it all adds up
but you can't love
what you can't
have mock
you.

you most certainly can’t do that.

you will not consume.

Consumption will usurp you epically.
your talismans are annulled eventually.
your bulimic heart will divide shadows
with darker shadows.
a darker
dark.

cut them like cake. divide your passing into long spikes of utter void.

it all adds up
but you can’t love
what’s not there
to love
you

but quite the opposite.

and the opposite
of love
is watching Nothing
die -
but you thought
it was something
before it devoured
you
like a morsel
of speck.

like a light.

Four weeks before,

An aroma of pine that sicks to the walls of your house,
Pictures that dangle from ten feet in the air,
The fake gas fire place smells like burning rubber,
Socks that don't fit hanging from the fire place,
Kids laughing and running around with new phones and car keys,
Four weeks before,
Family members talking politics around a turkey dinner,
Manhunt and kid the can games in the backyard,
Grandmas asking what to get for Christmas,
The a pumpkin candle releasing its scent apawn the bathroom,
Four weeks before,
School work piling up on my new iPad,
A sad break up from separation summer,
Closing the windows to keep out the fall breeze,
A hurricane?
Four weeks before that?

Sometimes I like to pretend I'm drunk
In the middle of the night on the road
I like to pretend I'm a punk
As memories of my childhood flowed

Big child, small man, I am nothing of them
Of my own kingdom I am at the helm
It gets a tidy bit lonely from time to time
But wanting to be left alone is not a crime,
Is it ?

Is it ?

Starry nights underneath our blankets
Don't shine as your eyes used to
I'm always on my own little planets
And I never travel in my spaceship with you

I always want to be above
And always talk about the sky
It sicks you and it sicks me too as I get high
But anyway we still have love,
Do we ?

Do we ?

Life has been a dream since I've grown
It gives you the belief of so much more
That in the end like a paper plane you'll soar
But it's too weak against a stone

I have no control over anything
A spectator of my own life stream
Thanks to this game I learned one thing
That if you never dream
There is no nightmare

No nightmare

A bottle of gin, a bottle of wine
Whatever anyway, they're all water
I'm drowning inside, I've crossed the line
I hibernate in the middle of summer

Sometimes it's all too much
Things crash down and crumble and break
Through shaky fingers you say I'm a wreck
As I see me as such...

One day I will be
Eventually the perfect symbol of love
If l have to lose myself to finally solve
This mess that is my soul, that is me
I will never be ready for this
Even if it brings you a time of bliss
My salvation won't happen so don't wait for eternity
After all, what is my mysery ?
Before yours
Take those doors

But maybe
One day I will be

Eventually

Its that time again
Puttin on that outfit that wont quit
Brush floss chewin on two sicks
Of that favorite gum
Just in case u might get you some

Where is it this time
The park the hill side you love so much
Doesnt matter as long as we touch
Time flys by faster than sound
Once realized its time to end our rounds

As we kiss good by i see the tear from your eye
I say nothing but for words cant express why















We must keep living this lie
One day one day things maybe different

I didn't sleep last night

Tossing and turning from another body count driven by a terrorist organization with no true goal then to cause mayhem

God take me back to the USSR

The statues of blue collared workers in the streets

It wouldn't matter if you were a carpenter, a doctor, or a farmer.

You were all on the same train heading to your families at the end of the day.

Take me back to the time people didn't profit off the water sold to the thirsty

Take me back to the day when people didn't drive a dollar from the sicks oxygen

By god take me to when a potato farmer wasn't spending more for his dirt then he was getting in return for his natural resources

I am *******.

The generation we are growing up in is being coddled.

Our hands don't need to be held because we are forming our own opinions that have been foreign to you.

We believe in what happened behind your door is your business.

Because love is love and we are all in this world together
  
Your generation has not always picked the best leader.

This time isn't seeming any different.

How can we appoint a man that isn't confident enough to show his bald spot and is forced to wear a toupee.

Well let me tell you something.

America is bald. And there is no toupee to cover up are **** ups  

We are not a broken generation we are just being shadowed by forefathers that set guidelines for a corrupt corporate government.

Sit the **** down and give us our voice back

Or we will pack up.

