I'm thinking about rhyme and meter
but also my kidneys and my liver.

The nation-state and the failed state
and whether killers should be executed

or forgiven. Meditate on this: Thy
will be done. Do what has to be done

don't ask why. Clean the dishes and the house.
Will I be left to my own resources

or will all be given? Nevermind
what you can't imagine. Living's

life's priority. Friends are merely friendly,
they're in the majority. Loneliness

is the default position. Rain happens.
We supply the reasons.

How do people process their lives without art?
By caring not.

Ignore
yr autobiography.

In olden days, if you couldn't stand to ***
the family buried you under the pecan tree.

Up to my knees in the Atlantic,
I am a hemisphere-long
chain of molecules
away from your wintry world.
as I float in melatonin,
your feet are on ground
that I cannot touch, and
as the hourglass sands shift beneath me,
as once-weld rocks carry themselves in the current,
I wonder if our feet
will ever be on the same sort of solid ground.

it could be said that the constructs of grammar are a akin to
the constructions of the unconscious with sleep the dam,
   and the trickling of both the waking
hours and the concerns for dreams -
i'd say: it's not exactly the interpretation
of dreams, but a concern for them:
last night i was exposed to the most
fascinating comic, if i wrote about it
in the morning i'd reveal all of it -
but i do remember in a subplot
a Beretta and fiddling with a bullet...
dreams? unwanted distractions...
            they only possess depth's worth of
analysis for entombed people -
      for whom life has no meaning
they have to seek alternatives: i.e.,
in dreams...
                         because their lives are
so uninhibited they seek monastic
meanings, they are on a knife's edge
of slicing through cryptography -
                        they want to seek deeper meaning,
rich or poor, if life isn't a centimetre's
worth of depth of drowning, your escapism
is bound to dreams...
                             which is a secondary
excuse concerning apathy
  and the shaking homeless man...
               i'm asking for a mass exodus
of the homeless from urban areas...
                       only a fool would sit in an
urban environment these days...
               those glum godforsaken looks of
seemingly ****** superiority...
   meritocracy hides a variation of ******
it doesn't seem to recognise -
          it's a gigantic mushroom fog-cloud
and bypassing talk of the guillotine chop
to mind the Antoinette cakes for fear of
reprisals...
                        thinking never equates
to being conscious...
                                       i don't know how
this happens...
                              the divergent parallelism
states that
                   we shouldn't base our
censoring on obstructing nouns,
but the majority of politics bullies this
categorisation of words with the most
sensed purpose of it being necessary...
nouns don't do jack **** in ontological
parameters, but verbs do...
                  trying to change human
behaviour by stretching it back far enough
for cavemen to appear,
      or censoring the use of nouns
does not affect our actions -
                                     it simply doesn't...
censoring our use of words
         means we cognitively stutter... to
appease misguided pieces of information
lodged within each word...
                       we are deliberately
not engaging in the full vocabulary grasp
of things...
                          on a humanistic level
the involuntary desire
                                  to write a book rather than
learn to make toothpaste...
   outside of theorems in rubrics of
repetition:
                   what is the active ingredient
in being conscious?
                  thought or the senses?
   for me thought is the active ingredient
   and the senses are a passive ingredient.
               on the ready...
but how to make the world make sense?
  well, given the five already not making
sense, thought alone suggests a counter
question: how does the world make sense?
    i understand that these words
belong in the torture chambers of libraries...
people prefer practical problems
sourced by practical questions,
rather than preferring no problems
  sourced by impractical questions...
did i mention taxation? no.
         did i mention immigration? no.
hence i've asked impractical questions
         because i don't want people to
experience them as practical concerns
when they do not invoke practicality:
precisely because they invoke an impracticality
i'm asking them...
                              because they do
not interfere with what's impractical in life:
other people's sedimentation
into power... my questions interfere with what's
practical in life: not getting in other people's
daily affairs...
                         the more the question
is impractical, the more practical life becomes...
and then life encounters what others deem
to be the practical question, which makes
life all the more impractical...
       time orientated: on the altar of television
where everyone has enough time to
zombie-it-further.
                               with thought the
active ingredient of being conscious (double
value, two functions, one open, the other closed)
                the inactive ingredient of being conscious
is ego (hence the many theories and sub-divisions
of possessing such a thing) -
                     that doesn't necessarily translate
into                               the origin of things...
                 i'd state that grammar is
in equal measure a conscious quantity (vocabulary),
as a subconscious medium  and an unconscious
            suggestion...
                          grammar speaks of the universal man,
we speak alone or among ourselves as
men: particular...
                                      to me grammar is a medium
akin to the psychological three tier cake...
                              it's a fourth dilemma...
                 if thought is the active ingredient
of consciousness,
                                it's no wonder
   the constant sought-after identification procedures
with passports, national insurance numbers,
                   reincarnation...
    THE WEST KNOWS NO MYSTICISM...
        a common mantra...
   THE WEST IS IN A STATE OF A CRISIS
IN THAT IT HAS EXHAUSTED ALL
                           SOURCES OF PLAGIARISM...
          IT IS IN A STATE OF BABYLONIAN
  PLAGIARISM: A PERSISTENT SELF-RENOVATION
            BY PLAGIARISING ITSELF
DUE TO THE FACT THAT IT HAS EXHAUSTED
      PLAGIARISING NICHE ENVIRONMENTS...
              the white man knows no mysticism...
whatever comes from his mouth is wobble-blah...
               still even fewer made that statement
than venture into the Masai territories in Kenya
to hear a mystical burp...
                       yes... so many provocative sentences...
psychology expands into what will always be
airy-fairy Mary Poppins to me...
                        i can write about it,
but the rubric of fixating on words
                                 that are stimulants more than
additives in terms of cohesive argumentation
will always remain a mile away from my
serious interests in prolonging an argument
  for establishing a theory into it being schooled...
that'll never happen with me...
                        when i write about psychology
i am foremost to remind myself:
     you just inhaled a balloon filled with helium...
   oh god, the relief of not making more from this...
                  me, never the dodgy soul-salesman
of the naive few...
                             a penny is worth a pebble...
but is a page from Tolstoy worth a £5, a £10,
a £20 or a £50 banknote?
                                             i really wanted to
expand on the verbiage... but even i encounter
moments of true spaghetti demanding me to end
the supposed: on to it...
                                        to me psychology is
verbiage... in the back of my mind i'm looking
at grammar as a punching-bag...
                 upper-hook -logy
                        lower-hook -graphy -
          or pristine physics and chemistry...
      as one granny said: some kind of -logy
   or: a term deemed appropriate to denote
    a vocabulary fixation of some sort.
                      because that's what's called the attache...
fixated vocabulary -
                        i'd really love to expand
on this... but i don't see the point...
                 the original idea fizzled out
after i heard enough entertainment tongues
blah through a bubbling bottle of champagne
into Lake ****-on-the-Geneva-Convention flat...
                   as i am adamant on
creating Narcissus looking into the sea...
                           but that's the beauty of
poetry, it's not bound by paragraphs...
           it's open, like the ******* of literature
that it is...
                                 your payment?
just your attention...
                                           hence no paragraphs...
                your payment?
   just your attention...
                               because if they didn't cough
up for the skeleton... i'm not
           giving them my strained larynx...
                         sometimes...
   it's best to leave
                                something unfinished:
there's no melancholy surrounding
     a perfected and complete construction...
                     

