our song is playing

every couple
seems to have one

   ours is a three-minute blast
   of hot rock

and for a moment
I am taken back

to the time we met

   you bartending
  
all blonde curls

squeezing lemons
over colourful drinks

   and unsociable me

awkwardly floating
   through young manhood

held in the warm grasp
of another crush

and like that

this is our song

I love it

   you say
as you scooch

   across the sofa
so our hands

our fingers
   touch

   then lock together

and now you're singing karaoke... so ha ha and Kyoto.

and this is the part where i tell you i love you?
it sounds like it's the part where i **** your dog off
and laugh; or maybe that's the part where
i say i'm scooch-peppery-ish!
tangy! mm hmm!
solid gold worth's an advert! aha,
Elvis just rolled up his sleeves!
while Shoon can-can the worthy,
sire nigh nigh the knighted made
speeches at a royal funeral that made 20 kings
abdicate, we all thought of Monaco
and Senna... lipstick Helsinki...
crisscross Albania and: Waterloo...
when Napoleon sniffed glue... oh Waterloo!
i too built Stockholm in a day, based on
the pop culture of Europe casually so.
but indeed Sean, the flowery basin of all
that's Essex, Sussex and Kent,
i.e. Scottish, show... i'm ashoored it'sh
Shcandinavian cartoon or at least halfwit Belgian
with the moustache, dumb-flicked *Hercules Poirot...
authored by a nagging Agatha Christensen.

Peter (my bf) and I were in Paris, about three weeks ago (I was on Spring break, he was on vacation from work).
‘Headstart for Happiness,’ by ‘the Style Council,’ was playing low somewhere.
“This is the kind of starry winter night that guy from the Netherlands used to paint,” I observed.
“If you were writing about it,” he asked, “how would you describe it?”
“Imagine a deep, still blue, hosting a field of luminescent light scatter, and a bashful moon, low in the sky, as if it were hiding in the trees.” I guessed.
“It’ll moonset soon,” he said “within the hour.” he added.
“I never think of moonsets.” I said, looking at the sky like it was new.
“The moon follows the line of the ecliptic,” he said, as if that meant something, “more or less,” he qualified.
“To think I grew up under an undifferentiated sky,” I marveled.

When I’m with him, I can relax, I don’t have to be-on, he’s smart enough.
Of course, I’d come in handy if he went into cardiac arrest or started choking on something.

We were sitting side by side, outside ‘Le Café du Marché,’ a bistro near the Eiffel Tower. Our waiter,  Léo, had just refilled our coffee. It was 9:30 PM and we’d been at this table for about two hours.

We’d reduced the tarte-tatin to a few crumbs forty minutes ago, but Léo knows me and although they're thirty tourists in line for tables, he won’t rush us.

Like puppets dance, we often mimic lines - I don’t know why.
“I was stalking you,” I confided, running a finger along his long-sleeve shirt-cuff.
“I was stalking you,” He said. Our eyes were fixed on each other.
“No, seriously,” I said, moving in much closer, to be serious.
“No, seriously,” He deadpanned back.
“Then I caught you,” I went on, and I was very close now, our lips maybe two inches apart.
“No, I caught you,” he said, smiling as I got very close. “It was ****** Jujitsu,” he softly bragged.
“Wax on, wax off,” I said before I stole a quick kiss.

Peter was shocked, a scooch, by French teens.
If French teens have a crush, especially in Paris, it’s a ‘drop what you’re doing,’ snog-fest - between classes in the hall, on-the-metro, in a coffee shop or grocery store they go-all-in, because love must be stormy, urgent, tinchy.
Here’s a secret. Peter says, “You **** my face, like no one ever has.” It must be the French in me. Ha!

Of course, I learned all I know about love from Taylor Swift.
Let’s see, first, I must be willing to let down my guard - because love can happen at any time.
Love, at its best, is overwhelming, mistake prone, meaningful and powerful - but I can’t assume it’ll last, because my lover may have ulterior motives. I could be hurt or changed by the experience - but I’ll have the memories. Eventually though, I’ll heal enough to try again - with a new set of expectations.

