call it the greenhouse effect or whatever
but it just doesn't rain like it used to.
I particularly remember the rains of the
depression era.
there wasn't any money but there was
plenty of rain.
it wouldn't rain for just a night or
a day,
it would RAIN for 7 days and 7
nights
and in Los Angeles the storm drains
weren't built to carry off taht much
water
and the rain came down THICK and
MEAN and
STEADY
and you HEARD it banging against
the roofs and into the ground
waterfalls of it came down
from roofs
and there was HAIL
big ROCKS OF ICE
bombing
exploding smashing into things
and the rain
just wouldn't
STOP
and all the roofs leaked-
dishpans,
cooking pots
were placed all about;
they dripped loudly
and had to be emptied
again and
again.
the rain came up over the street curbings,
across the lawns, climbed up the steps and
entered the houses.
there were mops and bathroom towels,
and the rain often came up through the
toilets:bubbling, brown, crazy,whirling,
and all the old cars stood in the streets,
cars that had problems starting on a
sunny day,
and the jobless men stood
looking out the windows
at the old machines dying
like living things out there.
the jobless men,
failures in a failing time
were imprisoned in their houses with their
wives and children
and their
pets.
the pets refused to go out
and left their waste in
strange places.
the jobless men went mad
confined with
their once beautiful wives.
there were terrible arguments
as notices of foreclosure
fell into the mailbox.
rain and hail, cans of beans,
bread without butter;fried
eggs, boiled eggs, poached
eggs; peanut butter
sandwiches, and an invisible
chicken in every ***.
my father, never a good man
at best, beat my mother
when it rained
as I threw myself
between them,
the legs, the knees, the
screams
until they
seperated.
"I'll **** you," I screamed
at him. "You hit her again
and I'll **** you!"
"Get that son-of-a-*******
kid out of here!"
"no, Henry, you stay with
your mother!"
all the households were under
seige but I believe that ours
held more terror than the
average.
and at night
as we attempted to sleep
the rains still came down
and it was in bed
in the dark
watching the moon against
the scarred window
so bravely
holding out
most of the rain,
I thought of Noah and the
Ark
and I thought, it has come
again.
we all thought
that.
and then, at once, it would
stop.
and it always seemed to
stop
around 5 or 6 a.m.,
peaceful then,
but not an exact silence
because things continued to
drip
  drip
    drip
  

and there was no smog then
and by 8 a.m.
there was a
blazing yellow sunlight,
Van Gogh yellow-
crazy, blinding!
and then
the roof drains
relieved of the rush of
water
began to expand in the warmth:
PANG!PANG!PANG!
and everybody got up and looked outside
and there were all the lawns
still soaked
greener than green will ever
be
and there were birds
on the lawn
CHIRPING like mad,
they hadn't eaten decently
for 7 days and 7 nights
and they were weary of
berries
and
they waited as the worms
rose to the top,
half drowned worms.
the birds plucked them
up
and gobbled them
down;there were
blackbirds and sparrows.
the blackbirds tried to
drive the sparrows off
but the sparrows,
maddened with hunger,
smaller and quicker,
got their
due.
the men stood on their porches
smoking cigarettes,
now knowing
they'd have to go out
there
to look for that job
that probably wasn't
there, to start that car
that probably wouldn't
start.
and the once beautiful
wives
stood in their bathrooms
combing their hair,
applying makeup,
trying to put their world back
together again,
trying to forget that
awful sadness that
gripped them,
wondering what they could
fix for
breakfast.
and on the radio
we were told that
school was now
open.
and
soon
there I was
on the way to school,
massive puddles in the
street,
the sun like a new
world,
my parents back in that
house,
I arrived at my classroom
on time.
Mrs. Sorenson greeted us
with, "we won't have our
usual recess, the grounds
are too wet."
"AW!" most of the boys
went.
"but we are going to do
something special at
recess," she went on,
"and it will be
fun!"
well, we all wondered
what that would
be
and the two hour wait
seemed a long time
as Mrs.Sorenson
went about
teaching her
lessons.
I looked at the little
girls, they looked so
pretty and clean and
alert,
they sat still and
straight
and their hair was
beautiful
in the California
sunshine.
the the recess bells rang
and we all waited for the
fun.
then Mrs. Sorenson told us:
"now, what we are going to
do is we are going to tell
each other what we did
during the rainstorm!
we'll begin in the front row
and go right around!
now, Michael, you're first!. . ."
well, we all began to tell
our stories, Michael began
and it went on and on,
and soon we realized that
we were all lying, not
exactly lying but mostly
lying and some of the boys
began to snicker and some
of the girls began to give
them ***** looks and
Mrs.Sorenson said,
"all right! I demand a
modicum of silence
here!
I am interested in what
you did
during the rainstorm
even if you
aren't!"
so we had to tell our
stories and they were
stories.
one girl said that
when the rainbow first
came
she saw God's face
at the end of it.
only she didn't say which end.
one boy said he stuck
his fishing pole
out the window
and caught a little
fish
and fed it to his
cat.
almost everybody told
a lie.
the truth was just
too awful and
embarassing to tell.
then the bell rang
and recess was
over.
"thank you," said Mrs.
Sorenson, "that was very
nice.
and tomorrow the grounds
will be dry
and we will put them
to use
again."
most of the boys
cheered
and the little girls
sat very straight and
still,
looking so pretty and
clean and
alert,
their hair beautiful in a sunshine that
the world might never see
again.
and

From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine.

At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal.
It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds)

A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators.

I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success.

However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative.

A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message;
Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages.

To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past!
Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors!

Purcy Flaherty.

Laughs echo down
the halls around you.
Your are seperated from
the happiness.
You have to remind yourself:
I exist.

Everyone around you
is talking.
You are seperated from
their madness.
You have to remind yourself:
I exist.

Lives seem to move on
around you.
You are seperated from
the adventure.
You have to remind yourself:
I exist.

In night and day:
I exist.
In time and history:
I exist.
I have flesh and a heart:
I exist.

As painful as it is to walk, it's the most beautiful thing.

