the Islam of Malcolm X isn't the Islam of today... it isn't really the prescription of Nietzsche had before the Heraclitus flux took sway and said: waterfall or lottery... it really, really, really doesn't matter. the Islam of the 1960s isn't the Islam of today... too tinged with Sieg Heil... although less the Ave Caesar salute and more akin to: who's up for ****, *******? the Islam has changed... if i was wise enough i'd have converted, to mind you... but i thought: putting my faith by only having a library of only one book... i thought... n'ah... that's a bit extreme, can i at least have a comic book strip to add to that massive library? no? oh well, no, sorry, at least one book mentions several authors who tried to imitate but failed on the last hurdle, at least i can revise that, and completely erase the two extensions that borrowed from Hinduism; 'cos' like it ******* mattered.. don't test me, i'm anticipating death like  suicide-vest child... come on! let's start the Slavic crusade!

perhaps it's not about not thinking certain thoughts,
or feeling certain emotions...
but perhaps it just is...
i say, we need the Sophists these days to
apply the fishing-net tactic to deciphering or
simply selectively reflecting our vocabularies...
strait-jacket vocabularies are there in plain sight...
i mean... wait a minute...
i jumped from jazz into pop music on the headphones,
from Miles Davis' *kind of blue defining
moment of the flamenco sketches right into the bog
of one direction - so i guess this is where
the antidote for art being too subjective comes in...
well, they sorted that problem already...
objectivity in art is around us as we speak,
it means "artists" that are manufactured,
art in the age of mechanical reproduction
(Walter Benjamin), it means more props than artists,
the problem got solved, it means reaching an
autocratic plateau of plugging in and sharing
a non-individualistic stream of emotion,
the opposite of democracy is autocracy, it isn't
despotism... i don't know why democracy doesn't
understand that it's ugly sister (autocracy)
is the enemy and not a Genghis Khan style of government...
democracy in the form of autocracy is a failed
attempt at Utopia... it suggests the system is perfect...
it means the institutions go about their daily business
like children in the playground who ******* and wet
themselves (the bankers), and still not one does anything
about it... what was once a demo tape of a indie band
becomes an automatic big seller big grosser E.P.,
just because the tragedy came, and they drove the touring
bus off a bridge in Sveeden... *******...
you ain't fighting dictators, you're fighting your change
from democracy into autocracy... where things
seem so perfect they can hardly ever change,
they're automated, they're not demographically sound...
sure, i'm the clown, i'll juggle a few big words around...
but in term of art? well, pop music has reached
the limit of what "philosophers" argued against...
to be frank... jealousy got to them that argued
for counter-productive constraints...
now they rebel against this objective construct of
artists in the shadows, writing text and tune and needing
some amateur to perform... and where do you
seek their rebellion? in the subjectivity they once
argued against: that famous Rage Against the Machine
protest against the X-factor...
so wait, first you argue against the subjectivity
of the artistic expression, then you postulate the non-existence
of the self: countered as the dasein for all subjectivity,
then you miss artistic objectivity with the karaoke
and what comes as the **** utopia with French
euthanasia tourists in Switzerland and Belgium...
you missed the argument you favoured, i.e.
artistic objectivity, i.e. performers, not people who write
the hit singles, Hiroshima Karaoke,
well, aren't we all objective now, that we have to source
our feelings in the expressions we once made angst against?
odd, isn't it? you never knew how well established
the counter argument became...
it's pop culture, it's evidently going to become viral...
but you see the power of subjective art...
it spreads like an infection, no point arguing against it...
objectivity in art is already a well established
virus, it doesn't really bite into your soul,
it bites, but you just get the odd body chicken ****...
that's what i mean about how a self-assured-without-a-self
democracy morphs into autocracy...
the fake Utopia of the well-established social
institutions actually being bankrupt, starting
with the post-colonial charity companies,
lying sharks and interest rates at 2000% per annum
i'm starting to think of Islam... leeches and hypocrites...
so your pointless critique of the subjectivity of the arts
became your most sling-shot friction strained weapon
to aim at the industry of art objectified,
in the age of mechanical reproduction true art = dodo...
it's on its way out... i hardly think that
50 years from now you'll find someone as idiotic
as me writing poetry for the love of the **** thing...
you'll get Utopian plateaus, anaesthetic democracy in
the realm of humanism, and hanging over you
autocracy... immovable foundations, cos' everything's
just perfect, time to invade another Libya where
some genius ensured the people knew their place
and who kept order on the pretence of
keeping weapons of mass destruction and
dog leashes... but there you will be ****-strapped going
huh? i thought subjectivity in art was bad?
n'ah mate, that's the only thing that made art good...
you got your ******* Karaoke, live with it!
the English Renaissance of the 1960s ain't coming back,
even if you gave Belfast back to the Dublin crew...
i say we need another Protagoras to get
the vocabulary inflation up to speed...
i say devalue the words self, ego... and make the
psychologists bums..
i say devalue the words nation, british and hamburger
to make the anglophile influence on Europe
a bit like sniffing a mortar of ******* off a penny...
i say reestablish the virtues of Japanese feudalism,
scare depressed teenagers with the words:
your only way out is by Hara Kiri.
something must come from a poem like this...
i have rage... you reason with it...
i'm not going to reason a calm into my heart with the words
i just wrote... n'ah... n'ah n'ah... that ain't happening...
it only took one needle in a haystack to give me prompt...
the ailments of subjectivity in art...
that got me, bull's eye reddened mad...
you ain't turning me into Darwinian grey matter!
this is democracy at its most despotic...
let me try democracy first, before i join the legion of dentists
with happy middle-class lives in autocracy...
can't blame ****** in this guise of organising people,
'cos' there just ain't no ******...
that got me hot wired and hired to argue...
first they say: art deserves no subjectivity...
fair enough: 1 man draws a rhombus a 1000 men draw a square...
but now that we can finally see objectivity being applied
to art, we only get pop: **** jazz, classical, rock and speedy-indie...
we get manufacture... as you once hated those with
personal intention to add to the democratic demographic,
now you turn against them for disturbing the status quo...
well, happy are those that come to the sun's repeat jargon
and happily doubt the roundabout...
because criticising art as subjectively orientated
really spared you art having ascribed objectivity to its cause
of attaining mechanical reproduction,
and the subjective placebo... neither thinking nor feeling
anything deeper than nervous yoga twitching dances...
spare me the ******* details if you come up with
a more accurate historical pinpoint.