Maybe I’ll even write a song or a poem about it.

in one ohh the flightly finister
interjerk’t offorthwith united
unloosed upon the messes
who rains with string
of erring do
believe the ortho doxie

catamount the femail glory
moistens packet interfury
trump-ettes blow
the suction from their barrel oblesk
look slively tortice hand out for brood
scooch the dead **** down
impesh with dis-ire
marakesh the claim to sane
and leak brainoil smartly

for aft andall
whomake it threw
until deadneck cycoil
tweet totell interlie
the diff is how’d it hung
to a peel at the court
for reci-prostate-parity

By: Arreonna Frost (me)

Prologue

“No, Please?” She sobs, “No!” Screams through the air.
I close my eyes and think of all the good times we had together, before he turned into a monster. My thoughts are interrupted when the front door slams and all of the knick knacks in my room begin to shake. I shudder. Glass shatters and falls to the floor as of if it were a waterfall, as my mother screams an ear piercing scream.

My eyes fly open and I realize that I have been crying. My yellow walls glow back at me as the star stickers in a starry night pattern hint off a neon yellow, as they glow in the dark. I hug my purple polka dot bear close to me and begin to cradle her.

My mother left my door open a crack again, like she does every night and a long stretch of light creeps across my floor, almost reaching for my slippers at the foot of my bed. On my night stand to the right of my bed, I turn off my green lava lamp and roll over so I face the window.

The glowing of the white moon that almost looks yellow reflects off of my cheeks, hinting to anyone nearby that I have been crying. As goosebumps slither up my arm from the chill of the window, I wrap the sparkly green butterfly quilt my mother made for my 6th birthday tighter around me. I then plug my ears, silencing the noise the best I can.
“No! No!  She screams louder. “Please! God please! Please save my baby!”
“Shut-up!” He screams back. “Nobody will hear you, no one at all!” Echoes his evil laugh against the old walls. “Were in the middle of nowhere you no for good ***** **!”
“Please! Please! Please!” She silently sobs to herself.

As I am eager to be down there and witness what is happening, I roll back over on my side, throw the blanket off of me, and to the side. My feet fall to the floor silently as I slip them into my slippers. Walking towards my door I look at the floor carefully, as of to not make a sound.

My door slowly creaked open as the light fills my room eagerly. I stop in my tracks as the front door slams shut. Holding my breath I begin to cry; feeling scared, sad, and lonely. A chill nips at my bare legs and I yank my yellow silk nightgown down my legs some more.

When I reach the top of the stairs and about to slowly go down, I examine my surroundings and see our family portrait to my right. The gold frame is what really made the picture stand out against our white walls. Mother looks younger and prettier, her eyes don’t have bags underneath like she does now. Her long brown curly hair flows down and off of her shoulders almost reaching her elbows. I notice her bright white smile and how happy she looks while she is hugging her 6 month pregnant belly. While holding me close her blue eyes sparkle back at me, so alive and adventurous.

Like the usual my father looks like he is staring right through the camera instead of at the camera. He has never once smiled or even shown a sign of happiness, not even in public. The blue flannel shirt has a tear by his elbow and the top two buttons are unbuttoned. My favorite blue dress brings out my big brown eyes as I also smile into the camera.

My brown hair wasn't quite as long as my mothers but my brown curls also flow onto my shoulders. My high cheek bones stick out from the glare of the flash. This picture was taken a few years ago. Taken before my little rugrat of a brother was born. He is now three years old and very annoying, especially when he gets his way every time he cries.

The door slams shut again as I jumped startled again and snap out of the memory. The wooden stairs are slippery beneath me as the fabric from my slippers does not give me traction. The railing is what gives me support as I slowly creep down the stairs trying not to make a sound down our ancient steps. Tears slowly fall down my cheeks again, leaving behind a damp trail, once I reach the bottom. Pulling my nightgown down some more, I reach their bedroom to my left. The door was already left slightly open as the light creeps into the hall. Pushing the door open more, just enough so I can see, mother is on the floor holding Joseph in his blue Spider man blanket.