Howard Dully was twelve years old
when Dr. Freeman felt so bold
to dig around inside his head
a wonder that he isn't dead.

The year was 1963,
when Howard had his lobotomy.
He never even had a clue,
of what his parents planned to do.

                  ORBITOCLASTS
The name Freeman gave to his personally designed
lobotomy knives.
They went under Howard's eyelids 3 centimeters
from the mid line and parallel with the nose.
Driven to a depth of 5 centimeters he pulled the handles
laterally, returned them halfway, and drove 2 centimeters
deeper.  He touched the handles over the nose, seperated
them 45 degrees, elevated them 50 degrees, and at this point
he probably
smiled to himself.
For now they were parallel,
and ready for photography before removal.

An angry stepmom arranged it all,
she made the final judgement call.
They labeled Howard as insane....
opened him up, and juggled his brain.

Howard survived because he was still growing.
Not fully developed,
his brain would keep going....
off in directions he couldn't control
but never condeming
the depths of his soul.

Not long ago I read his book.
I felt intrigued to take a look.
I hope, dear reader, you do the same.
Remember his story,
remember his name.

"Oh, hey Emily, will you be on our team?"

It was the very bad ending to a very bad day.

Three tests, forgotten homework, stuttered lines,
And this is what got me in the end.

Those girls,
The ones with the
Perfect long blonde beautiful hair
And the pencil skirts
And uggs,
The girls who even manage to make gym clothes look good.

We had lined up for
Captain ball
Which is really just
A mix of
Soccer and basketball.

And we had to line up,
Every inch of back touching the wall,
And the first seven people from each side would play, and then the next seven.

But of course
Those girls
The ones who can't bear to be
Seperated
For two minutes and forty-seven seconds
Had to have the perfect team.

No.
Just no.

I won't "be on your team."

There are no teams.

Only in the best season,
The forgotten gateway opens up a field of bell flowers in two colours,
White, the colour of light and love, as pure as it sounds like,
Golden, alike the majestic rising sun in the early morning,
They never cross the road, but are seperated by it, I wonder why...
Perhaps it is the harmony, created by the untouched nature,
Or is it the order they chose to grow in, while the warm weather can be felt through body and soul, through emotions and the mind,
Only the chirping of the locusts, hopping from bell to bellflower,
The road is frankly short, leading to a near forest, yet the sensation, brought to the optic nerve and to the nose through the sweet smell,
This is what makes it something which cannot be truly conveyed in words, because, the untouched nature is art in its very own way,
Until the greed of humanity destroys its gift with their toxity,
What remains are the memories of harmony and grace.

~ Umi

Even after parting.
We did it as friends with benefits.
To the evil thoughters its that.
To us.
It more.

A friend that will listen.
Even if they don't have to speak.
A friend that will support you.
When so call friends turns from you.

Yes, we're friends with benefits.
And it has nothing to do with that.

Those who think it.
Does so because they can't keep it seperated..

We call each other up out of the blue.
Because we know we'll be headed later to different homes.
When we understand.
It's our choice to be alone.

People will have their opinions,
disturbingly
here we are miles apart,
concurrent
living under moss
mowing another's grass,
a tumultuous blast.
Love
stood up
living in the past.

The Fire-Horse snorted Fire and was gone
The Wood Dragon was left
In a forest of lost dreams
A reason in mind she could not see

And the Sheep she bleated
And the Monkey she chatted
'Is this what I want?'
Said the thousand little voices in her head

The busy bee flew in her ear
And down the long and twisty hall
Alive with thoughts unwanted
The Dragon sat with a knotted tail

Mummy we need you
Mummy we need you
Mummy we need you
Woke the Dragon from her reverie

She flew off and flew with a flurry
For to save her children dear
Found in the wicked paw
In the midst of a were-wolfs lair

Now his ears' being in tune with the ether
The Fire-Horse flew across the sky
In a blaze he was beside her
Saving their children dear

And the Sheep she bleated
And the Monkey she chattered
'What took you so long?'
Said the thousand little voices in her head.

Well in anger they breathed their worst
And together their fire raged
This time not at each other
But at the wolf in his cave

Out he came very coward
With his tail between his legs
Oh he pleaded a greasy mercy
But they sent him packing in a burning blaze!

If I ever had a kid,
I would tell them stories.

If I ever had a kid I would tell them of my mother,
my father,
and the loving family we had that fell in the *** holes of the long winding roads.
How I came to grow up
alone
but never by myself.
How i got to take care of the loving mother I had.
She needed the help and I did so.

Of the lake i swam in
never going farther than I could;
my grandfather's living spirt
pulling back to shore
and
keeping me safe from the untold creatures
lurking far under me
waiting to strike up.

How a father stepped in and out of my life
every month,
every hour,
and every other weekend.
I never got them back.
I never got him back.

A house ever changing
anger ever present,
resentment,
hatred,
never ending pain of not exsisting
when right in front of the man who is supposed to know you are there.

I would tell them of every summer
spent in a different world.
The world of adults.
Life slowed to a heat dazed crawl
nights spent in a haze
dazed
high on life
that wasn't my own
living as a different person
one who danced with swords in the rain
with electric lights
Daft Punk and coffee
smiles and lies
stolen hats
stolen memories
always remembered.

If I ever had a kid,
I would tell them of a brother
who loved me,
hated me,
supported me,
killed me and brought me back
only to **** me once again.
An ever changing persona of who i could be,
who I should be,
and who I will never be again.
The things we talked about
that I could never tell,
other than a kid,
who would understand the meaning of its imaganitive exsistance.
as I did
when I was a kid.

I would tell them of my loves.
How much they meant to me.
How they hurt when I left them.
How I learned to love better because of them
and how through the pain of my mistakes
I lost a family,
gained them back,
lost myself and wished it back,
and loved.
A military man
A lumber jack
A theater geek
A sountherner
A northener
A shade
and all the other loves in between.