She sees blindly, selectively.
She sees the man whos arms are the only place she feels safe, not the violent brute who beats her if she breathes to loudly.
She sees her friends who care about her more than anything, not the people who complain to her constantly, as if they've forgotten they have working ears.
She sees a job she loves where she gets to help people, not the one where her boss feels her up & tells her if she says or does anything, she's fired.
She sees the man in the elevator who says "good morning ma'am" every morning & "good night" every night, not the man who stares down the revealing shirts her boss makes her wear to keep her job.
She sees the man who helps her wash her car, not the man who spits at her window & calls her a ******* ***** because she accidentily cut him off.
She sees freedom & a way out, not the gun.
She sees blindly, selectively.

They say I suffer from retrograde cash flow
and it is afflicting me with anterograde anxiety
so they let me go
bleeding money from every pore
leaving a red paper trail behind me

A memetic virus of unprecedented scale
has everyone pale and empty-pocketed
their haunted eyes reflecting
the fear of an exofiduciary reaction

The resultant melancholy
proves infectious.

My sad-sack coworkers,
drained from the same numismatic disease
seek alternative medicine
but I am hooked on the slow copper drip
and wait patiently for the bag to empty before
I even realize I should have
seen another doctor
before
my internet support's been pulled.

Oh Rudolph, hath thou'st been picked upon by thy peers,
And hath thou cry'st thyself to sleep upon thy very tears.

For hath thou been bestowed 'tis distinguished nose,
For which thee other reindeers have selectively chose,
To be'st the prime target of thou'st dearest tears arose.

Yet, as swift fame arisen hath false friendship emerged too,
As horrid bullies now be'st bestest friends as thee night'st adieu.
For little Rudolph sees not the emergence of such facade,
A'th thy actions of dearest Santa ha'th granted thy accolade.

Again'st his dearest peers and their jealousy little Rudolph sees not,
For his dearest downfall must these devilish, horrid little beings plot.
Upon 'tis dearest red heart should see'st then 'tis fated knife,
And end'st now upon the hands of thee jealousy, shall his life.
For dearest little Rudolph hath known nothing of what a masks a'worn,
Shall beings do'st yet another despire thee words prior a'sworn,
For false masks of friendship shall plant thy dagger a'heart,
Until thy jealous'd fame and body shall separate apart.

Of all the cracked sidewalks
The winding maze
Of everyone else's shattered city

He traces calcium caked bones;
Ribbon strips of dyed out dreams
Close your eyes, close your eyes!