Josephs blonde hair sticks out of the top blanket, all knotted together. Mother is weeping into my personal favorite nightgown of hers. The blue silk always made mother beautiful, especially against her skin and brown hair. I see that father is holding a Budweiser in his left hand and his rifle in the other.

In the far back left corner, fathers stained nook has several beer cans and bottles piled on top of each other, some even spilling onto the ground. As father raises the rifle off the floor I gasp and take a step back not cautious of the creaky floors. When the floor does let out a long creek all I can do is my hold my breath, and pray that he doesn't notice my presence as his dark heartless eyes beat right through me.

The muscles in his hairy arms tense up as the rifle lowers back down and rests on the floor. I notice mother looking at me as she slowly slides to the window. His focus is now away from the door but back solely on mother, as his attention goes away from this dark pit I slowly step closer to the door.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Rolls off of the tip of his tongue like he’s getting woozy. He then pulls Joseph out her tiny fragile hands. As he sets Joseph down in his handmade wooden crib, mother cries harder.

"N-nothing", stutters through the air, "I was just getting Joseph’s other blanket since he was cold", she bluffs.

I just now realize that the window is open and I was her hope of escaping. Now I wish he was still focused on me. I slowly fall to my knees and kick them to the side, so i’m sitting how  a princess would sit in a gown on the ground. The cold tile floor numbs my knees sending more chills up my body.

I scooch more to the right so I am in almost the same position as earlier when I saw fathers nook. Searching the area of the room I find Joseph near the corner nook under his blanket. I actually feel sorry and worried for Joseph for once. Father raises the black 22-Caliber pistol when mother stifles another cry. Worried to be noticed I crawl back into the dark.

"Please", she barely whispers as she lays down covering her face. "I love you, thought you loved me. Please."

The sound of the gunshot rings in my ears.

i wrote you a letter,
spritzed it with pheromones,
dotted it in tears

every grim notion was far too pretty —
dressed in ballpoint ink
dancing a legato cursive

tracing everything i didn’t say;
my tongue was tangled up,
and your hearing was selective

but pain was bubbling out my pores,
and starting to burn
the only remedy was writing it out:

dear you,

i want to mold me into the
pedestal i put you on,
but you have to scooch a little

i want to go on a scavenger hunt
in your brain, but you didn’t
think to draft out clues

i want to use your heartbeat for 808s
and play them on repeat,
but you’d probably say that’s ludicrous

i want to find our favorite
frequency, i think it’s
somewhere close to middle c,

but you didn’t meet me there
never really cared to care,
and that’s fine, that’s fair

your debt to me is absent
same as mine to you
yet i’m still paying in time wasted

analyzing your words in my head
that don’t have double meanings
like i devised

you’re as literal as stem majors
uneager to decode the metaphors
i made for you

so i’ll stop writing them
at least
i’ll try

love,
me
(please)

folded up my fears of feeling
something more than my pulse
the impulse wasn’t strong enough

couldn’t muster the courage
to address it in your name
still i hoped you’d somehow see

so i let the wind take the reins
with fate in the passenger seat
clutching my precious card-stock cargo

will it find it’s way to you,
or dissolve amongst the mist?
i guess that i can only guess

"You know
what's crazy babe?"

"What?"

"You scare me
with your love."

"That's such a waste,
come here,
I want to tell you something."

You scooch
over to me.

I just want to
know
your sticky skin.

You just breathe close to me,
all night long.

Our words
use our bodies
for mouths.

I'm not ashamed to say
that we really know
how to ****
each other.

And for all you *******
love is so physical
that words
and eternal sentiments
break it down.