I would tell them of my friends
the stories we made together
of magic,
and science,
and mysticsm.
Dungoens
Dragons
Wizards
Rouges
A bard
the story teller
the Dungeon Master
Ajani's Vengence
his pride mate
An ageless entity that gained my life and gave it back with each deadly strike
rendered by titanic ultimatums
a surprise attack
never ending how I wished
for it was expected by my masters
and teachers
but not by the underlings I chased after.

They would know the story of a moonbeam.
Her never ending starshine.
The lights they wove together in the dark of night
during the witching hours of peace
and secrets untold
but understood
when unspoken.
How the moon chased its star
the star chased it back
and neither won
nor caught the other
but remained in the tormenting cycle
that was their life.
shared
seperated
and forever together
through a bond unbreakable
by time
space
love
hate
pain
joy
and life lived in the moment.

If I ever had a kid
they would live to never understand me.
my life
the things I went through,
the things I knew but should have never learned,
just as I couldn't with mine.
As I never will with my mother
or father
my brother
my sister.
Our lives seperated by an unchanging opinoin
always wrong
always right
and never accepting of the others.

For they did the same when they had a kid.
As I would if I ever had a kid
trying to teach lessons
experiencing the learning moments
the advice that went in one ear
out the other
and fell in the *** hole on the same winding road my family ended up on.
How I could never see
through their pain
a life they tried to better for me.
How my eyes
20/20
20/80
would never be strong enough
to see past the unreal
to what was right in front of me.
Love that went untouched for so long

If I ever have a kid
I would tell them how it all came back to me.
When my father stepped back in
as the others finally walked out
and
only one came back.
How my mother finally had the health to be happy
How my sister
gave me everything
that i tried to give her.
How my brother didn't except me
and i excepted that
finally
letting go .

They would know
how one dream
of amnesia
brought back the me that died
so long ago
when I choose my heart
over the one's who had put the heart there in the first place.

They will marvel,
they will hate,
and they will learn to love all the stories
both true
and fiction
that was me
and may they learn
as I did.

For if I never have a kid
then my mortality is gone
for what is our lives
without those to forever remember
as we sail out on our voyage
to steal the great ship of Bassette.
and sail to the world of peice we earn.
Once our future
understands our past

what's with this hobby of keeping friends?
i've got two friends that
only say meow...
          and i'm kinda not rooting for
a Colombian hottie for a wife...
                 i abhor this idea of a "loner",
i haven't heard any monks being called that...
  but then again monks do live in a monastery...
why do people always seek each other's
company? what's wrong with liking your own?
it really bothers me... i mean, by current
standards of denoting this man a loner
would make Spinoza laugh...
                  is it because you need to be the quintessential
hermit living in a clay urn or in a hole
in a desert?
                              each night i drink something,
without fail: i feel better for it...
               i'm hoping it'll **** me...
but so many times people who don't known
how to drink get so ******* melodramatic
that i think about ensuring they are banned from
abusing the amber...
                        i hate melodramatic drinkers,
you either utilise the sedative of the amber to
an overcoming potential... short: Kant's
transcendental methodology... you you won't
drink and whine... or bash people about...
and that, i must say: is a rare art.
     1 litre of amber and i'm as silent as a mouse...
i'll say it again:
    there are too many melodramatic whinge-bags
out there... i don't get them...
    i mean i get them: but i abhor them...
                i could really do with a pupil,
nietzsche would do, about time he stopped dropping
those barbiturates and learned to dance!
         tanz! tanz herz im freuer!
yes, sometimes the trip was long
the N86 from romford to goodmayes and
into the brothel near the train station...
but every time i played a folk song,
usually dikanda's ketrin ketrin i'd sit on the bus
for about 40 minutes... aflame...
                i find that prostitutes are only fed the myth
of a tender touch and a complete lack
of experimental perversity... even a kiss is
the beginning of their myth-making...
   ordinary girls are fed the myth of movies,
and how it all works out...
    each time i went to the brothel i sat for the journey
time like a Sufi meditation with the
              dervish dance in my mind...
                 and that's the truth... mind you,
i have a grandfather that supports my work
and buys me cigarettes... then again he lived in a time
when he could age and get a state-pension,
as he does... he's not ailing in any sense, and he lives
in a post-communist country... and i just spent
3 weeks over there... which means my state-sponsorship
in england has amounted: that i could take out
110 quid and give it for a *******...
                and i could remember myself aflame...
  on a bus with a dervish dance in my mind...
           drunk, as usual: but that's the fun part of it...
i could wave my *** at all those
melodramatic drunks you get at parties and in other
public places who suddenly speak and only moan
how unfair it all is...
                      first time i went? well... i did go to
uni after all, the sacred land of getting a good score
for later life... what a sahara when it comes to ***!
   like with prostitutes it still turns out to be a case
of hard facts and harder choices...
                  money...
                        and­ the white historians and who else
in the etc. cul de sac are wondering why our ethnicity is
in decline... it's quiet a thing to be bemused by the freedom
of women and not addressing the point fairly...
                   the women are so free i had to find my own
freedom with a *******...
                         i got bored of too many darwinian examples
being incorporated into the act... once it's the peacock,
next it's the mantis and the black widow...
of sure... there's so much to gain if endorsing some sort
of chivarly, when next door lives a babe with a sugar daddy...
   ***-starved ******* can go elsewhere,
       wild-eyed logic and no manifesto...
literally: there's no hope for a manifesto here...
             there's no manifesto...
                    this is absolutely not a manifesto...
         i'm actually happy that as an ethnicity we're in decline...
  i found talking to other ethnicities a bit restrictive
and boring... i had to censor vocab fluidity with dams
and other ****** architectural constructs...
    so i looked at the shows on television,
a bunch of child-genuises were on...
   i never thought that spelling was like arithmetic...
   but it is... it is, oh hell it is...
  the judge says the word in that odd jumble that a word
is when you have alphabetical distinctions
   in vowel, consonant and syllable form...
    but the languasge is so different, after all
language is not really an optical language as such,
mathematical language is truly anti-phonetic...
and it comes down to the simple example:
      spell the word: onomatopoeia
  start saying the alphabet and it sounds nothing like
this word put together,
   the syllable ono-                
                       then -ma-
                               -to-        and now the tricky bit...
peya...          but what of the grapheme œ?
                you'd really be able to break your tongue
on that syllable suffix...
                       and when the children started spelling
the word: it look as if they were going cross-eyed
   trying to translate the sound into image...
    mathematical language doesn't have that problem,
do the following airthmetic (e.g.)  
   1 + 2 - 5 + 6 - 4 = ?
                                          0...
but that's different when you are told to spell the word
   renaissance -
                                  doubly more difficult if
you are told to create syllables without diacritical mark
distinctions...
               back to drink, like being asked for
a wine connoisseur's palette, when the wine you've been
given has been diluted...
   or in this case fudge packed so there are no
clear distinctions, too much french influence
      and siamese twin graphemes seperated...
excess vowel that i've heard means: kissing...
i'm sorry how the story goes,
i just can't be forced to **** a kenyan penny-picking
                tragedy with my humour...
        i'm bewildered by the arithematic
and the "arithmetic" of putting words together...
                  the internet has quietly become a war
for a freedom to talk... it's more a freedom to think
than talk...
                  and god forgive me feeling so obscure in
what i wanted to think, but given the social structure of
events happening, i had to do a minority report on
it being said, and me not typing this on
a medium of defeat, that i ended up on a warring stance...
i mean, i can understand obscurity per se,
i can't see how i can attach myself to it on a basis
of a phenomenon...
                          so unearthed we are from a structure
that a rebellion against
                  the szlachta was viable...
what the hell grows on concrete? coconuts?!
      i already said: this is hardly a manifesto...
and i truly demand it to be thoroughly agreed to...
                   then comes the shortcoming
barrage of: i knight you the nigh of not worthy...
                        and then the recycling process
bombards you with: many more squint-eyed *****
to come where you did, come from.
       urbanity has forsaken man attached to an organism,
but is feeling it right now,
                 he's attached to an inorganic farbic of testament...
i haven't walked the soil or toiled in it
to feel it's breath between winter or summer..
           i once had so much one-dimensional inclusion
in this world, then my sight was diverted,
and i came across the numbers, who took to being
***** whales and gulped me in one cascade of
the feeding...
              and i was told to walk it alone.
once actors were abhorred by society,
but then there was no office folk to compete for
utility biases when it came to giving gratitude to
pristine plumbing...
                          back when man was highly
economical... and thus actors had to be abhorred...
  to create a tsunami of sadism to keep them
staged... and true enough:
         if christ was crucified in the colliseum
there would have been fewer than none churches to
establish that event... given the colliseum is
made into a subject-trophy cabinet of holiness -
               and how the colliseum did morph...
it's sad talking about being human as excluding humanity,
as it's sad talking being human by including humanity...
               but thankfully (or not)
there's still that case of the arithmetic of the two tongues...
        say the word colliseum
                             co- -lli- -se'um.
      i mean, that means something...
  take to numbers and of the 26, care to call c = 3
               18 + 33 + 24 13 21
                            +                      2 1 2 = 5
                                                    4 3 1 = 8
                            + 58
                                    = 109
    
