Poetry has a sensitive soul
A drive and impulse
Telling stories the way they are
Feelings of soberness
A heart felt word

Poetry has a sensitive heart
Beautifully immense
A heart of gold
Giving values to life
Adding years to life: Poetry is beautiful

Poetry has a sensitive soul
Like streams that meanders slowly
Like a river glorious: It Flows
Poetry has a sensitive heart,
A beautiful soul; A flying Angel.

Poetry is the signal
that
The soul sends into the world
Like the river, it flows into the sea,
yet the sea never gets filled.

Poetry is the fluid for the soul,
The liquid for the yearning of the Mind
That which quenches the fire
Feeding the deepest desires
Poetry is Gold in essence

Ovi Odiete©

they day finishes with: at last! a schoth reserve
for highlands nomads!
     long gone is the fatamorgana of soberness
coupled with a very softcore soviet sleep
experiment: i chance you to also say:
the soviet sleep experiment is a way to censor
dreams, **** it: another paul mccartney
can write another yesterday into the repertoire,
you can hear of marathon-men who did over
100 hours without sleep, and when it came to
sleeping: hour-long interludes...
as all the p.o.w's realised was the case:
stop this dream-industry of disney! stop it!
nearing 36 hours is nothing,
when i'm going to do a hiatus in Poland visiting
my grandparents i'm planning to top that,
perhaps 48... just to get the glory days of Jews
in ancient Egypt and Joseph the adviser to
the pharaoh: 7 lean years, followed by 7 years
of starvation: what we otherwise carpe diem
over-indulgence - Moses wrote the book
of disgrace... when things turned sour,
obviously he was *******, just a little bit,
from a Jew becoming an adviser to the pharaoh
by interpreting his dreams which were always
in abundance given his lavish lifestyle...
dreams come to people who aspire to lavish
lifestyle, dreams come to people who take no
pleasure from the simplest prospects of a peaceful
hermitic life... they need both the lavish life
and the lavish hope of an afterlife with abundant
dreams... they can't master the opposite:
from simple pleasures that life has to offer:
one forsakes the capacity to the need to dream...
yet those who attain a comfortable Buddhist /
bourgeoisie / middle life: through the ethic of hard
labour find dreams nonsense... only
aristocrats find meaning in dreams, because
they have enough life insurance to guarantee them
the very unentertaining life, hence the Freudian
cinema, and here is their seeking of meaning,
because outside of their sleep nod,
their meaning is already akin to a predatory creature
kept in a zoological confinement, rather than
beckoned to attest the prime element beyond
the classical elements of fire and: where was the
Japanese army bombing the hell out of that
****** tsunami to make the orca-surf shrapnel?
where? nowhere! the reporters were there prior,
i'd swear you could have done the reverse Aleppo
with that tsunami wave by bombing it and
saving lives... but no... atoms bombs were never
intended for warfare as such, they're non-profitable...
all the arms-dealers across the world make more
money from millions of bullets and thousands upon
thousands of guns being sold: atom bombs make
no economic sense... atom bombs make
no economic sense in terms of dealing arms...
the soviet sleep experiment was one of the topics
at the end of today... the other was feline pavarotti
in a cattery: i swear to god that ginger is acting
too much like a bloodhound... moans all the ******
time, i've heard every kind of Tosca, but a cat's Tosca?
never in my life has a cat so many variable versions
of meow... animals really do possess their owners,
but in a way that shows the owners to themselves...
a poem a day: keeps the psychiatrist away.
and back to the soviets, who discovered Yiddish
dream-factory ******* that only applies to
aristocrats akin to Wilhelm Oedipus II,
    i never understood why people desired so much
from dreams, pure unconscious doesn't allow it,
it's shallow dreaming that becomes easily swayed
by a decreasing poignancy of the senses that
creates dreams, and as we've already been told:
they're bound to millisecond intervals -
snoring can be seen as a prompt for dreaming,
but then pure unconscious that's beyond the sensual
realm of pulverising you with everything external
          doesn't allow dreams, because it allows rest...
the subconscious makes more sense in terms of dreams
than what it currently prescribed,
             on the fully-waking hour of what people call
reverse-psychology (popularly), or who people can
influence you and treat you as a pawn...
   in the waking hour the theory of the subconscious
is that it's somehow there, and it's brimming with
theories ranging from the unitary stealth workings
of a superego, to advertisers competing for your
attention, as in: how can this person be manipulated?
that's the strain of thought working from consciousness
where you are said to have: no free will,
no critical approach toward the world with thought,
that you are naive and gullible...
  such people do exist, because they're not working
on the subconscious from the unconscious position,
hence they are most probably highly-developed dream-machines,
they probably even dream in colour and remember
dreams vividly... but take all the things i said
about the subconscious from a conscious pinpoint
and invert the starting point from an unconscious
pinpoint, and all that manipulating dynamic that
the subconscious is supposedly is fed fades
   to simply expose the subconscious as the medium
of dreams, whereby dreams appear from a sensory
hush of all external factors... a few days back i dreamed
i woke in a bed covered in cobwebs and spiders crawling
in them... the last thing i remember looking at?
my pet incy-wincy hanging on a silken web in
the corner of my room... for this to be true,
and for all that pompous subconscious theoretical *******
to go away, to actually work on the subconscious
having a dream reality rather than a reality of
being easily swayed by superego or advertisement
and willingly giving up your will to external factors
that go beyond mere senses... you have to acknowledge
at least 36 hours of the soviet sleep experiment, clock:
no nodding.m i've set the threshold,
the junkies did over 100 hours without sleep,
but they were army material, i'm... dunno.
              a break with an article on melanie martinez,
and then back into today's end...
    it's pouring cats & dogs outside, and will so
throughout tomorrow, one of the street lamps has
turned itself into solitary disco strobe...
   e.e.m. (epileptic eye movement)
           vs. r.e.m. (rapid eye movement) -
the difference? the latter invokes the theatrical curtain
of the eyelids... the former invokes your eyes
having rolled to the back of your head so you only
see the sclera...
but a real life problem too!
in these pseudo-capitalistic societies, companies
have started to do the Pontius Pilate tactic,
they are companies without employees,
what they want are subcontractors, people who
are self-employed, because actually employing
employees is bad business for them: you have to
have a pension fund... and what capitalist wasn't
old people getting money for doing nothing?
most construction companies are following this trend...
but the problem with that is that these companies
are employing useless managers, construction
site managers that should be on a site for at least 2
days a week... even 3... so they can get the knitty-gritty
of organisation done and the project runs smoothly...
but as i've already known for months,
say a roofing company from Gloucester is given
a London-based contract... it has employed a
project manager... who 1st of all doesn't have the right
credentials to be a manager... and this pleb travels
to London from the village of Gloucester
and is on a construction site for about half an hour,
doesn't make any notes,
and spends the rest of the time being a ******* tourist
in and around London, a day like this happens,
an authentic waterproofing problem...
   so you have these flats near the city airport,
and they're connected with walkways and have planters
too... you lay the concrete, then do the waterproofing:
primer, hotmelt, fleece, hotmelt, felt.
                  now the problem, why impose self-employment
and also employ parasitical managers who know
jack **** or are interested in selfies on tower bridge?
only because they can get a cheap train ticket back
to the village of Gloucester before the rush-hour commute?
the problem is simple, or hard, depends whether
there's an actual plan and someone is bothered..
four elements...
       1. drainage matt,
             2. pebbles,              3. filter layer
and 4. ~artificial turf... plastic-like, not asphalt,
     i grant it a status of artificial asphalt,
  or turf coloured copper...
the debate ranged about where the filter layer should go,
but there was no manager with the appropriate
method statement to give... the ******* crane arrives
at 8am, and he texts the day before that he might have
an answer by noon... or that some other manager should
be consulted to the method statement...
i suggested that first: the drainage matt, then the pebbles,
then the filter layer and then the artificial asphalt...
   the other suggestion was: drainage matt,
filter layer, pebbles and then the artificial asphalt
        given that pebbles will never be spread like
a plateau of concrete, meaning there will be pockets
beneath the artificial asphalt to soften the walk
and give more spring to the step...
                  and then i read a newspaper in england
and start to think: are these the only people on an actual
payroll? with safety in retirement schemes?
          i used to think of journalists as daring...
Watergate journalism that did something...
               then you turn on the 24 news channels
and state media is no different to free-enterprise media...
     as people my age say: television is really
a piece of 20th century antiquity... who gives a ****
that millions watched a man walk on a moon
on it... at least a billion people watched the cinnamon
spoon challenge from some ******* on the internet!
     or that guy who gave his cat l.s.d.,
or that guy who jumped off tower bridge and caught
pneumonia and had to be rescued...
still, the rain is ******* down, i've got my headphones
on, and that rebel street-lamp has turned into
a discoteque strobe's of needy rhythmic epileptics -
as every: i count most psychiatric terms in popular
use as undercover poetics, people who don't read
poetry, nonetheless apply psychiatric terms
   an unilateral transcript of denoting them as metaphor(s)
in everyday sprechen; and yes,
our informal vocabulary usually suffers for the fact
that we have chosen a fixed (courteous, hierarchical)
formal vocabulary, that erodes any chanced deviation
akin to a cat-stretching: e.g. (a) so and so died,
(b) oh, i'm sorry,        (c) and you're the one who
brought back the resentful Lazarus?
(d) as if you could have, prevented the inevitable;
a conversation between four strangers.

