Time is moving
In a stream of wonderous murderous intending, sacrificing sadness,
My ****** devotion, ought to shed blood in a distorted dark was but an perishable spring dream, looping without an end through nights,
On sleepless nights, the ghosts of the past gets stuck within a river of pure thoughts, a lake birthing memories in secret, subsconsciously,
Discard your common sense, sacrifice your sanity for just this second,
When the moon stands high in the sky, a bonfire seals the nights start
To its creeping shadows, they do not crackor sparkle under the twinkling stars of this celestial ceiling of pure majesty for nyctophiles,
Even our natural satelite agrees, dying itself into a lunatic scarlet red,
Darkness upon darkness, with layers of shadows overlapping one another as the light begins to dim, thanks to the disappearing moon,
An imaginated landscape, created from only pure rage and fury,
But whereabouts of the heart, are likely to be lost to the thought of love I carry within a broken chest of treasury, losing all emotions,
Even if my scarlet eyes were to be losing their ability yet to see,
I would be able to count on you to guide me, through the everlasting,
The dream I awoken from, was a moonlit night turning crimson, losing its radiance through the soft eclipse of the moon, gently, slowly
But you were there, within the far away landscape drawn in my heart

~ Umi

The earth's people are corrupted,
Listen to what I have to confess!
If there are emotions behind their motives, they will search and look into things which they should have been better off unseen, forgotten,
If their wish is to become alike a demon, they will dye their hand red,
If their desire leads them to be angel like, they will dye their hand in innocence and purity of the good deeds in order to achieve this goal,
The sweet poison of a lie's flavour is very sweet, likely to be consumed by those who are afraid to confront the cruel, harsh truth,
Bound in constant change, the true nature of a human remains, within the depths of their soul, somewhere deep inside, sealed away,
Admire the moon, as the remains, called corpse rots under stardust,
Does its reflected light begin to wander ? We will see, here at eternity,
After all, this natural satelite, becomes more distant due to tidal effects, leaving us behind, even if it is simply small steps it has taken,
Being forgiven from the endless purgatory, the suffering one may call
"Living" within the transience of this planet which comes to ruin through their greedy hands, desires to make more income and wealth
Drawn out in long shadows, through winding fate amongst strings,
After all, this is a pure stream of sadness.

~Umi

The reviews were in and as usal all were pretty much what I expected .
the crittics were so dam hurtful course what do you expect from a teenage windbag
who cant take a **** without posting on twitter how terrible life is.

But much like the **** on his hundred dollar sneaker's made in a sweatshop
by someone who makes ten cents a day .
There words much like there sad little yuppie cast life's  seldom amounted
to a pimple on the worlds ***.

What kind of tormented hampster take's glee in cussing out
a semi insane  carear criminal with a rap sheet that reads longer
than one of thoose Harry Potter books.

Being a man  of  much free time and plenty of found cash.
I decided to vist a crittic of mine.
And what better place to vist than a sunny state with not enough brains
to convict a woman who kills her own kid yes that true think tank
of complete dipshits Florida.

As  my plane touched I down payed close attention to my target I mean crittic.
It seemed he was versed in many hobies a few including.
Taking pictures of himself and his homies with there shirts off
wow no wonder this hampster was viewed so much by older gentlemen who run the site.

He also liked tiedie shirts and beer well honestly who doesnt the beer I mean.
Unless your a steriod fed pro wrestler or ***** hippie who wears that **** when there sober?

The name much like most things I could give a **** about seldom stayed with me.
Cause much like the hampster im writting about  honestly was as about as forgetable
as that night I spent with his mom ohhhh snap.

He was in a cult and it was a cult that had millions of followers
the cult of the yuppie spoiled ******* for which he was the states chapter president.
hey what can I say he was a good worker course that's what the guy bathroom
that used to be a politcian said dam you Sonny Bono  why  did you ever break
up Peaches and Herb!

But enough with the foreplay children.
It was bright as hell outside warm and annoying with all the people on the ******* sidewalk
Jesus man take the wheel im trying to mix a drink.

After some brief sidetracks what?
I figure why not   **** on a place thats biggest mark is hurricanes and ******* conventions
oh yeah and people who cant convict people who ****** good thing cause this vist was gonna be a breeze.

I stood at the door that stood at the gate that stood befor me and stood befor
my verbal punching bag locked in his yupie fortress.
Yes sir are you expected  the guard asked me.

Honestly no sir I wasnt but thats what happens when  a loose woman make's bad choices.
As usal like in the cases of most people that come from that clan we call normal.
he just looked at his list and prayed I would leave.