kabbalah is *******... mysticism was squandered with
gematria... but islam has no alternative either...
sure... if you have to establish a mirror image
of having a care for theological parasites...
   then you turn a into 1, and b into 2 and z in 26...
and then fiddle about until you get a *******'s worth
of bashing about because you couldn't write
a play entitle Macbeth...
               did any of these holy alternatives die
in Auschwitz? most of them living in America didn't
serve in the Israeli army...
                 who wonders whether they died in
Auschwitz?
                 no! they didn't!
       they were bemused by this correlation of
numbers and letters, thankfully we already can read
the opposite of the kabbalistic practices
prostate in the Deutronomy...
           say 10 a thousand times... adds a few more zeros
but leaves the 1 intact...
            please enlighten me as to who wrote the first
koranic recitation if not khadira? please! for the love
of god tell me it wasn't khadira!
         oh wait... given the hispanic um...
it's khadija - the h is silent and the j is actually a hatch...
          a bit like in the west, with y and j trying to
be a grapheme... a load of ******* *******:
and yes: i have to be crude on the matter...
   so we have the first verse written by a woman...
  or was it a bit like saying...
Aisha wrote surah no. 114... i can just picture it...
the young wife said to her ageing husband:
pray with these words, you lecherous *****!
say: say it you ageing carcass!
i seek refuge in the lord of manking,
the sovereign of mankind...
      the god of mankind...
     from the whisper of the retreating whisperer
(gabriel must have left him once the 13th wife arrived,
of god! the symmetry with jesus' disciples!)
     who whispers into the ******* of makind
(evil is in the brackets) -
from among the jinn and mankind.
conscience really can be a ****** to master.
but the geometry of the koran (glutton the q if you want,
makes no impressions on me) -
is that it starts thick... ends up anorexic...
           so much to say at the start,
but then shrinks... it's beautiful in that sense...
given the miracle of muhammad was that he was
illiterate...
  so someone had to write the words for him...
            i'm guessing khadija wrote the best part of it...
i like to think of her writing the first revelations...
    but i also like to muse that aisha wrote the latter
half of the: how do they stress the ******* q k c so much
that it sounds like it's not coming from the mouth
but coming from the nose?! qu-ran... i need
a hanky and snorkel that **** out... qu sneeze! i-ran...
          it's glutton and it's nasal, and it's almost like:
the back of the throat... and then comes the la la la all-hubris
in that song five times a day...
                but seriously... you tell me the man was illiterate
an this book exists... so who wrote it?
   women!
                                         the merchant of mecca in
Finland... left the scandinavian penninsula after one year
and never came back...
                   but how can you have so much
at the beginning and so little at the end?
   a different woman, who was literate (and the man
wasn't) wrote what needed to be said...
    i just look at the surah an-nas as a way to suggest
that the prophet: al suma mal ley *** blah blah
had been asked to repent... repent you paedo!
          that's crude, i know... and i'm drunk,
i'll wake up sober tomorrow and cook a pork curry
and think about leather shoes and shoelaces and belt...
and how camels are dirtier than pigs and how you
can eat almost all of pork offal and when i see a camel
i just think of chewing tobbacco and spitting into
a copper tin... or camel-jockeys...
        or how i think arabs are cursed with oil
and dyslexia and diabetes... how most of them will
end blind or amputee due to their diabetes...
      how a lot of them would like something more
than turkish coffee and baklava, and how
it stops looking cool after a while...
           arab oil, dyslexia and diabetes...
which probably means a palestinian balaclava
at the end of the sequence...
   i'll never know: i'm not planning to have
a stop-over shopping spree in Dubai, any time soon.

