valkyrie are tempting you with their charm.
They are beautiful warrior women.
Never let them get you into bed,
They will take your belongings, including your legs.

What if you have no means of travel?
The dragons will help you if you tame them.
They can fly you to new worlds.
Give them a poached egg and and a racoon tail.
They will usher you around like a precious king.
You can cruise the air with their beautiful wings.

Suppose invisible danger is what the day brings,
Do not step outside of the fairy ring.

When I first learned
that Trump was

running for President
I thought it was a joke.

Then I saw the irony
and knew for sure.

Nothing was ever going to change
no matter who was Head of State.

Nothing changes and nothing will ever change,
unless we throw away the rulebook...

and **** the rich.

What qualities make a ‘successful man’,
Is it the tambor of his voice,
Some lofty goals, a lifelong plan,
A steering hand, his knowing choice.

Can compassion play a part
Or is that interpreted as meekness;
Is it wrong to show a heart
Without labeling it as weakness?

Does strength need to be paraded
A steely front for all to see,
Is authority degraded
When others sometime don't agree?

An old proverb said as much:
"A wise man is one who listens"
Few have had the Midas touch
And those that did have breached divisions.

Three traits renown - the deadly cluster,
The very ones to spell out doom,
Bravado, Braggadocio and sheer Bluster,
For all they bring is downright gloom.

So where's the rulebook, that golden fleece
To show the way and light the path,
That font of knowledge and inner peace,
Assured success without the wrath?

Where it exists is inner strength,
A willingness to learn whilst teaching too,
Consistency and grace to any length,
Embracing all of us, not simply you.

Delayed reaction
Bitterweet one-note transaction
Turn a blind eye
Voice it in a lie
From compulsive catalogs
Gift-wrapped by mythomaniac hands
Mixing false theories
With hour-glass sands
Because everyone can
And everyone will
Believe the scientific rulebook
And how the high heavens, they shook
So long as it looks pretty
And speaks in a foreign accent
Join hands in singing the praises
Calculating our own descent
Passively uninvolved?
Problem solved...

Somehow you always change.
You grow up.
You find out that the bad guys don’t have horns or claws.
They look normal.
They act normal.
Until the one day that they don’t.

And it’s almost like a disappointment.
You expected the world to be so clearly cut
But there is no bigger picture.
There is no rulebook
or plan
Only what’s in front of you

the world is big and scary
    and awful
    and
    

wonderful

Somehow you always change
I guess it’s called growing up.

We're playing games but the rulebook is missing.
Like the responses to the texts that I'm sending.
Or worse, replying just for replying's sake.
I don't know how much I can take anymore.
I'd rather deal with ignorance that disinterest.
Its a pity that we have to watch our relationship disintegrate until it's only a fraction of the love we felt, left in our hearts.

może to nie sny o zębach...
na "niby": może pomoże
metafora...

look here: the old tongue sometimes
pops from beneath the ground
aligned with a mole hill...
a baroque tease of
              effort...

że jest dwadzieścia-sześć perł w angielskim...
a... 32 perł w tym oto polskim...
tyle ile ja mam: czy miałem: zębów...
trzydzieści-asz-dwa...

        fo-ka... seal...the animal...
pieczęć... also seal... the candle wax in red...
bothersome:
the Italians are singing...
perhaps they're singing because
they have words with clear
syllables...
consonant vowel consonant vowel...
mo-rr-eti!
                  
if i were to write all the rulebook
words in katakana like
the japanese juxtapose katakana
with hiragana...

            how ugly the word: dwell...
must look like with no 2 of the 90° eL...
dwel - my my... looks almost Welsh!

but i would sooner be teasing some deutsche...
imagine...
only 100 years from this here: ago...
two ****** writers were having a discussion:
if we're still speaking our tongue down
the line...

and yet... the prospect of immigration
in England... "prospect"...
this adamant desire to integrate...
with the tongues and the babes
sacrificed on the unforgiving altar
of the new-natives...
which aren't even the "eskimos" of these isles...
how "they" will just... cut all ties to...

i kept my own because:
being bilingual is somehow a disability...
bilingual = schizophrenic?
  by that standard of "inquiry": i'm a *******
quadratic!
it's sad for english per se...
this tongue is bleeding miseries of being
hijacked and... beside the brain-drain
from respective sources of race-baiting...
it's sad that it's this odd vanguard of scribble
of graffiti...

translation:
maybe it's not a dream about teeth
on a "maybe"... supposedly...
maybe a metaphor will help me...
that there are 26 pearls in the english tongue
but... 32 pearls in this, e.g. western slavic...
with how many i have: or had: teeth
30-as-many-as-2-more...

i can be owed a sentence for myself to divulge
concerning the natives...
there are still some 'ere...
mind you: before the phenomenon
of the white-flight after the "minorities"
move into the area... the Hebrews are first to flee...
take Gants Hill and the vicinity, for example...