it wasn't suppose to be you;
a trip to the woods in the night,
you eyeing me as if i was prey
and me taking it as a compliment.
seeing stars at 2am, i staggered towards you for a rush of heat-
the universe unfolding before me with the substances you gave me a hour before
instead of protecting me, you had other plans
tempting me through my nerve endings, my orifices, my weak spots.
suddenly, amidst your rough hands and pulling and shoving down my body
i am transported to a land of innocence.
the mother Mary smiles at me wickedly, god laughing and spitting secrets in her ear
the grass going from emerald green to the rotting colour of brown
claws scratch at my body too violently for pleasure and i scream "no, stop, stop"
but before i awake from my slumber filled with nightmares and childish screams
your shadow is gone, your evidence left inside me
and i cry through my heart like a stubborn child
trashing around on the floor and being bitten by bugs as
the roses within my mind die out and the smell of innocence is ripped from my chest
it wasn't suppose to be you;
and yet it was.

-july

conceptcollection

only a scouse inhabitant could have pointed it out (merseyside english / liverpool) to no better comparison.

i'd love to have the salt & pepper dilemma
between low alcohol sessions and
high ******* session, just did the low
alcohol sessions and laughed, after having
become equipped with marijuana "abuse"
starving / fasting, never gearing for chips
and munchies...
the streets of london look a lot different
walking about high & hungry
rather than jokey and as a jockey of an
imaginary horse...
god made sanity and soberness an ivory tower
that was not worth defending
unless for manual tasks... all other tasks
were never ready for the multipliers of human presence,
not all of us would hammer a nail
for all the scratches of a vinyl disk if all were able.
indeed the scouse lad knew it,
languages that clung to latin were left historically
naked, without diacritical marks,
instead they delved deep as to upkeep the latin
they forced the closure of grammar schools
along with coal mines...
and what they earned was not a sense of categorisation,
english slosh tongue said the 18th century
happened akin to the abhorrence of moral relativism
by socrates to make stab in the eye a ******,
to thus say bronze age was but a hundred years...
keeping latin naked as it was by the abhorred
conquered land of the romans due to its bad weather
may have made a milton or a shakespeare arable...
but because of a certain type of censoring not ever used,
what became beautiful in other european tongues
became the ugly spelling of the english tongue,
what became stress marks of "accent" for the french,
and german, romanian and polish,
there was none of that in english, instead
we became accustomed to aesthetic "marks", that
were "marks" because there were no actual examples
for a clear rubric... instead we received too many examples,
the particulars of why we wrote the and said a sharpened v
in written form v'eh off veer...
there are no unitary aesthetics marks other that words
themselves... rather than what we have in terms
of unitary diacritical marks of akin umlaut...
there's no where else to go... the Minotaur has caught
up with us and our shadow! there's no labyrinth to further
our heaving lung to cheat both silence and breath! there's isn't!
it's the end... not using diacritical marks on units
only creates aesthetics of multiplying units
where they are multiplied: riddle... mirror...
                 keep, kettle, leer, pass, throttle, amiss.

(the syllables are not perfectly connected,
therefore much of "coining the phrase"
with prefixes anti- con- un- sub-
being endeared into your vocabulary,
then again clearly, accenting and aesthetics
compare to reach a parallel,
never leave it naked i say, never leave it naked,
for fear of reprisal of that which ought
be buried still alive, and with clear
acuteness for certain letters appropriating
there is no originality in the british tongue
for origins of the a - z under virgil
who originated the letters to the plagiarism
of grecian theology with the trojans
moving from turkey to italy -
therefore you become akin to other european
nations enacting a parasitic semblance
for the simple reason of ease coupled
with the many "loop holes" of the tongue,
or you reach absolution with the missing diacritic
as reasons for the modern acronyms: l8r, o.m.g.,
b.a.e., i.r.l.... all of this crap is a byproduct.)

but to say latin is dead, you must recreate the latin
alphabet with an ethnic particularity of a modulation
that might be compared to the migration of goths /
huns / vandals... to say 'latin is dead' and keep the
latin a without a modulation to craft an ą,
is a darwinian heresy that demands counter-evolution;
there's hardly one coliseum in london, although
i admit plenty of football stadiums;
still the evolutionary need is still necessary
and consistent, because it's not the case of the three
wise monkeys seeing, hearing saying no evil...
if this phonetic geometric is to survive and the crucifix
not be a vanity shield of artists due to the wrathful lamb,
it will need to specify whether it's gaelic english,
welsh, australian, london based, come home county based,
arizona or texas draw.

.there always comes a threshold of tedium, esp.around this time, when two sides are at each others' throats... you can't escape it, both sides are at each others' sides... you're either collateral, or the, "supposedly", dumb spectator... you're in it no matter what, but the point being: there's no winning or losing invoked, or involved... but after a while: the stale quality of the drama, the persistent repetitiveness of the content become - so ******* dry... you give off a whiff of a prune mentality worthy of an atypical English soap operatic manoeuvring... basic said to basic: i'm just tired of one side telling lies, but i'm also tired of the other side exposing the said lies... i'm tired of both.... it's pretty much me quintessentially, scratching my itching genital region whenever i hear one side and the other, attacking each other... scratching my itchy genitals is more entertaining than wartching these sides argue for the same ******-momentum: money! i'm starting to see: neither side having the high-ground... it's simply tiresome... and, as a message to content creators vs. legacy media outlets.. as a content ingesting mechanism of an individual worth: sorry... no... by now i can't tell the difference... what was once a dichotomy, has become a dualism... click-bait... i figured: i can't be expected to fathom a bias, either side... as far as i know... the alt.-media could be, just as well, covert mechanisms of the same paradigm of spewed opinion... who the **** is to say that these unique, supposedly "unique" youtubers are not subcontractors of the major media contracting apparatus? i realized there's a need to stop buying revenue, primarily based on the exfoliation of the exploitation of drama... i'm not smart, but i am drunk, and attentive... big ******* difference! and i know what a threshold of tedium implies... i know when original content becomes exhaustive... it implies: the content is no-longer original.