the number of ghosts engaged with *** toys...
you almost forget to wonder about the whole
debacle (clearly it's not a debate) - queen Sheba
was right when she said to king Solomon:
the world will be governed by a yellow race:
(coppery, garnished with choc, alter rusty)
no exceptions to the Japanese having the physiognomy
of something resembling all things Germanic...
   porcelain white, excuses for the blonde -
             then the unearthed and then earthed brown
that's represented by all Asiatic hues;
they dropped the atom bomb and we're worried
someone else will drop another? what about those people
who do military deals selling pistols and bullets
and machine-guns; aren't they on the priority list
of concerns? atom bombs don't sell much warfare,
they don't, you drop a nuke you forget there
was a war in the first place, it's called the simplified
variety of the end...
           if it weren't for the ethos of
the kamikaze, there wouldn't have been
a hiroshima & a nagasaki...
         there would just have been a hiroshima...
proud ******* told the whole lot of nagasaki
citizens: our fate is your fate, listen to the credo!
                  first time lucky... boom! x-ray flash!
i've got the opposite of bone on that brickwall...
              i have noon shadow: perfectly captured
like a replica of a Fabergé egg to represent
a chicken! but Dylan could have sung -
    preference to the x-ray and the sedimentation of
bone into the archeological... nope... a-ray stood out,
    apparently detailing shadows was the way forward.
      but i don't blame them...
there's no reason to blame someone that
manages to fill your childhood slack
on imagining things that aren't really there
with Godzilla vs. Ghidorah (ghee: dorris, slash: door'ah)...
still, the western civi faces fresh allegations
of feministic chuckles and the ghosts of
*** toys... cos any **** would be an adequate
fleshy piston for the gyroid stanza of
  being agreeably equivalent to milking a cow...
that really bites the biscuit,
a Greek might have all the theological answers
but he's still sidelined because he hasn't figured out
an parabolic entry into a ****** using
        a straightened Floppy: for that necessary
arousal being satiated... come to think of
it: god would be better pleased with an argument
than a woman pleased with an orgsam
that might lead to the lost argument for god...
it's not enough that a tornado doesn't make it easier,
they apparently "do" too;
most of the jokes come as no surprise:
   mine's still alive.
                              it's still ghosts in *** toys...
           you got to look at ******* as a quasi-
Attenborough moment of curiosity,
      does it get me wired for a marriage? not really...
does it bewilder me thoroughly? of course it does...
          ghosts in *** toys...
                          could this turn into something
quintessentially dictatorial? probably...
          there's no point thinking you're right
if you don't allow the other person to speak out...
  and on that note... dialectics is interested in only
two people having a debate...
              not necessarily an argument...
debates only exist between two opposites of a required
conceit to be levelled and a plateau to be trodden...
   dialectics is never an en masse concern for vitality,
dialectics is not theatre,
       but as it stands, dialectics is misunderstood as
a theatrical attempt to achieve a congenial
narrative where everywhere is informed (consensus
omni)...
              clearly Socrates is Socrates (misanthropic)
and Shakespeare is Shakespeare (artsy fartsy):
the former needs a stranger and a park bench...
the latter needs a stage and a theatre and commotion;
thinking the two will unite is already a prerequisite
of dictatorial rule...
                                   additionally?
you can't learn dialectics from the direct source that
discloses the existence of such a medium...
not Plato... and i'm not saying that i know it:
but i'm saying that no slogan chanted in a march
   will create a less embittered narrative than
my own mind might already provide.
ghosts in *** toys, boney *****,
       **** tricksy risque (or if it would be worthwhile
to be born with the pleasurable **** experience gene);
              which amounts to one billion Chinese
doing it right...
       i wish i was born into a family of seven siblings...
then at least i might have, what is known as:
        a western acquisition of a satiable sense of humour;
the "hey man!" sort of attitude that states that all
operatic endeavours have to be relegated to a tone
above the castrato: namely chipmunk.