Intriguing behavior without explanation,
Lost in though, confusion; invasion;
Raiding my mind of all lights,
Darkness creeps , no way to fight,
The questions arise with no answers,
I wouldn’t want to know anyways.

Ignorance may be the antidote to pain,
Intact is love, but there still is gain;
The experience, the memories, the absolute bliss,
Too bad it seems I lost it all for this.
Even though this gives me what I need,
I lost in you, my life creed,
It seems to occur in cruel cycles,
The loss of my love, my feelings recycled.
We drifted, it’s true, there is nothing I can do.
I’m trapped, I’m lost, I can’t see you,
I thought, again, I found a woman,
Who accepts time in portions,
Your life may freeze slightly till I return,
But freedom is yours, completely earned.
Not mine to own, reserve, or police.
I just hope you’ve found peace.

Electrocution: n. killing by electric shock.

Lightning strikes and I'm alone again.
fingers tracing scalp like scars.
Breath short and sour like so many
worried words and kneejerk reactions.

Finger in the socket and I'm
laughing a laugh that only
I can hear.
Smiling a smile that I used to
only show to one other.

Toaster in the bathtub and
I'm cast aside, seperated by
mistakes I made and words
"I don't love
you
anymore"

Begin:
Before Birth

Platypus
Came to America
Sent to celebrate my birth
He was small by monetary holds

Heart is all
First gift full of heart

End:
18 years of lies?

Platypus
Rests in a home
Placed to mark a pairing
He is now a small piece seperated

Heart is all
A token full of heart

it is exactly one month before my seventeenth birthday and I am standing in the road under dim streetlights that remind me of the candles that glow from the windows in the winter.

your silhouette beckons me from across the way and I drift towards it, executing each step slowly like a surgeon, although there's no need for silence anymore. it is 2:05 in the morning and I have left my house in the dead of night. I slip into the car and the welcoming aroma of menthol cigarettes and dr pepper engulfs me and I smile for the first time in a while. I am not afraid. I am not sad. I am home.

this right here is the part many will never understand. home is not made of four brick walls and a sturdy tin roof. it is not a fireplace or picture frames or a warm bed. home is where you feel like you belong. it is where you are loved. cared for. needed. this is my calling and I've reached out to answer it. this is the family I never had.

three hours in a messy car does not grind down my spirits of this little vacation I've begun. I have smoked half a pack and kissed you much less than id like to, but your presence brings the greatest peace of mind.

upon arrival, I take escape to the porch to see the waves lapping beautifully upon the shore and I think that I will miss this when I have to leave. it is 5 a.m. and the sun has not yet risen. we take shots of cheap tequila in celebration and pretend that they are water. only looking back on this do I realize what a hilarious irony it holds. in childhood, many of us would pretend that pretzels were cigarettes and take ***** shots with the caps of our water bottles. maybe this small act is a form of regression. maybe were all still children.

everyone begins to make music as inspiration spills onto them and I watch in awe. at 6 a.m. we are down on the beach. I do not remember how I got there. I can only remember seeing you sit high on the lifeguard stand, a king, looking down at the world as if it were yours, and I wish I could give it to you. my wind beaten cheeks meet the horizon as I topple into the sand in fits of laughter and happiness; I wish I could bottle this feeling so I would never lose it. Joy is a foreign language to me. others seem to comprehend it and spill it from their mouths so simply, while I do not understand a single syllable.

I don't remember how we arrived back inside. everyone seperated. we climbed into the bed that an old friend had broken and made love as the sun rose. it cut sharp through the glass door behind us and sprayed waves of light on my skin like liquid gold. I am thinking this could be the last time, I am hoping it is not. we fall asleep not long after, and this piece of communion that was placed so gently on my tongue dissolves and the bitter taste in my mouth begins as soon as I wake, a few hours later.

day two is a chapter I would most likely title: The Panic. it does not begin right away. our day mostly consists of laying on the beach and kicking sand at one another like ratty, wild dogs, forcing each other into the pit of frozen waters, and making bets we will never go through with. around this time news has reached me that my mother and father have the police looking for me. I try to push it towards the back of my head.

but you see, the inner depths of my mind are already flooded with sinister ideas and broken secrets I may never share, and this panic tip-toes throughout my body and sets into my bones, weighing me down as if I had boulders in my pockets.

I am told to "calm down, everything will be Okay." when tears frequently line my eyes in silence. they continue to tell me this when we find ourselves in the kitchen scrambling to pack our things because we've heard the cops are coming for me. they also tell me this when I'm screaming apologies and holding your hand in the backseat of the car. they tell me it when I say goodbye at a nearby park and give hugs I think may be my last for a while. but the thing about this statement is, I am always calm. I am in a numb state of inner silence hungering for bliss and just four little days of freedom. but nothing will ever be Okay, no matter how long I've gone away.

the walk home, only a mile, was beyond limits of the word beautiful. the stars were practically beaming and the air was cold but in the good way like a puppies nose when it's kissing your face. or like mist falling from the sky on a summer night. I don't believe in God or any higher power, but I take this walk home as a sign that maybe everything will be okay when I walk back into that house.

if I could describe how the weather should have been that night to match the actions that played out when I arrived, they would be along the lines of destruction. trees ripped from the ground with their roots showing. winds sweeping the roofs off this suburbian wasteland. lighting strikes bringing on raging fires. it must've looked like that to match the look in my fathers eyes. thunder should've accompanied the sound of him shoving my sore body against the wall. pulling my long brown hair and tossing me to the floor like the garbage I was.

the full wave of panic washes onto me in that moment. for some reason I thought of the father I once had that didn't drink every night with his girlfriend, the only one that ever seemed to matter anymore. I thought of the father before he left my mother. I thought of him banging scratched pots in the sink and slamming doors with the strength of one thousand men and shouting with the voice of a man with a million sources of pain. I thought of how he tried to leave us once. and then how he really left us. I wish he could understand. to me, this is the ultimate level of hypocrisy. I am persecuted for leaving the man that left me in my time of need.