Sir Im gonna have to ask you to leave.
I knew this man's logic but seldom do I let sense and reason get in the way of a good
time or a Gonzo on a mission to payback a Yuppie ***** who much like his work
I often forget.
But hey look on the bright side when ya run outta toilet paper you always have
something to wipe your **** with.


The man kept asking yet like most people I simply ignored
his pleas.
Let me ask you sir what did the face say to the floor?
The man paused thought and as the tasser bit into his neck
and as his body went as limp as the states thought process
i kinda had to feel bad as he hit the pavement with a thud.

Im kidding I like I care?
Past the point of no return and little reason I was yet at the main door.
Were little now what was his name hmmmm  oh yeah young ***** Bagginns
called home.

Why you should have seen the suprize in his eye's
when he looked up from his coloring book to see his favorite
person to talk ***** about.

Or herd the screams   as his little **** was thrown into the wood chipper
hmm oddly enough red really wasnt his color.
Im kidding I didnt **** him right away hell that would take all the fun out of are little get togather.

And besides i bought all this kickass stuff at the hardwear store.
He kicked and cried.
For the love of facebook and texting i didnt mean it im sorry!
I was deaf to his cries for hours the torture went on.

And  just when he had hit the point of total agony I did the most cruel act of them all.
Well my friend time for a little TV.
What how the ***** that torture you idiot ?
Seems this little hampster still had some fight in him.

I pressed play and what appeared apon the screen was a horror so cruel it pains my long winded **** to
write it well maybe not.
Justin Bieber appeared on the screen.
Hey guess what ***** Ive set it on loop.

From the top of his lungs he screamed like a young school girl who fell victem to this
Pagan God.
Nooooooooo anything but that.

As I made my exit from his lare slash basement he somehow managed to muster all his yupie strength
breking his bonds a bolted like a yuppie cheatah he was to fast he had reached the shotgun befor
I knew dear lord! this was it I was gone for sure.

I cant take it anymore!
The sound was beyond words.
The celling was covered in yuppie sludge.
I felt myself was I dead?
Hey they got all the channels on this satelite kickass.
As I sat lost in my private time i had to wonder was it wrong
to target little spoiled shites that bully others and shouldnt we just try to reach out and understand one another?

Yeah ***** that what am I Dr Phil?
I have to admit young ***** really was cool now he lay dead on the floor and you seem so more open minded.

Course being it's blown  off it seems to help.
I laughed I cried I ordered like five hundren dollars in adult films on young ****** satilite.
Hey I was celebrating his life and staining his couch.
You cant put a price on revenge duh.

And as i bolted from that State dumping the corpse in the Everglades.
I had to wonder what drives a young ******* to cross a old drunk hampster
like myself ?  

Well like I was really conserned I was way to buzy enjoying the gators rip the
young no talent **** to shreds.

Note to crttics get a life and avoid me or I might be making a road trip to a city
near you!
Yes someones gonna get hurt and it's not gonna be me.

Stay crazy hampsters

You're making a great circle around my Earth,
my green-blue sphere,
baby, you trickle sweet Carolina gold satelite-honey, daffodil swans snaking
through your orbit
while snatches of caramel pool between my lips.
such a tease
spinning those slender hips a sliver above my atmosphere
so that my fingers just brush the frills
of your skirt.
You push up between Orion and the hilt of his sword
tossing taunt eyes toward my galaxy.
I'm wide, I'm intergalactic,
I've got stars in the back of my throat,
electric and running hot for you.

His eyes a forest, leaves and moss
Yours a sea, sky and butterfly wings
Both ringed by petals of moon daisy
From this satelite they look like
images of the Earth: blue, green, white, round, alive, spinning
Sun is placed in the middle of the daisy
They are rotating around again
Gave pieces of their hearts in phases
New crescent to first quarter, waxing gibbous to full moon and-
Moon stopped to a halt, it doesn't
want to move
As their eyes laced around the Sun
Came the solstice and equinox
Flowers turns to Sun turns to leaves turns to snowflakes
round and round, wheels within wheels, a cycle
The tears of sun gets into the sky of Earth when it cry
Earth is shut down and people start
hanging hopes and prays and wishes on drops of tears
When Earths is back they had
a piece of sea in their
Earth's a pretty place to observe
other planets we can't live in
Perfect start to fall in love with what's cramped in it people and places.

A few years ago
Writers were chained
To typewriters.
Imprisoned by words.
Filling rolled white pages,
Onion-skinned and erasable.
They knew where
Their chains ended.
Today, I'm tethered
To a satelite,
Linked,
With no end
In sight.