Selectively seducing the spires of silence
Romancing the carnage soaked thoughts
Smiling all the while

My choice or his design
I am hypnotized,
selectively blind
Claws cradle the head
Control the mind
Sweep over my face
And cover my eyes
He kisses my lips
Conceals my mouth
Stops air from getting in
To prevent words from coming out
Under a crown of talons
I am his Queen
As he sits on his throne
I'm chained to his seat

we all flow through life like rivers
here and there, crested glimmers
sun shimmered
atop waves once ripples
at last glance of this looking glass..?
men surely shivered

locked in depths of mind
where feral thoughts blind
binded by
"my" mentality


the self is selectively obsessive
malevolent
eloquent
evident
in heaven sent temperament

I.

I..

I...

can do no wrong..

can do no wrong.

can do no wrong!

those with bias
revel in personally pious thought
a myriad of self destruction

pompous contemplation
decimates civilization


we all flow the same way
we all ride the same wave
once a ripple from a stones throw
bound to glimmer when we all flow

Selectively mines,  on conditions that I don't step out of line, don't dare ask too many questions because it makes you answer with more questions where I'm turnt into the bad guy,

the one who doesn't understand, it's all my fault somehow, it's because of me, I failed to give into to ridicules accusations or allow defeat, I was pushed past the point of breaking ,

I even lost me a few times, I've been insane for as long as I can remember but this time it's completely different, I wake to walk in fear every hours of the day,

I'm made to feel ashamed for loving you, told I'll never be as good as the one you're faithfully into someone whose not even known you not the real you not as I do,

seed after useless seeds polluted a once healthy womb, drop after drop tears fell ******* shadows passing me up,

leaving me for what may become a happy ending to this fairytale nightmare,screaming myself away flinging covers off of me, laughing as I cry  out darkness, so dark and the scents nostalgically unpleasant, the many times her scents lingered on you

even in thought I conjure up the smell of lies, the musty deceit, the filthy metallic accusations thrown at me

Selectively mines when it suites your ego and when it's not inconveniencing you, I'm turnt into the bad one the person whose always to blame,



                  the one who
doesn't understand,
                it's all my fault                        
                      somehow,
it's because of me,
           I failed to give into
                           to ridicules accusations
                                                       or allow defeat,    
                                                  I was pushed
                                                     past the point of breaking


the reason you need her - where I no longer have a place, I had no choice too, I had to move on.

Hardest things to do when your reaching for a hand but end up with  straws, darkness and no help, dreams unpleasantly real, craving a touch a kiss, to be notice.

        Knock knock,    
              
                          whose there?
                                  
                                             No one....
                                  
                                       Just your
                                        
                                                  Wife of 11 years.


                                  Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright 1977 - Present ©
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®

I think it's crazy
How we've all been brainwashed
Into believing that one of us
Can change nothing

We've been taught
To only see Adolf's evils
And to ignore
The magnificence of his rise

We're told stories of revolutionaries
In such a way
That we only dream of revolution
And settle for the man's reality

Isn't it amazing
How we've all been coaxed
Into believing one alone is insignificant
Selectively forgetting all starts with one

You, Me, She, or even He
Could change this world
With the right words and work
But we won't

We've been brainwashed
Into
*Insignificance

What is the ultimate evil
Well pineapples on pizza
Where is that stored
In pandora's pizza box

What the ultimate evil for men
Talking about the deep stuff
And no guys not ***
The feels that we repress
That we keep
In our Mandora's box

No these feels are like pineapples
Some people are totally fine with them
And even share them
Though most people don't want them to

But sooner or later
You will come across pineapple pizza
And just like the feels
You can ignore it
But it's still there on the counter
And sure some could throw it away
But then your throwing away pizza

You could pick off the pineapples
But there is still that juice
Just like there is still that fear
When you talk even selectively about feels

Ok so just eat all the pineapples
No chance not for you
Not opening up to you
But you got to open up to somebody
And maybe they make the pineapples
Taste like a meat lover deep dish
Probably not but maybe
Just a little better

As the sun reaches it zenith & the moon becomes full,
Soldiers are deployed at various point,
Allowing their thought to wander away into ephemeral violence,
Well armed,
Red pointers at human sight,
killing in the pretence of liberation,
Defenceless civilians murdered in sight,

I don't have the adequate vocabulary to constructively & emotionally create that atmosphere,

As a poet they don't mind if I make a sound
But it's a real problem
if I ever get too loud,

It enrages me,
I'm bitterly miffed,
Imagine the agony, stress, depression & tension they are
going through,
Let's be factual,

Their based desire & legitimate purpose is to associate ,affiliate & standardize us as terrorist,