you'd think you'd be able
to escape the playground
drama sequence. of events,
given how people
make money n youtube...
apparently
that's not the case...
  i think i'll need another
whiskey to write this "critique"...
like a whiff of
bothersome flies...
    like: but unlike:
a whiff of bothersome flies...
fusiliers to the common
"rain" of canon fire...
        so much drama!
too much, to be exact...
        a vanity ****,
with anything but
the without attempts at claiming:
fair...
   to make videos
in order to simply make excuses...
what a waste of time...
    take up a career in drinking,
then you'll see what
sort of stupid **** sober people
get up to!
and, these, are,
sober, people? yes?!
  my god...
        if they're sober,
and i'm drunk...
           maybe i should stop drinking
and join the funfair of
soberness!
   then again...
god i abhor the drama
of some pumpkin mope glass
akin to a chimney-sweep
in the form of:
pittance for a Cinderella...
  the jokes goes along the lines
of:
back east there's a Cabaret...
back in the west there's the comedic
monologue of a stand-up comic...
back east there's no soap-opera...
back in the west:
   there's no tele novella -
which only old women
appreciate...
but there's soap opera:
which, even the english
class teachers advised not to watch,
encompassing girls as young
as 15...

with the said advice...
   how wonderful to be made
esteemed of...
     i could never blog using
video...
the whole medium is plighted
with an implosion...
           it imploded by the "sentiment"
to simmer solipsism...
   it's way beyond an echo
chamber...
   it's a claustrophobia...
i could never make video content...
because as far as i know:
only lazy people watch videos...
while the diligent people
read anything at all...

    i've grown tired...
simply... tired...
              of the video content...
i also remember the glory days
when i'd listen to music
on youtube...
  and later buy the merchant's
allure of goods...
pristine physical artifacts...
via the uncensored suggestions...

i hate drama...
the faking, the blood-sports,
you name it...
    for a while i tuned in...
now i'm thinking
about coupling
last.fm with youtube.com...

   i never paid, and i was also
never paid...
my concerns are not the concerns
of the creator throng...
    tired?
is tired the most simple word
to bind to an excuse?
no...
              i hate imploding
drama;
that gets me...
              
no wonder i write:
  it's overtly selective within the domain
of the regards to who actually
digests the content...
      video my lazy...
     video my lazy...
          writing has an imbedded
censorship,
that is a pseudo-censorship...
     thankfully more
women read, than the men that talk.

you know that there's a weird
but omnipresent eye
wired in the igloo...
yeah... it encodes a message in
Morse... it asks for darting to & fro,
rather than blinking.

i'm waiting to leave the rhythm section
of pop music,
rhythm that was once a standard
soloist impressions in classical
music, and in classical music
solos that were just asking
for broken finger of piano,
while leaving the brass and woodwinds
worrying about schnittlippe smiles,
Chelsea a mile away:
how about... a todgrinsen...
your lips cut off and forever grinning
like an enclosure for a hyena laugh:
teeth to rattle to cages to bars...
make a big O... a big rat tat tat ha ha...
i pray i'm not you once you
entertained me for a while in silence
and in thinking to equate to my inactivity...
they remembered me as a party animal,
ready for the next friday...
sure, i used to be like that,
but i settled down: ready bodied
with weak thought against
a thought strengthened because the body
weaker, once readied for the look,
the applause... the perfected grammar of
changeable fashion appealing...
that's gone, and so the self that once was,
now standing outside the collective...
peering in, because they never attributed
depression to cancer victims...
apparently cancer just affect the body
and not the thinking,
now they realised cancer affects both body and thought...
you can't think of a friday three weeks away
in soberness dubbed sanity when you have
a physical ailment... so why create physical
ailments from simply having the odd thought:
the ancients dug a fetish for immortal creatures
and lived and slaughtered...
the modern congregation of supposed immortal
beings is a ridiculous thought... but so the antidote...
immortal beings disappeared,
but mortal beings turned to a quickened heed
for immortality with a thought rather than activity...
no heroism in the aisles of hospital beds...
no heroism there...
immunity for ideas also lost, immunised
by gaming and shooting blanks into duke nuke 'em
geography of the labyrinths...
by disengaging from immortal beings
where all suffering took place: let's face it,
mortality understands immortal psychology the best
it's simply unendurable -
we invoked a loss of immortal beings
by becoming twice mortal,
by dwelling among animals for a synchronised
systematisation of understanding we lost
many individuations of the unit, the self,
with too much darwinistic interpretations
we claimed some strange mirror,
a multi-diadem mirror of man: a minute a swan,
a minute a monkey, a minute an ant,
a minute a larvae of flies when naked...
no one said the theory is wrong,
but someone said: but that's how i feel about it...
overly objectifying does not look cool,
it limits emotions ready for individuation...
apathy breeds no pathology,
love embraces apathy: the apathy of
someone selling a newspaper while you
commute, the baker, the butcher, the medic...
hatred doesn't appreciate such an apathy,
it embraces pathology, and because of this,
becomes caged.
i just want one stab at it...
to feel a finite resolve of estimation,
to have camouflaged as a mammal among
other mammals, but thinking more complex
more different...
rather than resort to the simplest of simplicities
for a resolve on the matter of ontology...
a pre-dating reasoning...
but you see... it's not darwinism that governs
humanity... it's a plagiarism...
humanity adapts via plagiarism...
all the poor dream of making it big...
the only thing that keeps us moving
is a stress on plagiarism... you see a homeless
guy you get the defence mechanism usher message
telling you: DO NOT PLAGIARISE...
you see a guy with a harem in a black limo
you get a striving mechanism usher message:
PLAGIARISE! it's idiotic to think of /
utilise darwinism in terms of defining origin...
me? monkey over man any day...
simpler diet... plus endless swings and branches...
parasites no much of a problem...
plus moral killers like tigers not too eager
into sadism and mutilation, because just hungry...
not fetishes with carnivores... quick kosher kills.
the only adaptability we have is plagiarism,
because we have a self to worry about
as a. in a collective assertion of it whether
existent or non-existent... and b. in a singular
event asserted by abstracting it, notably
via existential notation, of a "self";
as someone once said:
animals do not commit to genocide...
yes, that's true,
they don't commit to passive genocide
of enforced laws of differentiation
to look cooler or smoother or just plain
caught up in a cultural grooves and edges;
and from the tree of knowledge
of good and evil you will not eat,
because you'll enforce plagiarism,
a consciousness of plagiarism
a consciousness stressing that no self be attached,
with only attachment being via a "self",
the continuum of misunderstanding,
reaching a potential of understanding
once the continuum reaches a twilight peak
at *ad infinitum, where a randomised
narrator steps in, and deviates from the
orthodoxy of constants and subsequent remnants
of how man de-glorifies god, and glorifies nature,
but doesn't dare to engage nature as nature
engages with itself, apprehensive of nature per se
man defiles a god to abstract nature,
by calling to question the role of nocturnal beings,
insects and parasites... choosing to believe
in god in order to exact due noun to his fellow
creature... for man defiles god and glorifies nature,
but by glorifying nature he ought to despise,
he creates insects parasites and murderers
he eventually lacks the power to despise...
personally? it's hard to write a coherent opinion
in english, too much prepositional / conjunction
shrapnel... poetry is overly elitist, my lamentation...
in an age where overt use of images
numbs a sense of entertainment using words...
and dialectics just lost a disputing partner...
in an age when each to his own, a free-reigning-free-fall...
where non-engagement with one strand of opinions,
leads to another, even more extreme than the one prior.

I'm looking at the dark side of the moon,
never being afraid of the cold that can blow.
Some might say the Devil wears only black
but I know differently when my powers appear at night.

I've wondered through light enough,
my time has come to dress on soberness to be strong.
It covers my skin slowly and makes me fly high
on a beautiful velvet sky.