And go back to the USSR

God please take me back to the USSR

Can I tell you
that I sure did miss your lovely ways
you use to play ray charles
and dance around with just your socks on
you'd tell me I worked too much I should've took a day off.
yeah yeah yeaaaaaah honey im sorry I didn't take a sick day
but now im takin sicks days being sick of not seeing you
my vinyls are all worn out
And the mixtapes you gave me are all worn out
Kinda like my heart
the cds they skip now
and im trying to recapture that melody
of the shower water hittin the floor
and your head burried in the covers
asking me to come to bed
I was to tired then
but now im not tired enough
oh boy
wow
oh boy
this could go on
and on
and on
and on

"A little nonsense now and then
is relished by the wisest men"

Does anyone still play guilty pleasures?

OKAY!

1. Troll 2 lady.
Too. Fun in Balloonland Narrator lady.
3. "Any" drum majorette.

"Speak roughly to your little boy
and beat him when he sneezes
he only does this to annoy
because he knows it teases."

Fore! Nance Peterlini, shouting obscenities.

"Silk, do you know an atomic trigger from a Balgarian *****? Because I sure don't."

5. Slingshot and P.J. in a swampside threeway.(only halfway guilty...three-quarters?)

"A ****** talking baby alligator, that's purple, and has really big jaws?"

Sicks. Honor and Glory...after Honor gets a nose job.

"Harlem is the experience playground for all people interested in becoming detectives."

7. Wanda Duvalle...*******...in a shack.
Ate. Lynn, from The Dark Power.
Nine. Colonel Hogan's...Secretary(?)

"I want to stop dreaming about fire from heaven, and melting men. Lasers."

10. Ming the Mercilesses' Daughter.

this is not a poem
but a declaration
of defeat, a concession
the things i can’t change
the feelings i can’t make
as i comeback to this world
i’m not even whole, not even healed
from whatever diagnosis
from whatever disease
that sicks this life
that plunges the heart and mind
i swallowed pills, the happy ones
i even injected acceptance
i’m not even sure if it will lead to healing
or just a temporary silencing
of the chaos, of the storm
that lives within my soul
but whatever it might be
wherever it might take me
i now understand that not all lost battle is a defeat
and not all who concede are weak
and now is my turn, ohhh
i concede to this beautiful life

When the doors of heaven were open wide,
the divine rays of god restored the dawn.
The holy waters were then sprinkled,
and the soul of earth was baptized.
The chromatic aisle was then instilled,
washing off the somber hue.
The odor of sanctity was then diffused,
the state of misery was blown away.
The sicks and the spirits were then anointed,
and all the sufferings were healed,
and sins of humans were redeemed.

Wear a covering made of gauze
          that fits over the nose and mouth;
          Protecting not to catch dust and
          particles for the work not to pause—
          Perhaps be thrown out, be discri-
          minated, and received some shout.
          Toil from saving, eyes go swollen
          sick from the unseen shark in the dark.
          Those shadey spots could be seen
          thick and thin that left lots of mark.
          Tears shall fall, hope shall not die.
          Weary sighs, never heard a lie.
          
          It holds them chain—sicks are
          cheered for their pleas are heard.
          It holds them chain—lives are saved,
          not themselves but those who're brave.
          Children are crying, waiting for them
          coming.
          Hands are trembling, but there are
          musts of working.
          Things have never been solid neither
          have been veered;
          But the workers must be protected
          and be revered.
          True heroes—indeed!