They come in front of our tv & give us speech our forefathers have never heard of,
Humanity in it eternity have been blindfolded & deviated from the truth,

They have  become the fixed &  Luminous center around which innumerable lifestyle revolves,
Civilization will not lead mankind to insanity,

It feels good to be in power ,
But a day will come when they will ponder, reflect & introspect,
but their reflection will be to no avail,

Reflect over what I say,
In silence & tranquillity,

We may be on a Long arduous journey,
But victory is to the oppressed,
Categorically & selectively speaking ,
It will become a practical reality,

Innocent souls are been lost everyday,
In pakistan,Syria,Iraq,Iran
Yet the conference continues,
Killings intensifies,
Women are murdered,
Fathers are slaughtered,
Kids are held captive some rigorously excluded,
Without them labouring humanity searching for peace will perish,


It's a sad time we live in,
Educated leaders with no heart of  human sympathy,
Acting upon their based desires & ego,

You may call this character assassination,
I call it supreme words of justice
Only time will tell who is the true terrorist

Happy Easter everyone!
Yes even all you lovely folk at Google!
Thanks for the doodle (not)
Thanks for being so selectively inclusive-
So open minded and transparent!
Indeed it is a small gesture of bad faith (pardon the pun),
but no less unpleasant for it

I'm so sorry to have to point out to you that you will fail in this ignoble endeavour
Just like so many before you have failed
Just like all campaigns must fail when their core principles are hostility, arrogance, and the increasingly popular brand of cold warfare- selective inclusion

You see the answer to the problems of our world
(yes OUR world, not mine or yours or theirs, but ours):
Is not more war- be it physical or virtual;
It is not more discrimination- be it active or passive; and
It is not to champion only one or a few sections of society- whether by actual good work or mere lip service such as 'doodles'
Putting down the one in a misguided (& half-hearted) attempt to uplift the other is a fool's errand and a dishonourable one at that

You see we have enough division in this world
We have seen enough war and exclusion
Even now there are more than enough cowardly and insidious actors spreading fear, violence and petty resentment through the internet and all your spectacular technology

And what is it worth- this power you have over the www?
And all the information you insidiously and yet blatantly, collect about the hapless user?
What is all that knowledge worth if it does not awaken you to the great struggle of our time?

The struggle to overcome:
Our differences- real and perceived
Our fear of the unfamiliar
Our collective tradition of violence
Our joint heritage of injustice
Our long long history of 'my way or the highway!'

Please grow up, think bigger, be better
It is not your prerogative to impose your limited beliefs on the world
It is your duty to improve yourselves and those around you
As we've heard it said so many times:
With great power, comes great responsibility..
In this age of information, you and your ilk weild an unprecedented and unquantifiable range and depth of power
Do not squander it, or you will certainly fail and fall like all those wannabe superpowers before you!

let's not make this mercy killing into a tragedy
if you mourn, i'll recover my grip on reality
realize what i've done
and i can't handle that responsibility

i accepted my fate the first time i lost my mind
knew i'd forever be stuck outside my head
fought for a few years more,
but now i'm done with this

i will fall like the primaveral rain,
soak the earth with my brittle rotting bones
let the flesh decompose
ease my mind, cleanse my soul

tangled up in vacillation
mania-white staining indigo perceptions
the future never seemed so trivial
(who said i couldn't live like this)
wide-eyed, selectively hypersensitive
i'm ignoring what lies ahead
i don't want to think about it

i'm destroying what little chance i had left
precipitation replacing perspiration,
erasing perspective,
drowning out my voice of reason
just let me breathe
cause i'm so sick of responsibility

this is just the cycle of life
perspective's leeching the necrosis
from my bones
i will be reborn as a lesser being
so for now just let me
pretend that the flames are home.

It's not that I'm cold
That I'm heartless
Or ignorant.

For one thing,
My passion for life
Burns bright enough to warm
My whole being,
My mind and soul.

For another,
I am heartless
Because a certain someone
Ran off with it
Yet I still care
For certain things

And lastly,
I'm not ignorant
At least, not fully.

I just selectively ignore
Those who are not worth more
Than a warning

So here's one:
Back off

Beauty is the thing,
That which all Men desire,
and all Women Strive to become,

It is in the Eye of the Beholder,
Something that we selectively want,
and something we learn to Love over time,
no matter "Fat", "Skinny" or "Curvy"
People CAN be beautiful,
But true beauty,
Is the Beauty of the heart.

My husband has a special gift,
that, in a way, I have myself to blame.
He doesn't just selectively hear,
creative hearing is his claim to fame.