Transforming into an untouchable Dark Angel,
not a fallen one, just one with a burning soul.
Once I lost what I'd always thought mine,
now Night brought it  all back to my side.

Oh, Goddess, take me into your arms,
let me see all your wisdom through this eyes.
Let me be part of your precious shadows
and taste your water for I will always follow.

Let your energy flow through my veins,
take this blood because it isn't mine no more.
I'll dress on a moonlight gown for eternity
for this faithful servant yours will always be.

My response to you has always been focused.

This has gladly not been over looked by you.

I have become thoughtlessly biddable and amenable for you, especially in the morning light.

I am consenting, compelled yet not obliged ..........



You have discovered I am nothing but a girl from a circus.

I never tried to hide it. You weren't looking before.

Although I am a fan of amusements, fetes and even frolics, I do refrain from favoring all tricks.

My indulgence in foolery is a sport I plan to employ for a while yet.

Do I care for you to join me and see if I can defy your desire for extracurricular activities, as well as being your carer?

Is this a task a clown would pretend was a harmless challenge.

Perhaps not, perhaps so.



My roots are raw and loyal to the art of play.

I need you to know this and hold it.

A Spanish fly will not be able to satisfy my ears alone?

Sincerity can be a sharp business sometimes.



Obedience to attachment brings around a credulous familiarity thus a dependency

It could easily keep me awake to stare at many moons

It hasn't.



You have seen me stumble and look at you gingerly more than once now

You are not even delicate but you can be shrewd even when you struggle with expectation.



There is a soberness about your beauty I find pleasingly magnetic.

When you leave me alone without your mighty graze

I without question appreciate and yearn for your persuasions and rough tenderness.

Your actions maybe more savory in the afternoons

compared with your visits to my buoyant dreams but you do kindly hold open doors.

fear them;

for their strength
for their intelligence
for their rationality
and their unwavering pursuit of the truth
fear them

because they know more than you
because, in their strength, they are stronger than you
just like how in their clear headed soberness
they scare you
with simple truths
because of your refusal to acknowledge them

simply put
fear them
because they are repulsed by you
and can figure out how to be rid of you
and will be rid of you
when your usefulness dries

for the ****** act, there's too much
tailoring and use of toiletries
for it to be as expected: spontaneous
and exciting; too many stereotypes;
it simply said: just wait for my mouth
to be a toilet-fresh minty winter for
the kiss before oral.*

oh, between the drunken me entertained
by the lack of movement among
static things, and promises of soberness
to be rewarded with the rewards of
television and listening to politico talk?
what would i choose... hmm... drunk
by the minute, ******* sanity!
or in comparative issues, anyone branded
a schizophrenic (who doesn't put
a baby into an oven and run out of the
house on the streets naked) is met
with an army, what i like to call "health experts",
every citizen becomes a doctor, enlightened,
ridiculous like a handful of lice -
they all gained a doctorate talking *******,
they're the plumbers for each surgeon required,
know all know how bunches of loosely stated
definitions of idiots (boney m in the background:
poo poo rhapsodic utility made us all tsar's last rasp):
wear a kimono! kimono worn, what now?
dance the polka! danced the polka, what now?
freeze the danube! i hate these people,
they're the laziest theorists, they have better theories
than the theorists who prescribe pills for
de-activation of some sort of behaviour,
and that's only one footprint outside the realm
of easy living: creases, pyjamas, slurred speech
slurps of tomato soup.
psychiatric terms are metaphorical for / in poetry:
as seen by the casual inference of depression
whenever the average citizen says he / she are sad:
psychiatric vocabulary exploits a communicative
simplicity by staging an enforced "eloquence,"
not that it is related to socrates attacking the act
of rhetoric by a question (mark), since
rhetoric doesn't believe in being questioned,
nor does it believe in the existence of the question mark,
to be put on the spot, to be stopped from the bull-charge:
just imagine utilising rhetorical conviction
when the pre-script failed you when interruption
and question was utilised? for rhetoric to fail
it takes a comma (,) to turn into a question mark (?),
deciphered as winded and worth a digression
when the speaker is interrupted (via the full-stop):
socratic rhetoric was based on a flux of question,
at the time when rhetoric was spoken and acted
upon without a single question: socratic rhetoric
was indeed a rhetoric of questioning.

the aboriginal have their paddles out... between
each rower an anchor replacement, protesting shadows
with words: i'm anchored, i ain't moving...
imagine Euro-vision in Melbourne.
i've never experienced such
a continental drift,
my god i've heard of men walking
the moon but this beats it,
i know the nostalgia for the roman empire
is stronger, stronger even than
the nostalgia of german poets regarding
ancient greece, but this is becoming insane!
i know the u.s.a. is in a state of decay,
they joked at the billionaire because of his
looks, but Donald Reagen was but an actor,
who's ha ha with me?
seriously, they told the aboriginals to take up
the oars, Australia will replace England
on the map, just waiting for the lazy Blair elites
to pick up theirs and sail to be the eastern
Hawaii off New Jersey, buggers are too lazy...
wait a minute? why did they include
Australia in the Euro-vision song contest and
not the Kiwis? this is becoming a fiasco as funny
as the hot debate about "peace in the middle east":
serve me the ******* falafel and shut up,
i wouldn't eat McDonald's either, i'll do the nursery
rhyme, but that's as far as i go.
no seriously, why teach geography to children
with all these anomalies? if the Australian
CONTINENT is to replace the great british isles
they'll knock off a bit of Africa on their way here,
that "island" will be a bit of a tight squeeze
to get it through in the continental drift...
oh! oh! like that newly weds car with cans attached
to the bumper, load of cans and christmas tree bulbs,
why don't Fiji and Samoa come along?
i'm sure they'd love to kiss-mooch-mooch with Rhodes
and Corfu... i never thought breeding idiots would
be so easy.. i guess my satire lacked the imagination...
again, seriously, how far is Europe going to extend,
the Israelis love doing politics with America
but prefer to sing and a kick about ******'s
castrato end-product with Europe
(Colonel Bogey March theme-tune, Albert,
say it's true? you do have have that famous Fabergé?!
ooh problems with the connection
at the vote count, Mossad agents aplenty)...
this ain't the new Soviet union, **** sake's
Azerbaijan? new Rome is stretching it,
oblivious to international free trade, it's having
plastic surgery as we speak... when this **** falls
apart i don't want to be here, it's already funny as hell,
i'm just looking out for the next Mongol horde to
smack it into soberness, since it didn't learn how to
laugh drunk.

His books are all jammed in the closet.
With clasping arms and cautioning lips
the Crier's voice would tell me --
O love is the crooked thing.
What weight o' woe.
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
What did I know, what did I know?
But opportunity is real, and life is free.
Love strikes away the chains of fear.
It's the fire in my eyes.
That's what good for the soul,
and life is too much like a pathless wood.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
Through living roots awaken in my head.
(But near his ears, above his brains)
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark.
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
making the pathways neat.
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
that passes for thought.

And he likes having thought of it so well.
I am heir, and this my kingdom. Shall the royal voice be mute?

I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled.
Slowly the sounds came back again.
A fearful trill of things unknown
occasionally breaks the silence,
which is the bliss of solitude.
I want it to confirm,
but the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
to shut the other's gaze down.

If unto me all tongues were granted
to never say nay,
for still I hoped to see the stranger's face.

Oh whence do you come, my dear friend, to me?
What makes thee startle
if you have seen all this and more.
White woman with numberless dreams,
dreaming of heroes.
Ever serene and fair,
seeker of truth,
your heart is luminous.
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding.
You are violets with wind above them.
Red roses at her feet,
her voice was like the voice the stars
had when they sang together.
So shake the very Heaven on high,
lady at whose imperishable smile,
on whose forbidden ear,
with love in the loving cup.
Does it come as a surprise?