In dead cold blizzards
typically one does something...
Warming

so scooch a little closer
and lets do something
Warming together

i ended the day in the comforting night solipsism
rather than getting drunk
and ******
to the point of perfecting it with music
and writing to get a psychadelic event a siasmic
birth of the Mountains of Hawaii
as i were told:
if the sea would recede
and before Earth there was the Inhabitable Mars
and we don't know the history
or the archeology of mars
but we know the geology
and that is not enough to give the span
of time its proper justification
in the realm
of the conscious man:
with the thing-in-itself
of Napoleon's English Custard
for Brains
listening to music
last night i did the Chemist
i balanced the fates out
and today
i culminated into the rebirth of man
and i sorted about 4 things
and subconsciously reunited
myself with my past
one last time
in Poland
with my grandmother
and not my mother
and i want to hear
my grandmother one last time
before i go away
and i know this is REPRESSION
the res cogitans wages
a war with the res extensa
over the cogito
but the cogito submits to both...
to the world internal and the world
of the internally-extended...
i see REPRESSION of the res cogitans
with the Psychiatric term...
it is burning my tongue
i whisper to you
O wind my voice
as the choir persist to sing
and party and show flesh off
you hear the democracy of Hell
whisper in your ear...
i finished the night
by falling asleep
to Gorecki's symphony no 3 op 36
and i know there are *******
fans of Chopin like my mother
and Chopin music governs her house
and the band Enigma when
she's cleaning the house
that i made fun and then fell in love with
and to think two bottles
of cider
and mrs. mushroom opened a can of champagne
instead of a bottle of beer
and we celebrated when
champagne became like canned beer
and there the thought triggers me to drink
some water and preserve myself
to actually bother to look
for that word you were thinking of...
REGRESSIOn!
psychiatric refression of the res extensa
in mind a regressive man
more reflexive than reflective
concerning the mind
lost in the body of bodies...
that symphony is not for writing!
but spontaneity of remembering...
Chemist DJ
change the baggage
but keep what books you will read
from grandfather's library:
Victor Hugo's the Miserables...
in Polish...
i need to give my two tongues a proper
break
i waggled some wolack JOWACH
WOJACK
WOE before the King: who knelt
before he was crucified
but this ontology of man is there:
intact: without the ails of *******
especially when you have
a sugar penny of a girl
and she looks so ****
doing DIY and telling you what
a man is and man says:
i don't know what the scratch of the head is...
an egg?
i would otherwise ride the caurosel
of the **** squeeze...

mr chemist drinks and smokes
and when the right smoke enters he paints
with words
and blunders and blah blahs in conversations
but is painting when you die
i will paint you guessed me right
i might just change medium
and find my true art form
like it might actually be painting
and like that might be true
becausd i learned to bicycle first
then i learned to ride a horse...
now aged 38
i'm going to visit my grandmother Helen
one last time
and i will learn to rent a car on dopamine
when i begin to learn writing
and learning the carousel Hyde Park
Winter Wonderland to effect...
now so much fat in my throat
i even tasted my own *****
like women taste themselves
and that was a bit weird
i think that marriage is a bit bird
when a wife tells you:
please don't be a poet...
please become a painter...
please learn to drive
and get off that horse...
yeah... but you know me...
once i get that ******* license
i will only drive a car on a whim
and buy a canoe and hide it from place
to place
i'd get the canoe moved to point X
then i'd go home
then i'd walk to X
and paddle the canoe to Y
and then from Y i'd walk back home...
then i would use a MOPED
Rome's SCOOTER
to Y and paddle the canoe to Z...
and then from Z i'd walk back to Y
and go back home on my ******* platipus
****** SCOOCH SCOOCH...

here's to you kid looking at me
looking at my new neighbors
and they are Russians i am told
who are the second redeemed
afte the Jews in that War
and in this negetion and who who who is who
i think my wife asked me
to stop being a poet and become
a painter
and i guess that is better
to say so said
all her friends...
i was in a room filled with
8 girls...
i was the **** in the room
and i've had no time to write about that
we played that sort of domino poker
and i think i was being admired
the god fearing man
must have come
i think i left my supposed egoism
2 months behind
and i think i see a pleasure
that man find more than
the man found most pleasure
beside ***
and found it in a carousel continuum
a sense of the eternal...
collective in the eternal
while we are all recycled goods
not by the "individual":
the Western "Idol" of the Individual
used to be there...
as... there-being...