My simple request; "Can you come help me a sec?"
Will garner a  "Sure I'll have some coffee."
So, what do I do?  I get him a cup.
Wondering if he had really heard me.

I guess it's just a marriage thing,
that comes with the territory.
That a man will hear what he wants to hear.
But, for creativity, George gets all the glory.

You see, rather than risk "Whatever you say dear."
Not knowing what he is agreeing too.
He slips into creative hearing mode
and says what he wants me to do.

As dear young children,
remember when we shared beliefs sitting on the swings?
and now on park benches, we find solace in the years the season brings.
Watching as the souls of the world live as kings,
when we were drunk on Halloween.

It was that night I realized what beauty was.
Our first night in the new apartment,
every room still empty.
We would get electricity tomorrow,
so we used candles.
I could see the mosaic glow of your face,
and it took me to a brand new place.
You were only wearing your underwear and my worn out sweater,
lying on the floor,
the floor that was covered in wine and scratch-offs.
The whispers of candles in the background.
My mind was wild, but now misused,
my eyes are a child that’s confused.
But my love will hold you when you’re sleeping,
and caress you when you’re weeping.
The season in your eyes,
it selectively identifies,
my face in the foam on the side of the glass,
right next to the episode of cries.
I only wish you were near me,
but you will never love me sincerely.
When will I escape these human emotions?
It feels like I only go through the motions.

Within that moment,
where the heated altercations wither away,
where the blazing screams end,
and the confessions really begin.
Where the funeral is quiet tears and melodic eulogies,
suppressed by the far cry of the brain,
filled with eternal apologies,
never to sustain.
Within his final thoughts before he hit the train.
Now we hold hands in a Eucharistic reunion,
only to steal our emotions from the young ones.
Every reflection of the light on the trees,
they taunt me with wonder and euphonic memories.
You won’t find a flame in my heart,
I've never been shown that part.
I’m a stranger to myself and that’s okay.

Wielding one balance before me:
Divine intent, no tool for an evil genius
Levied ‘gainst one jar wrought of glass,
Within fine grains of coal.
My sins may weigh to graphite
Fitting, for no blanket of Heaven
Suits my restlessness.
Cast me on parchment
Where I spell out the pain
Of never capturing truth—no human may.
Enigma, Aestheticus, vibrant, complete
Finished, or full. No, I utter to Venus
A Pygmalion word to know
All as art and beauty so well
As to paint it carnally.
Give me that which is love made manifest
On lithe little toes, walks her
Which, parsed out selectively  
Is revealed in awesome moment, eternal
Subjectivity. Either she steps from a canvas
Strides from a dream, I awaited it, organic
To come into being, to escape my grasp
And make useless poetry.

Nativity scene number fifty three
signs shout "Silence and Prayer" overhead
Publicly kneeling despite words we read
Innocent giggles sound profane instead

Selectively ignoring just to fit in
ourselves to the mold of our past
secretly telling the priest of our sin
but bowed in the chapel of glass

The first lesson in being here is inherent to be here and that is breathe, yet the second is that we are (can be often) separated by willingness. Others are not an extension of our own. It can be a self pitying and even painful experience especially if our needs are woefully neglected. By the time it is deduced others willingness comes with other awareness than our own a form of self responsibility has set in, albeit active/reactive. We are spawning fractal-ly from here, the new from there.
All is selectively derived and subset from the greater with regard to identity, memory and consciousness. All flows perfectly from such accordance...

This is a story from the Army Apprentices School, Arborfield, which was not far from Wokingham in Berkshire. I started my soldiering there on 15 January, 1959. It was a memorable first day because on the way there, through a window of the London to Wokingham train I saw a real, live cow and that evening, in the cookhouse, I had a pint *** smashed over my head. Anyway, this poem relates to the passage of information and the dangers of misinformation, and in a way is relative to my first day.

(While waiting for a train)

A bombardier and corporal were arguing the toss
About a job they had to do, about who should be boss.
The corporal said 'it should be me. You know the way we train.
My being in the Infantry means that I have the brain
To make sure job gets properly done, and doing it is really fun.
That being said - this job, you know, we really ought to flick it.
Would you believe they have us down to run a fire-piquet?

Replied his mate, the bombardier, 'even if it's cavalier,
I'm the one that fires off gun so I should get to have the fun.
And working the Apprentice School appears to me to be quite cool.
These AT's., they know their stuff, and work they'd never think to cuff.
Why, one even told my daughter, ‘on fire you never use hot water.'
Perplexed, his mate then asked 'why not, use h2o when it is hot?'
'Stands to reason' said his mate (they stood at Railway Station),
'Hot water on a burning fire just ups the conflagration'.