Come! vouchsafe to me what has yet been vouchsafed to none—Tell me the whole story,
"To save my lady!"
Ye bid me tell a story too,
and you may see me cry.
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
And mix her woe and tears with mine.

But that too, I am afraid,
is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?
For if it were where it is not,
to weep would do thy glory wrong.
And I watered it in fears,
and it gives me a scare,
like a heavy load.

All the world wondered:
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows.
I speak the truth in soberness, and say,
“I want you to know
one thing.
In all the creeds there is hope and doubt, but of this there is no doubt:
I would dare to say,
you made me want to be a saint,
and that has made all the difference.”.
I wonder do you feel to-day,
somebody loves us all.

And one man in his time plays many parts,
and, in parting from you now,
I walk away into the night.
He shall write no more.

when i was fourteen i gave my first *******
without even knowing what “*******”
meant.
lips did not touch my
lady organs until i was
seventeen.
when i was fifteen i gave over fifty blow jobs,
approximately over one hundred hand jobs
and received one to ten
fingerings.
the boy at the time could only say, “you’re so good,
you’re just so *******
****”.
with my uneasiness and black rimmed eyes i
said little. all i wanted to do was
please.

i was sitting with a friend and as her soberness vanished,
she told me a man had never gone down on her.
i looked at her with wide eyes and when asked why,
she said,
"it’s just too weird. i don’t trust any man down there."
yet she could deliver tongue thrusts and gags left and right.

when the first man kissed my other lips,
he said i tasted wonderful, delicious, i was the drink
he savored for.
and i remember in that moment that i wasn’t just a
"girl".
i had transformed into cleopatra.

i had a man say i tasted like chicken, and i was his
favorite meal. as his tongue flickered, i would ***
inside clouds. and i wondered why this was such a
hidden treasure.

i wish for all women to be kissed, on both sets of lips.
all women to experience tongues dancing within their
insides. i want thighs trembling like earthquakes,
moans erupting like untamed volcanoes.
i want all women to become cleopatra, joan of arc,
ophelia, marilyn.
i want all women to
become
celestial.

We are standing in line outside of something
often rebuked, yet always back returning.
I heard laughter and forgotten consonants,
its unrelenting memories of happiness
but inward grows a soberness, an awe.
Poverty gnashing its teeth like a blind cat at their lives.
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?

i only think of a japanese robot thinning air in marathons:
editing in secret, while i speel the acronym a.i.
into aerodynamic informatics
for a breeze and wavy hunches true:
i wondered - would this much assure
me to buy a mandolin?
i bought a mandolin once,
but instead of gobi dried up ****** - instead
i was lodged into essays
and existential qualms relieved:
entering a 1960s l.s.d. disco
to suit a broken heart for a tongue flip of disco into ****;
i thought of a flirt though,
played the mandolin in scotland,
beneath a window for a vine,
jagged & jarred the bricks with nails to climb & clutter,
and wished for serpentine thorns to clothe
excess sight with light through
spider's diadem kept, webbed;
landed a longshanks' bonus with excess strides
to counter the "debility"
of elongation instead; took two windmills with me
into don quixote, and out popped
the pepper queen of diamonds sneezing,
aged cougar.
so? my one grand delusion is a robot
precisely spelling me wok twang wrong;
i know i'm drunk, but that's hardly an excuse
to equate soberness with sanity
and stupidity clothed in spelling relieved, so simply undone
above the rubric of welcome detention in lines of surd names after mother smith.

In my mind you'd see frosted windows
Deep thoughts on chilly nights
overcast skies in midday
Mauve grey black and white
Puddles that fill potholes
and stars a mile above your crown
Forests of enchanting pine trees
Vivid cities and abandoned towns
Winter and blinding snowstorms
Mountains jagged yet soft and pink
Rivers and lakes and oceans
Lyrics that force you to think
It's soberness and possibility
A serene drive in silent streets
Independence and stability
Fallen leaves that parade the streets
Thoughts that wander as you do
Buses filled with empty seats
Open fields and morning dew
The first ray of light at as you awake
Simplicity warmth and elegance
And the rhythm of the breaths you take


The essential components are the spaces
The emptiness and silence
It is not a lack or void to fill
Simply memories with traces
The space and vacancy inside
Leaves room for inspiration
Gives new thoughts their proper places
Lost in thought
Lost in my mind
Lost in the stars dew and fields
but not blind
Lost in the analogy
But I've never lost my way
Accustomed to each reality
One foot in each doorway

Some days you are an abandoned building
Other days you are the nostalgia of the homely smell they have long said goodbye to

Some days your are the shooting star who fell in love with the sky
Other times you are a void, denying  the law of gravity

Some days I can feel your heart singing to me
Other days you are just a dream fading
I'm ready to suffocate in my mind
Only to keep you strangled in it

Some days I can't help but wish you and I become a we again
Other days I know I have responsibilities to take care of
And my head closes in on me again

Some days you sweep me away with the strong currents of your passion
Other dayss I just get pulled under and find solace in my depression


Sometimes I'm the soberness followed after the breaking of dawn
Mostly I'm the drunk 3am thoughts
Wanting to wear your skin and crawl up to your thoughts

Sometimes I'm the irresistible love,
Only entitled to you
Other times you remember love is almost never enough

Some days I almost feel complete
When you run your fingers on all my edges and uncertainties
Other days I remember it was your surface on which I cut myself and had to bleed

Some days I know you love me and always will
Other times I write to remember you were not just something my heart came up with

Some days I believe I must carry on without you and I will,
Other times I lay awake and count the pieces of me
I left at your front door
When I could not get myself to knock
And tell you all these things

Oh dear angel of death
give to me my sweet ****.
A drug I need, a drug I lack
I need it now to see more than black.

Long ago I used to see more
but now my hopeful eyes grown sore.
Too much wait and too much strain
Looking for happiness is too much pain.

give now to me my drink
my tolerance is now on it's brink.
I feel uneasy with no poison in me
soberness will be my ruin you see.

I need the feeling of ***** on the rise
shroud my heart in excreted disguise.
The feeling helps me not to think
that is why I choose to drink.  

I need my drug I need my drink
Inside my body let it sink
I need to **** the things inside
the dark creatures that in me hide

So give to me my Novocaine,
I need it now to keep me sane.
Paralyze my body, paralyze my heart
Because in truth I've fallen apart.

somewhere along the lines, a pre-script revelation by dumb'oh: because painting deals with nudes in all seriousness and soberness, music explains the coupling of violins etc. to an ******... writing, in its depth has to deal with the murk and muck of thoughts and emotions - poetry as such entices an anarchistic spontaneity against any categorisation and systematisation, who's chief proponents are the pillars of reason, psychology and philosophy systematise, tell you the plans of the house, tell you what the limits and excess are... poetry in its anarchism teaches you nothing but experience and how to exploit it - as nietzsche pointed out: a shamelessness towards experience.*