god, what an awful 48 hours,
     insomnia without my anti-depressant
25mg pops and
            painkiller: pain-keeper...
**** sicks from the top
  and you get a chance to form a reply,
or rather, a reply comes out
    to the sithering event horizon
                           like... anything might...
i blame the change in climate,
after all an island climate is so much
different to continental climate...
       vaguely, what the hell did i do
for the past two months?
             spent it with my dementia prone
grandfather and:
     a neurotic grandmother...
             watched one act of lunacy that
you probably wouldn't forget,
trying to stop my grandmother
   from calling my grandfather names
e.g. to idiot! debil!
                          while he decided it
was 9am at 2am in the morning,
    walking out of the house in his
pajamas...
             and: lost... an abyss behind the
days... fell, broke his coffee table,
looked at me with bulldog mouth nearing
frothing...
               lunacy theatre...
               but try calming a scolding
woman while trying the dementia prone
old father to go back to sleep...
                      even though i did cook
for them for two months,
   sometimes we'd sit on the balcony on
Sunday and eat, the most perfect
poultry roast, roast tatties and a zingy
salad...
                    and i'm not that bad at
fixing up a kitchen,
    the bare minimum since these aren't
the sort of people who need fancy-fancy
details...
          freshened up the walls in a pale
canary yellow,
     painted the furniture sides and details
white to match up with freahly
bought grey wooden chairs...
       refreshed the floor,
          sure, linoleum... but it was
originally linoleum, and...
            i'm apparently pretty good at it...
        not to mention i did manage to
  to finally finish H. Sienkiewicz's
   nights of the teutonic order (krzyżacy) -
because i had to watch
            the Aleksander Ford film...
only today i remarked to my mother who's
not even 60 whop began walking
with a walking stick,
     matriachal and murmuring under
her breath in the candle:
                             to imagine such will...
(a) not enough teutonic knights for my liking,
(b) the film had to avoid so much
plot embedded in the book...
    (c) why the hell do i identify
   with these knights?
                introduction with conrad,
  i'm guessing,
       and all the fanciful names...
                 e.g. frederick von wallerond...
names as pristine as **** uniforms:
                     you almost want to have them...
but this is a story about the dawn
of the 15th century...
               you have Hastings 1066 in
the west...
               and you have Tannenberg of
1410...
                  maybe because
gott, mit uns! sounds so hard-on
                          while listening to
                an alle krieger by und ein...
or?
            see... speaking english,
                     the "almost" unrecognisable
version of german...
      you... become fanciful,
    with a history...
                    almost attempting to be closer
to home...
         with an intact psyche at least:
not bothered by a tongue per se...
                   werner von tettigen:
                                      kommen auf!      
and that lightning krieg just last weekend?
    public houses in Marienburg...
               angel session:
   ****, forgot my genitals!
                forgot my genitals i said to her,
can we pretend
               i am both the mouth
of Vul'              and the tongue of Phal'?
                          Lusva was born
                          leeches stuck to
        the mime language of hearts.
                             funny you should say...
        **** usually sinks to the bottom
and then back up...
    michael rotondo...
                         we heard that one surface...
but only a week later,
   in a respetable english publication
             that's the times:
   style supplement...
               a certain francesca segal
moved back into her mother's house...
            two children and a husband
  towed...
                         but no... nothing of
the ordinary:
                       mickey was saying:
   i'm like air... sometimes there...
           can't defend him either...
                                  i know, the minor
detail... 6 months in...
            but then there's the oddity of work...
can anyone even comprehend
michael getting the sort of job
francesca has?
                      now all that i want to do
is work in my pyjamas, within arm's reach
of a well-stocked fridge
                            and a hot kettle...    
it's these little intricacies of
the story...
               i'm happy to have "suffered"
past the 48 hours thinking:
                 why did i accidently steal
ten quid from a teenager that
started to mouth me off when i bought
him 40% rather than pissy-juice friendly...
and the moral conundrum is
   with the already drunk or sober teen
who can't keep his mouth shut...
    ****... when me, Peter and Kieraan
were growing up, we'd be buying
      cheap cider from the local indian corner
shop and play snooker at
                 the local youth club...  
   ah man... there's hardly a point...
     there's a psychotic itch, a taunting line
you don't want to cross confined
    to the word:              loo       sir...    
****, that's hardly metaphorical...
                                      low       ner(d)?
                see, already soo'unds better...
****... why did i even begin this
                                               narrative?
oh, right...
                         the fatherly concern for
the oedipus son...
                                      yet the daughter
always has a hard time with
her mum...
                        household grievances...
it would have been a nice theory...
had i not the capacity to look for
          Charon with two coins on my eyes
when i look at a *******...
****... it's like the heart could never be
as pristine as to involve a me
                            in the whole affair...
it must be the whole oedipus complex
inverted-stigma...
                      apart from the commentary
*******...
              i guess i'll have to bury mine...
properly... unlike i buried her cat that
was poisoned by my neighbours...
               poor ******... hope you like
the piece grave i hacked off...
                   don't worry, it didn't belong
to anyone,
      stacked like in a jewish cemetary...
who knows...
          maybe i buried a holocaust victim
into a body of a cat, that now lazes
                        around ha-shem's throne?
i still need to find that teenager
before his "uncle" finds me and give
him back the ten quid...
                     drank the ***** though...
funny...
     michael wouldn't have this sort
of problem if...
                                            grandparents...
but then you wonder about
  michael's parents...
             so... we much of your parents
lately?
                   there's a 1 in 4 chance that
                              one of them is still alive;
     mine was 3 in 4 till about 5 years ago.