The two both spent that weekend off at home and in the yard.
Concluding individually the task was just too hard.
And so, selectively, they chose (so soon as they got back)
To do the work at Arborfield a smartly dressed lance-jack.
A Fusileer with bright cockade, four GEC's and bright
(though he said he'd had to give up two for getting in a fight).
He drilled the boys of Arborfield exactly as he orter
Whilst urging them to 'never, ever, ever use hot water'.

silent as the moon
stalking the streets
we are the night
we are life - life incarnated
a family
a family who met just months before
a new identity
pain vanishes into pleasure
a euphoria like no other
sharing our life force
to become one
for eternity
it is an honor,
to give my blood to you
and you to me
we do not do this lightly
and only selectively
but the dangerous thrill
is still there
a game of dominance
and acceptance
I bite your neck,
my acrylic fangs
break your skin easily
I claw my nails down your back
and watch the blood drip
my tongue trails along the cuts
your taste is coppery with salt,
blade dancing kiss
our tongues
trustfully pass the razor
back and forth
I take the razor from between my teeth
and slowly dig it into my arm
watching the blood bubble up
offering it to you -
a perfect gentleman,
never breaking eye contact
you savor my essence
then holding my hand
you gently kiss my knuckles

              high on the
   life blood of our existence

              crux ansata,
             the key of life

Once upon a time,
The night of rendezvous with him
Went like the scent of daisies everliving.

Eyes...
Selectively rising to meet mine
Wearing meek and hesitant makeup
Concealing the flushed feelings
Towards one another.

Lips...
Enjoined to avoid bursts
Of cackles loving the latter's
Oblivion
Dissembling yet verifiable
Between us.

Alas, 'eternity' shall never persist
For this remains a pipe dream
Shackles of his indifferent family
His aura bipolar to mine
Alas.

Carpe Diem
A sole motivator
Diminishing the mirage of hopelessness
Flourishing his debonair charms
Spell bounded and cherished

Today.

The End
Far afield

The Story
Began to see daylight

Welcomed this sensational feeling with all these horrific images
The selfishness of the world
The breath of wind blowing from its dead lungs
Is enough for anyone's self-destruction
While everyone idly stands by
They're dying inside
...The flies swarm
The urban hyenas
Collectively they feed on the dying breaths of all living things
Selectively they breed...they are the future...Can't you see??

"what's that? you can't get out of your bed?
too weak to be alive, too lazy to be dead?
well! take your zoloft effectively
just inhibit reuptake selectively
and soon you'll have the energy
to end your life impulsively
or be rid of feelings entirely
a chipper, cheery half-zombie"

"your panicking fits interfere with your day?
i'll lay out a feast, a benzo-buffet
ativan, klonopin, xanax oh my!
not just for those who are too scared to fly!
pop two and kiss all of your worries goodbye
and your memory, too, if you come to rely
on hours spent watching your life pass by
just try and object through that stubborn tongue-tie"

"your circadian rhythm is not quite right
you're asleep with the sun and awake in the night
so take one of these twice before closing your eyes
and wait for the dreams that will doubtless arise
too vivid and real to know truth from lies
and the nightmares will be an unpleasant  surprise
but stopping abruptly is duly unwise
so just find your stars in trazodone skies"

I am often wondering even when I'm with friends are you really listening?
Do you really hear or do you just pretend or do you selectively listen to hear what you want to.
I know we all selectively listen, at times especially if someone is long winded and we get bored
I believe everyone wants to be listened to and not ignored
If a tree fell in the woods and no one is around, I believe it still makes a sound
If I fell I'm sure I would make a sound and I hope someone would care and listen to what I have to share
I especially hope that when I have something important to say, I hope I have their full attention and they won't just walk away
I hope that when my time is up, people will say among other things she was a good listener
I ask you today Are You Listening?

I ask myself a plethora of questions as I lay weeping on my bed in the pursuit of crying myself to sleep at night.
I ask myself how you're so untouched by the ordeal of my pain, by which you have inflicted upon me.

How is it that someone can mean so much to you, or at least act like they do, and then stab you in the back, heart and stomach; simultaneously? How is it that someone can neglect your feelings so quickly and selectively? How is it that someone can jeopardize all that you've had and been through just for one insignificant, worthless moment?

These are just a small selected amount of questions that penetrate my ill, mind.

But it's your fault. Entirely. And I will blame you for eternity, infinity and furthermore endlessly.