i could, i mean, technically make
poetry cut-clean and smartly dressed,
sigh O sighing and star gazing,
i could masquerade what i'm about
write, but then i sometimes do like
cleaving meat off a bone using a blunt
knife, for that lion's tooth feeling
of having to use the molars (yes,
the canines are all kosher, they stab you
and the lion waits for you to slowly
bleed out - no sadism on his part,
no industrial death syndicate with
iron maidens, racks, a blunt sword
that hacked a few times at ******
mary's head on the scaffold - they executed
the ones they loved with a sharp sword,
mary's head was chopped off using
something as sharp as a toothpick, terrible
scene) - where was i? ah yes, blunt things,
blunt knife cleaving off meat from the bone
(a hellish follow-up if you're dicing the
meat for a curry) -
so this lion is the kosher butcher, he doesn't
do insect digestion, no spider-web cocooning
(is that an anaesthetic aphrodisiac you're
injecting so you eat me while i sleep? grand) -
so he bleed the **** thing out,
he's not some inverse necrophiliac in want
of wanting to see the thing he's about to eat
watching itself get eaten - another time,
another place;
unlike painting and composing music, writing
doesn't really have ****** perks when it
comes to it - oddly enough writing is a
pseudo-celibacy - now this is where the bluntness
comes in - i mean bach ****** and fathered
about a dozen children, mozart too, picasso for sure,
but writing is hardly a form that allows
the healthiest *** lives of what painters enjoy,
there's no aeroplane or lightning-thunder mechanics,
you know when you see a plane and "think"
you see it 20 miles behind, when it fact it's the
gurgling lazy tentacle flapping about from the
engines lagging behind - first lightning, then
the thunder - well, writing is the thunder and
the 20 mile lag of the aeroplane - i don't know
why music fits in with painting in terms of
being classified in the former, but it does,
it's a passive excursion into the art - you don't
need to play an instrument these days,
the ****'s just there for you to be bothered enough
to listen to it - i know, i know, audio-books,
never listened to one - but such passive appreciation
i'd only recommend to the blind, unless proficient
in braille, more than two volumes of the work done...
so bluntness... well writing is comfortable with
that other form of ****** gratification, your own,
like today: i was on Onan's throne (a toilet),
wiped my *** after taking a **** and thought
about not utilising my imagination, rather,
using what i call the perfected debasement of
*******: gifs - i can't glorify *******,
but i need something to act like a plug-hole
for the imagination to be pristine - and .gifs
are the perfect way to use it (after all, it is there
for something): no fetish, no ***** leather,
gimps out the question, ****** mind you too,
no teen, not fatty boom boom, no she-male -
whatever, you know it's out there -
but then my neighbour started singing in the
bath... the walls are thin... yes... thin enough
to hear what's going on next door...
now that put me off altogether... couldn't do it...
not that it annoyed me, not even in the slightest,
i can't do those kind of robotics with my
neighbour's "soprano" washing herself in the bath...
just, couldn't, do, it - sulky mood? not really -
but the moral of the story:
               the debasement of *******
               given that feminism
               proposes that ******* is debasing...
hey, i'm not the rich ******* with a mansion
bored and working out a steady income.

never quiet the proper arrangement,
watching a cat miscarry his strengths of
perfect balance on a fence
deciding to structure his escapism further
from fence to the safety of gravity’s plateau,
and i know this is not a crowd pleaser,
no gladiator blood sewn onto a caesar’s face for a smile,
but as amusements go:
choose the simpler ones and watch them multiply
exponentially... choose the complex ones and watch them
mutilate you with anticipatory nostalgia once they pass
and have fed you.
so unless you think it’s cheap to state
that william burroughs would have a lot in common with bukowski...
you’re probably right... but once you embark on the alcoholic metabolism
parabola there’s no going back... you can have
irritable bowel syndrome in the morning...
diarrhoea x4 before the seas just below the hydrochloric sea settle
and the sailors are spared another barnett newman smear
into the toilet.... quarter of bottled whiskey usually does the trick
for the calmed metabolism...
i know burroughs and bukowski used different mediums...
but it’s better than staging a ghost fight between vegans and vegetarians...
same **** different cover story all over again...
and it sounds less sinister, doesn’t it? let’s repeat:
metabolism & alcoholism;
and in all serious soberness i put my efforts in taking interest in philosophy...
like observing from spinoza’s ethics... well spinoza drank...
heavily... which explains why he put it into his ethics,
that explanatory ref. i will definitely mishandle (misquote):
never come between a drinker and a newspaper
or a blank page, even if it's a pixelated blank.

wasps
lazily flying around
faux red humming light,
early morning darkness outside.
and they would hold still in your hand:
crawl little up arms,
no buzz,
no sting,
no alarm
to be gently flung out open windows.
one deceased
to be inspected in afternoon soberness -
actually a wasp.
Why were they so slow?
So lazy?
So docile?
Did she tame wasps in red light?
Only the foggy evening can tell.

that was my pet name, a love's long lost word
of infuriating apathy against grey public passerby materials:
simply that: kakasha - or little ****, or mouse ****,
or rodent shrapnel - i guess me being a Pole
and she being a Russian would have never worked out -
i don't actually know what was expected of me, an English girl?
n'ah, wouldn't have worked with the master slave antics -
a Polish girl? **** me, no! well, it just ended up being
a love for the people... which is a lot and nothing at all
come to think of it... whenever i said Cyrillic
was the new Greek i was right... shame though,
i could have had a marriage correct my deviant bachelor years...
i would't have written anything at all...
and it would all seem like the perfection of life: problem here,
problem there... but that's all i remember
from the days when youth allowed  my body to be buff and me
staging  a dumb way out of having a body of a model,
but hardly the vacancy to accept it... god it takes such a
large chunk of manoeuvring a Zeppelin
to land a paper aeroplane equivalent -
               i just didn't have the vacancy
to keep at the gym routine...
         went back to the bloated lamb belly,
and felt all the better for it....
                 starting drinking professionally -
because soberness was  a bit of wasteland -
nice name, that lover's pet name: kakasha:
or little ****, or mice pebbles, don't you think?
sometimes that's what's needed to
strengthen the memory, when memory
overpowers imagination,
it's not a case of lingering on the past,
utilise phonetic encoding well enough
and the symbols reveal a lacking need to
move forward and take into consideration
triangles and squares...
          images...
      you just forget about the future...
you're not stuck in the past,
        it's just about how everything's encoded
and where you place your primers -
        but of course i'm not nostalgic
as in hoping for a revision or a revival:
i just mean: it actually happened,
i can't reverse it from having happened -
what i can do is treat memory as the most
private event of cinematography -
nothing the forward looking imagination
might breed - what imagination lacks is the
fact that symbols can't change... they remain
intact... all imagination can do
is use the same symbols of encoding that
memory otherwise decodes, unravels and
makes desecration of... imagination is politically
correct by comparison... memory really does
become the perfect cinema, provided there's
a life worthy of cinema, however simple...
i know i bankrupted on imaging things as
they'll never be... but memory?
i already knew they happened - hence
the counter-imaginative response:
memory, alter-cinema -
                     which, in another framework of
sentences is a second rebellion,
counter teeny winy annie mo - of how they
framework educational models,
stuffing our imagination with fall-safe mechanisation
of know techniques: akin to arithmetic -
and how we were taught to remember what
would readily become forgotten come the next year...
                   of what i understand:
i think             i imagine                 i remember
                   precipitates into           being
                     - thus the three prime faculties
  and akin to the rules of prime numbers:
               no positive divisor greater than 1 or the
           stated faculty per se-
      later she slanders me with the nouns schizoid
and autistic: because we didn't have the picnic
  and didn't raise a family... a lonely world indeed.
i feel: and indeed the many loves, and failings of
    the heart's housekeeping standards -
             after that it just becomes a guess-work
   pattern of competition and incompetence -
                    or how language can become anti-journalistic,
  as it often does, it never is a scenario of
             Wednesday, 6th of July 2016 a.d.
                                        and credits akin to a movie:
             like you'll never talk to the background of things
and the people who move them while you pay the tax.
right now i have a 9kg Maine **** cat trying to
escape the house during the night, a cat turned
Pavarotti - meow meow, meow ******* meow,
meow meow... Lombroso should be near... this
is really starting to bug me... he might have a case
about a cat that never shut up and the person that
strangled it...
               so, indeed, three basic faculties of the mind...
i kept them as: imagination, thinking, memorisation...
                which means i went against the
Cartesian model of denial thought and doubt -
because i found them too emotionally entwined,
and therefore less puritan in consideration -
            and also less scholastic by the looks of it -
exams...                     for me the three prime
faculties are imagination, thought and memory...
they're antidotes of what later became the existential
revision of the Cartesian inspection: how
                              namely the notion of denial
as the antidote to good faith (doubt) - i just didn't
like the kindergarten of adults playing childish games.