I am almost relieved when he says I must talk to the police. I have never been a fan of the flashing red and blue lights and the uniformed men who are paid to protect you but only arrest you. I believe they do mostly harm to many innocent people. you may not understand this. you may not know how it feels to walk up to this figure with the badge and want to tell him everything, to see if some shred of understanding lies beneath the deep cold stare in his eyes. but he only accuses me and attacks me with loose words that do not phase me. he does not let me speak. he is not here to help.

and so starts the beginning of the end. finally reaching the point where I am as trapped as I have always felt on the inside. the only question I keep getting asked is "why did you do it?" and I have yet to answer this. maybe I was homesick for a place that did not really exist. maybe I thought I would find salvation in a bed id never slept in but already loved more than my own. maybe I thought it was too repulsing for the two people who brought me onto this earth to be one of many reasons I desperately wanted to leave it.

I would love to tell them, my parents. everything. the abuse, the drugs, the cutting, the suicide attempt, the hell that eats me away everyday...they should know. but when your mother laughs when your doctor tells her that you show signs of major depression, you tend to believe this is just a game to her. talking to false friends on the phone and playing rich sports will always be more important. my fathers favorite tv shows and nightly few bottles of wine will overpower my tears and pleads for help. I am always stuck in an all knowing silence that everyone takes for stupidity. I've always said "darkness is my only friend now" but I think that night time is too beautiful to be an aquaintance of mine, and my friends are the Family by my side when my fists are full of blades and my feet are on the edge. I think this is the type of darkness that welcomes me as I wake every morning and sleep every night. it is the only place I know on this gigantic prison called earth. it settles inside of me and runs through my veins. it is carved in the walls of my skull and keeps my heart beating in a steady, empty rhythm. home, sweet home.

why is it that you only remember kissing?

or fumbling with plastic buttons in dim hallways, or folding his pants alongside your dresses
or laughing, or heading home to a bed you both could call yours.
why is it that the nights you spend crying in the next room- why does that fade?
you remain always dusty. god, all those days and months seperated by borders and waters you spent rationing these precious packages of recollection, closing your eyes and watching from a distance, as a younger, softer you rested her head on a pair of shoulders that were always there, a pair of shoulders that grew arms to hold you with, and a mouth to kiss you with, and fingers that would trace you and taste you and smudge you. now you know everything about love with nothing to show for it. now the safest place is nowhere near you.

you remember reaching out in the middle of the night, you remember why you quit smoking, you remember how he tasted, how he pulled you closer under the covers on cold sunday mornings. you would make room now when you would never make room before. now that it's too late, now that you are not fine. you remember kissing.

Clumsy you, clumsy me
How in the world
did we think this would work?
You and your selfish games
And me with my attention to detail

Oh how not only
you Let me see the other side
But you also fooled me into thinking
That you loved me

Oh Silly me, silly you
This would not have
made a good match
For we both loved each other
But never truly persued
How my respect for you
perished in the fire
Once I knew that you also
Loved someone else

Oh how ignorant I was
The dumbest genius
I have ever known
For I saw with my heart
And loved with a blind eye

Oh how we are destined
To be seperated
Yet drawn to each other like magnates
That never loose strength
And how much in love we still are
But live in two seperated worlds
That we will never undersatand

What had you said, oh first made woman?

First born woman of my flesh?

What hallowed words had you uttered

When you seperated my heart from love?

Or from what I felt was really my due?


For I was naught but dust to you

Perhaps the most beautiful part
of it all was the fact that he
loved me regardless of my
many imperfections. I swear far
too much, I fail at moderation,
and I am quite possibly the most
emotionally inconsistent being
on this ******* earth. But in
his eyes, every day was a new day.
A new day to live and laugh and
love - if we were lucky, we did
these things together. In his eyes,
he was always lucky.
In mine, I still am.
I am lucky to have loved you.
*Gosh, I am lucky beyond
compare.

Do you feel that?
The feverish split second you decide the night is when you feel most alive and creep quickly, quietly, your heart hastening with every faulty step creating a domino effect of blood pumping mistakes that only you notice because only you are looking for them.
Of course you don't.
You grew up.

Lier.
You said you loved me.
Im only playing ninja.
But you are too grown up to play.
I hate it.
2 hours on a bike in snow higher then my thigh with an ice coverd road and nothing but regret.
You told me to do this.
Why did you lie?
I hate liers.
I know you still want to play.
You show it when i kiss you.
Growing up seperated us.
You are just as ****** up as me.
Don't lie.

I was the girl from the woods,
The one that didn't hide under a hood.

I saw his face, the boy with no fairy,
When his came to him, he was so merry.

But I knew that he was bound to something besides me,
I knew that as soon as I saw him head to The Great Deku Tree.

Before I knew it, he was crossing that bridge,
I knew that we would be forever seperated by that ridge.

When he left I tried so hard to forget,
My feelings towards him, and that we never met.

But he found me one day, in my place of peace,
He had a sword and a Hylian shield, He wore dark green fleece.

We played our ocarinas, and made our own song,
We could call each other if anything went wrong, and it kept me strong.

7 years passed.. he became the hero he was ment to be,
And it was on that day that he forgot about me.

He stood there with Princess Zelda, they gazed into each others eyes,
Everytime I think of it, apart of me dies.

I've spent nights trying to forget my feelings,
But all I can see is my tree trunk ceiling.

You deserve Zelda over me,
There can't be three.

I want you to be happy with Zelda, this is my choice,
If thats the thing that will make you rejoice.