From young, innocent specimens we are persistently told that hurting other people is immoral, so why are certain beings so immune and untouched to the pain that they inflict? Why are certain beings so rash within their decisions and therefore their actions? But most of all... How is it fair that specific humans are so untouched by their barbaric and murderous actions?

You might be untouched by my affliction, but at least I am in touch with my morals.

**Guilt will drown you but the current will move me on.

Sometimes I like to be alone,
Being alone excuses you from
Following social norms,
Of feeling judged for every little thing
You do right,
Or wrong.
You are no longer under the watchful
Eye of society;
You are free.

Loneliness by choices is a very different
Matter than from those times
Where you feel completely alone
In a sea of people.
Another benefit of being alone:
You do not feel alone.
It is an active choice of removing
Yourself
From those around you.
It avoids feeling rejected, unwanted,
Intruding on the wonderful,
Golden world of the accepted.
Instead you can have your own
Perfectly and selectively chosen
Party of you.

Here you are number one.
You are the best
At everything and anything.
You are the strongest, prettiest, fastest, smartest.
But you are also the worst.
The weakest, ugliest, slowest, dumbest.
But maybe it’s worth being the worst
If it means you can be the best,
Too.

In the real world,
There are always people better than
You.
There are always people worse than
You.
But in the real world, it is hard to feel
The best at anything,
While feeling the worst is,
Almost,
Natural.
That is why I prefer to be alone.
I encourage you to join me,
But not to actually join me,
For my party of one is full.
But you are welcome to reap the
Benefits of being utterly alone
Somewhere far away from me,
Where I am spared of your judgments,
And you of mine.
Together we can live in bliss,
Separately and
Alone.

Like cadavers are so many lovers.
Drunk on a table for two,
laid out and cut open
examined, weighed and cataloged,
yes,
cupid has your number.

He sharpens his arrows.
"Oh, how cute! He's like a baby!"
Shut it!
He's a monster.

It was nothing serious.
Angela and I were noncommittal,
then,
it just...
Happened!
I kissed her and she lost her footing.
Her legs slackened like climber's loose rope.
Angela fell, hard.
I pulled out the arrow. (I only wish I had disinfectant.)
She was breathing funny. I wasn't sure what bit her,
but when her eyes flickered open,
I felt the shame she would never know.
I looked up in time to see a fluttering of white.
A dove? I was too naive.
Angela started to get clingy. That's when I got stingy.
Soon, I began to ignore messages selectively.
Eventually, she was a fading memory.

Monica. Jessica. Lisa. Monique.
The story kept repeating itself.
"Get a grip, love was chasing you! Some should be so lucky..."
If that grip is cupid's neck, give me two handfuls, please.
I nearly stopped ******* around altogether,
haunted by feather after feather,
but I really just learned to play it safe.
Cut them off after a couple of weeks.
I'll never forgive Cupid, that rotten ****.

Her name was Felicia.

It was day thirteen.
I had my copied and pasted, "Sorry," SMS ready to go.
We were engaged in pillow talk,
it was nothing serious.
Sarcasm turned into playfulness.
We rolled over,
she had me pinned,
she nibbled on my earlobe,
and with artful tongue stroked
years of pain
from my soul.
She reared back.
Our eyes locked in mutual reverence.
We smiled and embraced letting our slick bodies revel in the moist residue of our tender frolicking.
It was then that I felt the itch in my shoulder blade.
Color and warmth fled my chest.
It was with a numbness that I let her go,
and reach back,
and felt the long spine of the arrow,
like the stem of a scythe.

The weeks that followed were a heaven
that I had always hoped not to enjoy
and felt ever more guilty in knowing my unfettered happiness.
Simple pleasures I once knew were then mountains of joy.
My passions magnified were as the flames of the sun.
I even feared I could turn her away with mentions of my love,
but this was not an unrequited venture.
We shared in admissions of our deepest affections.
There was not a moment passed in yearning of our old lives.
Even shedding light on our past imperfections was a delight
incapable of breaking the spell.
Truly, this is the purpose of youth; this love; this roaring of souls entwined.

Is justice blind?

I certainly felt this token of nature cast its judgment upon me.
No sooner than I had finally accepted my new reality, did I watch this sheltering bubble burst.
We weren't as open as I had imagined, of course, I shouldn't be so naive to think so.
She disappeared. I was distraught for what seemed like weeks, but.
I got a phone call.
The phone call led to a hospital. Within the hospital, a room.
Within that room, she lay on a bed, head shaved, smiling weakly.
I sat hesitantly by her side.
She grinned as she pinned me with a pink ribbon.
"You'll fight with me, right?" She said, as her eyes searched my soul,
quivering, yet there was a fierce strength behind the weariness.
"If I don't fight, I'll lose more than losing you."
She lay her head in my chest. A chest that could lend its power.
Looking out of the window into the horizon, I wished for things I never considered to be signs of hope. Yes, I'll fight...