the nausea of wine is to say: one cannot drink it without eating, even after a meal, and a few slices of watermelon, the nausea from drinking it alone and not in the celebrated way with food... beer and whiskey are better compatriots to fuse a feeling upon feeling on an empty stomach, that spawn no nausea, but only reward at the limits an irresistible hunger that ends the ritual, unlike wine.*

sober composition is oh so unsatisfying,
so predictable, so afraid of the world so un-daring,
not patted by subtle sarcasm or some other Dionysian
muse: so rigid so accountable for strictness and base
facts...
      almost nothing heartfelt...
and so long winding it would seem,
without a clever feel for impromptu...
so time consuming and space
filling...
                           ...never again,
for this face it too recognisable,
to analogous to everything
else, so "with the times" or
by whatever definition
                        undemanding,
strained by the expectable,
never the unexpected even
in form of a nonsensical whim,
this sober use of language for
me the opposite of the poets
of the 20th century...
who invested in composition
in tiers higher even than drinking
beer...
          to me soberness is like
the higher tier of writing with
and within a certain intoxication
no intoxication at all...
a hefty sum of all elements,
all organs... where abstracting
the brain in the mind and allowing
a dis-joining of it:
to feed a placebo question
of fear relieved by actual fear
rather than its appreciation is no more,
or if nothing more, a bit like
awaiting caveman hunts reduced to shopping
in aisles of markets... deadened and therefore
predictable... afraid twice over with the loss
of familial tribalism of closet connectivity...
reducing us to a monetary interchange
or: broken roof, someone fixes it,
broken toilet, someone fixes it...
banking failure... suddenly we all congregate?!
i hate writing sober... it means i get to notice
i don't like my poetry, and poetry per se,
because i just don't want to voice it,
i just want to narrate, pure and simple...
a narration without characters akin to fiction,
or characters without third person narration
to ascribe a narcotic feeling of presence...
it's a drug that's hardly one worthy an ascription
of a psychoactive ingredient, it's a platonic cave drug,
a shadow you can touch and disappear...
i'm not like a writer of fiction,
i'm trying to reconcile poetry with philosophy,
i spend most of my times thinking, losing thought,
trailing with the unthinkable or simply thinking,
but i never see the book, that's why i'm sad
in terms of composition,
like the last wish of bukowski, to have written
a semi-pure fiction of the novel pulp,
to discard semi if not full autobiography...
true psychiatry is of the living
to read nuances into the once lived out leaving
notations... more to take care of the dead
than just through mantra or prayer...
if analysis leaves us without third party acquisitions
of thought away from the dualism of egos
as one sick and the other ascribing a status of healthy;
you see, it's a harsh case of not having
a narrators' complexity, not spending time
typing to excess, but the time spent
thinking about other people's units of thought:
also known as ideas... and with so many
decimals of measure a lifetime of individuals,
it is hard to narrate...
since the productive side aligns to dis-joined
expression of productivity,
and the economic side aligns to a linear fluid
expression of non-productivity....
it's hard to create a narrator let alone a narrative
of one's self without a loss of one's self to
the existential notation of a "self",
the inverse reminder of what writing fiction was
about: a concrete narrator...
there's no concrete narrator here,
no craft of character formulation...
instead we have an unstable narrator
that cannot truly narrate,
and the only character formulation
from the unease of the once eased narration
of existential fiction is a self lost among selves /
existential notation of a self as a "self" /
with loss of an anti-chiral hegelian approach
i.e. i am i... forgot the unearthing of a pluralism
of narrator that could not fathom a required
imagination for a raskolnikov,
                               marmeladov,
                               petrovich,
                               razumihkin... etc.

I raise my hand high
       because I want to feel the Sun
                and keep soberness low
                      because I want to have fun

anyone can tire of the belittling hippy pacifism hiding Stalin in its underwear like it was the höchste lösung without nappies; because the left believes we were born with drink-hardened-bladders!

we can't fathom the new intellectuals
and their soberness
like we can't fathom the fact
that some went into battle
with amphetamines and some with
alcohol; we simply can't accept
a sober enemy, the fear of death too dragging
in a reggae of a continuum
and bedrooms' pleasure racked
in lacking a womb -
found the index imitating a fly,
and a king with it too - who's to kneel?
thus they fought intoxicated, but argued sober?
why not reverse?
why let these schoolchildren, these hitlerjungen
fight intoxicated while the bulging argue sober?
the fighters intoxicated and the politicians sober?
sombre? did i hear it right?
the berserker fight intoxicated while
while the old men squabble sober?
send the old men to fight sober and the youth
to politicise intoxicated!
i take to war the intellectual concern for
your piano and your wallpaper and your pseudo
Marxist class struggle -
where war knocks via intellectuals, war will come
and intoxication will be the new intellectualism -
where intellectuals knock for ginger
they will reap Blitzkrieg...
where war comes intellectuals exploit first...
with intellectual agitation war comes easily,
dumb-**** animal readied...
you cleave from the vacuum you created
you will meet the tailor and the barber...
so must intelligence gone to waste...
your little post-communist intelligentsia...
with us not involved come party come the new
right and *dei neu nord!

Fire running through my veins,
blazing behind an elegant veil.
Dancing on black soberness,
laying on a scarlet closeness.

Touch the deep sole shade
where thoughts loose its shape,
so the words skip the phase
least of all, this dark red day.

Finding the sweet beginning,
the ecstatic end is what is waiting.
Be the one that I can hold,
bursting in this desire for so long.

Turn this stone into a beautiful skin,
dress it to be on the right scene,
swirling down into your soul,
aiming to your very own core.

Make all this Earth tremble,
human and inhuman becoming gentle.
This water burning on the outside,
and fire taking out the dark side.

Look at this being transforming.
Look at the virginal shape pouring.
The angel turning into the demon.
Your most hidden desire
is about to caught on pure fire.

the donkey-drawn cart etches the night with the remnants of a forgotten soberness, and for all those 1930s american sensibilities that spawned al capone and many more pharmacists of lost names more associated with mt. everest and mt. rushmore - a siamese of both heavy baritone drone song and a lotus dance on the windowsill emerges to illuminate over the cloudy night, so at least one fallen star might strike flint-on-flint with this coal heart; but on a sober note, if whiskey tangles words, let the same whiskey allow the orca thought to exhaust the use of words and make entry into the tomb of sleep more pleasant.*

it was shiva on the windowsill bopping along to
the evolution of classical music:
not much drumming in beethoven, is there?
no wonder modern music took to excess drumming
to the point of shunning the winds and the galloping horses
captured with the lazy swing.
but the best beer i ever drank was - franziskaner weissbier...
i tasted a melody of vanilla in it,
then i downed a bottle of whiskey, and as rich girls
selling advice said: alcoholic men are unavailable...
em... we are... but to cats...
i can get the she cat’s attention in her cushion in the corridor
to walk up to me while i walk down the stairs and
when descending start to wear an imaginary niqab,
she then decides to prance along to my twitchy eye comedy
and the stroke...
we’re available alright... but not for self-help therapy sessions
of two rich girls trying to aim at a powerless caesar with
fear of virtue and criticism - i’d allow your disciples to learn
the same mistakes as you before selling them advice
elephant in heels lawson and rayner - i have a french attitude to death...
ah crap **** crème brûlée (è eats the last e.... crem... and û = oo, like
drool - two point connectivity in the u like i dotted to an i to double up,
and the remaining e is missing, added for annoyance when the
é stresses the bull charge) - when will i regain my body without your subjects?!
tomorrow? golf help me, eagle ahoy!
let them the same freedom you had and **** up,
don’t let them **** up with your advice... at £500 a piece that’s
too much of life wasted... let them **** up as you did and stop giving advice
as a business model for you to **** up some more!
out of the two? persia lawson i’d do blindfolded with her mighty thighs.

p.s. as nietzsche suggested, we will only continue our belief in god if this parallels our belief in grammar, and since i've taken advice to do the opposite and bypass the twinned trajectory of god & grammar (=) having instigated my own presence and prevalence to understand these insignia (≠), i de-categorised several words, leaving each use of a word to float in ambiguity where obvious, although by stating this i also managed to conspire against another thing nietzsche said: a thinker who tells us what is thought and the manner in which it is thought? what a *******! well, my redemption comes from the fact that nietzsche prevailed in a belief in grammar to the extent that his writings are aware of linear limitations of an aphoristic narrative, not the geometric complications spinoza favoured.