but water and tobacco would work...
i stalked the kitchen
with my night
of the rat
and chicken... plucking no i don't
think i want to play guitar
R asked... do you want to be a musician...
E asked... do you want me to be a wife
of a painter?
are you a painter...
well... who was that famous Italian
striker who started football aged:

what a meagre donation for all the flat-sharing
i knew i was going to be scolded
but i did just buy a newspaper
once and paid $6 bucks for it
and i did read it from A to Z
and in between there might have
been a mention of the Omega Alpha Name
the Man who is like-jesus-****-jesus
Tour of the Ritz by the rents
of rats...
                 12am curfew...
i too have a 12am curfew on internet
usage
out not of parental control
but out of a biological reality of the mind
being over exposed to certain lights
just imagine it's just a massive
bio-technical experiment
the feeding machine of the collective consciousness
and the filters in place to filter out
the public space bit
and give ourselves the most private
space... however diffusing the public
sphere of interest...
          
and yes, i think i'd probably try painting
and escape words
but keep only Polish words intact
and read novels in Polish and newspapers
in English
and read no fine literature in English
as proven by my reading of Knausgaard
that i couldn't stomach in English
but could in Polish
therefore i will not have books in English:
per se... circa... whatever ears
i might have Dostoyevsky's the IDiot
alongside ******'s MEin Kampf:
as a historical artifact...
a book of its time...
but i am of a different time...

yes, i would literature in English:
but only as translations...
i would never read an English author
regardless of them being
either native or immigrant...
i am going elsewhere
i'm not going to be bound to either
the Island of England
or the Baltic Intlet of Debate at Danzing...
for Poland to be part of Scandinavia...
i will divide the tongues:
once and for all: in my mind...
neither will feast of each other
i will write my last and do a Rimbaud
and pretend to be selling fireworks
and losing an arm to Arabic diabetes
away from the alcohol of the north...
and that will be a story...

         that i should stop being a poet
and i was actually looking at something...
can't remember his name i should...
but i left it in vol 6 of knausgaard's my struggle
and i left it on kauai
i don't feel like checking the internet
i'd rather take my eyes off the screen
smoke a cigarette on the lanai
drink something reflax... find the point in
the book and then return to the screen
like some editor of sober
not being sober enough
enough magic
just detox on paying rent
or being a rent boy
doing something around the house
like the plubing like little carpenter boy
little bachelor service
and the *** didn't dry up but i became a limp ****
to a premature mr cabins...