In that moment of my life, it was as if I weren't alive.
Perhaps my body was waiting for me to return: sitting there, breathless.

Are brave words the measure of fate?
Oh, I wish this were so, yet some battles only time can win.

I didn't go to the funeral. I simply asked that I may scatter the ashes.
It was a moment for two. I stood on a cliff by the sea, a place she and I loved. I spoke to her, in ways I knew she deserved. I scattered the ashes, and I knew she had returned to the promise of life, a place beyond time and pain.

And so, time passes for me.

In time, I am ready to love another.
A familiar itch in the shoulder blade.
I know the arrow is there.
I look up and there is cupid, smiling.
No need to hide from a gracious soul.
I gaze and I whisper:

"Please, Cupid. This time, don't leave me breathless."

whose getting played?

apparently women's minds

don't work in this way...

Men see hierarchies and

women see webs

this confuses me, as I try to maintain inner quiet, I can't help but to

bench the idea that I'm the one getting used, who uses, and whose getting *******

selectively cynical, my grandfather says...
its a clever thing to say

selectively optimistic, thats what my therapist says
what a wonderful thing to say

my perceptions, deceiving me, do I even believe in me?  

scurrying all over the place, the Muskrat gets tired too

tries to sleep in his nest, with johnny cash on the radio

hazing himself into oblivion, whens all this ever going to end?

Where does the world go when it’s swallowed into abyss,
sodomized selectively with its own abandoned sins,
self induced lies and illogics,
it can’t drag it’s eyes across the gritted mirror,
stained scattered across its frame,
It’s drag marks burrowed into its arms,
veins a scab of ache and infected grit,
the world festers,
it’s gaunt and slender,
a skinny ****,
eyes carved deep within the bowels of its skull,
coke left overs flecked at its bleeding nostrils.

Everything is a consentuated trip,
the world’s gone sour,
look at her,
used and hollow,
thighs voluptuous,
yet bruised so tender beneath the surface,
if you could strip her skin rye and clean
to see the muscle tendons beneath
then you’d find hand prints scattered across her,
down through her curves,
violating and probing deep inside her,
no place the wicked haven’t been on and inside her.

Fingers of spider and the unnerving maggots that crawl beneath,
she scatters the buck shot shavings
abound the blood screened room of bodies and fiendish men long lost and bullet beaten,  
the shot gun barrel tokes a puff of gunpowder exhaust as she swings it levered spewing
it’s shrapnel with laughter,
and her grin,
the world’s broken smile,
disease ridden and staunched,
it burns ember as the bodies stain the hotel carpet,
stain over stain,
sin feasting on sin.

World, where does it end?
World, where?
World, will it ever end?

World, death doesn’t take a day off.

What has remained where memory was lost or stolen?
Effacing years replaced what had been felt,
the child adept at stealth and isolation
becoming stranger than the life he left

behind in absence, which was both gone and forgotten.
An echo of a voice in an empty silo rings
because he heard it answer him with words
instead of bruises; the man and child grins.

Remembering selectively, the man
recalls the carcass of a red Case tractor
thigh high in grass; and Viet Nam,
a water buffalo dead in a paddy after

the Viet Cong, like willful parents, spanked
the area with small arms fire. Hell
was neither here nor there but something stank.
The mood rolled over as an odor will

disperse in time, a transient effect
of mind, but an abyss of remembrance haunts
wherever ghosts have congregated, cleft
from the wanton interval of thwarted wants.

They chose to call it The Freedom Tree
Because in their ultimate wisdom
They felt it represented all of mankind
And their famous bid for freedom.
But all the while they didn’t really intend
For all the people to enjoy it.
They meant the right people in their laws
And selectively chose to employ it.

It stood in the center where battles were
And where some patriots had died
And from the beginning they ignored many
And abused them far and wide.
They argued that they were not really people
These of color or unaccepted belief
Then subjected them to the very horror they
Themselves had come here for relief.

So this was The Freedom Tree so named
By some kind of patriotism that chooses
Who gets to live, and love and prosper
And in the end, decide who loses.
Maybe they should have chosen a name
That said what they thought was right;
Maybe the name should have been
The Tree of Freedom For Everyone White.