I will be waiting, and maybe someday we will be,
My name is Saria.. Please Link.. don't forget about me.

This the inspiration from the same old songs
Painting memories as the sunrise sways to moonlight
Writing out immaculate fantasies in which I long
To see vividly in reality as an endearing sight
Seducing fixated thoughts into a surrealist abstract
A senseless halucination seperated from common fact

Spilling out vague accounts of thoughts days before
Monotonous literal interpretations of living dreams
Dwindling epiphanies leaking from persepections pore
Forgotten pieces of satisfaction that we can't redeem
Except on these tattered memoires I've come to resent
Piles upon piles of dying highs rotting on parchment

Despondent attempts to reanimate decaying emotion
Through a larger than life sincerity hidden in rhyme
Showcasing empty facades and uncertainties devotion
In vain of the first conception that changed as time
Makes a mockering of the beauty lost in every moment
Restless sensations trapped within all the verses spent

Broken words of rememberance that a poem leaves behind
Untimely rhythms growing more useless as days pass by
From the deliverance of meaning in our star-lit minds
To the desperate hour where we can't find a reason to try
We're searching for an excuse to have our names defined
A theme on a story that will mean something once we die

This happy land of Diemens, dogs and bush-walks,
Creative flurries, chats over beer, spag bol and chocolate.
Van trip, scoot down the coast,
Wander along the beach.

Talk of this and that, laugh
And put the world to rights.
Thrash out ideas, share some thoughts,
Wonder if living could be easier?

Two friends who shared a trip to the Beach twenty years back take stock;

And find that from start they had more in common than they knew.
Now seperated by ten thousand miles, A thousand quid and two days flying,
They're closer than they were
sat facing front in that old escort van.

Another chapter ends
Or begins
Or begins and ends.

I awake and think of boarding,
My plane.
I hadn't realised how simple it was
To just be,
To just exist side by side
With an old friend who you connect with.

No need for the usual preambles
Just straight to the core.
Don't waste time, because 20 years fit badly into five days.
And What happens if you click cancel....

before the download has finished?

I'm so reluctant to leave.
These days have been so easy and fun and blessed.
Brotherhood is hard to find
And when will I return?

A red light shines through my window
And appears on the wall across the room.
It blinks yellow and moves as the people opposite
Reverse from their drive
And head off to work.

The daylight outside is growing,
The rumble in the air is not traffic
But waves breaking on the shore
About fifty meters away.

Soon I'll get up, make tea
And we'll all go for a walk.
Me, my frind Toby, Pablo the happy staffie
And Ava the lucky foster dog,
Wandering care free along the beach
as the waves break around our feet.

A plane flies overhead. *******.
Okay I know!
All things come to an end.
And this too shall pass.
It's just I haven't often wanted to stay this much.
It's so fun here,
And life outside can be a bit full on.

I drown my broken heart with the slow poison beneath the orange glow of the exit sign. Cheap goldent tequila wreaking havoc on my liver. Nothing changes from day to day for me, my misery stems from selfishness thinking of myself and my problems and my own tears_ while the true broken hearted sleep on cardboard beneath the stars. I've been in love before, I was a child, I wanted her name tatooed over my heart I wanted her lips on ny neck and my chest. Her arms tangled and legs spread, teenage ***** moan heavy on my ear. I rember sweat and hair being pulled and ciggarette smoke and perfume and love letters, shaving my head in the livingroom. ******* in the attic of the church while your aunts wedding went on downatairs. its not easy to forget those things, smoking a joint after a long night of drinking and ******* like animals, you looked at me, and you seemed a million years away, your black hair stuck to your sweaty skin, on your neck and your naked chest and the pillow and you said, Jacob, I love you. Cutting me with blue ice eyes. Your knees pressed into my stomach as you carve your name above my heart. I thought it was beautiful when you took that carpet knife quickly sterilized in whiskey and pressed it to the white skin of your hip and carving an ugly "J" big and red and bleeding. Wiping clean the drops with your long white fingers and mingling our blood on my chest.
Asleep
Your eyes fall into the steady rhytm of dreams,
Thoughts of us having white babies
And going to church
And growing old
And being young
And being somebodies
I slip on my pants and boots
And step out of the trailer for a smoke
Looking at the moon
Looking at the light on in the neighbors bathroom
Looking at the bikes in the yards
Looking at the birds
And your name carved above my heart
Red
Torn
Flesh
You tore away my innocence
As I tore yours
We were children
And I had much to learn places to go and not too long away
Back when the drinking was fun and the needles were fun
Back when we were Sid and Nancy, back when I fell asleep inside you and mingled blood on my chest like some ritual of fate.
Back when we rode fast on the ******* Harley  next to the sea
And I picked you up at work
When I broke my hand on Jeremy jaw for slapping your ***
But now
I hate your name
And the scar on my chest
And the cigarette burns around it
And the faded blue tattoos
I love another now,
Someone gentle
Someone understanding
Someone with a real red beating heart
Someone who understands
That the world spins
And we are just two specks
Seperated
And clinging to the same earth

We are only siblings with one thing
that connects us at birth is genetics
and chemical DNA
Whilst our spirit, soul and energy
are from worlds away
seperated by will and the cosmic fate
All through life we open up
to accept and forgive
to with truely live
We have our differences
even with or without the X's
Theres still a connectedness
that cant be easily suppressed
The hemoglobin blood tissue flow
is where our DNA grows
We share the droopy lid eyes
and the addictive traits
and personality lies
ankles and feet that cant
wieght or structuraly stand
I idolized you both so now
so now im alot like you both
and myself defined by my
own values, morals and oaths

I replay the moments in my head
Of when I first grazed my eyes
Across such a wonderful being
And how I had to take a second look
Because you were like the mysteries
That I craved for

I remember how your lips curled
Into the 8th wonder of the world
And from then on
You and your pale face
stayed etched into my brain

It was like slow motion
As if time around us slowed down
Like in the cheesy movies
And from then on
I was intoxicated by you