If we could PVR our lives,
We'd pause at moments
Of delight;
Rewind when memory's
Not quite right;
Fast forward during
Times of strife;
Hit mute if we get too loud,
Reboot when we act too proud.
I've moments like
A satelite stream
Of unseen waves
Directing themes
In 3D pixels,
And onetime dreams.

Scaling a dizzy height I struggle to achieve, as the ladder wobbles my jegs become jelly.  Step by step I grasp each rung, dreaming of the peak.

A secretary returns my smile, her note is exchanged in the wink of an eye.  To race like formula-one and hit a perfect swing , the satelite spins as the thread is stripped.

She lived for golf and danced like James Brown whilst, I surfed the airwaves seeking a new sound.

I was walking down the street
and i realized what it had done to me.
Carborators and steel words,
they were inflamed in my throat,
but two times as powerful
as that acident that I had done.

Or was it on purpose?

I cant tell anymore because what it is
and what it's not
is meshed into silence.

I brought it up to the good one
and the other claimed it false.

I fought my way in but
clawing out is a different cycle.

I want this to taste like sanity,
fibers of fear stretch across the bedding of this body.
Without corners folded neatly
and windows washed clearly,
bring me this satelite
thats recording my regression,
this abuse that is embedded
in a  certsin valuable location.

I want it now,
more than anything
but what I need is a checkbox marked blank
stares as it reaches my lungs.
Captivating strides and notes just as powerful.
I need to brand it in
and cut it out.

By force
or
by nature.

It is sick,
it's psychology,
leave the witness crying.
Tell their subconscious it could have been
them instead.
It's ruthless and confining,
bringng me to fresher level on low.
I think I need it now,
sitting still in the jury
knowing all too well.
It never attacks...
just once.

Spent the night
Tasted starlight
Found satelite
But i didn't know what i got
Everything's not going like what it's like
Unsure that i'm not given up
Being the one that always forgot
Just like an astronaut
Crawling the night to find a new start

Saying "Hello" to the new gravity
Trying to solve a mistery
That maybe causing tragedy
No one gonna say sorry
Even you're rising fury

Hey, you there!
Yeah you, Mr. Hate
I was born from the way i've been treated
Snapped my finger and 'boom' i was fade
I thought i need some little escape
I try to find the final gate
And get out of this outerspace

Soft sounds of rain through
The open window. Each drop
Landing in wet grass is
A hammer to our hearts.

To feel alone is nothing new,
But I see myself through satelite
Images, afloat dead centering
The ocean,

Biting and clawing at the
Ropes that hold my raft
Together; too afraid of water
Not to drown.  

Silence like tanks rolling out
Of a devastated war zone.  
Let's wrap this up, and my
Pulse escalates to an emergency

Frequency open to recieve any
Mayday or SOS, but my hands
Are too numb to telegraph.
Instead I find myself wiping

Rain and sweat from my face
With mud covered fingers in the
Headlights of a parked car,
Digging a grave

The size of something dead that
Holds secret things, like Love's
True name, or God's, or
Those of my

Future children if ever they be,
Or the hidden meanings behind a
Brutally meaningless
Break-up.

the disrespect of manual labout trades in western europe, and the export of such trades to asia... yes, the day they realise that not all of them are models, or "artists"; well, luckily, there's the **** industry.

my grandfather was a communist party member,
a respectable citizen,
   he was sometimes called to be a member
of a jury... a hard gig to get into...

anyways...
                                      0 hour contracts?
  try building a career out of that...
      self-employment
and that fact that employers do
a pontius pilate on these people,
     sometimes not pay paying them,
  in most cases snipping their hard
earned wages?
       forget about a roofing retention
    (insurance, equivalent to a guarantee
you get when you buy a washing machine),
sometimes the ******* never
pay it out...
   you'll always get a
       *blondweibsbild setting marching
orders...
                  the rat is biting their ***
         and they're still thinking of sailing...

me? like my grandfather,
      funny, he lived in a communist satelite
state, and yet... he managed to collect
a decent library of books...
          and enough records for his children
(my mother & uncle) to keep an interest
in music...
             yeah! imagine! having a personal
library in a communist "regime"...
  then again the russians were always
bigger readers than the americans...
the americans need to be spood-fed...
the "joys" and average joes of
     the audio-book format...
                       fair game if you're blind,
i have no qualms on that par...
        but unless it's not music...
      i find that listening to audiobooks
is just plain ****...
   self-****, *******...
                                         samogwałt...
0 hour contracts?
           no chance of a career?
     always at your "masters" bidding?