midnight snack... reminiscence of that hour
of curfew and it's so beloved an hour
i will have my cigarette but first
i will have some pork sausage and mustard
and then i will have some french cheese
some honey and hazelnuts to crunch on
and i will have some water and it will
taste like milk...
and not of fake smiles and false teeth...
something like
Francis Bacon painting the SCREAM
and the SCREAM
the archeology of the universal
the form in Munch... of the SCREAM the not-stereotype
the ideaology not the Iconoclasm
of the word... the Protagonist no
the Proliteriat... no... the ARCHETYPE of the scream
in Munch... reimagined with geometry
in Bacon
and now i'm thinking of the SMILE
that came after the SCREAM
because sure as perhaps what else
than to smile back at the pictures prior
of the smiling aristocrats
but in that food
imagine what she is feasting on when
she's trying to fall asleep
on ice cream but no protein
so her body is telling her:
feed us more protein...
i also feel that with my body
and you told me unconsciously:
the reason why i am still having skin issues
is because i am not consuming enough
protein for my actual diet... capacity:
even the burning mind...
but it is true: thinking about a young woman...
maybe not enough protein:
so the body is plunging us with
what happens there is not enough vitamin C
or A in the body:
then couldn't acne me sourced
in a protein deficient diet?
i think i'm living in a protein deficient diet
that is why my skin is so bad...
i learned to compensate:
i will give you all the time in the world
before the mirror
to be that inquisitive child
who loves parasites
and you can squeeze you face all day long
but please try not to *******...
play with you acne all you want
to imagine being the face of Beelzebub
******* out maggots from his skin into the magic
pond of the LAUGHTER of man...
SCREAM
LAUGHTER... the smile did come
and the smile is not but a frown...
so at least that word is covered...
but until you get to hunt deer and remember igloo
and the swing and the climbing of trees
as children... the ontology of man will wake
from this infernal scene of the psy-insomnia
which once was the psychedelic age
after the holocaust
the coping mechanism...
the Great Cope of that Age was Psychadelic
and we are now in the Great Cope
of that Age of the Psy-Insomniac
because people are nostalgic that the 20th century
was the greatest...
and by the confession of the few:
it was...
but such is the riddle of the burden of convenience
and comfort...
that sooner or later you get thinking of rocks
and sisyphus and not about work per se
but about sitting idle
and that is the story of the Sysiphus
the idle sitting the "thinker" who isn't actually
a philosopher...
because of a different breed we are...
philosopher is not a thinker
in that thinking doesn't culminate
in telepathy or telekinesis
but ends up the rot of the television
not that i might be bashing
the televsion:
it's almost like replacing the fireplace
when you need a fireplace
on Hawaii...
so you can't have a romantic moment
on the Faroe Islands
before a fireplace
you have a kid playing on the computer
and its hot enough for cockraoches
to try to hide in the cupboards
and you're massaging her feet
and pinching and just intimate man
and the television acts like a fireplace
at least it puts her to sleep
and i feel like being naughty
and so does R
and i go for a little bit too much drinking
and come back and lie in bed and write poetry
the nocturnal art that comes after
journalism... today i actually had to reassure
my mother that some things reported in the media
are true:
not everything is untrue...
when it comes to the waiting time for a driving license
in England: 6 months...
but it was more or less her finally coming to terms
of pushing my grandmother away from me
so much that i have to go back for maybe
the last time
and that was what was so bothering me
and made me docile
each **** was an issue
and only without it and a wife
do i realise:
but only in a married life...
   that sort of thinking doesn't work in a bachelor
everyday...
i might think i'm a rent boy:
yes... because i still can't legally earn money
in the USA...
so... you know... i did send her pocket money
or what i pay my mother each month...
200 quid... i can send my wife 250 a month to begin
with... i think i'll ask her
into a joint account
i think i'll ask her that
and god it's so liberating to treat
******* like a caffeine shot or a cigarette
because it is...
of a different kind
a sort of ketamine mumbo jumbo psychadelic
i am Elon Musk the Admiral of the Legion
of 14 children...
and one man and a foster daughter...
weird... so... dynamic!

but hardly satire... the curfew hour impeding
and we want to go back
to our little abodes
and turn the lights off and sleep
with a Delightful Latino
Mayan and Aztecs met the Spanish
and you almost forget them
like when the Africans merged with
the Europeans and headed where
and then nowhere but to space
because the land of ideas is drying up
and has been drying up
so... more space to widen the griefs...
maybe i am imagining this fate of time
that time perpetuates and
the changing mind darts
but from there i posit:
    
                               and so much of the motive
ego-alingment changes
when that idea of not paying for groceries
did i block those cards on purpose
or what?
i don't know...
but i don't know who was paying
for what the goods
were cooked
mum didn't listen to how
MAtthew wanted to make those hens
and my mother went and ****** up
Matthew in the chicken with
the kitchen in the chicken kitchen kitchen
kitchen
and she was watching a ******* spider
documentary
and she wanted *** so much
she was like an alien
and then there was another alien in the kitchen
and he was not having any of it
or maybe that was just my mother's ******
energy keeping him on a leash
and then the next day he sabotaged her
and he sabotaged her good with those dumplings
but he did make those muffins in the morning
waking up at 5am with the same flour
or she sabotaged him with that ****** flour
but the filling was good
and maybe we were having some deep *******
conversation with R
and i think we were...
yes i think there were some deep conversations...
and i still think both of them want
me to be a painter...
they don't want a drinking poet
i think of all the sober painters
like van Gogh
who suckled on calm like those hummingbirds...
a realm of images without words
and sounds and therefore music
but the realm of images
and the calm of van Gogh more in technique
than on abstract ******* squeezes
yes i imagine the drunken years and youth
i guess...
but i also image them not beginning in
these cages...
the curfew hour approaches...