But you had a greater love
for mary jane
I knew you were no good for me
But thoughts of you sprinted across my head
Back and forth through the days
And soon I had accumulated
Millions of lined pages
With poems of you

I was ashamed of liking
Someone in love with mary jane
But you were one of the most
Interesting people I had ever seen
Without words I felt a connection
And your eyes held stories
That I yearned to discover

Wanting you was like
Pulling a string on a beautiful sweater
(My life)
And slowly unraveling it to become just
An entanglement of yarn
the thread had to be cut off
by authority (God)
and so he seperated us

But I still see you
and remember that moment
clear as day
and I still see your wandering eyes
And hear your voice in the halls

I try to stay away
but I slowly drift back.
In my dreams of you
there is no mary jane
you are not intoxicated

but if you are temptation
why are you in my
God given dreams
I know I can't change you
so
get out of my head
get out of my head
**get out of my head

Tenderly I’ll tell you of the saddest book i've ever read;

The story of two lovers and how their love is ******.

For the love each has for the other represents

The only bit of good either of them has,

And yet because of this love they share,

You can’t help but sympathize in his despair,

When she leaves him for a wealthier man,

That she doesn’t love and can barely stand,

Because she’s too proud to marry beneath her,

And so effectively is her own murderer.

Dying, and leaving him, as she does

Even after all that time, still in love,

And so he bides his days until the time

he can leave his lonely existence behind

and together their ghosts can wander the moor,

seperated by the miseries of life no more.

I'm happy and you're sad
I'm smiling and you're faking smiles
I'm laughing and you're crying
I'm contented and you're lost
I'm complete and you're broken

I left and you let me
I was a fool to believe that you would chase me
But you didn't hold my hand tight as if our hands are not fit together
I was a fool to believe that you will hug me
But you just look at me with a blank emotions
I was a fool to believe that you will kiss me
But you didn't and just sigh
I was a fool to believe that you would say my name and get angry
But you said your last goodbye and walk away
I was a fool to believe that after our path seperated,
I thought I will be happy
smiling
laughing
contented
and complete

But who the **** am I fooling?
I feel like a glass broke into pieces
I feel like a piece of paper slit into two
I feel like a wilted leaves
I feel like a snow falling on the ground
I feel like an empty jar

I'm tired
I'm tired of convincing myself I'm over
I'm tired of fooling myself
I miss you and It's killing me
I want that arms around my body again
I miss those hands touching my hips
That broad chest to lean my head on
That **** lips whispering on my ears
That manly voice saying my name
Yes, I want all of that
I want you back

Only you
No one else
Just me and you being together
But I was late
Too late to realize that I'm a fool for not keeping you
Too late to realize that I'm a fool for letting you go
Too late to realize that I'm a fool

i just want to be me; dont tell me how to live
other chose to be gay but that all i have to say
seperated by church and state how could people have faith
republican democrate the economy is tanked for everyone
skin shouldnt matter or if you are fatter
all entitled to rights and live lifestyles
even if they don not sound right to others
we claim to have free speak but cant say anything offensive
why cant the world unite all ppl do is talk smack and fight
complain because everyone wants to be right
losing track of the truth lke a blindsight
people choose a career over marriage and kids
you can mix it up but others wont let you live it up
the life you live and all you give everyone will be happy
once they love themself and find the style that makes them the individual
makes them unique not like the rest in this contry
be whoever you want everyone is different aiming to be the best

From the beginning I trusted you, but in end I rejected you
Because the demons inside shined bright in the night
Sadly, we only hung out at night...
When your world was already dizzy
Mine was too busy to understand the reasons why
So my mind decided that a marathon was stunning
I only thought of you but it managaed to keep running
In this case 28 k but seemed like 28 days
Becuase as you know you just dont run the race
Theres many days of planning and exercise just in case

Now, my heart beats out of rythem
Becuase of the precision of your desicion
Your words seemed kind but in my mind I knew that they hurt
Like you grabbed my heart, played with it, put it back and left it in parts
Since then my left atrium doesnt work
Its like a inncoent whale that was left to die in the beach dirt
And i was simply that... innocent dirt
What had I done previous to this that made you act outrageous?
But now I know your contagious
A disease that brings you one step closer death
But now im just once step closer to home I guess

Home.  A intanglment of feeling like the fibers in my sheets
I thought it was a place of love but then relized its just a place to meet
My mother was a weird one. Often pressing burdens on her son
A seperated family with nothing in commom is definatly more common then Nostradomeous
To say I love quotes would be close but theres some that make me simply choke
Remember when "like father like son" was an inpiration quote but for me its what kept me a float
On the sea of hatred with the destination of dope
Becuase of the words my mother chose, addiction would be my affliction
A state of pain my mother, father, sister and brother could not feel
Yes, this is the shittest deal, but look at me now
A person ontop with the world as my partner,
Ambition like a morning light because I had the will to fight
Only you can make a change your life, not your mother, drugs and neither your wife.

The light which breaks at dusk through a window
The sunlight is fragmented into ripples of rainbow
They flicker and pulse, and what little do they know
They dance to remember, of once being whole

The breeze which winds at dusk from the west
Whispers cooly in the ear a rumor of a test
And as the dust is lifted and sent a million ways
Think each a separate journey, perspective falls into place

The mockingbird which sings at dusk off of a perch
Tries to find a way, with the best view on the earth
Yet she sings others’ songs for others to hear
While the story of herself falls on a forest of deaf ears

The 7 o'clock chime which rings at dusk from the basement
Interrupts from the dust, with a tone of displacement
The chimes remind, a whole seperated by the divide
For love was once here, but it won’t be for some time

Your sweet smile
Gentle laughter
The brink of flirtation
Those amazing moments
Where it was just you and me
Such warmth in your eyes
My heart that was slowly falling
Before you pulled on the reigns
And stopped me in my tracks
Our world
The one we gladly shared is now
Seperated
Your world and mine
Such hate in those eyes
A cool look of guilt
For your the one to turn me away
I cared so deeply
I'm sorry if you were afraid
But now everything
Has changed
And our flirtation
Is a hatred.

You hated me first.