it's impossible to escape a language under
mutation...
some ownership... some less so...
it's a gravitation toward a hollow point...
i will never be able to write down
the sound a sparrow makes...
bogus point of the onomatopoeia...
aligned intelligence
of man, chair and crow...
a chair might creak... there's that knock
on wood...
the crow croaks...
kra-kra is my best estimate...
wasted lettering...

           i will willingly learn some deutsche...
no existential threat on the mother-tongue...
spanish was never going to be undermined..
but lodged between the prussians
and the russians; oh my... lot...
managed to visit Moscow... St. Petersburg...
have a russian **-**-**...
we were young, once, upon, a, time...

blisters of ol' Greek with modifications:
done on the cheap... with Cyrillic...
but when a minority speaks only English...
and... is this... hollow... shell...
race... too lazily they forgot their mothers
and their tongues...
now all this authoritative *******...
can the natives stand in line... first?
maybe i'm the only ****** the only king-rat...
i don't mind the analogy...
i have the fox for a totem-affinity...
and... since... the Brits abhor foxes...
here's to me running with mares!

- how can they feel so "suddenly" present...
when they want to lose their tongue:
"all of a sudden"?
these minorities...
lazy ***** and lassos...
bilingualism is never the option?
traces of a past... most proclaimed in culinary
escapades?
that's it?
seriously?
figures... your language was never undermined
with prospect of extinction...
maybe that's an over-exaggerated assumption...
but... you never know:
can the dead lie?

i'd respect "you" more if you allowed yourself
the retention of your mother's tongue...
i truly would...
beside this... force x **** mechanism
of... "invigoration" of local culture... or lack of...
almost mindless automatons...
out of self-respect... out of purpose that's
memory...
no... english could have been the tongue
of the natives... it could also have been
this pragmatic tong(ue) and gloo
of economic strategies...

it's sad... the minorities "forgot" their mother
tongue... integrate into what?
your skin deep skins' all over the debate...
english is currently... beyond mutated...
it's... having a session in an iron maiden...

- must be an intra-european dynamic...
it's not like the the french language or
spanish... or... would ever be deemed:
"undermined"...
but what, the ****, happened... to those poor
sods come the closure: the folding on
the british empire...
the crow suddenly forgot to usher in  croacking?
the dog suddenly forgot to bark?
your mothers on a ****-pile of:
can't the natives orientate themselves
with their... tongue?
i'm here, expecting "them" to do so...
a gaping wound and some procrastination...
beside the language of the natives:
there's this pragmatic membrane
of focus where: we all... do... "****"...

i have no, or little: therefore...
respect for minorities who chase status
without employing a standard bearer focus
for: keeping the household together...
the tongue... the tongue...
to hell with the whole lot of those
west African *******...
no... they are... just that...
what's your ******* tongue?
at least the darker exemplar of east Africa
retain their sense of humour...
oil 'em up...
ivory beauties... sheen of a shining shmile...

marcus garvey first!
come again... have that sort of ******* argument,
"argument" in Russia...
i see you now...  limbo sinking...
****** forgot to speak his mother's...
i have no respect for you and your....
ink...

angry western serfs of africa'ca'ca...
chain a donkey chain an elephant...
               but feed me, please....
keep me intact... i am the reason for your abandoning
your tongue?
guess it's indistinguishable to even tell apart
a Bulgar from a ****** from a Croat...
this little world of Europe and the faulty imaginings of
some Gweek...

white women's self-lacerations...
*****-please... anyone can become a saint
at the foot of the crucifix...
when they might giggle and kiss the feet
of the crucified 'un...

it's just sad... look at 'em go!
hijacking the english language...
with a net loss of soul of their own sprechen...
it's sad and it's doubly sad
because;
it's not some Beckett complication...
if i were a Camus...
if there was this Algerian oopsy...

no wonder i drifted toward...
Scandinavian folk music...
i'm about to itch a regurgitation for anything
associated with punjabi m.c.:
****! get the mace! get the broom!

how these people "forgot" their native tongue...
it's a sadness that's
de nada: algo - sin embargo...

"you" allowed a Rotherham...
              i'm about to become this...
omni- litany... and father?
for the concern of... girls... weeded?

to tow this amount of stones...
   like a crumpet like a mirage...
like grief most... shifty...
then again... for concern of the natives:
beside the hippy 1970s nostalgia:
once upon a time come Hyde Park... which was
never going to be a Warsaw...

no... that's innit for a please it...
mann-im-der-sardinekönnen:
herr-verstopfen...
                   hier.. jetzt...
       nein rot! nein rot!
hier wir ar!

No lies detected
No lines deflected
No files protected
No failures projected

An optimist outlook
Point power presents
Till reps of the rulebook
Demand recompense