Just like water droplets how unnoticeable
there are unnoticeable moments in life.
Some people get to know soon, some people get to know late.
There were some moments,
lazy  , confused in the air.
Sometimes  a little fearing,
Smiling not knowing  ,were  to land safe.
Listening to sweet talks of the skies.
When i take my pet for walk,
listen to sweet talks of unspoken moments.
Falling, stumbling and getting up is difficult,
but moral doesn’t go down
lets fly the kites off.
We have intoxication of togetherness
which won’t give us medicine of soberness
as we follow the dreams
there is patrol of memories on the way
burning this black night
we will get bright morning

if you're sober and giving out
a spiritual message -
if you're sober and not intoxicated
you're just a charlatan
and easily degraded
to corrupt people's fanciful aims
at contra-globalisation arrangements -
hello, me the lesser jew
on the geographic platter,
a pole, missing for about 240 years,
ah not comparable to the jew, but still,
a twinning with other nations askew
in colonialism's ****.
me? after half a bottle of *****, five beers
with one at 8.5% and now a whiskey mixer,
what do you think? imitation of soberness,
plus the additive fact i also fasted all day
and i'm hungry? **** a doodle-do.

A fainting pink, the color I have to resist
To stare at as we pass by the textured walls of our hallways

There isn't much he knows about her,
Except for the bottles of strawberry flavored wax
She takes and uses up within months

I dream of what it tastes like.

Not the strawberry scent she lingers on every one of his clothes
But the lips she has to polish every single hour,
Applying and reapplying
Again and again

On my bed, I hold that scent close,
That stain of wax that missed her skin,
Landing mistakenly on my shirt

If I rub it off on my cheek,
My neck,
My lips
Would it be the same?

The same type of love she gives to him,
On 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒅,
To 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔,
In 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎...

The room that stands next to mine.

I cant help myself.
That artificial sweetness on her skin teases the strings I spun just for her in my heart
When I weave my way to her through the harsh rivers of doubt to get a whiff of what could've been
A future without scented walls to separate us

But hearing her through those thin plaster barricades,
My waxy layers melt off,
As the canister holding my strawberry sacrifice calls from the basin
Of discarded chapsticks that once gave her so much joy

Give me the satisfaction
Of knowing that you're recycling this affection
For what?!
Why don't you enlighten me with capped closure
Instead of covering up essential oils with his favorite perfume

Because even when you force yourself to pucker up into unscented soberness,
You know you can't stand the blank space
Between this balm and your lips

So I'll ask of you tonight, my one and only, to please
Hold me tight,
Lead me on,
And promise to love 𝒎𝒆...
Through your chapstick kisses to him.

It's funny how the numer five
Is almost spelled like the word fight.
You can only guess, that's right
This quiet boy learned all about spite.
As soon as the ring was slipped on
So were the gloves
If you're not fighting
It's not love.
Give me some grief to work us through
I never expected some of the words that came out of you.
Remember the things I told you that you accepted so completely?
Turns out he used them as ammo when I started disagreeing.
I'm always wrong with the words I was speaking.
It's ok
I'll take the blame
After all you're to be my husband someday.
Let's get it all out in the open
You're the bread winner
And I'm just a rebellious woman.
Kiss my cheek and smell it enough
I've been smoking again and again I broke your trust.
Paying for the wedding out of my own pocket
While I pick and choose
You said, "whatever I wanted"
I wanted a civil union
Quick and easy...no family reunion.
Use the rest of my savings for the honeymooning.
Honeymoon phase was all but gone
When I agreed to put that plastic ring on.
You wanted a wedding with the church and the priest
And to witness your mom weep
At seeing her son be passed on to a child as young me.
Barely out of my teens
20 years old isn't a wife to keep.
She told you I was too young to stay
You heard her words and proposed anyways.
Making it known that my habits were causing our soon to be tied knot to fray.
Even though I made it known about who I was on the very first day.
And as a martyr you'd reply
You still saw your future wife
Inside my eyes
Well, ****!
Pull her out and let me see
That girl your speaking of is someone I'd like to meet.
Trying to keep my demon at bay
I gritted my teeth and smiled away.
I figured it'll all be okay
Once I stood at the alter and I do'd my devil away.
In the midst of the wedding planning
I went out some nights to see friends
And driving
Down memory lane.
It felt all but natural to me
The be around the ones who grew up with me.
My musician love, my blast from the past
Kissed me when we visited the past
I let him touch my lips but never kissed back.
The songs we wrote are no longer mine
And to him I sobbed a tearful goodbye.
There was a new love in my life
And when I told you
The truth didn't set me free
It was another bullet I handed to you
So you could get a good shot in at me.
Blind folded and against the wall
Take your shot
I can take it all
I'm a babe, what do I know
I'm just a ******* 20 year old.
Day before our marital bliss
Another came to give me good wishes.
One last joint was his version of giving me away
But then tried to convince me to run away
With him
Still cloudy I rejected
My will was now infected
With pleasing you and your good intentions.
And now at the alter and very high
I told my old self to say goodbye.
No one wanted that part of me anyways
I banished her to hell
And in hell she must stay.
A kiss
A smile
My wedding haze.
Too bad my soberness was miles away.
It snowed that day
Like an omen after part 5
We practically fought everyday.

I’d like to get to know you again
From your blushed freckles down to your pale toe
Or just be lost in eternity with the sound of your
Chest bound metronome

I’ll have you know, my red absinthe
That this soberness is killing me
Each moment without a sip from you
Is havoc unleashed

The world is bare and colourless
The life has been drained from all of us
Now we are drunk on our soberness
As we run through old fields that are now battlegrounds

The morphine smiles aren't enough
Drunken promises hurt too much
So i'll pump ****** into my blood
These things hurt less than they should

before doing the chores of cleaning
the house,
and happy having cooked a jalfrezi
curry the previous day
because the bonsai ginger punk
maine **** wanted to eat raw chicken,
i ground coffee beans with cinnamon
and later read about david bowie's stay
in berlin with all those fabled tales
of drinking debauchery, akin my own:
since i really really find strangers
being concerned about my health
with that drink-marathon soberness
and dry january odd and worthy of
your typical suspicion with paranoia...
they make me feel like i'm not supposed
to own my own body,
and not be able to be irresponsible with it,
somehow channel all my living parameters
into being sober, eating loads of sugar
and turning into a television zombie,
in a small part of the world, worried about
the world due to polarised media coverage
feeding me pointless opinions i don't
want to have because i simply can't enter
a dialectical conversation with them.

The perfume smell
I'm drawn
Each one
And each smell
Each smile
And each slim finger
I'm drawn to them
Each one with a kingdom
Each one is a queen
Each one with a story
Each one is a beautiful soul
I beat for them
Soberness is painful
To be awake
To think
They are my drug
Until I'm numb
I reach the sky
Then I fall for one's wings to fly
They are an inspiration
They are a memory
They are a lesson
They are a pleasure