So, this spider was crawling up the wall,
The wall, which had its cosmetics coming off.
The wall, which was mum.
It had seen much.
I was there, under this cursed ceiling fan,
Which was creaking monotonously.
The portraits and the tapestries,
With the rusted nails and hooks under.
The sedimentation of soot,
On the walls,
On the ceiling,
And on the pictures.
All silent,
Dead silent,
Except this cursed ceiling fan.
The ambience,
Was in its nothingness.
As if, they were looking at me in awe,
As if, I were a trespasser.
Unanticipated, I heard rumblings,
And chantings,
And phrases.
The wind in the room suddenly came to life.
The Air, spoke something into my ears,
Something unintelligible.
The frequency went up,
And up, and up.
Ultrasonic vibrations, were those.
The portraits glared at me,
I was becoming anxious,
As well as having eerie feels.
My eyes glued on something,
Something creepy.
I remember,
How four score and seven revolutions of this planet back,
My 16 year old friend had perished in this very room,
Under this very cursed ceiling fan.
Now, not everyone can live for a hundred and three years,
And remember an incident.
Oh, and yes, my eyes glued on my own portrait...

...We do exist,
We defy science.

tie up, covet space and
wind wound round to
collect all thrown away.
  this is the gutter that seeps;
  this is where my sedimentation begins,
  pure, anew:
the base culvert of societal demands,
a miserable brand name:
i curled inside the hollow inside of
you devoted to my coveture. all just

false lashes. i can
read into nothing, too. i
can subsist like the
consistency, consumption or
delegating i. this destitute
diplomacy. i can
let go without blinking.

  or at least, i would've wanted to.
but
  you know better. with
  teeth, you read desperation
  on the architecture of my lips.
a hand cast
  a shadow on me to show some
  substance. bare fangs and
  open up. new space unfolds.
  with clarity, i pretend to see.

i can be patient,
but plans fall apart.
  i can't wait forever.

when she speaks her voice oozes.
humid, sticky, heavy like
fog. i beg her to talk and it bleeds into me,
seeps into my pores. cocoons me in sludge.
i feel her yellow teeth sink into my skin and i feel my fingertips buzz,
i let her tear into me. i sigh into her canine teeth like
they’re the rim of my bathtub.

i feel her scraping the filth off me,
layers of sedimentation in
bacteria and saliva.
it collects under her blackened fingernails and
pools around the edges, soft,
revolting. she peels off my epidermis and my
blood rises to the surface, basks in her presence,
makes me dizzy in its hubris.

i feel all of her, i feel her teeth grazing my
small intestine and i muster a whimper.
aren’t quick deaths supposed to be painless?
like ripping off bandaids or
snipping umbilical cords.
i admire the holes she’s left in me,
tracing their edges, treasuring her bite marks,
realizing that this is all she’s left me with.

she gave me the privilege of a shallow grave,
sticky with topsoil and my own fermentation.
i become aware of my body, all my ridges,
open wounds, angry with infection,
******* liquefied tissue, cellular debris,
pus-filled and trembling.
i make friends with the maggots.

i press on my gashes and watch decomposition seep out of my pores,
i feel my new friends feeding off me, my skin hot with embarrassment from all the attention,
and i hold my breath just to feel the strain of my lungs.

they work their way up to my jaw, giving me soft kisses down to my dermis. i think of her one last time, and how she was too soft,
too soft and yet brittle and harsh and
alarming. i think of her body, all of her parts conjoined with
scarred lacerations and freckles.
i feel her eyes dart over what’s left of me. i feel her breath on my skin.

i ask the larvae if i taste sweet.
they assure me that im rancid.