  the ejection of manual labour,
the slander against respectable professions
like carpentry?
           exporting it to the chinese?
   work as only based upon:
   fake smiles, fake journalism,
     lies lies and even more lies?
                  content products
  without the context of applied hands?

wow... designed in california...
  tag?          made in china...
made in china made in china made in china
made in china made in china made in china
made in china made in china made in china
made in china made in china made in china...

the same ******* itinerary of toothpicks,
barbie dolls, smart-phones,
televisions, radios, you name it...

when you've reached the billion mark,
i think you have exhausted the capitalistic
concept of a "profit margin",
   once you put enough 0s at the end of
your pay-cheque... you sort of have...
have, exhausted the idea of profit...
           i admit that capitalism is a sensible
system... and it was, with shining examples
like henry ford...
                       the reaction of the left?
hedonism? mirror image of what capitalism
has become...
   it has lost its sensibility...
    like i said, you can't really argue
the profit argument when you have
billions to "work" with...
                    evidently enough 0s in
the pay-cheque had to create
   the 0 hour contracts...
            wow! they lost a 0!
they lost a 0! from billions (1,000,000,000)
they revived the million
  (100,000,000)! one hundred millions!
i swear they just got bored
and said: ah, **** it...
a billion chinese, a billion hindus...
        titanic is sinking...
but we'll have a champagne jacuzzi
sideline view on a life-boat
                      watching the mutts drowning.

I grew up a small town girl
Picking blackberries for the neighbor’s pies,
Picking summer strawberries to buy my new school clothes.
We rode our bikes to the river beach
And watched the lumber ships sail by.
It rained a lot and drizzled more.
My memories paint cloudy skies at night
With a moon that came and went at will.

I grew and went away to college
On a scholarship I didn’t really earn,
Nudged forward by a teacher’s faith in me.
But , the rain was driven by the wind
And the sky was seldom very bright
And night fell like a woolen quilt.
My life was full of books and boys
And I seldom bothered to look up.

Then I heard Big City’s call
And answered with a trial move
That found the sun and rainless days
More intoxicating than the the college wine.
The small town girl dipped in a toe
And found the water to her liking.
I moved my life and attitude
To bright lights dimmed by mustard colored sunsets.

So much to see, so much to do
So many small town traits to shed.
So many city things to learn
So many wonders in the neon nights
I never missed the morning sky
Until I saw Yosemite at dawn
And realized I miss the stars,
And a tiny longing began to grow.

From that time on, I searched the sky
Hoping for a single star, but city lights
Drowned out that hope and if there was
A single dot it was a satelite or plane.

So I stopped gazing at the night time sky
And owned the loss of stars in
A bargain for other shiny things
And times that seemed to sparkle better.

Eventually the city lost its glow
The gold turned greena nd the streets turned mean.
I battled with a will of iron
But I lost ground with every year,
And finally an evil I could not avoid
Backed me to a corner and pulled out the rug,
Leaving me no choice but flee
To some new place, unknown and harsh

Where I face dragons of sand and fire
And emptyness of land and soul.
Alone in hollow, crowded places
With no hand to welcome me
I walked outdoor at 4 A.M.
To find some solace if I could
I looked around and then looked up
And in the sky and in my soul - I finally saw stars.

ljm

its not unlike humanity to seek answers. we look toward our largest, most near satelite and; well nothing--at least until a few decades ago. Nothing more could be done than to gaze at its surface and ponder the texture and deformations of its outer most layer. we have, since, spent billions of dollars to, in my best aproximation, spend a few hours there trapsing around on it. to smash a golf ball a little bit farther than one could on their best day on the green.

the stories contained herein, are little more than testaments of how individuals, without golf clubs let alone space craft, have sought the same relationship with foriegn textures.

and, while these inner-efforts have been as costly as those toward our moon, and that their gleanings have been equally fleeting, and the fact that their experiences provide more questons than answers, it remains that, just like our excursions toward a spinning rock, the dabblings of psychonauts are just as much an undertaking of a serious narrative--whether personal or univeral.
and here we find ourselves half-way understood, and even less understanding searching for a narrative. yes, and now, the narrative may even be abandoned in search of it, as DiVinci would have never imagined the telescope without first dreaming to travel amongst the stars.
may these entries be only a comma in a Proustian sentactical excursion. a pause amidst a thought still forming. a psychological hypothesis, equally ready to be both further tested or discarded.