30min until fasting from eating meat...
i better go stock up on some sausage and mustard
before i get into honey cheese and hazelnights
and go to sleep thinking of my wife
and my daughter... sooner or later having to
become some sort of vivid "mine".

Today May 12th, 2021
at Royersford (Pennsylvania) LIDL,
when spouse stepped into checkout line
(minus her horse drawn grocery cart -
pushed courtesy yours truly).

While passively standing stock still
I (think Stonewall Jackson)
let scenario unfold before
mine myopic eyes,
whereby acquiescing
nonverbally attempting to scooch
closer to conveyor belt
subsequently attempting
to maneuver shopping cart
in front of another patron (an older man)
with small number of items in his cart,
who became irate at me.

He appeared angered
at his thwarted (senior) priority,
especially when mine wife
gave him few choice words.

All that learning regarding
learning conflict resolution
(years gone by)
taught by the late therapist Jean Dole
ineluctably escaped me.

I smart with disappointment
not offering aforementioned
aggravated fellow shopper
right of way
proceeding ahead of us
(initiating at least one daily
random act of kindness).

Figurative astringent aftertaste
left in mouth cuz laudable
good samaritan deed chased
away, thus one generic bloke
felt he disgraced
his credo and ethos that laced
behaviorist paradigm
shouldering virtuous lofty aspirations
as upholding saintiless gone to waste.

Nevertheless foo fighting beastie boy
attains exhibiting motto
viz - doing right by doing good.

Since birth and every
subsequent growing up year
until earth around sun orbitz equalled
lxii plus some months gradual aging

upon this body electric didst wear
major organs as personal choices made to veer
toward folkloric, generic holistic living social
societal, theoretical fabric
minimally didst tear

which family of origin
constituent part (nurture)
nsync verses with nature (genetics)
steeped with ethos to share
with parents, row mans, siblings,
(now offspring), et cetera
superfluity sans abundance,
or paucity per cornucopia rear
neither former plentifulness,
nor latter scarcity respectively
predictable asper
being dynamic

versus static such yield
based, linkedin, and predicated
on a gamut how fate didst wield
one record breaking
catch of the century, and sealed

fickle non butterfinger
Swedish Fish Ma PHEAA filleted
famed schooled
Redmond Efficiency Academy
top of the class for each grade,
whence analogous
viz zit hid had dock
pier fickle lee hooray
randomly cast piscine line reeled inlaid
hallowed sea man tricked treat
once the providence,
which belief informed lifelike
sculpted, Idolized carved likeness

revealed from precious metal or jade
unseen creator mortals prayed
some examples being handily
accorded mechanistic multi-deistic
such as Manichaeism, Mithraism, Muslim,
et cetera belief, credo,
divine entity man made
attempting cosmic explanations
grandly incorporating
limitless mysteries splashed
throughout universe visually displayed

decrees ordained requiring unbridled zeal
only the dead privy
to espy secret seventh seal
hence ne'er did plentiful spirits reveal
themselves as flesh and blood,
nonetheless, despite lack of sects ap peal
fervent humility, integrity, magnanimity...
prayers preceded before each meal
or any exploitative endeavor,

especially those which did heal
instilling positive influences to hopefully
sway sought after immortal deal,
and ethos, figuratively drilled into arboreal

predecessors minds of highest
saint seeking achievers
and/ or ******* faithful devout believers
who oft morphed into zombie
thrashing maniacs seized cleavers
a yen to revile against heretics,
not moost ideal to breed largesse,
whence possessed by fevers

toward simple axe of pious,
who indulgently pulled levers
no matter feigned actions hash tagged
reciprocating masquerade
i.e. facade, charade afraid
but, nevertheless a Good Samaritan renegade.